Murder on the Leviathan

by Boris Akunin

  For the most part my information concerning the ship has been garnered from the explanations of Lieutenant Renier, who is a great patriot of his own vessel. He is, however, not a very likeable individual and the object of serious suspicion on my part. He tries his hardest to play the gentleman, but I am not so easily duped. I have a keen nose for bad breeding. Wishing to produce a good impression, this fellow invited me to visit his cabin. I did call in, but less out of curiosity than from a desire to assess the seriousness of the threat that might be posed by this swarthy gentleman (concerning his appearance, see my letter of 20 March). The meagreness of the decor was rendered even more glaringly obvious by his tasteless attempts at bon ton (Chinese vases, Indian incense burners, a dreadful seascape on the wall, and so forth). Standing on the table among the maps and navigational instruments was a large photographic portrait of a woman dressed in black, with an inscription in French: 'Seven feet under the keel, my darling! Francoise B.' I enquired whether it was his wife. It turned out to be his mother. Touching, but it does not allay my suspicions. I am as determined as ever to take independent readings of our course every three hours, even though it means that I have to get up twice during the night. Of course, while we are sailing through the Suez Canal this might seem a little excessive, but I do not wish to lose my proficiency in handling the sextant.

  I have more than enough time at my disposal and apart from the writing of letters my leisure hours are filled by observing the Vanity Fair which surrounds me on all sides. Among this gallery of human types there are some who are most amusing. I have already written to you about the others, but yesterday a new face appeared in our salon. He is Russian - can you imagine that? His name is Erast Fandorin. You are aware, Emily, of my feelings regarding Russia, that misshapen excrescence that has extended over half of Europe and a third of Asia. Russia seeks to disseminate its own parody of the Christian religion and its own barbarous customs throughout the entire world, and Albion stands as the only barrier in the path of these new Huns. If not for the resolute position adopted by Her Majesty's government in the current eastern crisis, Tsar Alexander would have raked in the Balkans with his bear's claws, and . . .

  But I have already written to you about that and I do not wish to repeat myself. And in any case, thinking about politics has rather a bad effect on my nerves. It is now four minutes to eight. As I have already informed you, life on the Leviathan is conducted according to British time as far as Aden, so that it is already dark here at eight o'clock. I shall go and take readings of the longitude and latitude, then take dinner and continue with my letter.

  16 minutes after ten

  I see that I did not finish writing about Mr Fandorin. I do believe that I like him, despite his nationality. Good manners, reticent, knows how to listen. He must be a member of that estate referred to in Russia by the Italian word intelligenzia, which I believe denotes the educated European class. You must admit, dear Emily, that a society in which the European class is separated off into a distinct stratum of the population and also referred to by a foreign word can hardly be ranked among the civilized nations. I can imagine what a gulf separates a civilized human being like Mr Fandorin from some bearded Kossack or muzhik, who make up 90 per cent of the population of that Tartarian-Byzantine empire. On the other hand, a distance of such magnitude must elevate and ennoble an educated and thinking man to an exceptional degree, a point that I shall have to ponder at greater length.

  I liked the elegant way in which Mr Fandorin (by the way, it seems he is a diplomat, which explains a great deal) put down that intolerable yokel Gauche, who claims to be a rentier, although it is clear from a mile away that the fellow is involved in some grubby little business or other. I should not be surprised if he is on his way to the East to purchase opium and exotic dancers for Parisian dens of vice. [The last phrase has been scratched out.] I know, my darling Emily, that you are a real lady and will not attempt to read what has been crossed out here. I got a little carried away and wrote something unworthy for your chaste eyes to read.

