Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog

by Boris Akunin

  The sister raised herself up on tiptoes, sticking her head out of the raspberry thickets. On Arkadii Sergeevich’s sheet of paper she saw a sketch of the old oak that towered up at the far end of the clearing, and it was an amazing likeness, a real pleasure to look at. But, alas, she found Stepan Trofimovich’s work a disappointment. The colors were simply dashed on any old way: It could have been an oak, or it could have been some wood goblin with a huge, overgrown head covered in shaggy hair, and Shiryaev handled his brush in a peculiar fashion, as if he was simply playing the fool, dabbing aimlessly again and again. Poggio painted with fine strokes, taking great care. The nun liked his work much more. Only it was boring to look at—Stepan Trofimovich’s daub proved far more interesting to study. In general it was a rather touching scene: old friends immersing themselves in the pastime that they loved and not even talking, because they already knew all they needed to know about art and about each other.

  Suddenly Shiryaev swung his hand through the air more boldly than usual and a shower of green blots spattered across his sketch.

  “This is intolerable!” he exclaimed, turning toward his friend. “Pretending, discussing the play of light and shade, talking about nature, when all the time I hate you! I hate you!”

  Poggio turned toward him just as sharply, and the old comrades suddenly looked like two cocks squaring up for a fight.

  Horror-struck, Pelagia squatted down on her haunches in fright. It would be just too shameful for a nun to be caught spying.

  She stopped watching, but she listened—she could not help it, she was afraid of rustling the leaves if she backed away.

  “Have you been with Naina?” (That was Stepan Trofimovich.) “You have, admit it!”

  The word “been” carried the force of a special meaning that made Pelagia blush and regret very much her impetuous decision to look at the sketches.

  “Such questions are not asked and such admissions are not made,” Arkadii Sergeevich answered in the same tone. “It is none of your business.”

  Stepan Trofimovich choked: “You destroyer, you devil! You pollute and defile everything with your very breath! All these years I have loved her. We talked, we dreamed. I promised her that when…when I was free, I would take her away to Moscow. She would become an actress, I would take up painting again, and we would know what happiness is. But she no longer wishes to be an actress!”

  “But she does wish to be an artist!” Poggio said mockingly. “At least, until just recently she did. What it is she wants now, I do not know.”

  Shiryaev was not listening, he was shouting incoherently about something that had clearly been bothering him for some time.

  “You’re a scoundrel. You don’t even love her. If you did, I would be hurt, but I would put up with it. But you did it because you were bored!”

  There was a loud noise, a crack of fabric tearing. Pelagia parted the bushes with her hands, afraid that matters might go as far as murder. They were very close to that: Stepan Trofimovich had grabbed Arkadii Sergeevich by the collar with both hands.

  “Yes, because I was bored,” Poggio wheezed in a strangled voice. “At first. But now I have lost my head. She doesn’t want me anymore. A week ago she was imploring me to take her away to Paris, she was talking about a studio in an attic with a view of the Boulevard des Capucines, about sunsets over the Seine. Then suddenly everything changed. She became cold and strange. And I am going out of my mind. Yesterday…yesterday I said to her: ‘Fine, let’s go. To hell with everything. Let it be Paris, the attic, the boulevard—everything just as you wish.’ Let go of me, I can’t breathe.”

  Shiryaev unclenched his fingers and asked in torment: “And what did she say?”

  “She burst out laughing. I…I was beside myself. I threatened her. I have something to threaten her with…You do not need to know about it. You’ll find out later, when it makes no difference anymore.” Poggio gave an unpleasant laugh. “Oh, I understand perfectly well what’s going on. You and I, Styopa, are no longer required, we’ve been retired without a pension. A more interesting character has turned up. But I won’t let myself be treated like some snot-nosed schoolboy! If she only knew what women have thrown themselves at my feet! I’ll trample her into the mud! I’ll make her come away with me!”

  “You villain, don’t you dare threaten her! I’ll squash you like a worm!”

