by Boris Akunin
Irodiada had to tell her to leave while she still could. The head of security was a former British colonel, not to be trifled with. He would hand the trespasser over to the Turkish guard and fine Said-bey for negligence, and Said-bey would take his anger out on the curious fool—these Asiatics did not practice gentlemanly chivalry.
Yakov Mikhailovich eavesdrops
HE NEVER THOUGHT, never even guessed, that everything would turn out so neatly with the wagon. He was lucky—he’d just been in the right place at the right time.
At first, though, he had cursed himself for being too clever by half—when he was buried alive, so to speak, in the damp earth. And while they were trundling along the highway, he had cursed the entire world. It was hot, the worms crawled under his clothes—one stubborn brute even crept into his nostril. It was a miracle that he hadn’t had a sneezing fit.
Yakov Mikhailovich breathed through a reed that he had pushed up through the black soil. Then he had arranged things so he could see. He had a clay jug with a long neck, for drinking water. After he had gradually drained its contents (consuming plenty of mother-earth in the process), he had thought of a good use for the vessel. He broke its neck off at the base with his fingers, and he had a tube. He pushed it through to the surface, and he could see through it. The broken neck of the earthen jug was invisible from the outside even at two paces. To be quite honest, the views revealed to his gaze through this little hole weren’t exactly breathtaking, but it was better than having no eyes at all. He could turn it this way and that—it was like looking through a spyglass, or the optical tube on a submarine, what they called a periscope.
Just how good his luck was became clear when the wagon arrived at its destination and stopped. Then Yakov Mikhailovich discovered that Ginger, whom he had eyed all the way along the road through his spyglass, was standing right there beside him. She had got out of her boneshaker and stood behind a rosebush that was within arm’s reach of Yakov Mikhailovich’s observation post.
The nun had sighed and wailed, wondering how she would get into town now. Her Arab (he was called Salakh) hadn’t shown her any sympathy.
You ought to have dressed up as a boy, you brainless nanny goat, the secret observer reproached her. It might still not be too late—think.
But she just kept hopping from one foot to the other and sighing.
He wasn’t actually worried about her, though. He knew from experience that she was far from brainless and was bound to think of something, she wouldn’t give up. They’d done right when they put their money on Ginger. They were no fools.
He was a little anxious about something else—what if she slipped away again, like the times before? She was far too spry and unpredictable. And God couldn’t keep on being so generous with miracles for Yakov Mikhailovich.
Suddenly he heard steps. And a voice—high and slightly squeaky halfway between a man’s and a woman’s: “Madame, vous n’avez pas le droit de rester ici.” And then in Russian, with a note of surprise. “You?”
Yakov Mikhailovich turned his spyglass in the direction of the strange voice. In his circle of vision he saw an aging, painted woman wearing a wig, a light dress, and sandals (she looked a bit broad in the feet). Clear enough: a sodomite dressed up as a woman.
The nun was as pleased to see the old pederast as if he were her own dear mother. “Ah, what good luck to meet you here! Hello, dear Iraida!”
“Irodiada,” the man-woman corrected her, then threw her hands up in the air and started gabbling. “How did you get here, my dear? And why aren’t you in your habit? What are you doing here?”
Ginger didn’t answer right away, and Yakov Mikhailovich turned his spyglass on her. She wrinkled up her forehead, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to tell the truth or make up some lie.
She told the truth.
“Well, you see … There’s a man I really need to find.”
“Who?”
“He’s a rather strange man. He dresses strangely and speaks strangely … In Bet-Kebir they told me that he was there yesterday morning and he went on toward Sodom and didn’t come back. So I thought he must have stayed here. He’s skinny, with a tangled beard, in a white robe with a blue belt…”
“Manuila? You’re looking for the man who calls himself Manuila?” the pervert asked in a changed voice.
“Yes! Have you seen him? Tell me, have you seen him? I absolutely have to talk to him! If you could get him to come here …”
“He’s not here anymore.”
“What?” the nun gasped. “What have you done with him?”
