The Diamond Chariot

by Boris Akunin

  As Bullcox and his companion came closer, he cast a casual glance at the waiting guests and led his companion up to the steps. He was a most colourful gentleman: exuberant, fiery-red hair, sideburns covering half his face, a keen (indeed, predatory) glance and a white sabre scar on his cheek.

  ‘What is so honourable about him, this Bullcox?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.

  Doronin chuckled.

  ‘Nothing. I was referring to his title. Bullcox is a “Right Honourable”, the youngest son of the Duke of Bradfordshire. One of those young, ambitious climbers that they call “the hope of the empire”. He had a brilliant career in India. Now he is trying to conquer the Far East. And I am afraid that he will conquer it.’ Doronin sighed. ‘There is simply no comparison between our strength and the strength of the British – in both naval and diplomatic terms …’

  Catching the eye of the Right Honourable, the consul bowed coolly. The Briton inclined his head slightly and turned away.

  ‘We still greet each other, as yet,’ Doronin remarked. ‘But if, God forbid, war should break out, we can expect anything at all from him. He is one of that breed who do not play by the rules and never accept that any goal is unachievable …’

  The consul went on to say something else about pernicious Albion, but at that precise moment something strange happened to Erast Petrovich – he could hear his superior’s voice, he even nodded in reply, but he completely stopped understanding the meaning of the words. And the reason for this inexplicable phenomenon was trivial, even paltry. Algernon Bullcox’s female companion, to whom Fandorin had so far paid no attention, suddenly turned round.

  Absolutely nothing else at all happened. She simply looked round, and that was all. But in that second the titular counsellor’s ears were filled with the chiming of silvery bells, his mind lost the ability to distinguish words and something altogether incredible happened to his vision: the surrounding world shrank to a small circle, leaving the periphery shrouded in darkness – but that circle was so distinct and so bright that every detail included in it seemed positively radiant. And the unknown lady’s face was caught in this magical circle – or perhaps everything happened the other way round: the light radiating from that face was too bright, and that was why everything around went dark.

  With an effort of will, Erast Petrovich tore himself away from the astounding sight for a moment to look at the consul – could he really not see it? But Vsevolod Vitalievich was moving his lips as if nothing had happened, producing inarticulate sounds, and apparently had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. So it’s an optical illusion, whispered Fandorin’s reason, which was accustomed to interpreting all phenomena from a rational viewpoint.

  Never before had the sight of a woman, even the most beautiful, had such an effect on Erast Petrovich. He fluttered his eyelashes, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again – and, thank the Lord, the enchantment disappeared. The titular counsellor saw before him a young Japanese woman – a rare beauty, but no mirage, a living woman of flesh and blood. She was tall for a native woman, with a supple neck and exposed white shoulders. A nose with a slight crook in it, an unusual form to the elongated eyes stretching out towards the temples, a small mouth with plump lips. The beauty smiled in response to some remark from her beau, revealing her teeth – fortunately they were perfectly even. The only thing that might have been regarded as a defect from the viewpoint of the European canon were the charming, but distinctly protruding ears, nonchalantly exposed to view by the tall hairstyle. However, this regrettable prank of nature did nothing at all to spoil the overall impression. Fandorin recalled that Doronin had said protruding ears were considered a sign of sensuality in Japan.

  But even so, the most striking thing about the woman was not the features of her face, but the vivacity that filled them and the grace of her movements. This became clear after the single second for which the Japanese woman had paused to allow the vice-consul to examine her so thoroughly, when she flung the end of her necklet back over her shoulder. This impetuous, fleeting gesture caused the glowing circle to reappear – although not quite as dramatically as the first time. The head of an ermine came to rest against the beauty’s back.

  Erast Petrovich started recovering his wits and even thought abstractedly that she was not so much beautiful as exotic. Indeed, she herself was rather like a predatory beast with precious fur – an ermine or a sable.

  The lady carried on looking in Fandorin’s direction – not, unfortunately, at his fine manly figure, but at his tricycle, which was a strange sight among the carriages and kurumas. Then she turned away, and Erast Petrovich felt a twinge in his heart, as if he had suffered some painful loss.

