by Boris Akunin
“Sheluyak,” thought Pelagia, suddenly remembering. The peasants at Stroganovka had said that was what Manuila called his friend. “And what did Emmanuel tell you about the killing?”
“He said his sheluakh wanted to protect him, and that was why he died, but there is no need to protect him, because the Lord does that. And he started telling us about a miracle that had happened to him that morning. The way he tells his lies, you just can’t help listening. With his wide blue eyes, like some innocent angel!” Malke laughed again as she remembered. “‘When they threw me out of Zikhron-Yaakov,’ he said … The Jews who live in Zikhron-Yaakov are prosperous, they get money from Baron Rothschild. They don’t plow the land themselves, they hire the Arab fellahs … Anyway, the rich Jews threw Emmanuel out, they wouldn’t listen to him. He set off on foot along a valley in the mountains, and he was attacked by bandits.” The girl began lisping like a child, evidently imitating Manuila. “A vewy angwy man, waving a sword. I haven’t learned to speak Bedouin yet, I couldn’t expwain to him that I didn’t have anything. When he saw that for himself, he got even angwier and wanted to cut off my head with his sword. Chop it wight off. And he would have, because his nervous system was compwetewy unbawanced …’”
Malke dissolved into laughter.
“He actually said that—‘his nervous system was unbalanced’?” Pelagia asked in astonishment.
“Yes, the way he speaks is absolutely wonderful, I can’t really imitate it properly. Well, after that it was all like a fairy tale. The moment the bandit raised his sword to kill him, suddenly, taram-taram!—there was a peal of heavenly thunder. And the villain dropped down dead, with blood pouring out of his head. And there was no one anywhere awound there—just the mountain this side, the mountain that side, and the path. Not a soul! I thanked the Lord, buwied the dead bandit, and went on.’ We laughed so much, we almost split our sides. But Emmanuel didn’t mind at all, he laughed with us.”
“And what about Magellan?” the nun asked. She almost asked if he had shown any hostility toward the prophet, but she stopped herself.
“Well, at first Magellan was very strict with him. He put him through a kind of interrogation. Why did you come here? On the steamer your people were hanging around us, now you’ve come in person! What do you want from us? And so on. But Emmanuel told him: It’s not surprising that you met my shelukhin on the boat. Many of them follow me to the Holy Land, although I told them a man’s Holy Land is where he was born. What do they want with Palestine? I’m a different case, there’s something I have to do here. But they don’t listen to me, he said. That is, they listen, but they don’t hear. And there’s nothing surprising about us meeting here like this. Palestine is a small place. If someone decides to walk around it… Oh, no,” Malke said with a smile, “what he said was ‘twavel awound it.’ If someone decides to travel around it, then he’ll get to everywhere, and very quickly too. And then Emmanuel started telling lies about his miracle and Magellan lost interest in him. He gave up and went to bed.”
“Then it wasn’t him,” Pelagia said aloud in her absentmindedness.
“Eh?”
“Oh, nothing. What else did the prophet tell you?”
“Well, it was then that all the fuss and bother started,” said Malke, turning serious. “Polkan started barking. We thought there must be a jackal. Then we heard the barking moving away, he must have broken his rope. We went running after him, shouting: ‘Polkan! Polkan!’ But he was lying there dead. About a hundred steps from the han. He’d been stabbed with a sword. It wasn’t jackals at all, it was the Arabs or those Circassians. The Bedouins had already gone away by then. We woke Magellan, and he said we had to go after them. But how could we catch up with them? Which way should we run, to the Arabs or the Circassians? Everyone was arguing and making a racket. Some shouted: There are too many of them, and not enough of us. They’ll kill us all, like Polkan! This is a bad place, we have to go away! Magellan told them that if you can’t stand up for yourself, any place in the world will be bad. And it went on and on …” The girl gestured dismissively, and then suddenly threw her hands up in the air. “Ah, yes, Emmanuel had just said something really odd. How could I forget! Nobody was taking any notice of him, they were all yelling and shouting, and he suddenly said: ‘You will defeat the Arabs and the Circassians. You are few, but you are strong. Only’ he said, ‘your victowy will be your defeat.’ How can a victory be a defeat, we asked him? But we couldn’t understand his answer. He said that a victory over another person is always a defeat. A genuine victory is when you overcome yourself. Well, our people wouldn’t listen to him after that, they started arguing again. But it turns out that he was right about victory!”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing. In the morning he drank some milk and went on his way.”
