by Boris Akunin
“The Turks knew beforehand where to aim and when to fire,” whispered Varya.
“And Lukan knew beforehand that the assault would be a failure. Oh, and by the way—five. In recent days this man has suddenly come into a lot of money.”
“He is rich. Some kind of family fortune, estates. He told me about them, but I wasn’t really listening.”
“Varvara Andreevna, not very long ago the colonel tried to borrow three hundred rubles from me, and then in a matter of days, at least according to Zurov, he lost perhaps as much as fifteen thousand. Of course, Hippolyte could have been exaggerating . . .”
“He certainly could,” Varya agreed. “But Lukan really did lose an awful lot. He told me so himself today, just before he left for Bucharest.”
“He has gone away?”
Erast Petrovich turned away from her and began thinking, from time to time shaking his head. Varya tried approaching him from the side in order to see his face, but when she did she didn’t notice anything particularly remarkable. Fandorin was standing with his eyes half-closed, staring up at the bright light of Mars.
“I tell you what, my d-dear Varvara Andreevna,” he said, speaking slowly, and Varya felt a warm glow in her heart—first because he had said “my dear,” and second because he had begun to stammer again. “It appears I shall have to ask for your assistance after all, although I promised—”
“Why, I’ll do anything at all!” she exclaimed rashly, then added quickly, “in order to save Petya.”
“Well, that’s splendid.” Fandorin looked into her eyes searchingly. “But it is a very difficult task, and not a very pleasant one. I want you to go to Bucharest as well, to look for Lukan and try to investigate him. Shall we say, try to find out if he really is so rich. Exploit his vanity, boastfulness, and foolishness. After all, he has told you more than he should once already. He is sure to spread his tail feathers for you to admire.” Erast Petrovich hesitated. “After all, you are a young and at-t-tractive individual . . .”
At this point he coughed and broke off, because Varya had whistled in amazement. She had finally won a compliment from the commendatore’s statue after all. Of course, it was a feeble sort of compliment—“a young and attractive individual”—but even so, even so . . .
Then Fandorin immediately had to go and spoil everything.
“Naturally, you cannot travel on your own, and it would l-look strange. I know that Paladin is planning to go to Bucharest. He will certainly not refuse to take you with him.”
No, he is definitely not a human being, he is a block of ice, thought Varvara. Imagine trying to thaw out someone like that! Could he really not see that the Frenchman was already circling around her? Of course he could, he saw everything, it was simply, as foolish Lushka would put it, that he couldn’t give a tinker’s damn.
Erast Petrovich apparently interpreted her dissatisfied expression in his own way.
“Don’t worry about money. There is a salary due to you, with traveling expenses and so forth. I shall issue it to you. You can buy something while you are there, amuse yourself a little.”
“Oh, I shall have no reason to be bored in Charles’s company,” Varya said vengefully.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In which Varya
forfeits the name
of a respectable woman
THE MOSCOW PROVINCIAL GAZETTE
22 July (3 August) 1877
SUNDAY FEUILLETON
* * *
When your humble servant discovered that this city, which has become home-from-home to our rear-line community in recent months, was founded in times of old by Prince Vlad, dubbed the Impaler, and otherwise known by the name of Dracula, many things suddenly became clear. It is now clear to him, for instance, why in Bucharest you are fortunate if you can get three francs for your ruble, why an appalling lunch at an inn costs the same as a banquet at Moscow’s Slavyansky Bazaar, and why you pay as much for a hotel room as it would cost to rent the whole of Buckingham Palace. The accursed vampires lick their lips with great relish as they suck voraciously on savory Russian blood, only pausing every now and then to spit. And most unpleasant of all is the fact that since electing a tinpot German prince as its ruler, this Danubian province, which owes its autonomy entirely to Russia, has developed a distinct odor of wurst and brawn. The gaze of the noble hospodars is fixed admiringly on Herr Bismarck, and for the good citizens of Bucharest a Russian is no better than a contemptible goat; they turn their noses up as they tug on its udder. As though sacred Russian blood were not even now being spilled on the fields of Plevna for the cause of Romanian freedom. . . .
