The first heavy snow of winter was falling outside as Ivan Ivanovich settled comfortably in his wing chair at the club. Occasionally, he’d open an eye to see if his friends had arrived. Infrequently, he would reach for a glass of tea in a silver holder on the side table, returning his arm to his lap before it had moved six inches. To the casual observer it might appear, since the tea was barely sipped from day to day, that the podstakannik, the tea holder, had not been moved all week. But this was not the case; such a thing could never happen in one of the finest clubs in all the city and surrounding area. The attendants knew to place the tea in the exact same spot as soon as Ivan Ivanovich was comfortably settled in his wing chair.

 

He cleared his throat and tried to follow his thoughts about the deep state and how best to drain the swamp. After all, if Peter the Great was able to build his city on a swamp, there is no reason why we can’t repeat this now. Now where was I…

 

He felt a slight change in the air and opened one eye. The twins, Oblimya and Oblomya had arrived. He closed his eye. I’ll give them a minute to settle in.

 

Later he opened his right eye. Oblomya smiled. Ivan Ivanovich turned his head slightly to the left and Oblimya smiled. I’ll wait until they have their tea before I share my latest thoughts on the problems.

 

He settled back and closed his eye. A smile started at the corners of his lips and then faded. Last year I raised the possibility of going to Arabia, “These winters are becoming too cruel for my old bones. They never seem to warm.” Oblomya said he thought I was brave. “Truly, you are another Lawrence of Arabia.” And when I tentatively reached for my tea, Oblimya watched in fascination and observed, “Your arm moves like the great English actor, Sir Lawrence of Olivier.” And Andrei had muttered, “Larry -- Illarion.” The twins agreed and at least for that afternoon my name and fame endured – I was the English Larry!

 

He opened both eyes. The twins were still there and now two glasses sat on the coffee table in front of them. The settee, where Andrei Andreevich sat when in attendance, was now empty. Five years before, the twins had brought along an old friend of the family. “His great grandfather was a trusted servant of our great uncle, or perhaps it was his great, great uncle who was a servant of our grandfather. History, ah history…but dear Ivan, this is Andrei Andreevich; and here, Andrei, is Ivan Ivanovich.” The introduction were made mostly in French with lots of présentees, enchantees, and S’il vous voulez. Such formality was only fitting considering the girth of their companion, for when he eventually sat down on the settee, his flanks spread from one arm to the other.

 

The twins had nodded. One explained, “If we wish to play whist …” without finishing the sentence. Ivan Ivanovich had for a moment entertained the idea of shaking his hand. Andrei forced a painful smile, and it was obvious that he didn’t play whist.

 

People remarked that Andrei’s eyes and brow had the same cast found in portraits of Emperor Alexander I. While that may have been true, others jested that his girth made him more akin to Alexander of ancient Macedon. Andrei heard them talking about Alexander the Great, and, imagining a crown or a laurel wreath on his head, smiled, assuming that was the reason he had the settee all to himself.            

 

He took to standing inside the club door, waiting for an attendant to come for his coat and cane. Someone was sure to run to his assistance -- no one else could pass while he stood there.

 

Ivan Ivanovich was puzzled. When he was dressed warmly for winter as he was that morning, he filled the door frame and Andrei was twice his size. He closed his eyes, contemplating this conundrum. Perhaps he comes in at an angle, headfirst, then steps sideways. I should watch carefully the next time. Or perhaps he thrusts his head forward and then executes a cartwheel, the momentum carrying him through. Or he could limbo through, bringing his weight closer to the ground so that the earth’s gravitation, exercising a stronger attraction, momentarily shrinks his body in size. Truly this is a non-trivial problem, one worthy of an Eisenstein.

 

He opened both his eyes, blinked, and saw that Oblimya and Oblomya were sitting across from him. Podstakannik in hand, he smiled then closed his eyes so he could return to his investigations of the deep state. Indeed, I’m beginning to understand these are not issues that can be resolved overnight.

 

When Ivan Ivanovich next opened his eyes, the twins were gone and the damp spots left by the teacups were not to be seen. His eyebrows went up by less than a millimeter. He started to purse his lips and stopped. It’s a sign of poor upbringing and would never do in a club such as this.

 

He pushed himself back, reclaiming the centimeter he had lost while sunk deep in thought. I must ask the twins to bring along Alexandrovitch the next time they come. I do think a game of whist will be just what the doctor ordered.

 

Ivan Ivanovich’s stomach growled. It must be near lunch time. Hearing the swinging doors to the kitchen in the adjoining room, the tip of his nose twitched, confirming what he had read on the menu when he had left the night before: English Roast.

 

As he moved into the next room, he heard someone deep within the kitchen singing Ob-lim-ya, Ob-lom-ya, and sighed, “Ah…winter. If only Andrei Andreevich were here.”

 

Outside the snow continued to fall and life went on.