by Boris Akunin
At the very center of this fascinating life, for which our quiet Zavolzhsk had some time earlier become the arena, there stood, of course, Vladimir Lvovich Bubentsov, a former sinner, but now a hero, in other words a figure not merely doubly dangerous for the female heart but quadruply so. The synodical emissary’s relations with the governor’s wife, Ludmila Platonovna, the postmaster’s wife, Olympiada Savelievna, and several other lionesses of our local society were the main subject of discussion in all our drawing rooms and salons. The most varied opinions were expressed concerning the nature of these relations, from the charitable to the extremely audacious, and it must be admitted that the latter clearly predominated.
The other, almost equally piquant, source of gossip was Naina Georgievna Telianova. After leaving her grandmother’s estate, she had moved to Zavolzhsk and had not demonstrated the slightest desire to take refuge in flight to other parts—that is, things had happened precisely as the perspicacious Sister Pelagia had predicted. Naturally, everyone knew about the unseemly part that Naina Georgievna had played in the story of the unfortunate dogs, and there were few who were willing to associate with the crazy princess now, and yet the young woman was not embarrassed in the least by the general condemnation. The apprehension once expressed by Sister Pelagia concerning the desperate situation in which Naina Georgievna might find herself should she be left without any inheritance from her grandmother had proved to be completely unfounded. In addition to the very fine little town house that Telianova had inherited from a recently deceased female relative, the princess proved also to possess her own capital—yet another inheritance, this time from some great-uncle or second cousin. God only knows how much it was worth, but it was at least quite sufficient for her to keep a maid and dress in the latest fashion. Naina appeared quite openly everywhere she wished, and in general her manner of behavior was such that at times her exploits even eclipsed the missionary and amatory conquests of Vladimir Lvovich.
How intriguing, for instance, were the young lady’s daily rides in the early evening to St. Petersburg Boulevard, our very own Zavolzhsk Champs Élysées!
Decked out in a positively breathtaking dress (a new one every time), under an immensely wide hat with feathers, sheltering under a lace parasol, Naina Georgievna would ride unhurriedly along the esplanade in her carriage, boldly scrutinizing all the ladies walking toward her, and on Cathedral Square she would order her driver to halt in front of the Grand Duke hotel and gaze fixedly for a long time, sometimes even for as long as half an hour, at the windows of the wing in which Vladimir Lvovich had his lodgings. Aware of this custom of hers, at the appointed hour a small crowd would already be gathered in anticipation by the railings, ready to gape at the remarkable young woman. It is true that no one ever saw the door of the wing open and the inspector invite the princess to enter, but this standoffish response merely accentuated the scandalous nature of the entire situation.
On the eve of the Beheading of John the Baptist, the town was fragrant with the scent of a new scandal, the precise content of which was not yet clear. But the scent was the same as ever, spicy and unmistakable. And the same rumors, ripe with promise, were hovering in the air.
There was the prospect of a rare, indeed almost unprecedented event for Zavolzhsk—a public art exhibition. Not an exhibition of drawings by grammar-school pupils or of watercolors painted by members of the “Officials’ Wives for Public Morality” association, but a display of photographic pictures by the Petersburg celebrity Arkadii Sergeevich Poggio.
The vernissage for invited guests—with champagne and hors d’oeuvres—was set for the same date as this doleful holy day, for which, as everyone knows, the observance of a strict fast is prescribed. In this alone a certain defiance of the proprieties could already be discerned. But even more remarkable was the suggestive air of mystery with which the patroness of the exhibition, Olympiada Savelievna Shestago, distributed the invitations to a narrow circle of friends and acquaintances. There were those who said that this small number of fortunates would be shown something quite exceptional, and tremulous apprehensions were even expressed that afterward the most interesting things would not be shown to the public or even that no public showing would take place at all.
