Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk

by Boris Akunin

  Matvei Bentsionovich most certainly did not consider himself a man of a military cast of mind, but even so he felt slightly offended. “And who is this man of yours without any imagination, Your Grace?” he inquired with the very slightest hint of acrimony in his voice, certain that the bishop was thinking of himself.

  The reply was unexpected: “Don't you go thinking that it is me. I am a man of the church and might not prove resistant to mystical impressions. If Lentochkin has not been able to resist …” Mitrofanii shook his head, as if he were marveling yet again at the fragility of Alyosha's nihilism. “Lagrange will go.”

  At first sight this decision was no less surprising than the previous one, when the bishop had made up his mind to send a young atheist to deal with internal church matters.

  That is to say, on the one hand the police chief of Zavolzhsk, Felix Stanislavovich Lagrange, might have seemed, by virtue of his official position, an entirely appropriate candidate for carrying out a rapid and decisive operation, but that was only if one did not know the background of the situation. And the background included the fact that Colonel Lagrange was in His Grace's debt; in fact, not very long before, he had almost found himself in court as a consequence of certain rather indecorous goings-on. However, just recently Lagrange had been almost forgiven and had even begun going to the bishop for confession. We may assume that here Mitrofanii's ambition, which we have already mentioned, had come into play once again, the bishop being driven less by concern for the pastoral care of enlightened souls than the hope of evoking a response from those that were calloused and deaf.

  Matvei Bentsionovich opened his mouth to protest, but immediately shut it again when the thought occurred to him that at second glance the choice that had just been announced did not look so very bad after all, because … But that was exactly what the bishop went on to explain.

  “Felix Stanislavovich comes to me for confession, but he does it exactly as if he were going on watch or trooping the color, as if he were simply carrying out standing orders. He reports to me in meticulous detail on how many times he has used obscene language and which whores he has visited, receives absolution for his sins, clicks his spurs together, then does a quick about-face and marches off on the double. He is one of that rare breed of people who have absolutely no need of faith. But then,” Mitrofanii added with a smile, “the colonel would probably take great offense if anyone were to call him a materialist—he would most likely slap their face for it. And he is an efficient soldier, he knows police business, and is a man of exceptional bravery. I shall summon him tomorrow and ask him to go—he won't refuse.”

  And that was what the bishop did. He summoned Lagrange and gave him his instructions and, of course, it never even entered the police chief's head to be obstinate—he accepted His Grace's wishes implicitly, as he would have accepted instructions from the governor or the director of the police department. He promised to set out first thing in the morning, as soon as he had handed over current business to his deputy.

  But even sooner than that, that very same evening, a special courier delivered a new letter from New Ararat that shocked and astounded the bishop, Berdichevsky, and Pelagia, while at the same time explaining a great deal.

  But then why should we attempt to explain in our own words, when that will only confuse matters? Here is the document itself. As they say, any comment is superfluous.

  Reverend Bishop

  I am not certain that you are in fact the person to whom this letter should be addressed, but there is no one here who knows the place of residence or family circumstances of the young man who was staying at the Noah's Ark Hotel under the name of Alexei Stepanovich Lentochkin. On the table in the room that he occupied, an envelope was discovered bearing the words “To His Reverence Father Mitrofanii, the Episcopal Residence, Zavolzhsk,” with a blank piece of paper lying beside it, as if Lentochkin were intending to write you a letter, but did not have enough time to do so. And therefore I am writing to Your Grace in the hope that you know this youth and will be able to inform his relatives of the misfortune that has befallen him, and provide me with any details in your possession concerning his life hitherto, since this is of great importance in selecting the correct method of treatment.

