by Boris Akunin
'Permit me in replying to employ your own metaphor,' said the Frenchman, smiling as he drew on a Turkish chibouk. 'All this is only correct with regard to little children. When a child grows somewhat older, it inevitably begins to query the authority of its parent, even though the latter is still incomparably more wise and powerful. This is natural and healthy, for without it man would remain a little infant for ever. This is the very stage to which mankind has progressed at the present time. Later, when mankind becomes even more mature, it will most certainly establish new and different relations with God, based on equality and mutual respect. And at some stage the child will grow sufficiently mature not to have any further need of a parent at all.'
'Bravo, Paladin, you speak as elegantly as you write!' Petya exclaimed. 'But the whole point is surely that God does not exist, while matter and the elementary principles of decent behaviour do. I recommend you use your concept for a feuilleton in the Revue Parisienne-, it would make an excellent topic'
'One does not need a topic in order to write a good feuilleton,' the Frenchman declared. 'One simply needs to know how to write well.'
'Now that's going a bit too far,' McLaughlin objected. 'Without a topic even a verbal acrobat such as yourself cannot produce anything worthwhile.'
'Name any object you like, even the most trivial, and I will write you an article about it that my paper will be delighted to print,' said Paladin, holding out his hand. 'Shall we have a wager? My Spanish saddle for your Zeiss binoculars.'
Everybody livened up remarkably at that.
'Two hundred roubles on Paladin,' declared Sobolev.
'Any subject?' the Irishman said slowly. 'Absolutely any subject at all?'
'Absolutely. Even that fly over there sitting on Colonel Lukan's moustache.'
The Roumanian hastily shook his moustache and said: 'I bet three hundred on Monsieur McLaughlin. But what will the subject be?'
'Well, why not those old boots of yours?' said McLaughlin, jabbing a finger in the direction of the Frenchman's ancient calf-leather footgear. 'Try writing something about those that will send the reading public of Paris into raptures.'
Sobolev threw his hands up in the air. 'Before they shake hands on it, I pass. Old boots are just too outlandish altogether.'
In the end a thousand roubles was bet on the Irishman and the Frenchman was left without any backers. Varya felt sorry for poor Paladin, but neither she nor Petya had any money.
She went across to Fandorin, who was still leafing through his pages of Turkish squiggles, and whispered angrily: 'Why don't you do something? You must back him. I'm sure you can afford it. That satrap of yours must have given you a few pieces of silver. I'll pay you back later.'
Erast Petrovich frowned and said in a bored voice: 'A hundred roubles on M-Monsieur Paladin.' And then he went back to his fascinating reading matter.
'That makes it ten to one on,' Lukan summed up. 'Not large winnings, gentlemen, but a sure thing.'
At that moment Varya's acquaintance Captain Perepyolkin came dashing into the marquee, changed beyond all recognition: a brand-new uniform, bright shiny boots, an impressive black dressing over his eye (the bruising had clearly not healed yet) and a white bandage round his head.
'Your Excellency, gentlemen, I come directly from Baron Kriedener!' the captain announced impressively. 'I have an important announcement for the press. You may make a note of my name - Captain of General Headquarters Perepyolkin, Operations Section. Pe-re-pyol-kin. Nikopol has been stormed and taken! We have captured two pashas and six thousand soldiers! Our own losses are trifling. Victory, gentlemen!'
'Damnation! Again without me!' Sobolev groaned, and he dashed out without even saying goodbye.
The messenger watched the general go with a rather bemused expression, but then he was besieged from all sides by journalists. Captain Perepyolkin began answering their questions with obvious enjoyment, flaunting his knowledge of French, English and German.
Varya was amazed by Erast Petrovich's reaction.
He dropped his book on the table, forced his way resolutely through the gaggle of correspondents and asked in a quiet voice: 'P-Pardon me, Captain, but are you not mistaken? Kriedener was ordered to take P-Plevna. Nikopol is in entirely the opposite d-direction.'
There was something in his voice that put the captain on his guard and made him forget about the journalists.
'Most certainly not, my dear sir. I personally received the telegram from the headquarters of the commander-in-chief, I was present while it was decoded and I delivered it to the baron myself. I remember the text perfectly: "To the commander of the Western Division, Lieutenant-General Baron Kriedener. I order you to occupy Nikopol and secure your position there with a force of at least one division. Nikolai."'
