by Boris Akunin
“An excellent subject for discussion,” said Anwar, moving up a chair. “Please, take a seat, Mademoiselle Barbara, we need some way to while away the time. And don’t scowl at me in that way. I am no ogre; I am merely an enemy of your country. I do not wish you to regard me as the heartless monster depicted by the preternaturally perceptive Monsieur Fandorine. He was the one who should have been neutralized in good time.
“Yes, I am a killer. But then, all of us here are killers—your Fandorin, and the deceased Zurov, and Mizinov. But Sobolev is a super-killer; he’s simply awash in blood. In these men’s games of ours, there are only two possible roles: the killer or the victim. Do not cherish any illusions, mademoiselle—we all live in the jungle. Try to regard me without prejudice: Forget that you are Russian and I am a Turk. I am a man who has chosen a very difficult path in life. And, moreover, a man to whom you are not indifferent. I am even a little in love with you.”
Varya frowned, stung by the words “a little.”
“I am most exceedingly grateful.”
“There now, I have expressed myself clumsily,” said Anwar with a shrug. “I cannot possibly allow myself to fall in love in earnest; it would be an unforgivable and dangerous indulgence. Let us not talk of that. Let me rather answer your question. It is distressing to deceive or kill a friend, but that is a price that must sometimes be paid.” He twitched the corner of his mouth nervously. “I have had to do things . . . However, if one commits oneself absolutely to a great idea, one is obliged to sacrifice one’s personal attachments. One hardly needs to go far to seek examples. I have no doubt that as a progressive young woman you are inclined to view revolutionary ideas sympathetically. Am I not right? I’ve noticed that, in your Russia, the revolutionaries have already started shooting occasionally. But soon a genuine clandestine war will begin—you can take the word of a professional on that. Idealistic young men and women will start blowing up palaces, trains, and carriages. And, inevitably, in addition to the reactionary minister or the villainous governor they will contain innocent people—relatives, assistants, servants. But that’s all right if it’s for the sake of the idea. Give them time and your idealists will worm their way into positions of trust, and spy, and deceive, and kill apostates—and all for the sake of an idea.”
“And just what is your idea?” Vera asked sharply.
“I will tell you, by all means.” Anwar leaned his elbow against the shelves full of bags of money. “I see salvation not in revolution, but in evolution. But evolution needs to be set on the right path; it has to be given a helping hand. This nineteenth century of ours is a decisive period for the fate of humanity, of that I am profoundly convinced. The forces of reason and tolerance must be helped to prevail. Otherwise, serious and needless convulsions await the Earth in the very near future.”
“And where do reason and tolerance dwell? In the realms of your Abdul-Hamid?”
“No, of course not. I am thinking of those countries where a man learns to respect himself and others a little, not to bludgeon others into agreement, but to convince them through argument, to support the weak and tolerate those who think differently than him. Ah, what promising processes are in train in Western Europe and the United States of North America! Naturally, I do not idealize them—far from it. They have a lot of filth of their own, much crime, and a lot of stupidity. But they are heading in the right general direction. The world has to follow the same course, otherwise mankind will founder, sink into an abyss of chaos and tyranny. As yet, the bright spot on the map of the world is still very small, but it is expanding rapidly. It needs to be protected against the onslaught of darkness and ignorance. A great game of chess is being played out, and I am playing for the white pieces.”
“And I suppose Russia is playing for the black?”