  Mr. Lentochkin (if that is his real name) is suffering from an extremely acute form of mental disturbance that excludes any possibility of transporting him off the island. At dawn this morning he came dashing into the psychiatric clinic that I run in such a lamentable state that I have been obliged to keep him here. He does not reply to any questions, but keeps mumbling, over and over again, Credo, credo, Domine, from time to time declaiming incoherent, entirely delirious monologues. Apart from the obvious inadvisability of moving the patient from place to place, as a medical man I find the nature of his mania interesting. I assume that you have heard about my clinic, but you might possibly not know that I do not undertake the treatment of absolutely any mental malady, but only those that have been little studied by the science of psychiatry. Lentochkin is precisely such a case.

  I will not burden you with all the sad details, since I am still not absolutely certain that you are acquainted with my new patient. In view of the religious theme of his ravings (which are obscure and almost totally incoherent), one might easily assume that Lentochkin had decided to write to the provincial bishop just as others in my care write to His Highness the Emperor of Russia, the Pope of Rome, or the Emperor of China.

  However, if you do happen to know how to contact Lentochkin's relatives, please do not delay. I know from experience that with very few exceptions the condition of patients of his kind deteriorates very rapidly and soon leads to a fatal outcome.

  I remain Your Reverences

  most respectful servant,

  Donat Savvich Korovin, Doctor of Medicine

  The Second Expedition

  THE ADVENTURES OF THE MAN OF COURAGE

  THIS DEPLORABLE NEW turn of events (it was, indeed, rather surprising that it had not actually been foreseen by such clever people) gave rise to a new quarrel about who should go, but eventually the bishop insisted on his original choice and the chief of police was dispatched to New Ararat. This outcome was, however, preceded by a sharp argument between Mitrofanii and Sister Pelagia (on the question of Lagrange, Matvei Bentsionovich maintained his neutrality and therefore said nothing for most of the time).

  The argument concerned the Gordian knot. It began with the prelate comparing Lagrange to the resolute Alexander, who, finding himself unable to untie the intricate knot, had found an excellent way out of his awkward situation by simply slicing it in two with his sword. In His Grace s opinion that was exactly how Lagrange would act if he were to find himself in difficulties: as a military man he would not capitulate in the face of any baffling conundrum, but tackle it head-on, which could prove to be the most effective approach in a complicated case such as this.

  “And in general,” said the bishop, “it seems to me that the more complex and confused a situation, the easier the way out of it.”

  “Oh, how mistaken you are, Father!” Pelagia exclaimed in great agitation. “Those are extremely dangerous words! If you, the wisest and kindest of all the people I know, can reason like that, then what is to be expected from the earthly rulers of men? They are in any case inclined to reach for their swords in the face of the slightest difficulty. Slicing the Gordian knot in two was a deed of no great merit—any fool could have done it. After Alexander's heroic exploit there was simply one less wonder left in the world!”

  Mitrofanii was about to object, but the nun began fluttering her hands at him and the pastor stared in astonishment at his spiritual daughter, for he had never known her to behave so disrespectfully before. “There are no simple ways out of complicated situations! You must know that!” the nun exclaimed heatedly. “And your military men do nothing but destroy and ruin! Where tact, caution, and patience are required, they go barging in with their boots, sabers, and cannons, and make such a mess of things
that afterward the process of healing, repairing, and general patching up is long and painful.”

  The bishop was astonished: “Do you mean to say you think soldiers are not necessary at all?”

  “No, of course they are. When an enemy has attacked and the fatherland has to be defended. But they can't be trusted with anything else! Not even civil matters, let alone spiritual ones! But here in Russia military men are trusted to deal with absolutely anything at all! A saber is a useless instrument for repairing a fault in a delicate mechanism. And sending your colonel to Ararat is like letting an elephant loose in a china shop!”

  “Never mind,” Mitrofanii interrupted, taking offense for the estate of the military. “Hannibal conquered the Alps on elephants! Yes, Felix Stanislavovich won't stand for any nonsense. If he has to turn the islands upside down, he'll find me the villain who drove Alyosha into the madhouse. Ghost or no ghost—it's all the same to Lagrange. And there's an end of it. Go now, Pelagia. I will not change my decision.”