ALAS, VARYA WAS MISTAKEN, seriously mistaken. The journey to Bucharest proved to be boring in the extreme.
In addition to Paladin, several other correspondents had decided to seek diversion in the Romanian capital. It was clear to everyone that during the days, and even weeks, that lay immediately ahead, nothing of any real interest would take place in the theater of military operations, and once the journalistic fraternity realized that the Russians would need some time to recover from the bloodbath at Plevna, it made tracks for the fleshpots of the rear lines.
They had taken a long time over their preparations, only starting out two days later. As a lady, Varya was seated in the britzka beside McLaughlin, while everyone else set off on horseback, and she could only gaze from a distance at the Frenchman on his noble mount, Yataghan (who found the slow pace irksome), and make conversation with the Irishman. He discussed every possible aspect of the climatic conditions of the Balkans, London, and Central Asia, told her all about the arrangement of the springs on his carriage, and analyzed several extremely complicated chess problems in close detail. All this put Varya in a very bad mood, and during their halts she regarded the boisterous travelers, including even Paladin, with his cheeks flushed from the moderate exertion, with a jaundiced eye.
On the second day of the journey—they had already passed Alexandria—she began to feel a little better, because the cavalcade was overtaken by Zurov. He had distinguished himself in action and for his bravery been made Sobolev’s adjutant. The general had apparently even wanted to recommend him for the Order of St. Anne, but the hussar had managed to wangle himself a week’s leave in lieu—a chance to stretch his legs properly, as he put it.
At first the captain amused Varya with his fancy trick riding—plucking bluebells at full gallop, juggling gold imperials, and standing erect in the saddle. Then he made an attempt to swap places with McLaughlin, and when he was phlegmatically but unambiguously rebuffed, he moved the meek coachman onto his own chestnut mare and seated himself on the coach box, twisting his head round all the time to regale Varya with amusing stories of his own heroism and the dark machinations of the jealous “Jerome” Perepyolkin, with whom the newly appointed adjutant was at daggers drawn. And in this manner the journey was completed.
As Erast Petrovich had predicted, Lukan did not prove hard to find. Following her instructions, Varya took a room in the most expensive hotel, the Royale, and when she inquired after the colonel at the reception desk, it transpired that “son excellence” was well known there—he had been carousing in the restaurant the previous day and the day before that, and he was certain to be there today as well.
Since there was still a long time left until the evening, Varya set out for a stroll along the fashionable Calea Mogoshoaiei, which after life under canvas seemed to her like Nevsky Prospect: smart carriages, striped awnings above the shop windows, dazzling southern beauties, picturesque dark-haired men in light blue, white, and even pink frock coats, and uniforms, uniforms, uniforms everywhere. The sound of Romanian speech was swamped by Russian and French. Varya drank two cups of hot chocolate in a genuine café, ate four little cakes, and was on the point of dissolving in utterly blissful contentment when she happened to glance into a mirror on a pillar beside a hat shop and gasped in horror. No wonder all the men were looking straight through her as if she were not even there!
; The bedraggled creature in the faded blue dress and battered straw hat was an insult to the name of Russian womanhood. And the pavements were full of sultry Messalinas sauntering along in very latest Paris fashions!
VARYA WAS TERRIBLY LATE arriving at the restaurant. She had agreed with McLaughlin to meet at seven, and it was already nine when she appeared. As a perfect gentleman, the Daily Post correspondent had agreed to the rendezvous without a murmur (she could hardly go to the restaurant alone—she would have been taken for a demimondaine), nor did he utter a single word of reproach for her lateness, although he did look absolutely miserable. But never mind—after tormenting her all the way here with his meteorological expertise he owed her a favor, and now he could make himself useful.