  So saying, Stepan Trofimovich took his former classmate by the throat again, this time more firmly than before. The easels went flying to the ground, the men grappled with each other and tumbled over into the thick grass.

  “Lord, Lord, do not allow this,” Sister Pelagia began intoning quietly and jumped to her feet, since under the circumstances there was no need to be afraid of any rustling, then ran about twenty steps away and began shouting: “Zakusai-ai! Is that you making that noise over there? You naughty boy! Running off like that again!”

  The commotion in the clearing ceased instantly. Pelagia did not go in that direction—there was no point in embarrassing people—but she carried on shouting for a little while and stamped her feet as she moved away through the bushes. It was enough that those two gamecocks had come to their senses and reassumed their human form. For sin had been very close.

  She decided not to walk around the park anymore, but sit quietly in the library instead.

  But would you believe it, she had merely leaped out of the frying pan into the fire…

  NO SOONER HAD she made herself comfortable in the spacious, empty room with the tall bookcases crammed full of gold-tooled spines, pulling her feet up into the immense leather armchair and opening a volume of Pascal’s Lettres provinciales that smelled deliciously of olden times, when the door creaked and someone came in, but who exactly she could not see, because of the tall back of her chair.

  “We can say what we have to say here,” said Sytnikov’s calm, confident voice. “In this house hardly anyone ever looks into the library; we shan’t be disturbed.”

  Pelagia was about to clear her throat or stick her head out, but she was not quick enough. Another voice (it was Naina Georgievna) spoke words in the wake of which she could only have placed everyone in an awkward position by revealing her presence.

  “Are you going to offer me your hand and your heart again, Donat Abramovich?”

  She has bewitched everyone here, thought Pelagia with a shake of her head, feeling sorry for the staid, composed industrialist who, if the mocking tone of the question was anything to go by, had no reason to expect his feelings to be reciprocated.

  “I am afraid not,” said Sytnikov, no less calmly than before. There was a leathery creak—they had obviously sat down on the divan. “Now I can only offer you my heart.”

  “How am I to understand you?”

  “Let me explain. During the last few days I have come to understand you rather better than all these months that I have been turning up here because of your black eyes. I see now that I was mistaken. You are not suited to be my wife, and you yourself have no interest in that. I am not a man of idle words, I do not beat around the bush. I have not made any secret of my feelings for you, but neither have I tried to impose myself on you. I have given you enough time to realize that other than me there is no suitable match for you here. Stepan Trofimovich is a dreamer, and he is boring, too; with your character, after six months with him you would either put a noose around your neck or launch into a life of debauchery. Poggio—well, he’s really only good for amusement. You didn’t really take him seriously, did you? A petty little man, shallow. And now there is this new infatuation of yours. I don’t really have any objections. Have your fling; I can wait until your whimsy passes. Only this time you are playing with fire; this gentleman has great big teeth. And he really has no need of you—his interests lie elsewhere. Just at the moment you are not yourself, my words are no more than an annoyance to you, but even so, listen to what Donat Sytnikov has to say. I am like a stone wall, you can lean against me, and you can hide behind me. There is only one thing I
ask, when this project of yours collapses—do not throw yourself headfirst into the millpond. Such a shame to waste beauty like that. Come see me instead. I will not take you as my wife now, there would not be any point, but as a mistress—with great willingness. Stop flashing your eyes at me and listen; I am talking sense. As a mistress you would enjoy yourself more and feel more at ease—no domestic cares, no childbearing, and you will not be afraid of gossip. And what gossip could there be, in God’s name? I have just made plans to move my head office to Odessa. The River is too limited for me; I’m moving out into the sea lanes. Odessa is a jolly southern city where the morals are freer. You will be whoever you want to be. Paint pictures if you like—I’ll find you the finest teachers, ones your Arkasha could never match. If you want, I’ll give you a theater. You’ll decide for yourself which plays to put on, hire any actors you like, even from St. Petersburg, and all the finest roles will be yours. I have enough money for all that. And I’m a good man, reliable and not dissipated, like your chosen favorite. That is all I have to say.”