  He looked at that white neck, the black curls on the back of that head, those ears protruding like two petals, and suddenly remembered something he had read somewhere: ‘A true beauty is a beauty from all sides and all angles, no matter what point you observe her from’. A clasp in the form of an archer’s bow glinted in the stranger’s hair.

  ‘E-er, why, you’re not listening to me,’ said the consul, touching the young man’s sleeve. ‘Lost in admiration of Miss O-Yumi, are you? No point in that.’

  ‘Who is sh-she?’

  Erast Petrovich tried very hard to make the question sound casual, but clearly did not succeed very well.

  ‘A courtesan. A “Dame aux Camelias”, but of the very highest class. O-Yumi began in the local brothel “Number Nine”,’ where she was wildly successful. She has excellent English, but can also make herself understood in German and Italian. She herself chooses who to be with. Do you see that clasp in her hair, shaped like a bow? “Yumi” means a bow. No doubt it is a hint at Cupid. At present she is kept by Bullcox, and has been for quite a long time. Don’t gape at her, my dear boy. This bird of paradise flies too high for the likes of you and me. Bullcox is not only a handsome devil, he is rich too. Respectable ladies consider him a most interesting man, an attitude encouraged in no small measure by his reputation as a terrible hellraiser.’

  Fandorin shrugged one shoulder.

  ‘I was only looking at her out of curiosity. And I am not attracted to venal women. In general, I cannot even imagine how it is possible to b-be’ – [here the titular counsellor’s cheeks turned pink –] ‘with a tainted woman who has belonged to God knows who.’

  ‘Oh, how young and – pardon me – foolish you are,’ Doronin said with a thoughtful smile. ‘Firstly, a woman like that cannot belong to anyone. Everyone belongs to her. And secondly, my young friend, women are not tainted by love, they merely acquire radiance. But in any case, your sniffing should be categorised as “sour grapes”.’

  Their turn came to walk up on to the porch where the host was receiving his guests. Erast Petrovich gave his tricycle into the care of a valet and walked up the steps. Doronin led his concubine by the arm. For a brief moment she was beside the ‘tainted woman’, and Fandorin was astounded at how different these two Japanese women were: one endearing, meek and serene, while the other had an aura of glorious danger.

  O-Yumi was just offering the host her hand for a kiss. He leaned down, so that his face was completely hidden, leaving in view just a fleshy nape and a red Turkish fez with a dangling tassel.

  The ermine necklet slid down a long elbow glove and the Japanese beauty tossed it back over her shoulder again. Fandorin caught a momentary glimpse of a delicate profile and the moist gleam of eyes under trembling lashes.

  Then the courtesan turned away, but the beady glass eyes of the furry ermine continued to observe the vice-consul.

  Either it will bite,

  Or tickle you with its fur,

  The nimble ermine.

  THE SILVER SLIPPER

  The courtesan laughed as she said something to him, and the ‘new Japanese’ straightened up.

  Fandorin saw a ruddy face, overgrown almost right up to the eyebrows with a thick black beard, a pair of exceptionally lively eyes and a lush mouth. Don Tsuramaki grinned, exposing remarkably fi
rm teeth, and gave Bullcox a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  Doronin was right: there was almost nothing Japanese in their host’s manner and appearance – except for the slant of his eyes and his low stature.

  A huge, thick cigar was smoking in his short-fingered hand, his large stomach was tightly bound in with a scarlet silk waistcoat, and an immense black pearl glinted on his tie.

  ‘O-oh, my Russian friend!!’ Don exclaimed in a booming voice. ‘Welcome to an old bachelor’s den! The incomparable Obayasi-san, yoku ira-syshaimashita!’1 And this must be the assistant you have been waiting for so impatiently. What a fine young man! I’m afraid he will change my girls’ minds about being re-educated!’

  A hot palm squeezed the titular counsellor’s hand tightly, and that was the end of the introduction: Tsurumaki gave a howl of joy and dashed over to embrace some American captain.