Yakov Mikhailovich quickly took aim on the man in fancy dress and saw him wave his hand in the direction of the sea.
“He took the launch to go to Ani-Jidi. At dawn, before it got really hot.”
“Thank God!” the nun exclaimed for some reason. “Isn’t Ani-Jidi the oasis to the north of Bet-Kebir? We drove past it.”
“Yes, the road to Jerusalem runs from there.”
“So he’s on his way to Jerusalem?”
The pederast shrugged.
“I’ve no idea … he said something about a garden.”
“For God’s sake, try to remember!” the nun exclaimed. “It’s very important!”
Yakov was very keen to hear this too—he even put the tube to his ear instead of his eye.
Irodiada said hesitantly, “I think what he said was: ‘On Thursday night I have to be in a certain garden.’”
Come on now, come on now, Yakov Mikhailovich thought to himself, egging her on. Come on, remember.
“That’s all,” Irodiada concluded. “He didn’t say anything else about it.”
“Aah!” Ginger exclaimed.
The observer quickly put the neck of the jug to his eye again. The nun had put one hand over her mouth and her eyebrows had risen almost to the middle of her forehead.
Was she surprised at something? Or had she figured something out?
Naturally, there was no way that Yakov Mikhailovich could know what garden it was, but that wasn’t important. The important thing, he whispered to Ginger, is that you’ve guessed. And he spat out a worm that had clung to his lip.
Thursday night—was that tomorrow or the day after? What with all this wandering around Palestine, he’d lost track of the days of the week. And it seemed he wasn’t the only one.
“What day is it today? Wednesday?” the nun asked.
“I don’t know, my dear, we live by the ancient calendar here. Today is the day of the moon, tomorrow will be the day of Mars, the day after tomorrow …”
“Yes, yes, it’s Wednesday!” Ginger interrupted her. “Tell me, is it possible for me to use your launch?”
“What are you thinking of? You need to get away from here as quickly as you can, or you’ll be arrested. They’ve already gone to get the sentry. This is private property, it’s guarded very strictly.”
“How far is it from here to Jerusalem?” the nun asked, paying no attention to the man’s words.
“I really don’t know. Maybe a hundred miles.”
“Salakh, can you get me there by tomorrow evening?”
“I’ll ruin the horses,” the Arab grumbled. “They won’t work again for a week.”
“How much does a week of your work cost?”
“Two hundred francs.”
“You bandit!”
“For wife is free,” the Arab replied mysteriously.
“All right, let’s go!”
“What all right?” Salakh asked. “Two hundred francs all right, or wife all right?”
“We’ll see when we get there. Let’s go!”
And the nun ran out of his field of vision. Half a minute later he heard hooves clattering and wheels creaking. They were off to Jerusalem.
It was time for him to climb out of this damned cart. Oho, so now it would be a hundred miles through the desert on his own two feet … Never mind, we can do it.
But then, he could buy a gig in Bet-Kebir. With a canvas top, like
a tent. And take along another couple of tents in different colors. Change them every now and then, so they wouldn’t notice they were being followed.
Well, come on then, go away, Yakov Mikhailovich thought, trying to hurry the pederast.
But he still dawdled, as if on purpose.
A couple of minutes later, he heard a tramping of boots and jangling of swords as two Turkish soldiers came running up with the driver of the wagon that had given Yakov Mikhailovich his free ride to Sodom. They started jabbering in their own language. The sodomite replied hesitantly, in a reassuring tone of voice. He must have lied and said there was no woman there, because one of the soldiers swung his hand back and gave the driver a slap on the ear, and then started swearing. Yakov Mikhailovich didn’t understand their language, of course, but it wasn’t hard to guess what he said: Ah, you devil, you and your stupid lies, making me run around in the heat.
The soldiers went away, and so did the sobbing Arab, but the damned sodomite was still hanging about beside the bush. For some reason he touched the flowers and the leaves and shook his head sorrowfully.
Come on, damn you, time’s too precious.