Fandorin turned pale.
'Nikopol?' he asked, even more quietly. 'But what about Plevna?'
The captain shrugged: 'I have no idea.'
There was a sudden stamping of feet and clanking of guns at the entrance. The flap was thrust open violently and Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki - the last person she wanted to see again! - looked into the marquee. The bayonets of an armed escort glinted behind the lieutenant-colonel's back. The gendarme rested his gaze on Fandorin for a moment, looked straight through Varya and smiled delightedly at Petya.
'Ah, there he is, the good fellow! Just as I thought. Volunteer Yablokov, you are under arrest. Take him,' he ordered, turning to the men in the escort. Two gendarmes in blue uniforms promptly strode in and seized hold of Petya's elbows as he stood there paralysed by fright.
'You are out of your mind!' cried Varya. 'Let him go this instant!'
Kazanzaki did not dignify her outburst with a reply. He snapped his fingers and the prisoner was quickly dragged outside, while the lieutenant-colonel remained behind, gazing around him with an equivocal smile.
'Erast Petrovich, what's happening?' Varya appealed to Fandorin, her voice almost breaking. 'Say something to him!'
'Your grounds?' Fandorin asked darkly, staring at the gendarme's collar.
'In the message encoded by Yablokov one word was changed. "Plevna" was replaced by "Nikopol", nothing more. But only three hours ago Osman-pasha's vanguard occupied the deserted town of Plevna and now threatens our flank. Those are my grounds, Mister Observer.'
'There you have it, McLaughlin, that miracle of yours that can save Turkey,' Varya heard Paladin say in Russian that was quite correct, but with a charming Gallic roll to the r's.
'No miracle, Monsieur Correspondent, but perfectly straightforward treason,' the lieutenant-colonel said with a smile, looking at Fandorin as he spoke. 'I simply cannot imagine, Mister Volunteer, how you are going to explain yourself to His Excellency.'
'You t-talk too much, Lieutenant-Colonel.' Erast Petrovich's glance slid even lower, to the top button of the gendarme's uniform jacket. 'Personal ambition should not interfere with the p-performance of one's duty.'
'What?' Kazanzaki's swarthy face began twitching. 'You dare preach to me? Well now! I've had time to make a few inquiries about you, Mister Wunderkind. In the line of duty. And the character that emerges isn't exactly a highly moral one. Too sharp altogether, above and beyond the call of duty. Made a highly advantageous marriage, didn't you, eh? Doubly advantageous in fact - pocketed a nice fat dowry and still held on to your freedom. Very nice work indeed. My congrat—'
He never finished. Striking as deftly as a cat with its paw, Erast Petrovich swiped the palm of his hand across Kazanzaki's plump lips. Varya gasped, and several officers grabbed hold of Fandorin's arm, but immediately released it when he showed no signs of agitation.
'Pistols,' Erast Petrovich pronounced in a humdrum tone of voice, looking the lieutenant-colonel straight in the eye now. 'Immediately. This very moment, before the command can interfere.'
Kazanzaki was deep crimson. His eyes, as black as plums, flushed bright red with blood. After a moment's pause he swallowed and said: 'By order of His Imperial Majesty duels are absolu
tely forbidden for the duration of the war. As you, Fandorin, are perfectly well aware.'
The lieutenant-colonel went out and the canvas flap swung shut violently behind him.
Varya asked: 'Erast Petrovich, what are we going to do?'
Chapter Five
IN WHICH THE ARRANGEMENT OF A HAREM IS DESCRIBED
La Revue Parisienne (Paris) 18 (6) July 1877
Charles Paladin
Old Boots A front-line sketch
Their leather has cracked and turned softer than the skin on a horse's lips. In such boots one could not possibly appear in respectable company. And, of course, I don't - the boots are meant to serve a quite different purpose.
They were sewn for me ten years ago by an old Jew in Sophia. As he fleeced me of ten lire, he said: 'Monsieur, long after the burdock is growing thick over my grave, you will still be wearing these boots and remembering old Isaac with a kindly word.'
