by Boris Akunin
He stood some distance away from the streetlamp, behind a bush, and threw back his head as if he were admiring the clear crescent moon. In fact, there was nobody watching the dreamer, because there was not a single soul on the quiet street.
Soon there was the sound of a moving carriage. Yakov Mikhailovich glanced at his watch—twenty-nine minutes to eleven. He entered another incomprehensible squiggle in his notebook. A small two-seater whirlicote in the English style came driving up. The driver was a middle-aged civil servant with a large nose, wearing a peaked cap. Sitting beside him was the mark—the same nun who had recently walked along Malaya Borshchovka Street.
The man jumped down, raised his peaked cap, and bowed. The redhaired nun said something to him, also bowed, then climbed the steps of the porch. The civil servant watched the holy sister until the door had closed behind her and only then drove away, but not immediately, after perhaps another two minutes. He stood there twisting the end of his nose, as if he were trying to solve some tricky problem, but Yakov Mikhailovich already knew that this was a habit the civil servant had, like a nervous tic.
When the escort had driven away, the observer came out from behind the bush, opened his little book under the streetlamp, and looked over his notes.
In five days not a single deviation from routine. From eleven P.M. until six A.M.—sleep. Half an hour for the morning toilette. Then goes to the nearby church. Comes back home. An interesting fad: from half past seven to eight swims in the River, even thought the water is cold. Then takes breakfast in the school, with the pupils. From nine to twelve—lessons. After that—lunch. From one to five—more lessons. From five to seven—choir rehearsal. Shortly after seven, walks to the episcopal residence (route: from Kazan Street turns onto Dvoryanskaya Street, from there on to Malaya Borshchovka Street; at this time the streets are crowded). At twenty past ten leaves the bishop’s apartment with the district public prosecutor, who sees her all the way to her porch.
Those were the terms of the problem, not so very difficult in themselves.
But.
The snag here was in the rider, the governing condition. They had told him it had to look like an accident or sudden death from illness. Not the slightest suspicion of violence. Of course, that was more interesting than a simple ordinary snicker-snack, but also many times more difficult.
In short, a real brainteaser. “Come on now, come on now,” Yakov Mikhailovich muttered, racking his brains.
If those smart-alecks hadn’t bungled everything so badly, then of course the simplest way of all would have been during the morning swim. The iron nun (the Lord really had granted her exceptional health) walked to an isolated little cove for her swim, no matter what the weather. She disrobed to her long white chemise, then swam out with rapid overarm strokes to the center of the River and back again. Just looking at her made you shiver.
The way he ought to have done this was to stun her (ever so slightly so that afterward they would find water in her lungs) and slip her into the water. They would have said she got a cramp in her leg and drowned. A common story. The water temperature was fifty-five degrees, he had checked it with a thermometer.
But that wouldn’t do. The powers that be were in cautious mood after his predecessor’s fine efforts. He had had a totally free hand, but the cross-eyed impressionist had still made a total botch of the job.
They had told Yakov Mikhailovich, “It has to be absolutely perfect”—and what did that mean? It meant in full public view, and no one must suspect a thing.
You just try killing a healthy young woman who swims in 55-degree water in front of numerous witnesses without provoking a single shred of suspicion. After all, every pair of eyes was an additional risk. You could never tell just what natural talent for observation someone might have been born with.
“Oh, no, my dear sirs, that’s going too far, that’s beyond the bounds of the possible! I’m not the Lord God Sabaoth Himself,” Yakov Mikhailovich muttered quietly, but his grousing was not entirely free of affectation: after all, it is flattering when they hand you tricky little problems like this to solve. It shows they respect a man’s talent. And what could possibly be more fascinating than trying to find the solution to a problem that actually lies beyond the realm of the possible?
Yakov Mihailovich believed devoutly in the unlimited potential of the human intellect. At least, of his own intellect. He cracked his fingers, smacked his thickish lips, even grunted a little, but he found the solution. And it was such a neat and elegant one—an absolute delight!
No need for any large audience, no need for all those eyes. The important thing here, as in any job, was not quantity, but quality. Let there be only one pair of eyes, but it would be as good as an entire crowd of witnesses (for who knew what they might see, or invent, and testify to under interrogation?). If the nun died right in front of the very man who conducted inquests, there would be no need for any questions and interrogations. How could he possibly not believe his own eyes? He would have to, he would have no choice.
Come on now, come on now!
District public prosecutor Berdichevsky brought the nun from the episcopal residence to her official apartment every evening. He drove her all the way home in his carriage and helped her out. He always waited for her to walk up onto the porch and open the door. What could be contrived out of this?
Make the horse bolt somehow? There was a spot on the turn off Dvoryanskaya Street where the cliff edge was quite close. The public prosecutor’s horse was docile, but if you used a blowpipe to fire a dart into its side, then it would bolt like a good un.
Too risky. In the first place, she might jump out—after all, she was athletic. She’d get off with no more than some worthless fracture. Or they’d both be killed, and that would ruin everything.