Lukan wasn’t in the room yet, and out of natural human consideration Varya asked McLaughlin to explain to her once again how the Old Persian Defence went. The Irishman, completely failing to notice Varya’s dramatic transformation (on which she had spent six whole hours and almost all her traveling allowance—six hundred eighty-five francs), coolly remarked that he was not aware of the existence of any such defence. She was therefore obliged to inquire as to whether it was always this hot in late July in this part of the world. It turned that it was, but it was absolutely nothing in comparison with the humid heat of Bangalore.
When the gilt-wood doors finally swung open at half-past ten and the Roman legate’s descendant entered the hall in a somewhat tipsy condition, Varya felt as delighted as if he were her closest friend. She leapt to her feet and waved to him with genuine warmth.
There was, however, an unforeseen complication in the form of a plump brown-haired woman hanging on the colonel’s arm. The complication glanced at Varya with undisguised venom, and Varya felt embarrassed—it had somehow never entered her head that Lukan might be married.
The colonel settled this minor difficulty with true martial resolve—he gave his companion a gentle slap just below her ample bustle, and after hissing something vitriolic, the complication made an indignant exit. Apparently she was not his wife. Varya felt even more embarrassed.
“Our wildflower has unfurled its petals to become a delightful rose!” Lukan wailed as he dashed toward Varya across the entire width of the room. “What a dress! And that hat! My God, can I really be on the Champs-Elysées?”
He was a coarse, vulgar showoff, of course, but it was pleasant to hear nonetheless. For the good of the cause Varya even compromised her principles and allowed him to press his lips to her hand. The colonel nodded to the Irishman with casual benevolence (he was not a rival) and sat down at the table without waiting to be invited. Varya thought that McLaughlin also seemed glad to see the Romanian. Could he really be weary of discussing meteorological matters? No, surely not.
The waiters were already bearing away the coffee and cake ordered by the thrifty correspondent and bringing wines, sweets, fruit, cheeses.
“You will not forget Bucharest!” Lukan promised. “In this town everything belongs to me!”
“In what sense?” the Irishman asked. “Do you happen to own extensive property in the city?”
The Romanian did not even dignify the question with an answer.
“Congratulate me, mademoiselle! My report has been appreciated at its true worth, and in the very near future I may expect an advancement.”
“What report is that?” McLaughlin inquired again. “What kind of advancement?”
“All of Romania is expecting an advancement,” the colonel declared with a solemn expression. “It is now absolutely clear that the emperor of Russia has overestimated the strength of his army. I have learned from absolutely reliable sources,” he said, dropping his voice dramatically and leaning over so that the curl of his mustache tickled Varya’s cheek, “that General Kriedener will be relieved of the command of the Western Division, and the forces besieging Plevna will be placed under the leadership of our own Prince Karl.”
McLaughlin took a pad out of his pocket and began taking notes.
“Mademoiselle Varvara, can I perhaps interest you in a nocturnal excursion through the streets of Bucharest?” Lukan whispered in her ear, taking astute advantage of the opportune pause. “I can show you things you have never seen in that boring northern capital of yours. I swear it will be a night to remember.”
“Is that the decision of the Russian emperor or simply the wish of Prince Karl?” the inquisitive journalist asked.
“The wish of His Highness is more than enough,” snapped the colonel. “Without Romania and her army of fifty thousand valiant warriors, the Russians are helpless. Let me tell you, Mister Correspondent, that my country has a great future ahead of it. Soon, very soon, Prince Karl will become king. And your humble servant,” he added, turning toward Varya, “will become an extremely important person. Possibly even a senator. The perspicacity I have demonstrated has been adequately appreciated. Now, what do you say to that romantic drive? I positively insist.”
“I’ll think about it,” she promised evasively, desperately trying to think of a way to channel the conversation in the required direction.
At that moment Zurov and Paladin entered the restaurant—most inopportunely, from the point of view of the cause, but Varya was glad to see them anyway: In their company Lukan would be a bit less brazen.
