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Chapter 2 - Anton of GraceThe Seventh Heaven restaurant was most pleasantly different than all the other revolving restaurants that I have been at. For one thing, it was higher than most. It was located at the 900-foot level of Moscow's Ostankino TV-tower. For quite a few years this tower had reigned as the tallest building in the world. Also its restaurant, slightly above midpoint, was more beautiful than most that one finds on tall towers. In addition, as if it were to match its decor, the staff was polite and the service great. They even knew about my coming and remembered my name. "Antonovna Valentina Lisitov," I read from my program sheet. "Ah," said the Maitre'd, the American gentleman, Mr. Peter VanDerMere." He took me to the third level and to the far side, to a table for four. Antonovna was already there when I arrived. She was elegantly dressed in black velvet with a silk blouse that matched the soft shine of her hair. I had wondered if I had taken a chance in renting a black suit for the occasion. Instead it was I who appeared to be underdressed, both in respect to her and in respect to the elegance of our surroundings. At the particular part of the restaurant where we were seated each table had been placed into a private space of its own. The entire floor partitioned with elegant two-panel dividers made up of seven panes of glass each that had delicate artwork etched into them. The two-parts of the dividers were set side by side, mounted into steel frames like a pair of French doors. The completed panels had a rounded top placed over them that reminded one of the rounded shapes of clouds as if one was indeed in heaven. We were surrounded by these panels. Two much smaller panels of stained-glass, also with rounded tops, were mounted over the windows like so many 'clouds' to complete the heavenly setting. Only the tablecloth didn't match the pattern. It wasn't white. The tablecloth was of a deeply dark green color, as if Earth and Heaven were coming together at this place close to a thousand feet above Moscow. "Good evening Miss Lisitov," I greeted our tour guide and bowed slightly as if I was addressing a person of royalty. The atmosphere of the place and her gentle charm inspired the gesture of formal respect. It made it appear natural. Of course I always thought that every human being needs to be so honored, with the deepest respect. "Good evening, Sir VanDerMere," she replied and stood up for a handshake. She smiled benignly as she sat down again. "Did I pronounce your name correctly?" I said when we were both seated. "Well almost you did," she said and smiled again. "My name is Antonovna Valentina Lisitov. There is a long history attached to my name. And if I'm correct, you are Peter VanDerMere. Right?" "Right!" I repeated. "I'm certainly pleased that we could meet," I added politely. "Oh, so am I," she said. I searched for a good opening line. Diplomats are supposed to be adept at this. But this time I wasn't. I couldn't think of anything that fitted the situation. Nor could I take my eyes off her to collect my thoughts. "Are you puzzled by my first name?" she asked. "Anton is a boy's name in your country, isn't it? But in our country these things don't matter much. Would you like a drink?" she added. "Some wine with the dinner, perhaps?" I said cautiously. "How about a glass right now?" she said. "Yes, that's a good idea, Antonova!" I said. || - page index - || - chapter index - || - Exit - ||
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