“And he didn’t say where he was going?”
“Yes, he did, he’s very talkative. Rokhele was pouring his milk and he said: ‘First I’ll go to Capernaum, then somewhere else, and then I’ll have to go to the Valley of Siddim and take a look at the Avarim Mountains—they say they’ve built a new Sodom there, and I’d like to see it.”
“Sodom!” Polina Andreevna exclaimed. “Where are these Avarim Mountains?”
“Beyond the Dead Sea.”
“Sodom! Sodom!” the nun repeated in an agitated voice. That was where the family of pederasts on the river steamer had been going! But what did Glass-Eye have to do with them? It wasn’t clear. But there must be something to it!
Eight whole days had gone by, but if Emmanuel was planning to visit Capernaum first, she might have enough time. He was a strong walker, though …
“What’s that you’re muttering about, Polya?”
Polina Andreevna took out her guidebook, removed the map, and unfolded it.
“Show me where the Valley of Siddim is. How can I get there?”
“Why do you want to go there?” the girl asked in surprise, but she took the nun’s red pencil and marked a line on the map. “This way, to the River Jordan. Then down as far as the Dead Sea and south along the shoreline, all the way. You see this little circle, the village of Bet-Kebir? Sodom is somewhere beyond that. But honestly, Polya, why do you want to go there? Straight from the convent to Sodom!” Malke burst into laughter. “Rus, whither do you hasten? She answers not!”
Pelagia carefully folded the map and put it back in the book.
“Are you really going to go there?” Malke asked, her eyes wide in horror and curiosity. “You really are very daring! I can just imagine what goes on there! Write me a letter afterward, will you? With lots of detail!”
She nudged Pelagia with her elbow and started giggling. The nudge knocked the guidebook into the bottom of the cart. The nun picked up the precious volume and put it away safely in her pocket.
Meanwhile the cart came out on the top of a hill from which there was a broad view across the valley and the surrounding mountains. “You can see our han there, in the distance,” said Malke, half standing to point. “Now we’ll go down here and along the little river. We’ll be there in about forty minutes. You can have a rest and get washed.”
“No, thank you,” said Polina Andreevna, jumping down onto the ground and waiting for the hantur. “It’s time I was going. Tell me, which way should I go to reach the Jordan?”
Malke sighed—she obviously felt sorry to say good-bye.
“Go along that little track. It’s bumpy and overgrown with grass, but it will lead you straight to a fork in the road. To get to the Jordan, go right. But what about the bandits? You told me you were afraid to go without any protection.”
“Never mind,” Pelagia answered absentmindedly. “God is merciful.”
God does exist!
THERE WAS ONLY one road from Jerusalem to the Isreel Valley, so Yakov Mikhailovich had managed to catch up with the mark on the very first day. He fell in behind and strode along, breathing the mountain air.
The sun in the Holy Land was so fierc
e that he was burned as black as an Arab. And that was very convenient, because he had dressed himself up as an Arab for his travels. It was the most comfortable mode of dress for the climate here: the long shirt of thin material allowed the wind to blow through, and the scarf (it was called a kufia) protected the back of your head against the burning rays of the sun.
Whenever Yakov Mikhailovich met someone on the road and they spoke to him in Arabic, he respectfully touched the palm of his hand to his forehead, then to his chest, and walked on. You could make what you liked of that: perhaps the man did not wish to talk to you, or perhaps he had taken a vow not to engage in idle chatter with anyone.
He had a stroke of bad luck on the third day, when Ginger turned left onto a road that ran between the valley and the mountains.