  And he turned away, so angry that he did not even bless the nun in farewell.

  THE STEAMSHIPST. BASILISK slapped the paddles of its wheels against the dark water with brisk efficiency as it sailed across the Blue Lake. The impressive-looking gentleman with a good complexion standing on the upper deck was wearing a checked three-piece woolen suit, white spats, and an English cap with earflaps, and he was absorbed in studying his own reflection in the window of one of the cabins. The panoramic view of the bay wreathed in evening mist and the twinkling lights of Sineozersk held no attraction for this passenger—he had his back toward the lyrical landscape. He turned this way and that to make sure that his jacket sat well on him, fingered the remarkable curls of his mustache, and was satisfied. Naturally, a blue uniform jacket embroidered with gold would be a hundred times better, he thought to himself, but a real man looked well enough even in civilian clothes.

  He was not able to continue admiring himself, however, because a light came on in the cabin. That is, first a narrow crack appeared in the darkness and rapidly expanded into an illuminated rectangle, and then a silhouette appeared, outlined against it; then the rectangle disappeared (as the door to the corridor was closed), but a second later the gas burner sprang to life. An attractive young woman removed her hand from the small control lever, took off her hat, and cast an absentminded glance at herself in the mirror.

  The passenger with the mustache did not even think of leaving—on the contrary, he moved even closer to the pane of glass and examined the lady's slim figure with the attentive eye of a connoisseur.

  At this point the inhabitant of the cabin finally turned toward the window and noticed the gentleman peeping in. Her eyebrows shot up and her lips moved—we must assume that she gasped “Ah!” or made some other expression of the same kind.

  The handsome gentleman was not in the least embarrassed; in fact, he raised his cap politely and bowed. The lady moved her lips soundlessly again, this time for longer, but though her words were inaudible outside, it was not difficult to guess their meaning: “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Instead of replying or, even better, going away, the passenger rapped insistently on the glass with his knuckles. When the female traveler, intrigued, lowered the window frame, he spoke in a clear, resonant voice.

  “Felix Stanislavovich Lagrange. Pardon my directness, madam—I am a soldier, you see—but at the sight of you I suddenly felt as if you and I were all alone on this ship. Just the two of us, and not another soul. Now isn't that a strange thing?”

  The lady blushed and was about to close the window without speaking, but after glancing more closely at the soldier's attractive face, and especially at his round, extraordinarily intense eyes, she seemed suddenly to become thoughtful, and the moment for demonstrating intransigence was missed.

  Shortly thereafter the colonel and his new acquaintance were already sitting in the ship's saloon, surrounded by pilgrims (an entirely and exclusively respectable crowd), drinking champagne cup and making conversation.

  In fact it was Natalya Genrikhovna (that was the lady's name) who did most of the talking, and the chief of police hardly even opened his mouth, because at the first stage of a new acquaintance, that was superfluous—he merely smiled mysteriously into his scented mustache and gazed adoringly at his companion.

  With her cheeks glowing pink, the lady, who was the wife of a St. Petersburg newspaper publisher, told him that she had grown weary of the vain bustle of life in the capital and decided to cleanse her soul, which was why she had set out on this trip to the holy island.

  “You know, Felix Stanislavovich, there suddenly comes a moment in life when you feel things cannot go on as they are any longer,” Natalya Genrikhovna told him in a confidential tone. “You have to stop and look around, listen to the silence, and understand what is most important about yourself. That is why I came alone—in order to be quiet and to listen. And also to beg the Lord's forgiveness for all my sins, both voluntary and involuntary. Do you understand me?”

  The colonel raised his eyebrows expressively: Oh, yes!

  An hour later they were strolling along the deck, and in order to shelter his companion from the fresh wind, Lagrange reduced the distance between his strong, manly shoulder and Natalya Genrikhovna's delicate one to an entirely insignificant gap.