  Naina Georgievna listened through to the very end of this incredible speech without interrupting even once. Of course, few would have dared to interrupt someone like Sytnikov—he was such an imposing man.

  When he stopped speaking, however, the young woman laughed. Not loudly, but so strangely that Pelagia felt the frost creep across her skin.

  “You know, Donat Abramovich, if my ‘project,’ as you call it, really does fail, I would sooner throw myself in the millpond than come to you. Only it will not fail. I hold a winning ticket. There are abysses here so deep that they take your breath away. I have had enough of being a rag doll that you all fight over and tear to shreds. I am going to grasp my own fate by the tail! And not only my own. I want to live life to the full. Not as its slave, but as its mistress!”

  There was another creak of leather—Sytnikov had stood up.

  “What you mean by this, I do not understand. I can only see that you are beside yourself. Therefore, I am leaving now, but you think about what I said. My word can be trusted.”

  The door opened and closed, but Naina Georgievna did not leave immediately. For another five minutes, or even longer, Pelagia heard inconsolable sobbing filled with bitter despair and a determined sniffing. Then there was whispering in a tone of mixed spite and passion. Listening closely, the nun heard the same thing repeated over and over:

  “Well, let him be the fiend incarnate, let him, let him, let him. I don’t care…”

  When the way was clear, Pelagia went out into the corridor and set out for her room. As she walked along, she shook her head anxiously. That whisper was still echoing inside it.

  THE NUN NEVER reached her room, however, for she met Tanya on her way there. The maid was carrying a bundle in one hand and dragging Zakusai along on his leash with the other. He was resisting stubbornly with all four paws.

  “Mother,” she said joyfully, “wouldn’t you like to come with me? Marya Afanasievna has fallen asleep, so I’m on my way to the bathhouse; it’s been heated since this morning. You can have a wash while I stay with the little dog. And then you can keep an eye on him. It would be a great help to me. I can’t get into the suds with him, can I? The slobbery pest gives me no peace as it is.”

  Pelagia smiled amiably at the girl and agreed. At least in the bathhouse there was no one to eavesdrop or spy on.

  The little bathhouse stood behind the house—a squat hut of amber-yellow pine logs with tiny windows right up under the eaves. A trickle of white smoke was rising from the pot-bellied chimney.

  “You get washed; I’ll sit here,” the nun said in the small, clean changing room, lowering herself onto the bench and picking up the puppy.

  “Oh, thank you, you’ve really saved me, you have, I’ve been running around all the time and I’m all sweaty, and I couldn’t get a wash or run down to the River,” Tanya jabbered, hastily undressing and unloosing her light brown hair from its tight bun.

  Pelagia admired her finely molded, swarthy figure. A genuine Artemis, goddess of the forest; all that was lacking was a quiver of arrows over her shoulder.

  No sooner had Tanya disappeared behind the rough wooden door than there was a gentle knock from the outside.

  “Tanechka, my little Tanya,” a man’s voice whispered through the crack of the door. “Open up, sweetheart. I know you’re in there. I saw you carrying your little bundle.”

  Was that really Krasnov? Pelagia jumped to her feet in consternation, and her habit made a rustling sound.

  “I hear your dress rustling. Don’t put it on, stay just the way you are. Let me in, no one will see. Come on—what have you got to lose? I’ve written a little poem in your honor:

  Like to a little, rain-filled cloud,

  Longing to pour its droplets down,

  Like to the bright moon’s yellow face,

  E’er yearning for the earth’s embrace,

  So I, consumed by passion’s flame,

  Have breathed my darling Tanya’s name

  And ached to have my love away

  Since chill December’s seventh day.

  “See, I even remembered the date when we went sleigh riding together. I’ve loved you ever since that day. Stop running away from me, my little Tanyushenka. Pyotr Georgievich won’t write any poems about you, will he? Open up, eh?”