The postmaster’s wife luxuriated in the bright glow of this universal excitation. Never before had she received so many invitations at the same time for all manner of gatherings, name-day parties and open-house days. She did not go to all of them, but was very selective, affecting an air of intrigue and replying to direct requests for an invitation by saying that the hall was too small and the artist himself objected to a crowd, for that would make it difficult to view his works. But as of the day after the vernissage, everyone would be most welcome.
THE EXHIBITION WAS located in a separate wing of the postmaster’s house, with a door that opened straight onto the street. Arkadii Sergeevich had been living in this comfortable apartment for an entire month, ever since he moved out of Drozdovka. The reason for his move was not entirely clear, because no one had observed that Poggio had quarreled about anything with the inhabitants of the estate, though certain of the more perspicacious female commentators did remark that the timing of the move had coincided with Naina Georgievna’s emigration. On the first floor of the apartment there was a spacious salon, where the exhibition in question was sited, and before the salon there was also a drawing room. The second floor consisted of two rooms: one served Arkadii Sergeevich as his bedroom, and he had set up his photographic laboratory in the other, blacking out the windows completely with curtains.
The invited guests assembled only gradually, and therefore the hostess’s foresight in providing a table of hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room was much appreciated.
Almost the first to arrive were Stepan Trofimovich Shiryaev and Pyotr Georgievich Telianov, which conclusively refuted speculation concerning a quarrel between Arkadii Sergeevich and the inhabitants of Drozdovka. Shiryaev was pale and tense, as though he foresaw some unpleasant consequences for himself arising from the exhibition, but his young companion was in a lighthearted mood, joking a great deal and repeatedly attempting to poke his nose into the locked salon when no one was looking, so that Olympiada Savelievna was obliged to keep a close eye on the mischievous prankster.
Also invited, from the artist’s side, were Donat Abramovich Sytnikov and Kirill Nifontovich Krasnov. General Tatishchev’s widow had recovered from her illness, but she was not yet traveling beyond the bounds of her estate, and if she was to have ventured out she would hardly have honored with her presence an exhibition by her much-disliked “nutcracker” (that was the name on which she had finally settled for Arkadii Sergeevich, apparently having in mind the clicking sound that his photographic apparatus produced when taking a picture).
A greater number of guests had been invited by the hostess: Vladimir Lvovich and his inseparable secretary, the provincial marshal of the nobility, Count Gavriil Alexandrovich (on this occasion with his wife), several of her most tried-and-true liberal friends, and also a newcomer from Moscow—a certain Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna, who, despite having arrived in Zavolzhsk only recently, was already on friendly terms with all the pillars of Zavolzhsk society. Olympiada Savelievna’s husband had not been allowed to attend the soirée due to his lack of sensitivity to art and in general because it was obviously inappropriate if Bubentsov was to attend.
Everyone had arrived, and from one moment to the next they were anticipating the arrival of the most important guest—Vladimir Lvovich, who had been delayed somewhat by state business, but had promised that he would definitely be there. The guests had already bolstered their spirits substantially with champagne and were casting glances of mounting curiosity at the hero of the evening. Poggio moved from one group to the next, joking a lot and anxiously wiping his hands with his handkerchief, occasionally looking in the direction of the door—no doubt he was tormented by impatience and mentally urging the tardy Bubentsov to make haste.
And so Ark
adii Sergeevich reached the spot where one of the local progressives was circling around the young woman from Moscow, and exclaimed with exaggerated gusto: “Yes, indeed, Polina Andreevna, you absolutely must permit me to make your portrait! The longer I observe your charming face, the more interesting it seems to me. And it would be even more wonderful if you were to persuade your sister to pose for me with you. It is simply astounding how great a difference there can be between faces that display all the features of a family likeness!”
Lisitsyna smiled and her lively brown eyes flashed, but she said nothing.
“Do not be angry, Pauline, when I say that such a double portrait would demonstrate to everyone in the most eloquent fashion possible what a crime it is when women decide to shut themselves away from the world. Your sister Pelagia is a little gray mouse, but you are a fiery lioness. She is like the pale moon, but you are the blinding sun. The nose, the eyebrows, the eyes all have the same form, but the two of you could never be confused. I suppose that she is much older than you?”