“Yes. Today, your immensely powerful state constitutes the main danger to civilization. With its vast expanses, its multitudinous, ignorant population, its cumbersome and aggressive state apparatus. I have taken a keen interest in Russia for a long time, I learned the language, I traveled a lot, I read historical works, I studied your state apparatus, became acquainted with your leaders. Try listening to our own dear Michel, with his aspirations to be the new Bonaparte! The mission of the Russian people is to take Constantinople and unite the Slavs? To what end? So that the Romanovs might once again impose their will on Europe? A nightmarish prospect indeed! It is not pleasant for you to hear this, Mademoiselle Barbara, but lurking within Russia is a terrible threat to civilization. There are savage, destructive forces fermenting within her, forces that will break out sooner or later, and then the world will be in a bad way. It is an unstable, ridiculous country that has absorbed all the worst features of the West and the East. Russia has to be put back in its place; its reach has to be shortened. It will be good for you, and it will give Europe a chance to continue developing in the right direction. You know, Mademoiselle Barbara”—Anwar’s voice trembled unexpectedly—“I love my poor unfortunate Turkey very much. It is a country of great missed opportunities. But I am prepared deliberately to sacrifice the Ottoman state in order to deflect the Russian threat to mankind. To put it in chess terms, do you know the meaning of the term ‘gambit’? No? In Italian, ’gambetto’ means a trip, as in ‘to trip someone up’—dare il gambetto. A gambit is an opening in a game of chess in which a piece is sacrificed to the opponent in order to secure a strategic advantage. I myself devised the sequence of play in this particular game, and I opened by offering Russia fat, appetizing, weak Turkey. The Ottoman Empire will perish, but Tsar Alexander will not win the game. Indeed, the war has gone so well that all may not yet be lost for Turkey. She still has Midhat Pasha. He is a quite remarkable man, Mademoiselle Barbara; I deliberately left him out of the action for a while, but now I shall reintroduce him. Provided, of course, that I am allowed the chance. Midhat Pasha will return to Istanbul unsullied and take power into his own hands. Perhaps then even Turkey will move from the zone of darkness into the zone of light.”
Mizinov’s voice spoke from behind the door.
“Mr. Anwar, what is the point of dragging this business out? This is mere cowardice! Come out and I promise you the status of a prisoner of war.”
“And the gallows for Kazanzaki and Zurov?” whispered Anwar.
Varya filled her lungs with air, but the Turk was on the alert—he took the gag out of his pocket and shook his head expressively. Then he shouted: “I shall need to think about that, monsieur général! I’ll give you my answer at half-past seven.”
After that he said nothing for a long time, striding agitatedly around the strong room and looking at his watch several times.
“If only I could get out of here!” this strange man eventually murmured, striking a cast-iron shelf with his fist. “Without me, Abdul-Hamid will devour the noble Midhat!”
He glanced apologetically at Varya with his clear blue eyes and explained: “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Barbara—my nerves are under strain. My life is of some considerable consequence in this game. My life is also a chess piece, but I value it more highly than the Ottoman Empire. We might say that the empire is a bishop, while I am a queen. Although, for the sake of victory, even a queen may be sacrificed . . . In any case, I haven’t yet lost the game, and a draw is guaranteed!” He laughed excitedly. “I managed to delay your army at Plevna for much longer than I had hoped. You have squandered your forces and wasted precious time. England has had time to prepare herself for the confrontation; Austria has recovered its courage. Even if there is no second stage of the war, Russia will still be left out on the sidelines. It took her twenty years to recover from the Crimean campaign, and she’ll be licking her wounds for another twenty after this war. And that is now, at the end of the nineteenth century, when every year is so important. In twenty years, Europe will move on far ahead. Henceforth, Russia is destined to play the role of a second-class power. She will be devoured by the canker of corruption and nihilism, she will no longer pose a threat to progress.”
At this point Varya’s patience gave out.
“Just who are you to judge who is the bringer of good to civilization and who is the bringer of destruction? He studied the state apparatus, became acquainted with the leaders! And have you made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky? Have you read Russian literature? I suppose you had no time for that? Two times two is always four and three times three is always nine, isn’t it? And two parallel lines never intersect? In your Euclid, they don’t intersect, but for our Lobachevsky they have!”
“I don’t follow your logic,” Anwar said with a shrug. “But of course I have read Russian literature. It is good literature, no worse than English or French. But literature is a toy; in a normal country it cannot have any great importance. I am myself something of a literary man, in a sense. But one must do something serious, and not just compose sentimental fairy tales. Look at Switzerland. It has no great literature, but life there is incomparably more dignified than in your Russia. I spent almost my entire childhood and adolescence in Switzerland, so you may take my word for it that—”
Before he could finish, there was a crackle of gunfire in the distance.