Less than a year passed before the heel of the left boot fell off in the excavation site of an Assyrian city in Mesopotamia. I was obliged to return to camp alone. As I hobbled across the burning sand, I cursed that old swindler from Sophia in the vilest possible terms and swore that I would burn those boots on the campfire.
The British archaeologists I was working with at the site never did get back to the camp. They were attacked by the horsemen of Rifat-bek, who regard all infidels as children of Satan, and every last one of them was butchered. I did not burn the boots,- instead I replaced the heel and ordered silver heel-plates.
In 1873, in the month of May, while I was on my way to Khiva, my guide Asaf decided to appropriate my watch, my rifle and my black Akhaltekin stallion Yataghan. At night, while I lay sleeping in my tent, Asaf dropped a carpet viper, whose bite is deadly, into my left boot. But the toe of the boot was gaping wide open, and the viper crawled away into the desert. In the morning Asaf himself told me what had happened, because he saw the hand of Allah in it.
Six months later the steamship Adrianople ran on to rocks in the Gulf of Therma. I drifted along the shoreline for two and a half leagues. The boots were pulling me down to the bottom, but I did not take them off, for I knew that act would be tantamount to capitulation, and then I would never reach land. Those boots gave me the strength not to give in. And I was the only one who made it ashore; everyone else was drowned.
Now I find myself in a place where men are being killed. The shadow of death hangs over us every day. But I am calm. I put on my boots, which in ten years have changed their colour from black to red, and even under fire I feel as though I am gliding across gleaming parquet in my dancing shoes.
And I never allow my horse to trample burdock - just in case it might be growing over old Isaac's grave.
Varya had been working with Fandorin for two days now. She had to try to get Petya released and, according to Erast Petrovich, there was only one way to do that: find the true culprit in the case. So Varya herself had implored the titular counsellor to take her as his assistant.
Things looked bad for Petya. They would not allow Varya to see him, but she knew from Fandorin that all the evidence was against the cryptographer. After receiving the commander-in-chief's order from Kazanzaki, Yablokov had set about encoding it immediately and then, following standing orders, he had personally delivered the message to the telegraph office. Varya suspected that the absent-minded Petya could very well have confused the two towns, especially as everyone knew about the Nikopol fortress, but hardly anyone had ever heard of the little town of Plevna before. Kazanzaki, however, did not believe in absent-mindedness, and Petya himself stubbornly insisted that he clearly remembered encoding the name Plevna, because it sounded so funny. The worst thing of all was that, according to Erast Petrovich, who had attended one of the interrogation sessions, Yablokov was quite clearly hiding something, and doing it very clumsily indeed. Varya was well aware that Petya simply did not know how to lie. As things stood a court martial seemed inevitable.
Fandorin's way of seeking out the true culprit was rather strange. In the morning he arrayed himself in idiotic striped tights and performed a long sequence of English gymnastics. He lay for days at a time on his camp bed, occasionally visiting the headquarters operations section, and in the evenings he could always be found sitting in the journalists' club. He smoked cigars, read his book, drank wine without getting drunk and only entered into conversation reluctantly . . . He didn't give her any instructions at all. Before he wished her goodnight, all he said was: 'I'll see you in the club tomorrow evening.'
Varya was driven frantic by the realisation of her own helplessness. During the afternoon she walked round the camp, keeping her eyes peeled for anything suspicious that might turn up. But nothing suspicious did turn up, and so, worn out, Varya would go to Erast Petrovich's tent to shake him up and spur him into action. The titular counsellor's den was a truly appalling mess, a scattered confusion of books, three-vyerst maps, wickerwork-covered Bulgarian wine bottles, clothes and cannonballs, which obviously served him as exercise weights. On one occasion Varya sat on a plate of cold pilaff, which for some reason was lying on a chair where she had failed to notice it. She flew into a terrible rage and afterwards, no matter how she tried, she simply could not wash the greasy stain off her one and only decent dress.
On the evening of the 7th of July Colonel Lukan organised a party in the press club (as the journalists' marquee had come to be known, in the English fashion) in order to celebrate his birthday. To mark the occasion three crates of champagne were delivered from Bucharest, for which the hero of the festivities claimed to have paid thirty francs a bottle. The money, however, was wasted, for the birthday boy was very soon forgotten -the true hero of the day was Paladin.