“Is that a compliment or an attempt to establish my age?” Lisitsyna said with a laugh, exposing her even white teeth and striking Arkadii Sergeevich jokingly on the hand with her black ostrich-feather fan. “And don’t you dare abuse Pelagia in my presence. We see each other so rarely! I came to see her once ages ago, and they had sent her off to some remote monastery.”
She fluttered her weapon of retribution, fanning air onto her naked shoulders with their charming sprinkling of bright-orange freckles. She tossed her luxuriant ginger coiffure and screwed up her eyes as she peered at the clock.
“Are you short-sighted?” asked the observant Poggio. “It is twenty minutes past eight.”
“Short-sightedness runs in our family,” Polina Andreevna confessed with a disarming smile. “And I’m too embarrassed to wear spectacles.”
“Even spectacles could hardly spoil you,” Arkadii Sergeevich assured her gallantly. “So, how about a portrait?”
“Not for anything. You’ll only go and show it in an exhibition.” Lisitsyna began speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “What kind of surprise is it that you have in there? I bet it’s something indecent, isn’t it?”
Poggio gave a slightly forced smile and said nothing. The ginger-haired charmer gazed up at him, puckering her round forehead inquisitively, as if she were trying to solve some kind of riddle.
Ah, but why attempt to bamboozle the reader any longer, especially since he has already guessed everything for himself?
The woman standing before the nervous artist (wearing a low-cut velvet evening dress and white gloves up to the elbow, her face framed by those whimsically coiled copper-red locks) was not Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna at all, but…
That is to say, it is not exactly that she was not Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna, for at one time she really had been called precisely that, but then she had changed her first name, dropped her family name, and become simply Pelagia.
In order to understand how this incredible and even blasphemous transformation of a nun into a society lady had come about, we shall be obliged to go back two weeks in time, to those final lingering days of summer, when barges were sailing upstream along the River with watermelons from Astrakhan and Tsaritsyn, and bishop Mitrofanii had only just held his distressing “council at Fili.”
“THIS IS DANGEROUS both for me and the governor. But that is not the worst thing, and not by a long way. Today our entire way of life is under threat. As a shepherd of the church I cannot just sit here while a ravenous beast devours my flock. I am in open view, my hands are tied, Bubentsov’s spies are swarming all around me, I cannot tell who to trust. They have already reported that I was in conference with Anton Antonovich and Matvei yesterday, I know that quite certainly. Without you, Pelagia, I shall not be able to cope. Help me. We will try to extinguish the blaze from both sides. As we did last year, when you and I traveled to Kazan to look for the Icon of the Afon Virgin after it was stolen.”
With that His Grace concluded his speech. Mitrofanii and his spiritual daughter were strolling together along the pathways of the bishop’s garden, although the day was overcast and there was a fine rain sprinkling down from the sky. This was what things had come to—His Grace was afraid to hold a secret conversation in his very own chambers. There were too many stealthy ears listening.
“So I have to play Polina again?” sighed the nun. “We vowed that it was going to be the last time. I don’t say that because I am afraid that I shall be exposed and expelled from the order. I actually enjoy this playacting. That is what I am afraid of. Worldly temptation. These masquerades make my heart beat faster. And that is a sin.”
“The sin is not your concern,” Mitrofanii said severely. “I set the work of penance and I bear the responsibility for it. The goal is a good one and the means, while not entirely legitimate, are not dishonorable. Go to Sister Emilia and tell her that I am sending you to the Efimiev Monastery. And then take the steamer as far as Egoriev, assume the appearance required, and be sure to be back here again the day after tomorrow. I shall introduce you to the houses that Bubentsov visits—the homes of Count Gavriil Alexandrovich, and the governor and his wife, and the others. After that, you know what to do. Here, take this.” He handed Pelagia a large leather purse. “You will order some dresses from Leblanc, buy various perfumes and lipsticks and such—whatever is necessary. And have that ginger mop styled into a proper coiffure, like in Kazan, with those little curls. Well, go now, and God be with you.”