  An interesting specimen, thought Erast Petrovich, looking around. A genuine dynamo electric machine.

  An orchestra was playing in the hall, compensating for the dubious quality of its performance with bravura crashing and rumbling.

  ‘Our volunteer fire brigade,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich remarked. ‘They’re rather poor musicians, but there aren’t any others in the city.’

  The guests chattered cheerfully, standing in little groups, strolling about on the open terrace, helping themselves to refreshments from the long tables. Fandorin was surprised by the number of meat dishes – all sorts of ham, gammon, sausage, roast beef and quails.

  Doronin explained.

  ‘Until recent times the Japanese were vegetarians. They regard eating meat as a sign of enlightenment and progress, in the same way as our aristocrats regard drinking koumiss and chewing on sprouted grain.’

  Most of the male guests were Europeans and Americans, but the majority of the women were Japanese. Some, like Obayasi, were wearing kimonos and others, like O-Yumi, had dressed up in the Western style.

  An entire flower garden of beauties had gathered round a thin, fidgety gentleman who was showing them some pictures. He was Japanese, but dressed more meticulously than any dandy on London’s Bond Street: a sparkling waistcoat, a gleaming brilliantined parting, a violet in his buttonhole.

  ‘Prince Onokoji,’ the consul whispered to Fandorin. ‘The local arbiter of fashion. Also a product of progress, in a sense. There were no princes like that in Japan before.’

  ‘And this, ladies, is a Madras cap from Bonnard,’ Fandorin heard the prince say in an effeminate voice, burring his r’s in the Parisian fashion, even though he was speaking English. ‘The very latest collection. Note the frills and especially the bow. Seemingly so simple, but what elegance!’

  Vsevolod Vitalievich shook his head.

  ‘And he is descended from the daimyo, the ruling princes! The next province belonged entirely to his father. But now the appanage principalities have been abolished and the former daimyo have become state pensioners. Some, like this fop, have taken to their new status eagerly. No cares, no need to support a pack of samurai, live to please yourself, pluck the blossoms of pleasure and delight. Onokoji, of course, ruined himself instantly, but he is fed and kept by our generous Mr Cloud – in gratitude for the patronage that the prince’s daddy extended to the bandit.’

  Erast Petrovich moved off to one side to jot down in his notepad this useful information about progressive meat-eating and the daimyo receiving pensions. At the same time he tried to dash off a quick sketch of O-Yumi’s profile: the curve of the neck, the nose with the smooth crook, the quick glance from under lowered eyelids. But it didn’t look like her – there was something missing.

  ‘Ah, there’s the man we need,’ said the consul, beckoning Fandorin.

  Two men were talking in the corner, beside a column: the Right Honourable Bullcox, whom Fandorin already knew, and another gentleman, whose monocle and gaunt physique suggested that he might also be English. The conversation did not appear to be a friendly one; Bullcox was laughing hostilely and the other man was curling his thin lips angrily. The ‘Dame aux Camelias’ was not with them.

  ‘That is Captain Bukhartsev,’ said Lieutenant Vsevolod Vitalievich, leading his assistant across the hall. ‘He’s sparring with our British foe.’

  Erast Petrovich looked more closely at the maritime agent, but still could not discover any indications of Russianness in this gentleman. The representatives of two rival empires were as alike as brothers. If one had to choose, then Bullcox could more easily be taken for a Slav, with his exuberant locks and open, energetic features.

  No four-way conversation ensued, however. With a curt nod to Fandorin, who had been introduced to him by the consul, the Englishman announced that a lady was waiting for him and walked away, leaving the Russians to each other. Fandorin did not like the lieutenant captain’s handshake – what strange sort of manner was that, to offer just the tips of the fingers? Mstislav Nikolaevich (the maritime agent’s first name and patronymic) clearly wished to distance himself immediately and demonstrate that he was the most important one there.

  ‘Abominable little Englishman,’ Bukhartsev hissed through his teeth, watching Bullcox walk away through narrowed eyes. ‘How dare he! “You should not forget that Russia ceased to be a great power twenty years ago!” How do you like that? I told him: “We have just defeated the Ottoman Empire, and you can’t even deal with the pitiful Afghans!”’