In his impatience Yakov Mikhailovich moved slightly, and a little soil spilled out of the wagon. The man-woman looked around in puzzlement at the wagon—he seemed to be looking straight down the tube into Yakov Mikhailovich’s eye.
In his mind he gave the pervert a friendly warning: Turn away, you blockhead, it will be better for your health.
But no, he walked right up to the wagon.
He stood so close that the only thing Yakov Mikhailovich could make out through the hole was one side of his bust (just look at all that padding stuffed in there) and a hand with all the little hairs shaved smooth.
The hairless hand opened out into a palm, completely obscuring his view.
“What’s this rag doing here?” a voice muttered, and a moment later there was a tug on Yakov Mikhailovich’s sleeve.
All right, it’s your own fault.
He grabbed the stupid fool by the wrist and sat up abruptly.
The old perverts eyes almost started out of his head when he saw the black shape of a man rising out of the soil. Then they rolled up, and he gently collapsed.
Just like a real woman. He’s fainted.
Yakov Mikhailovich leaned down over the motionless body, trying to make up his mind.
Break his neck and stick the body in that big heap of earth over there? The day’s coming to an end, nobody will dig her up before tomorrow morning, and by morning we’ll be far away, halfway to Jerusalem.
But what if someone does dig her up? They have a heliograph installed on that tower over there. They’ll signal the guardpost.
Why risk it?
Yakov Mikhailovich jumped up and down, shaking off the lumps of soil that had stuck to him. He carefully picked them up and tipped them back into the wagon. Then he shaped the earth back into a cone and smoothed it down with his hands. From a standing start, he took a big jump over onto the lawn so that he wouldn’t leave any tracks in the dust.
He looked around. The sodomite was still lying there in a heap.
All right, let him live. What can he say? That a big black figure climbed out from under the soil and then disappeared without a trace? Who will ever believe him? He won’t even believe it himself. He’ll think he got too much sun.
Yakov Mikhailovich hitched up his loose Arab trousers and set off down the road at a springy, muscular trot in pursuit of the setting sun.
To help keep his breathing regular, he murmured to himself, “One-two, one-two, in the garden I’ll meet you; one-two, one-two, in the garden I’ll meet you …”
Instead of air, his mouth gulped in hot dust, and he started spitting it out.
Oh, this dratted place.
Never mind. It looks like tomorrow evening it will all be over.
An old acquaintance
“FSC DOLININ, COUNCIL, Min. Int.”—that was what was written in an irregular, almost illegible hand in the column headed “Visitor.”
“Full State Counselor Dolinin?” Matvei Bentsionovich muttered, ruffling up his head of golden-red hair. “Dolinin?”
“Yes, sir,” the warder confirmed. “His Excellency was here on a tour of inspection. He deigned to honor me with a conversation. He said that we needed to divide up our prisons: one for subjects under investigation, one for hardened criminals, and one for petty offenders. He was also pleased to inquire after the kinds of prisoners we have here. Well, I told him about the gendarmes officer, and the threat from bandits and nihilists. And I said as that was what came of intemperate habits. His Excellency expressed a desire to take a look in person. He was pleased to talk with Mr. Ratsevich for at least an hour.”
There was no need for any more theories, Berdichevsky realized with absolute certainty. Everything fitted together perfectly—although exactly how wasn’t entirely clear yet.
After leaving the prison, he walked in the streets for a long time, completely blind to his surroundings. The confusion gradually cleared, and the facts arranged themselves in an orderly sequence.
Not so fast, not so fast, the public prosecutor rebuked himself every now and then. No hasty conclusions‘, nothing but the bare sequence of events.
The bare sequence of events was as follows:
Six months earlier the bankrupt debtor Ratsevich had been visited by “a very important individual,” to all appearances without any premeditation, entirely by chance. Or perhaps not entirely by chance? No, no, conjecture must be left for later.
For some reason, the high-ranking inspector and reformer of the criminal investigative system had taken an interest in a social outcast with the practical skills of a wolfhound. Why, exactly? Was Dolinin perhaps also a pederast? But then, the prisoner would hardly have confessed his preferences to an important St. Petersburg official straightaway. It was not very likely. Quite improbable, in fact.