But it was only a short step from the general idea of a key witness to complete enlightenment. The idea came almost immediately, and it was so brilliant that Yakov Mikhailovich actually squealed in delight. He turned back, driven by inspiration. He didn’t simply run up onto the porch, he soared, and stuck his nose right against the door handle, lighting it up with a small electric torch.
That was it! The bounds of the possible had receded under the pressure of human intellect. The public prosecutor would see it all with his own eyes. Yakov Mikhailovich would polish off the little redheaded nun right in front of his big hooked nose, and Mr. Berdichevsky would understand nothing, he wouldn’t even notice anything.
That was true impressionism for you, that was genuine beauty, none of your setting up idiotic landslides in caves.
AT TEN O’CLOCK the next evening the specialist in neat and tidy jobs was back in the quiet street at the edge of town, but he was dressed as a rag-and-bone man, not a factory hand.
He installed himself opposite the school building. There he walked about for a while, calling out dismally: “Bring out your old junk and bottles! Let’s have those old rags and dusters!”—more out of sheer professionalism than for the sake of the job. As he had established previously, people didn’t walk along this street at this hour, there would be no one to give him any old rags or bottles.
He went up onto the porch for no more than a minute; that was all that was needed.
The door handle was of the very simplest kind: a wooden bracket attached with nails, God only knew how many years earlier—the heads had turned orange with rust ages ago. Yakov Mikhailovich hammered in another nail, a slim one, angled a little, so that the point protruded ever so slightly from the inside of the handle, at the precise spot where the fingers grasped it. Yakov Mikhailovich smeared the protruding point with some liquid from a little vial, working with extreme care—he even put on gloves.
The specialist always took his own personal medicine chest with him on his assignments: various glass tubes and vials for every occasion life could offer.
Scratching your hand on a door handle was a paltry, everyday occurrence—who hadn’t done it at some time or other?
The nex
t morning, an abscess. In the evening, a temperature. Symptoms resembling blood poisoning, then a chilly little shiver, copious sweating, and yellowing of the skin. On the second day, intense fever and delirium. That evening—or, if you had a strong heart, by the end of the night at the very latest—your soul is at rest with the holy saints. And no suspicion, a perfectly ordinary, everyday incident. The main thing was that the public prosecutor would observe the whole thing in person. With his own ears he would hear her cry out when she pricked herself. Who would ever have thought that a trifle like that could lead to blood poisoning ? Nobody. It was God’s providence.
Yakov Mikhailovich took up his position in the bushes and waited.
They arrived at twenty minutes to eleven. He had already begun to feel concerned.
Today the public prosecutor did more than merely help his companion down; he gallantly accompanied her all the way to the door. That was even better—let him have a front-row seat.
The redhead took hold of the handle, pulled it, and gave a sharp gasp.
Quod erat demonstrandum. As soon as he heard that quiet “Ah!” Yakov Mikhailovich smacked his lips and backed away, and in five short seconds he had completely dissolved into the darkness. His job was done. As they said, nature would see to the rest.
The public prosecutor in love
STATE COUNSELOR MATVEI Bentsionovich Berdichevsky, an intelligent and respectable man, thirty-nine years of age, had suffered a misfortune of the kind that he had feared throughout his married life, which had been perfectly happy, in addition to being blessed with numerous offspring. Over the long years Matvei Bentsionovich’s love for his wife had passed through several natural phases and finally settled firmly into the channel of habitual affection and a complete harmony of souls that had no need of tender words or handsome gestures. At the age of eighteen, Marya Gavrilovna’s temperament had been distinctly passionate and romantic, but giving birth to thirteen children had entirely erased these primary qualities as rather more substantial concerns had arisen to demand her attention. For instance, how to keep the family on her husband’s salary, which was, admittedly, very decent—but after all, they were fifteen people!
When she reached the boundary line of thirty, Mrs. Berdichevsky had been transformed into a calm, sanguine lady with a firmly defined character and entirely unambiguous opinions as to which things were important in life and which were mere fribbles unworthy of serious attention.
Matvei Bentsionovich valued these qualities in his wife, and the quality that inspired the greatest admiration in his heart was the one ultimately comprehensible to any man—Marya Gavrilovna’s self-sacrifice for the sake of those whom she loved unquestioningly, with a love that was entirely natural and completely unaffected.
In Berdichevsky himself the passing years had, by contrast, wrought an increase in his passion, imagination, and inclination to dream. Like every healthy man, he enjoyed admiring women who were beautiful or simply attractive (and there are always plenty of those to be found in every time and place). But when he felt a particular liking for one, he took fright: What if I should fall in love? And his imagination immediately started presenting him with such terrible consequences, such heartrending dramas, that he tried to keep as far away from the dangerous creature as possible. It would be quite intolerable for any worthy man to fall in love with another woman when he had a faithful wife like Masha and thirteen offspring.
Thus far the Lord had spared Matvei Bentsionovich and not tempted him excessively. Or rather, it would be truer to put it this way: the true temptation is not the obvious one. It is quite possible that the lovely charmers whom Berdichevsky shunned so assiduously actually represented no real threat to him for, after all, forewarned is forearmed. As usually happens, calamity waylaid the virtuous spouse where there seemed to be nothing to fear.