“It has begun! They have attacked ahead of time!”
Anwar pressed his ear against the door, his eyes glittering feverishly.
“Curses, what infernal bad luck that this room doesn’t have a single window!”
Varya struggled in vain to calm her pounding heart. The thunderous noise of shooting was drawing nearer. She could hear Sobolev issuing orders, but she couldn’t make out the words. From somewhere there came a cry of “Allah!” and a rapid volley of shots.
Anwar murmured as he spun the chamber of his revolver.
“I could try to break out, but I have only three bullets left—how I detest inaction!”
He started at the sudden sound of shots inside the building.
“If our men win, I shall send you to Adrianople,” Anwar said rapidly. “Clearly, the war will end now. There will be no second stage. That’s unfortunate. Not everything turns out the way you plan it. Perhaps you and I will meet again. At this moment, of course, you hate me, but time will pass and you will realize that I was right.”
“I feel no hatred toward you,” said Varya. “But I do bitterly regret that such a talented man as you is engaged in such dirty goings-on. I remember Mizinov relating the story of your life . . .”
“Indeed?” Anwar put in absentmindedly, still listening to the shooting.
“Yes. All those intrigues and all those people who died! Wasn’t that Circassian who sang an aria before his execution a friend of yours? Did you sacrifice him as well?”
“I don’t care to recall that story,” he said severely. “Do you know who I am? I am the midwife; I help the child to enter the world, and my arms are covered up to the elbows in blood and mucus . . .”
A volley of shots rang out very close by.
“I’m going to open the door now and help my own side. You stay in here, and for God’s sake don’t stick your head out. It will all be over soon.”
He pulled back the bolt and suddenly froze—there was no more shooting in the bank. A voice was saying something, but it was not clear whether it was speaking Russian or Turkish. Varya held her breath.
“I’ll rip your ugly face off! Sitting it out in the corner, you blankety-blank-blank,” a sergeant major’s deep bass roared, and the sweet sounds of her native speech set her heart singing.
They had held out! They had beaten them off!
The sound of shooting was moving further and further away, and there was a quite distinct, long, drawn-out cry of “hurrah!”
Anwar stood there with his eyes closed. His expression was calm and sad. When the firing stopped completely, he pulled back the bolt and opened the door a little.
“It is over, mademoiselle. Your captivity is at an end. Go now.”
“What about you?” whispered Varya.
“The queen has been sacrificed without any particular gain. Regrettable. But everything else remains unchanged. Go, and I wish you happiness.”
“No!” she cried, dodging away from his hands. “I won’t leave you here. Give yourself up and I’ll testify on your behalf at the trial.”
“So they can stitch up my throat and then hang me anyway?” laughed Anwar. “Thank you kindly, but no. There are two things I detest more than anything else on earth—humiliation and capitulation. Farewell—I need to be alone for a moment.”
He managed to grab hold of Varya’s sleeve and with a gentle push he sent her out through the doorway. The massive slab of steel immediately slammed shut.
Varya found herself facing a pale-faced Fandorin. General Mizinov was standing by a shattered window and yelling at the gendarmes who were sweeping up the shards of glass. It was already light outside.
“Where is Michel?” Varya asked in fright. “Is he dead? Wounded?”
“Alive and well,” replied Erast Petrovich, looking at her closely. “He is in his natural element—pursuing the enemy. But poor Perepyolkin has been wounded again—a yataghan took off half his ear. He will obviously be awarded another medal. And have no fear for Ensign Gridnev; he is alive, too.”
“I know,” she said, and Fandorin’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Mizinov came over to them and complained: “Another hole in my greatcoat. What a day. So, he let you out? Excellent! Now we can use the dynamite.”
He cautiously approached the door of the strong room and ran his hand over the steel surface.