But it was an indubitable fact: an interest had been taken. Such a great interest, in fact, that three days later a sum to cover the prisoner’s entire debt had arrived from the Russian Bank for Trade, Industry, and Commerce, which, by the way, had its head office in St. Petersburg. Rat-sevich had gone free and soon disappeared from Zhitomir—forever.
Questions: Why did Dolinin do this, and where did he get so much money? Pelagia had said that he was not from an aristocratic background, he had risen to the top through his talent. If that was so, there was nowhere he could have acquired great wealth.
The facts, nothing but the facts, Berdichevsky reminded himself. Very well, then. The five months after Ratsevich’s release are a blank. We know nothing about the dashing gendarme’s whereabouts and activities during this period. But we do know that on the evening of April 1 he was on the steamer Sturgeon and he killed the peasant Shelukhin, having taken him for the “prophet” Manuila.
That very night Dolinin arrives at the steamer. By coincidence, he happened to be in the nearest district town on one of his tours of inspection. A remarkable coincidence, especially in view of the meeting in the prison in Zhitomir.
The full state counselor leads the investigation in person, and the killer disappears from the ship in some mysterious fashion. And who, one asks, led the search for him? Dolinin again. Matvei Bentsionovich remembered what Pelagia had said: He himself went to investigate the cabin of the fake Mr. Ostrolyzhensky, after which he announced that it was empty, posted a guard at the door, and ordered no one to be allowed in. Perhaps the cunning investigator’s acquaintance from Zhitomir was inside all the time? All very simple. And afterward, Dolinin secretly let him go ashore—while the guard was being changed or some other way. Not very difficult for the head of the investigation, who is everybody’s boss and trusted by all.
What happened after that?
The big man from St. Petersburg decided that he had to accompany the body of a cheap villain to an isolated village, in person. How strange! At the time, of course, Sister Pelagia and everybody else in
volved in the investigation thought that the investigator was seeking a respite from bureaucratic office work, and in any case, being a conscientious man, he was used to seeing every job through to the end. And meanwhile, the killer who was linked to Dolinin in certain mysterious ways set out to follow the expedition. It was even possible that while they traveled on the barge, Ratsevich was hiding on it, down in the hold. Then he made his own way through the forest, keeping close all the time. When Pelagia stumbled across the spy by chance, Dolinin had fed her a lot of nonsense about evil spirits, and done it so deftly that the highly intelligent nun did not suspect a thing.
Next comes the most important part: Having established the identity of the dead man, Dolinin left the village, but Ratsevich did not follow. He stayed behind.
Why?
That is clear. In order to kill Pelagia. But why did he not do it sooner—for instance, during that encounter in the forest?
After a moment’s thought, Matvei Bentsionovich found the answer to this question.
Because he had not yet been ordered to do it. So he only received orders to kill the nun after the investigator left.
From whom?
Naturally, from Dolinin—it could not have been anyone else.
Berdichevsky forgot that he had set aside the drawing of conclusions for later and became completely engrossed in his hypotheses, which did seem, however, rather well founded.
Perhaps the investigator had wanted Pelagia to be killed when he, Dolinin, was nowhere nearby? So that he would have an alibi? Or possibly out of a sense of delicacy—he did not want to see it.
But there was another, more plausible explanation. In Stroganovka, Pelagia must have done or said something that made Dolinin realize that she was close to solving the murder on the steamer. That was most probably the reason why the investigator had invited her to go on the expedition with him—in order to find out how dangerous she was. And he had decided that she was dangerous and could not be left alive.
Following these deductions incidentally threw up the answer to the first of Matvei Bentsionovich’s deferred questions: Inspector Dolinin needed the social outcast with skills of a wolfhound precisely because he was, firstly, an outcast, and secondly, a wolfhound, that is, a specialist in secret operations. And homosexuality most likely had nothing at all to do with it. The official from St. Petersburg might very well never have discovered this circumstance. And was it really of any importance in this case?