Following the direction of her glance, the colonel muttered gloomily.
“They’re letting absolutely anyone into the Royale nowadays. We should have taken a private room.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Varya greeted her acquaintances cheerfully. “What a small town Bucharest is, to be sure! The colonel was just boasting to me of his perspicacity. He forecast in advance that the storming of Plevna would end in defeat.”
“Did he, indeed?” asked Paladin, looking closely at Lukan.
“You look absolutely magnificent, Varvara Andreevna,” said Zurov. “What’s that you have there—Martell? Waiter, some glasses over here!”
The Romanian took a drink of cognac and contemplated the two other men glumly.
“When did you make this prediction? Who did you tell?” asked McLaughlin, peering through half-closed eyes.
“It was in a report addressed to his sovereign,” Varya explained. “And now the colonel’s perspicacity has been adequately appreciated.”
“Eat and drink to your heart’s content, gentlemen,” said Lukan, inviting them with a broad sweep of his arm as he rose abruptly to his feet. “It will all go on my bill. Miss Suvorova and I are going for a drive. She has promised me.”
Paladin raised his eyebrows in astonishment and Zurov exclaimed suspiciously.
“What’s this I hear, Varvara Andreevna? You, going for a drive with Luke?”
Varya was close to panic. If she left with Lukan, her reputation would be ruined forever, and there was no telling where it might lead. But if she refused, her mission would end in failure.
“I shall be back in a moment, gentlemen,” she said dejectedly and walked across to the exit as quickly as she could. She needed to gather her thoughts.
In the foyer she halted beside the tall mirror with the bronze scrolls and flourishes and pressed a hand to her blazing brow. How should she proceed? Go up to her room, lock herself in, and refuse to answer the door! I’m sorry Petya; please don’t be angry with me, Mister Titular Counselor, Varya Suvorova is simply not cut out to be a spy.
The door creaked ominously and the colonel’s red, angry face appeared in the mirror immediately behind her.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but nobody treats Mikhai Lukan like that. First you make advances to me after your own fashion, and then you take it into your head to disgrace me in public? You’ve picked the wrong man this time! You’re not in your scurvy press club now—this is my home ground!”
Not a trace was left of the future senator’s former gallantry. His yellowish-brown eyes rained bolts of lightning down on her.
“Let’s go, mademoiselle, the carriage is waiting.” A swarthy, hirsute hand descended
onto Varya’s shoulder, clutching it with surprisingly powerful fingers that seemed to be forged of iron.
“You have lost your mind, Colonel! I am no courtesan!” Varya shrieked, glancing around.
There were quite a lot of people in the foyer, mostly gentlemen in light summer jackets and Romanian officers. They were observing the titillating scene with interest, but apparently had no intention of intervening on behalf of the lady (if, indeed, she was a lady).
Lukan said something in Romanian and the onlookers laughed knowingly.
“Had a bit too much to drink, Marusya?” one of them asked in Russian, and they all laughed even louder.
The colonel grabbed Varya masterfully round the waist and led her off toward the exit, performing the maneuver so adroitly that it was quite impossible to resist.
“You insolent lout!” Varya exclaimed and tried to hit Lukan on the cheek, but he grabbed hold of her wrist. His face was close now, smelling of a mixture of stale alcohol and eau de cologne. I’m going to be sick, Varya thought in fright.
But a moment later the colonel’s hands released their grip of their own accord. First there was a loud slap, then a resounding crunch, and Varya’s assailant went flying back against the wall. One of his cheeks was bright red from the slap and the other was stark white from a heavy punch. She saw Paladin and Zurov standing shoulder to shoulder two paces away. The correspondent was shaking the fingers of his right hand; the hussar was massaging his right fist.
“The allies have just had a falling out,” Hippolyte declared. “And that’s only the beginning. You won’t get away with just a black eye, Luke. People who treat ladies like that end up with holes in their hide.”
Paladin did not say a word. He simply pulled off one white glove and threw it in the colonel’s face.