PELAGIA—OR RATHER, not Pelagia, but the young Moscow widow Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna—took lodgings with the colonel’s wife Grabbe, an old friend of Mitrofanii’s. The old woman knew nothing at all about the masquerade, but she gave her guest a warm welcome and made her comfortable, and everything would have been quite wonderful, if only the kind-hearted Antonina Ivanovna had not got it into her head that she ought to find this dear, unhappy lady a husband as quickly as possible.
This caused the female conspirator numerous awkward moments. Almost every day the colonel’s widow invited young and not-so-young gentlemen with the status of bachelor or widower to tea, and to the extreme embarrassment of Polina Andreevna (let us, after all, refer to her in that manner) almost all of them displayed a most lively interest in her white skin, bright eyes, and “bronze-helmet” coiffure: smoothly parted at the top and wavy down the back of the head, with three pendant coils at each side. Things even reached the stage of rivalry. For instance, the engineer Surkov, a very good man, would come to visit with a huge bunch of chrysanthemums, but then the grammar-school inspector Poluectov would show up with an entire basketful, and the former would spend the entire evening feeling envious of the latter.
Sister Emilia, who had been a bride three times before she took the veil and therefore regarded herself as a great expert in the area of male habits, taught that men pay attention of a certain kind (that was what she said: “attention of a certain kind”) not to all women, but only to those who give them some kind of sign, sometimes even unintentionally. A glance, perhaps, or a sudden blush, or some kind of imperceptible odor to which men’s noses are particularly sensitive. The meaning of this sign is: I am accessible, you may approach me. And as proof of this, Emilia, who was, among other things, a teacher of natural science, would adduce examples from the life of animals, for some reason most often dogs. Christina, Olympiada, Ambrosia, and Apollinaria would listen with bated breath, because they had left the world before they had a chance to become acquainted with male habits at all. Pelagia listened sadly, because from her experience in the role of Mrs. Lisitsyna, it was perfectly obvious that she gave signs of her own accessibility, she most certainly did. Either a glance or a blush or that thrice-cursed treacherous odor. And most disagreeable of all was the fact that the nun felt as much at home in the role of the flippant Mrs. Lisitsyna as a fish in water, and her customary clumsiness somehow completely evaporated. Her manner became assured, her movements graceful, and even her hips began to behave in the most
treacherous manner as she walked along, so that some men even turned to look. After each reincarnation it required the performance of several thousand bows and the reading of a hundred prayers to the Virgin Mary to restore her to a state of blessed calm.
So far it seemed that on this occasion Pelagia had taken the burden of sin on her soul almost completely in vain. In two weeks of following a virtually uninterrupted round of private parties, dinners, and balls she had succeeded in discovering very little. Bubentsov did not visit Naina Georgievna’s house, nor did she visit him. If they were meeting anywhere, then it was in secret. That, though, was unlikely, if one took into account Princess Telianova’s daily demonstrations in front of the wing of the hotel. Once, when she and the postmistress called at Vladimir Lvovich’s apartment, she had seen an envelope on the table with the letters NT written at the bottom in a crooked hand, but the envelope was lying there unopened, and apparently not for the first day.
Mrs. Lisitsyna’s efforts in the matter of the Zyt case had been somewhat more successful.
A curious circumstance had emerged from a conversation with the pathologist Wiesel, one of the soft-hearted Antonina Ivanovna’s protégés. Apparently Bubentsov had brought back from the sinister clearing, which was presumed to be the bloodthirsty Shishiga’s site of worship, certain samples of soil impregnated with some fluid similar to blood, and the task of analyzing this trophy had fallen to Wiesel. Laboratory tests had shown that it was indeed blood, but not human—it had come from a moose. This was reported to Chief of Police Lagrange. However, this important piece of news had not been brought to the attention of the newspapers and the public.