Yakov Mikhailovich saw the Circassians capture the hantur, but he did not interfere. They were serious people, with carbines, and all he had was a six-shooter, a popgun. It was good for the city, where there were corners and walls everywhere, but out in the open it was a pretty useless object. And anyway, he couldn’t afford to give himself away.
That evening he installed himself near the Circassians’ hill and observed the Jews’ entire operation. My, my, he thought, they’re really fighting seriously now. What if they turn that audacious in old Mother Russia?
As the old saying has it, “less haste, more speed,” and Yakov Mikhailovich did not try to hurry things. He waited until the Circassians and the Jews had reached their agreement and gone away, and a little while later everything was arranged in the most convenient way possible when the nun left the aul in the company of a plump little Jewess and her faithful Arab. The proper order of things was restored.
The surrounding area was level and smooth, and he had to drop farther back—you can see a man a long way off in open country. But then, thank God, he could see well too. They wouldn’t get away.
When the carts started climbing up a hill, Yakov Mikhailovich allowed himself a little indulgence. He could see that after the hill the road ran down into a hollow, and he thought: The clever man doesn’t climb a hill, the clever man goes around it.
Why get himself soaking in sweat when he could walk around the hill on the low ground? Sometimes your own two feet were handier than a set of wheels.
And that way he would save enough time to give his feet a quick rinse in the stream. Then he could hide in the willow thicket and wait for the mark to drive by.
So that was what he did. He had a quick wash, and drank some fresh water, and even had a bite to eat.
Just as soon as he had brushed off the crumbs, he heard creaking and rumbling. They were coming.
Come on now, come on now.
He poked his head out of the bushes and froze in confusion.
Instead of two carts, there was only one. You’re not such a clever man after all, are you, Yakov Mikhailovich, you’re an idiot! Now you’ll have to run back up the hill!
He hunched down to let the cart pass. It drove on a little farther and turned toward the stream—the Jewish girl obviously wanted to cool off too.
Yakov Mikhailovich trotted up the incline of the road with the sweat streaming across his face and pouring down his back. In five minutes he had run all the way to the top.
Things were getting worse by the minute!
There was a crossroads up there: one road led to the right, the other to the left. And if you looked closely, there was a little overgrown track too. The coarse grass on it was dead and hard, he couldn’t see if a cart had passed that way recently or not.
What should he do? Which way should he run?
He appealed to his intellect, and as always it came up with the answer.
Yakov Mikhailovich went dashing back to the stream. It was easier running downhill.
The little Jewess had already washed her horse and was leading it back to the cart by the reins.
She heard the tramping of feet and swung around, pulling the shotgun off her shoulder.
“Disaster, girl! Disaster!” Yakov Mikhailovich yelled in Russian from a distance.
Her jaw dropped: What was this—an Arab shouting in Russian?
She completely forgot about her gun. “Who are you?” she shouted. “What disaster?”
He stopped in front of her, caught his breath, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“I’ve lost her, that’s the disaster.”
“Who have you lost? Who are you?”
“Let me have that. Or else, you never know …”
He took hold of the barrel of the shotgun. The girl did not want to let the weapon go, but Yakov Mikhailovich gave her a gentle tap under the ribs with his fist, and the little Jewess doubled over and started flapping her lips like a fish hoisted out of the water.
He tossed the gun into the bushes and slapped the fat girl across the back of the head. She plumped down onto her backside.
“Bastard!” she said, and gave him a searing look from those dark, fearless eyes.
Ai-ai-ai, I’m going to have a bit of bother here, the man of experience realized. He didn’t waste any time on idle conversation. First he had to reduce this “little cow” to a state of reason, eliminate her stubbornness. “Little cow” was a special term that Yakov Mikhailovich used. A little cow had to be milked for various kinds of useful information and then, depending on the circumstances, either let back out into the meadow or slaughtered for beefsteak.
Of course, the stubborn little Jewess would go for beefsteak, that was clear; but first let her give some milk.