In the morning, having armed himself with the Zeiss binoculars he had won from the humbled McLaughlin (note, by the way, that for his miserable hundred roubles Fandorin had won an entire thousand, and all thanks to Varya), the Frenchman had carried out an expedition of great daring: he had ridden unaccompanied to Plevna and under the protection of his correspondent's armband, had penetrated to the enemy's forward lines, even managing to interview the Turkish colonel.
'Monsieur Perepyolkin was kind enough to explain to me the best way of approaching the town without attracting a bullet,' Paladin explained to the adoring listeners surrounding him. 'And it was really not difficult at all - the Turks had not even bothered to arrange proper patrols and I only met my first asker on the outskirts of the town. "What are you gawping at?" I yelled at him. "Take me to your senior commander immediately." In the East, gentlemen, the most important thing is to act like a padishah. If you shout and swear, then perhaps you may actually have a right to do it. They brought me to the colonel. His name is Ali-bei - a red fez, a big black beard and a St Cyr badge on his chest. Excellent, I thought, la belle France will come to my rescue. I put my situation to him. From the Parisian press. Abandoned by the malevolent fates in the Russian camp, where the boredom is absolutely intolerable and there are no exotic distractions at all, nothing but drunkenness. Would the honourable Ali-bei not agree to give an interview for the public of Paris? He would. So we sit there, drinking cold sherbet. My friend Ali-bei asks me: "Is that wonderful cafe on the corner of the Boulevard Raspaille and the Rue de Sevres still there?" To be quite honest, I don't have a clue whether it is or it isn't, it is such a long time since I was last in Paris, but I say: "Why of course, and more prosperous than ever." We speak about the boulevards, the can-can, the cocottes. The colonel becomes quite sentimental, his beard even becomes quite straggly - and it is a most distinguished beard, quite the Marechal de Rey - and he sighs: "Yes, the moment this cursed war is over, I shall go to Paris, to Paris." "Will it be over soon then, effendi?" "Soon," says Ali-bei. "Very soon. Once the Russians dislodge me and my wretched three tabors from Plevna, you can write your conclusion. The road will be left open all the way to Sophia." "Aye-aye-aye," I lament. "You are a very brave man, Ali-bei, to face the entire Russian army with only three battalions!
I shall certainly write to my newspaper about this. But where is the glorious Osman Nuri-pasha and his army corps?" The colonel took off his fez and waved one hand in the air: "He promised to be here tomorrow, but he will not be in time - the roads are too bad. The evening of the next day, no sooner." All in all, we had a splendid little chat. We talked about Constantinople and Alexandria. It cost me quite a struggle to get away - the colonel had already ordered a ram to be slaughtered. On Monsieur Perepyolkin's advice I have acquainted the grand duke's staff with the contents of my interview. They found my conversation with Ali-bei quite interesting,' the correspondent concluded modestly. 'I believe that tomorrow the Turkish colonel is due for a little surprise.'
'Oh, Paladin, you old hot-head you!' cried Sobolev, advancing on the Frenchman to clutch him in a general's embrace. 'A genuine Gaul! Let me kiss you!'
Paladin's face disappeared behind the general's immense beard and McLaughlin, who was playing chess with Perepyolkin (the captain had already removed his black bandage and was contemplating the board with both eyes screwed up in concentration), remarked dryly: 'The captain ought not to have used you as a scout. I am not really certain, my dear Charles, that your escapade is entirely beyond reproach from the viewpoint of journalistic ethics. A correspondent from a neutral country has no right to take either side in a conflict, and especially to take on the role of a spy, insofar—'
But at this everyone, including Varya, fell upon the tiresome Celt in such a concerted attack that he was forced into silence.
'Oho, here's real revelry!' a confident, ringing voice declared.
Varya swung round to see a handsome officer of the hussars with black hair, a jaunty moustache, slightly slanting eyes with a devil-may-care glint and a shiny new Order of St George on his pelisse. This new arrival was not in the least embarrassed by the universal attention that he had attracted - on the contrary, he seemed to accept it as something entirely natural and undeserving of comment.