Heads You Win

SASHA

London

When the elderly lady entered the drawing room, few would have doubted that Countess Molenski was a genuine aristocrat. Her long black pencil skirt and high-necked jacket were of another age, but it was her bearing and demeanor that could not have been taught, even at drama school. She was simply old-school, and both Sasha and Mike rose automatically when she entered the room. As did Elena.

Mr. Dangerfield had choreographed the meeting so that nothing would be left to chance. The countess was guided to the only empty place, on the couch next to Sasha, while Elena and the rest of the family were seated on the other side of a table on which the egg was displayed. Once Mrs. Dangerfield had poured the countess a cup of tea, and offered her a slice of Madeira cake, which she declined, Sasha opened by asking her in her native tongue, “How long have you been living in England, countess?”

“More years than I care to remember,” she replied. “But it’s always a joy to come across a fellow countryman. May I ask where you are from?”

“Leningrad. And you?”

“I was born in Saint Petersburg,” replied the countess, “which rather shows my age.”

“Did you live in one of those magnificent palaces on the hill?”

“There are no hills in Leningrad, Mr. Karpenko, as you well know.”

“How silly of me,” said Sasha. “I apologize.”

“No need. But as you’ve clearly been sent on a fishing expedition, are there any more hoops you’d like me to jump through?”

Sasha was so embarrassed he couldn’t think of a reply.

“Shall I begin by telling you about my dear father, Count Molenski? He was a close personal friend of the late Tsar Nicholas the Second. Not only did they share private tutors in their youth, but several mistresses in later years.”

Once again, Sasha was silenced.

“But what I’m sure you really want to know,” continued the countess, “is how I came into possession of the masterpiece you see before you, and even more important, how I am certain it was fashioned by the hand of Carl Fabergé, and not an impostor.”

“You’re right, countess, I would be fascinated to know.”

“There is no need for you to address me quite so formally, Mr. Karpenko. I long ago accepted that those days are over, and that I must now live in the real world, and like anyone else who finds herself in impoverished circumstances, recognize that I have no choice but to part with some of my family heirlooms if I hope to survive.” Sasha bowed his head. “My father’s private art collection was acknowledged as second only to the tsar’s, although Papa only owned one Fabergé egg, as it would have been considered disrespectful to attempt to outdo the tsar.”

“But how can you be sure that this particular egg was executed by Fabergé himself, and is not, as I believe several experts claim, a fake?”

“Several experts with a motive,” said the countess. “The truth is, I can’t prove it, but I can tell you that the first time I saw the egg was when I was twelve years old. Indeed, it was my youthful clumsiness that was responsible for a tiny scratch on the base, which is almost invisible to the naked eye.”

“Assuming that it is the original,” said Sasha, looking at the egg, “I’m bound to ask why you offered the piece to Mr. Dangerfield, whose expertise couldn’t be more English—Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and Chippendale are his daily fare, not Fabergé.”

“Reputation is not easily acquired, Mr. Karpenko, but has to be earned over many years, and honesty can no longer be taken for granted, which is why I allowed the egg out of my possession for the first time in twenty years. Had I entrusted it to one of our countrymen, they would have only needed a few days to replace my masterpiece with a fake. I have become aware that such a thought would never cross Mr. Dangerfield’s mind. So it is his advice that I shall be taking.”

Sasha folded his arms, the agreed sign that his mother should take his place, and continue the conversation in Russian. He stood up, gave the countess a slight bow, and walked across the room to sit between Charlie and her father.

“Well?” said Mr. Dangerfield, once the countess was deep in conversation with Elena. “What do you think?”

“I have no doubt that she’s exactly who she claims she is,” were Sasha’s opening words.

“How can you be so sure?” said Mr. Dangerfield, whose tea had long since gone cold.

“She speaks a form of Russian court language that is frankly from another age, and that you rarely come across today outside the pages of Pasternak.”

“And the egg, is that also out of the pages of Pasternak?”

* * *

Sasha seemed to be the only person who was surprised when he was elected—by a landslide—as the next president of the Union.

Fiona clearly didn’t enjoy having to read out the result to a packed audience. Ben finally made treasurer, and he and Sasha spent their Christmas holiday planning the next term’s debates. They were delighted when the Education Secretary, Mrs. Thatcher, agreed to speak in defense of the government’s policies for the opening debate, because there were several leading politicians who were only too happy to oppose the “milk snatcher.”