Aarne was hurrying back, then fussing with Hugo’s jacket, brushing it off with a horsehair paddle and then pulling on his sleeves to even it out. He began, with a damp cloth, to wash Hugo’s face. The soul of discretion, he would never mention the family now traveling in America, or the princesses’ plan, borne of necessity, should—merciful God forbid—their parents not find success as regal presences in Hollywood motion pictures. The fact was, there had never been the slightest threat of a Bolshevik incursion; Aarne had gone to find them an American. That the American had actually killed to defend their honor was exciting beyond all measure.

The cloth went into a silver cup, and Hugo was allowed to dab his cheeks dry with another linen. He ran his hand over his face, which was now cleaner, and he waggled his upper lip to confirm that his mustache no longer made him itch.

“Ceremony is difficult, monsieur, especially now that the maids and courtiers have been shot,” Aarne said. “But…”

Near one fireplace was a table illuminated by a candelabra whose multiple stems were capped by copper shades. The table was outfitted with a damask tablecloth bearing a crease as straight and sharp as the edge of a sword. The centerpiece was a full-rigged silver frigate with a mahogany bow and silk sails, atop a bed of white porcelain waves and flanked by tall Venetian lanterns whose mica shades produced flickers that gave the ship the illusion of continuous motion. There were four place settings, each with its own white drawn-work coarse linen napkin folded to look like a rose next to a scalloped fingerbowl. There was a single drinking glass, but also salad fork, entrée fork, meat fork, fish fork, the interruption of china plates, then meat knife, fish knife, soup spoon, oyster fork, and grapefruit spoon. Each shone as if buffed against clouds. A single paper card rested at each setting, three of them in Cyrillic and one to the left, reading, in neat Roman letters whose sweet attempt at precision made his throat clench, “Hugot.”

It was a full formal dinner. Tears beaded the corners of Hugo’s eyes. To have come from the barracks of Camp Custer in Detroit, then to the mess halls and bivouacs of the ANREF—the horrors of M&V and bully beef eaten shoulder to shoulder with lice-infested idiots—then to find this! For the first time since his enlistment, he had been issued an invitation to duty for which he was born and bred. This was like inviting a quarter horse to gallop.