“I’d say two charges ought to be just enough to do it. Or perhaps that’s too much? It would be good to take the villain alive.”
A carefree and highly melodic whistling suddenly started up behind the door.
“And now he’s whistling!” Mizinov exclaimed indignantly. “Some nerve, eh? Well, I’ll soon whistle you out of there. Novgorodtsev! Send to the sappers’ platoon for some dynamite!”
“No d-dynamite will be necessary,” Erast Petrovich said in a soft voice as he listened carefully to the whistling.
“You’ve started stammering again,” Varya said to him. “Does that mean everything is all over?”
Sobolev strode into the room with a loud clattering of boots, his white greatcoat with the scarlet cuffs hanging open.
“They’ve fallen back!” he announced in a voice hoarse after the battle. “Our losses are appalling, but never mind—there should be a troop train here soon. Who’s whistling that tune so marvelously? It’s Lucia di Lammermoor, I adore it!” And the general began singing along in his pleasant, husky baritone.
Del ciel clemente un riso
la vita a noi sara!
He sang the final stanza with feeling, and at the very moment he reached the end there was the sound of a shot from behind the door.
EPILOGUE
MOSCOW PROVINCIAL GAZETTE
19 February (3 March) 1878
PEACE IS SIGNED!
* * *
Today, on the joyous anniversary of His Imperial Majesty’s magnanimous act of charity to the peasantry 17 years ago, a joyous new page has been written in the annals of the glorious reign of the Tsar-Liberator. In San Stefano, Russian and Turkish plenipotentiaries have signed a peace bringing to a conclusion the glorious war for the liberation of the Christian nations from Turkish overlordship. The terms of the treaty grant Romania and Serbia complete independence, establish an extensive Principality of Bulgaria and grant Russia the sum of one billion, four hundred and ten million rubles in reparation for her war costs, the greater part of this sum to be paid in territorial concessions, including Bessarabia and Dobrudja, as well as Ardagan, Kars, Batoumi, Bajazet . . .
“YOU SEE, A PEACE HAS BEEN SIGNED, and a very good one—despite your gloomy predictions, Mister Pessimist,” said Varya, failing yet again to find the words she really wanted to say.
The titular counselor had already said good-bye to yesterday’s suspect and today’s free man, Petya, who had got into the carriage
to settle into a compartment and lay out their things. In honor of the victorious conclusion of the war, Pyotr Yablokov had been granted a complete pardon and even a medal for diligent service.
They could have left two weeks earlier, but although Petya had tried to hurry her, Varya had kept putting it off, as if she were waiting for something that she couldn’t explain.
It was a shame that her parting with Sobolev hadn’t gone well; in fact, Sobolev had been bitter about it. To hell with him, anyway. A hero like that would find someone to console him soon enough.
And now the day had arrived when she had to say farewell to Erast Petrovich. Varya’s nerves had been on edge since early that morning; she’d thrown a fit of hysterics because of some lost brooch and blamed Petya for it, then burst into tears.
Fandorin was staying on in San Stefano—the diplomatic hustle and bustle was by no means all over simply because the peace had been signed. He had come straight to the station from some reception, in a tailcoat, top hat, and white silk tie. He gave Varya a bunch of Parma violets, sighed a little, and shifted from one foot to the other, but his sparkling eloquence had deserted him today.
“The peace is f-far too good,” he replied. “Europe will not recognize it. Anwar executed his gambit p-perfectly, and I lost the game. They have given me a medal, but they ought to have put me on trial.”
“How unfair you are to yourself. Terribly unfair!” Varya exclaimed passionately, afraid that any moment her tears would start to flow. “Why are you always so hard on yourself? If not for you, I don’t know what would have become of us all.”
“Lavrenty Arkadievich told me much the same thing,” said Fandorin with a smile. “And he p-promised me any reward in his power.”
Varya was delighted.
“Really? Well, that’s wonderful! And what did you wish for?”
“For a posting somewhere on the far side of the world, as far away as possible from all this.” He waved his hand vaguely in the air.