Heads You Win

“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.”

Full terms at Cambridge are eight weeks long, and although Sasha attempted to survive on as little sleep as possible, he still couldn’t believe how quickly his fifty-six days in office as president passed. No sooner had he stepped down from the high chair, than his supervisor reminded him that finals were fast approaching.

“And if you’re still hoping for a first,” Dr. Streator reminded him, “I suggest you now devote the same amount of energy to your studies as you did to becoming president of the Union.”

Sasha heeded Dr. Streator’s advice, and continued to survive on six hours’ sleep a night while he spent every waking hour revising, studying past examination papers, translating long passages of Tolstoy, and rereading his old essays right up until the moment he climbed the steps of the examination hall to sit his first paper.

Charlie and Ben joined him for a quick supper every evening to discuss their own efforts, and what they thought might come up the following day. Sasha would then return to his room and continue revising, often falling asleep at his desk, and feeling less and less confident as each day passed.

“The harder I work,” he told Ben, “the more I realize how little I know.”

“That’s why I don’t work at all,” said Ben.

When Sasha handed in his final paper to the examiners on Friday afternoon, the three of them opened a bottle of champagne and celebrated long into the small hours. Sasha ended up in bed with Charlie, although it had proved quite an effort to climb up the fire escape, and he fell asleep even before she’d turned out the light.

There then followed that agonizing period when undergraduates have to wait for the examiners to decide which class of degree they consider them worthy of. A fortnight later, the three of them trooped across to the Senate House to learn their fate.