He beat her with his feet for while—without swinging too hard, because it was hot. He kicked her on the anklebones, then twice on the kidneys, and when she curled up in pain, on the coccyx. When she unfolded again, he kicked her female parts.
It didn’t matter how loudly she yelled, there was no one around to hear her in any case.
He decided that was enough for now. He sat on the girl’s breasts and squeezed her throat in his fingers to make her think the end had already come.
But when she turned blue and her eyes started popping out of her head, Yakov Mikhailovich let go of her and allowed her to breathe, get a taste of life. And only then did he start talking to her.
“Where did she go? Which road did she take?”
“Bastard,” repeated the little cow. “Magellan will put you in the ground …”
He had to squeeze her throat again.
Yakov Mikhailovich was disappointed—he was always upset by stupid stubbornness, that very worst of human sins. One way or another, she was going to tell him everything anyway; she was only putting herself and a busy man through unnecessary anguish.
He glanced around, picked up a branch lying nearby, and broke off a piece.
“You stupid fool, now I’m going to poke your eye out with this stick,” said Yakov Mikhailovich, showing her the jagged end. “And then the other one. If that’s not enough, I’ll shove this thing all the way up through your back entrance. Understand me, girl, I’m not an animal—I just have a very important job to do. Talk, my little sweetheart, talk. Which way did the redhead go?”
He released the pressure on her throat a little again. But the ungrateful bitch spat at him. The gob of spit didn’t reach Yakov Mikhailovich, it fell back onto her own chin. But it wouldn’t have bothered him if it had.
Well, what could he do with her?
“Who is she to you—your sister, your friend?” he complained. “All right, then, it’s your own fault.”
He adjusted his sitting position, pinned the little Jewess’s arms down with his knees, and pressed her neck against the ground with his elbow. Then he took hold of the stick close to the pointed end and held it right up to the little fool’s nose.
“Well?”
From the way her eyes glinted, he could tell she wasn’t going to say anything.
He thrust the stick into her eyeball and the blood bubbled out and ran across her round cheek. A shriek broke out of the little cow’s throat and she bared her w
hite, even teeth.
And then the little Jewess did something quite outlandish. Yakov Mikhailovich was prepared for her to press her head back against the ground, but she suddenly jerked it up against the stick, with a strength that he couldn’t possibly have expected from such a plump little thing. The stick sank into her eye as far as his fist. Yakov Mikhailovich jerked it back out, of course, but too late—the girl’s head thudded lifelessly against the ground. Where one eye should have been there was a disgusting crimson pit, and there was something gray dripping off the end of the stick—it had pierced all the way through to her brain.
What a bitch!
For a moment Yakov Mikhailovich simply could not believe his own bad luck. Ah, disaster! This was a real disaster! Lord God, why do you punish me so? Help me, show me the way! What should I do now to find Ginger?
Yakov was suffering, but he didn’t just sit there and do nothing. You never knew who might happen along the road! He shoved the dead Jewess under the water beside the bank, washing the blood off his hands at the same time. He walked across to the cart and wondered what to do with it. Perhaps he could ride it himself? It would be easier than walking. First he could try one road—drive until he met someone and ask if a woman and an Arab in a hantur had passed that way. If he had no luck, he could come back and try the same thing on the other road. If that was no good either, then he could go along that overgrown track.
He realized that it was a lousy plan. You could travel for an hour, even two around here without meeting anyone. And then how would he explain what he wanted? And what if there were more forks in the road?
He dropped the sacks of grain into the stream, followed by the harrow and the safe. He hesitated for a moment over the safe, though. Ah, if only he had a stick of dynamite, he could take a look inside. But there was no way these ragamuffins could have really big money, and there was no point in carrying excess weight.
He just lashed the cows across their backsides with the whip.
As he was climbing onto the seat, to go try his luck, he noticed a folded sheet of paper in the bottom of the cart. He unfolded it and saw that it was a small map of Palestine, like the ones they put in guidebooks. Ginger had a book like that—he’d seen it. Had she dropped this?