  Tanya’s admirer froze, listening, then half a minute later continued with a threat:

  “Come on, open up, you little flirt, or I’ll tell Pyotr Georgievich what you were up to with the Circassian the other day. I saw! He’ll soon stop being so polite to you then. And I’ll tell Marya Afanasievna, and she’ll send you packing, you wanton. Open up, I say!”

  Pelagia opened the door with a sudden jerk and folded her arms across her chest.

  Kirill Nifontovich froze on the threshold just as he was, in his long white blouse and straw hat with his arms flung out wide and his lips pursed into a heart shape in anticipation of a kiss. His little blue eyes gaped in blank bewilderment.

  “Oh, holy mother, it’s you…. Why didn’t you say so straightaway? Did you want to have a laugh at me?”

  “To laugh at some people is no sin,” Pelagia replied severely.

  Krasnov’s eyes flashed with a glitter in which there was not a trace of his usual childish naïveté. He swung around, darted around the corner of the bathhouse, and was gone.

  This really is a nest of vipers, thought Sister Pelagia.

  AFTER THE BATHHOUSE, they strolled unhurriedly through the cool of the evening, pacified by their steaming, their wet hair tightly bound up in kerchiefs (Tanya’s white and the nun’s black). They had given Zakusai a wash too, despite all the yelping and squealing. Now he was whiter than ever and his short coat was sticking out like the down on a duckling.

  There was a black carriage covered in dust standing by the stable. A sullen, black-bearded man in a dirty Circassian coat and a round felt cap was unharnessing the black horses.

  Tanya seized hold of Pelagia’s elbow and sighed in a swooning voice.

  “He’s here…. Mr. Bubentsov is here.”

  But she gazed as if spellbound at the Asiatic leading a horse into the stable.

  Pelagia remembered Kirill Nifontovich’s threat and looked at her companion more closely. Her face was quite still, with a strange dreamy expression; her pupils were dilated and her full pink lips slightly parted.

  The Circassian cast a brief glance at the women. He did not greet them or even nod as he led the second horse in by the bridle.

  Tanya walked over to him slowly, bowed, and said in a quiet voice: “Good day, Murad Djuraevich. Back to see us again?”

  He did not answer. He stood there, looking gloomily off to one side, winding the patterned bridle around his broad, hairy wrist.

  Then he went back to the carriage and began brushing off the dust.

  Tanya trailed after him.

  “Are you tired after the journey? Would you like some cold milk? Or some kvass?”
r />   The Circassian did not turn around; he did not even shrug his shoulders.

  Pelagia merely sighed, shook her head, and continued on her way.

  “Your clothes are all dirty,” she heard Tanya’s voice say behind her. “Why not take them off, and I’ll wash them? They’ll be dry by tomorrow. Are you staying the night?”

  Silence.

  At the door of the house Pelagia glanced back and saw Bubentsov’s driver, as gloomy as ever, walking toward the open gates of the stable, leading Tanya by the hand—exactly as he had just led the horse. The girl was moving her feet obediently in quick little steps, and Zakusai was trailing along behind her just as submissively on his lead.

  STANDING MEEKLY OUTSIDE the widow’s bedroom was a man who had gray hair but was not yet old, with a very creased, smiling face, a black frock coat buttoned all the way up, and equally black trousers of fine wool worn to a shine at the knees. The hands at the end of his long arms were clasped almost halfway down his thighs and in them he was holding a plump prayer book.

  “Give me your blessing, holy mother!” he exclaimed in a thin voice the moment he spied Pelagia, blocking her way. “I am Tikhon Ieremeevich Spasyonny, a most unworthy worm. Allow me to kiss your blessed hand.” He reached out with a grasping, long-fingered hand, but Pelagia hid her own hands behind her back.

  “We are not allowed,” she said, examining the humble supplicant. “The statute forbids it.”

  “Well then, without the hand, simply make the sign of the cross over me,” said Spasyonny, readily consenting. “I shall be blessed in any case. Do not refuse me, for it is written: ‘Despise not my sinful sores, but soothe them with the unction of thy grace.’”