How could anyone ever imagine that he should beware the erotic allure of a black-robed nun?
In the first place, a nun is, as it were, an asexual being. In the second place, Sister Pelagia had nothing at all in common with the female types from whom Matvei Bentsionovich habitually anticipated encroachments on his heart. Berdichevsky usually experienced a tremulous flutter at the sight of full-fleshed blondes with dimples or, by contrast, of delicately molded brunettes with regal gazes and vulnerable white necks set in delicate curves. But she was a redhead with freckles, and she wore spectacles.
In the third place, she was an individual he had known for a long time, an old acquaintance, you might say, and thus (according to a misconception widespread among men) harmless in the romantic sense. In fact, this is the very ground from which dramas spring: as a result of some insignificant trifle, a woman whom one has known for a long time and not previously found even slightly interesting is suddenly enveloped in a tremulous, gauzy haze and acquires an aura of bright radiance. One clutches at one’s heart and gasps: O blind man, where have your eyes been looking? And then it is too late to change anything, too late to hide—the sentence of fate has already been pronounced.
This was precisely what had happened to Berdichevsky—complete with the haze, the radiance, and the clutching at his heart.
It had begun with his admiration for Pelagia’s intelligence, courage, and talent. At that stage Matvei Bentsionovich had categorized his feelings for the nun as respectful friendship and not bothered to wonder why he felt so happy in her presence. Surely friends ought to feel happy when they are together?
And then, on a certain especially clear day, after the holy sister’s return from Stroganovka, the insignificant trifle had occurred. That moment was etched so firmly in the public prosecutor’s memory that he had only to close his eyes and he was back at the scene again.
Pelagia was trimming roses that had been brought to the bishop from the conservatory, and she had dropped the scissors into the crystal vase full of water. She had pulled up her sleeve in order to lower her hand into the liquid, and Matvei Bentsionovich’s heart had suddenly stood still. Never in his life had he seen anything more sensuous than that slim, naked arm emerging from the black sleeve of the habit and plunging into the sparkling water. The state counselor had licked his dry lips and gazed at the nun’s face as if he were seeing it for the first time: the white skin that seemed to be dusted with golden pollen, those eyes glowing with a gentle light. The features of this face were not regular—it could not be called beautiful—but it was manifestly, indubitably lovely.
On that day Berdichevsky had left the bishop’s chambers early, citing the pressure of work. He felt stunned, he was actually swaying on his feet. On arriving home, he looked at his wife with terror in his heart—what if he had stopped loving her? Then he would see his Mashenka, not with the charitable eyes of love, but as she really was: swollen and persnickety, with a hard edge to her voice. But in fact it was worse than that. His love for his wife had not gone away, only she no longer occupied the most important place in his life.
As a meticulously fair-minded individual, Matvei Bentsionovich suffered terrible torment over the sheer depravity and dishonesty involved in this most trivial of conflicts: a forty-year-old husband had grown cold toward his wife, who had lost her youthful charms, and he had fallen in love with another woman. As if his wife were to blame for having withered while bearing him children and providing him with a peaceful, happy life! For two days after the appalling discovery, the public prosecutor stopped going to the bishop’s chambers in the evening, because he might meet Pelagia there.
On the third day he could stand it no longer. He told himself: I shall never, ever leave Masha or betray her, but the heart cannot be coerced. Fortunately, she is a nun, and so “anything of the sort” is doubly impossible, in fact impossible to the second power. And in this way he appeased his conscience. And he started visiting His Eminence again.
He watched Pelagia and listened to her. He was bitterly, deliriously happy. He believed so completely in the impossibility of “anything of the sort” that he made it a rule to drive the nun back to the sch
ool in his carriage. These journeys became the most important event of Matvei Bentsionovich’s day, the secret pleasure to which he looked forward from first thing in the morning.
Ten minutes of riding together on a narrow seat. And sometimes, on the bends, their elbows touched. Pelagia, of course, never noticed this, but every time, the public prosecutor felt a sweet surge of pleasure sweep downward from his solar plexus.
And then there was the crowning touch: offering her his hand when she got down out of the carriage. After all, nuns don’t wear gloves. To touch her skin—gently, gently, not prolonging the contact for even a second. What were all the delights of sensual gratification compared with this brief instant?
For most of the journey they didn’t speak. Pelagia looked around; Berdichevsky’s entire demeanor indicated that he was concentrating on controlling the horse. But in reality, all the time he was dreaming that they were husband and wife, driving home after visiting friends. Now they would go into the room, she would kiss him absentmindedly on the cheek and go into the bathroom to prepare for bed …
At such moments, Matvei Bentsionovich’s dreams were at their most magical, especially when the spring evening turned out as fine as today. In order to prolong the illusion, the prosecutor took an unusual liberty—instead of saying good night at the carriage, as usual, he escorted her all the way onto the porch.
He indulged in an absolute orgy: not only did he squeeze her wrist very gently as he helped her out of the carriage, afterward he even offered her his elbow.
Pelagia showed no surprise at the change in the ritual—she didn’t think it of any significance. She leaned on the support of his arm and smiled. “What an evening—it’s wonderful.”