  When the St. Basilisk emerged from the mouth of the bay into a wide, black, open expanse, the wind suddenly acquired a keen edge, the white-toothed waves began slapping angrily against the side of the ship, and from time to time the colonel was obliged to catch hold of the lady around the waist; and every time his hand lingered longer against her gently yielding side.

  Sailor monks holding up the hems of their cassocks ran around the deck, securing the dancing lifeboats and muttering prayers in a habitual murmur. On the bridge they could see the massive figure of the captain, also wearing a cassock, but with a peaked leather cap on his head and a broad leather belt around his hips. The captain was shouting into a megaphone in a hoarse bass voice: “Porfirii, may you choke on unction! Cast on two hitches!”

  At the stern, where the wind was blowing less furiously, the strolling couple halted. Natalya Genrikhovna surveyed the boundless expanse of stormy water and the lowering, gray black sky and shuddered.

  “My God, how frightening it is! As if we'd fallen into a hole between time and space!”

  Lagrange realized the moment had come to launch a full frontal offensive. A frightened woman was like an enemy cowed by a blast of grapeshot. He conducted his attack brilliantly. Lowering his voice to a trembling baritone, he said, “I am really quite terribly lonely. And you know, sometimes I long for understanding, warmth and … affection, yes, that's it—ordinary, simple human affection.” He lowered his forehead onto the lady's shoulder, which required him to bend his knees slightly, and heaved a sigh.

  “That … that wasn't the reason I decided to make the trip to Ararat,” Natalya Genrikhovna whispered, disconcerted, making as if to push Felix Stanislavovich's head away, but at the same time running her fingers through his thick hair. “Not to commit new sins, but to pray for the forgiveness of the old ones …”

  “Then you can ask forgiveness for everything all at once,” said the colonel, adducing an argument of irrefutable logic.

  Five minutes later they were kissing in the dark cabin—in a purely romantic fashion as yet, but the police chief's fingers had already identified the disposition of buttons on Natalya Genrikhovna's dress and even stealthily unfastened the upper one …

  IN THE MIDDLE of the night Felix Stanislavovich was woken by a powerful jolt. Raising himself up on one elbow, he saw a pair of frightened eyes—a woman's eyes—close beside him. Although the narrow bed was not designed for two, the colonel had been sleeping very soundly indeed, as he always did, and if he had been woken, the blow must have been a serious one.

  “What is it?” asked Lagrange, still half-asleep and not remembering where he was, but he immediately glanced toward the door. “Your
husband?”

  The lady (what was her name?) said in a low, breathy voice, “We're sinking …”

  The colonel shook his head briskly and then, fully awake at last, he heard the roaring of the storm and felt the hull of the ship shuddering so violently that it seemed strange the lovers had not yet been thrown out of their bed.

  “Pagan freaks!” he heard the captain roar somewhere above him. “Bestial Sadducees, may Moloch have the lot of you, you vipers!”

  On every side—from out on deck and in the lower cabins—he could hear the despairing shouts and weeping of terrified passengers.

  Natalya Genrikhovna (yes, that was what her name was) said with profound conviction, “This is the reward for my blasphemy. For sinning on the way to a holy monastery.” And she burst into pitiful, hopeless tears.

  Lagrange patted her wet cheek reassuringly and got dressed quickly, military fashion.

  “Where are you going?” his pilgrim lover asked in horror, but the door had already slammed shut behind him.

  Half a minute later the colonel was out on the boat deck. Holding his cap on with his hand to prevent it from taking flight, he summed the situation up in a jiffy. The situation was decidedly of the water-closet variety.

  The captain was dashing around the deckhouse, trying in vain to make half a dozen sailors, who were down on their knees praying, get to their feet. Felix Stanislavovich could make out some of the words: “In Thy mercy do we seek refuge, Virgin Mother …” The wheel in the deckhouse was twirling this way and that as if it were drunk, and the steamship was hurtling on, plowing headlong through the huge, towering waves on its way to God only knew where.