  ‘A fine riposte,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said approvingly. ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘He tried to preach at me. “You are a civilised man. Surely it is clear that the world will only gain if it learns to live the British way?”.’

  This assertion set Fandorin thinking. What if the Englishman was right? If one had to choose how the world should live – the British way or the Russian way … But at that point Erast Petrovich pulled himself up short. Firstly, for being unpatriotic, and, secondly, for posing the question incorrectly. First one had to decide whether it would be a good thing for the whole world to live according to a single model, no matter how absolutely wonderful it might be.

  He pondered this complex question, at the same time listening to Doronin telling the agent in a low voice abut Captain Blagolepov’s sinister passengers.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Bukhartsev with a frown, but after a moment’s thought, he said brightly, ‘Although, go ahead. At least we’ll demonstrate to the minister how greatly Russia is concerned for his safety. Let him remember we are his real friends, not the English.’

  Just then their host, visible from a distance owing to his remarkable fez, went dashing towards the doors, where some kind of commotion was developing: some guests moved forward and others respectfully backed away, and a Japanese in a modest grey frock coat walked slowly into the hall. He halted in the doorway and greeted the assembled company with an elegant bow. His intelligent, narrow face, adorned with a drooping moustache, lit up in a pleasant smile.

  ‘Ah, and here is our Bonaparte, speak of the devil,’ the consul said to Fandorin. ‘Let’s move a bit closer.’

  The minister’s retinue jostled behind him. In contrast with the great man himself, they were decked out in sumptuous uniforms. It occurred to Erast Petrovich that perhaps Okubo really was imitating the Corsican: he had also liked to surround himself with gold-feathered peacocks, while he went about in a grey frock coat and frayed three-cornered hat. This was the grand chic of genuine, self-assured power.

  ‘Well hello, you old bandit. Hello, you slanty-eyed Danton,’ said the minister, shaking his host’s hand with a jolly laugh.

  ‘And hello to you, Your Equally Slanty-Eyed Excellency,’ Tsurumaki responded in the same tone.

  Erast Petrovich was rather shaken, both by the epithet and the familiarity. He glanced involuntarily at the consul, who whispered out of the corner of his mouth:

  ‘They’re old comrades-in-arms, from before the revolution. And that “slanty-eyed” business is just play-acting for the Europeans – it’s no accident that they’re speaking Englis
h.’

  ‘Why “Danton”, though?’ Fandorin asked.

  But Doronin did not need to answer – Tsurumaki did that for him.

  ‘Take care, Your Excellency, if you cling to power so tightly, Dantons and Robespierres will be lining up against you. All the civilised countries have a constitution and a parliament, but what do we have in Japan? An absolute monarchy is a brake on progress, and you can’t understand that!’

  Although Don smiled, it was clear that the only jocular thing about his words was the tone in which they were spoken.

  ‘It’s too soon for you Asiatics to have a parliament,’ the minister disagreed in a serious voice. ‘First educate yourselves, and then we’ll see.’

  ‘Now do you understand why Russia likes Okubo so much?’ asked Vsevolod Vitalievich, unable to resist the urge to seditious irony, although he spoke cautiously, directly into Fandorin’s ear.

  Bukhartsev, who had not heard this freethinking remark, said briskly:

  ‘We won’t be able to get to the minister now. But never mind, I can see the person we need.’ He pointed to a military officer who was standing apart from the other members of the retinue. ‘That is the vice-intendant of police, Kinsuke Suga. Although he is only the vice-intendant, everyone knows Suga is the true head of the imperial police. His superior is a purely decorative figure, a member of the Kyoto aristocracy.’

  Bukhartsev squeezed through the crush, gestured to the policeman, and a moment later all four of them were in a quiet corner together, away from the crowd.

  Having quickly disposed of the social formalities, the lieutenant captain got down to business. He was a sensible man after all – he stated the essence of the matter clearly, succinctly and yet comprehensively.