  And so, back to today's dinner. The French bourgeois, who just recently has grown bold and become quite terribly talkative, began discoursing with a self-satisfied air on the advantages of age over youth. 'I am older than anyone else here,' he said condescendingly, a la Socrates. 'Grey-haired, bloated and decidedly not good-looking, but you needn't go thinking, ladies and gentlemen, that papa Gauche would agree to change places with you. When I see the arrogance of youth, flaunting its beauty and strength, its health, in the face of age, I do not feel envious in the least. Why, I think, that's no great trick, I was like that myself once. But you, my fine fellow, still do not know if you will live to my 62 years. I am twice as happy as you are at 30, because I have been fortunate enough to live in this world for twice as long.' And he sipped at his wine, very proud of the originality of his thought and his seemingly unimpeachable logic. Then Mr Fandorin, who had so far not said a word, suddenly remarked with a very serious air: 'That is undoubtedly the case, M. Gauche, if one takes the oriental viewpoint on life, as existence at a single point of reality in an eternal present. But there is also another way of reasoning which regards a man's life as a unified work which can only be judged when the final page has been read. Moreover, this work may be as long as a tetralogy or as short as a novella. And yet who would undertake to assert that a fat, vulgar novel is necessarily of greater value than a short, beautiful poem?' The funniest thing of all was that our rentier, who is indeed both fat and vulgar, did not even understand the reference to himself. Even when Miss Stamp (by no means stupid, but a strange creature) giggled and I gave a rather loud snort, the Frenchie failed to catch on and stuck with his own opinion, for which all credit to him.

  It is true, however, that in the conversation that followed over dessert, M. Gauche demonstrated a degree of common sense that quite amazed me. There are, after all, certain advantages in not having a regular education: a mind unfettered by authorities is sometimes capable of making interesting and accurate observations.

  Judge for yourself. The amoeba-like Mrs Truffo, the wife of our muttonhead of a doctor, started up again with her mindless prattle about the joy and delight Mme Kleber will bring to her banker with her 'tiny tot' and 'little angel'. Since Mrs Truffo does not speak French, the task of translating her sickly sentiments on the subject of family happiness being inconceivable without 'baby babble', fell to her unfortunate husband. Gauche huffed and puffed and then suddenly declared: I cannot agree with you, madam. A genuinely happy married couple have no need whatsoever of children, for husband and wife are perfectly sufficient for each other. Man and woman are like two uneven surfaces, each with bumps and indentations. If the surfaces do not fit tightly against each other, then glue is required, otherwise the structure - in other words the family - cannot be preserved. Children are that selfsame glue. If, however, the surfaces form a perfect fit, bump to indentation, then no glue is required. Take me and my Blanche, if you like. Thirty-three years we've lived in perfect harmony. Why would we want children? Life is splendid without them.' I am sure you can imagine, dear Emily, the tidal wave of righteous indignation that came crashing down on the head of this subverter of eternal values. The most zealous accuser of all was Mme Kleber, who is carrying the little Swiss in her womb. The sight of her neat little belly so carefully exhibited at every opportunity sets me writhing. I can just see the miniature banker nestled inside with his curly moustache and puffy little cheeks. In time the Klebers will no doubt produce an entire battalion of Swiss Guards.

  I must confess to you, my tenderly adored Emily, that the sight of pregnant women makes me feel sick. They are repulsive! That inane bovine smile, that disgusting manner of constantly listening to their own entrails. I try to keep as far away from Mme Kleber as possible. Swear to me, my darling, that we shall never have children. The fat bourgeois is right a thousand times over! Why do we need children when we are already boundlessly happy without them? All we need to do is survive this forced separ
ation.

  But it is already two minutes to 11. Time to take a reading.

  Damnation! I have turned the whole cabin upside down. My sextant has disappeared. This is no delusion! It was lying in the trunk together with the chronometer and the compass, and now it is not there! I am afraid, Emily! O, I had a premonition of this. My worst suspicions have been confirmed!

  Why? What have I done? They are prepared to commit any vileness in order to prevent our reunion! How can I check now that the ship is following the right course? It is that Renier, I know! I caught the expression in his eyes when he saw me handling the sextant on deck last night! The scoundrel!

  I shall go to the captain and demand retribution. But what if they are in it together? My God, my God, have pity on me!

  I had to pause for a while. I was so agitated that I was obliged to take the drops prescribed for me by Dr Jenkinson. And I did as he told me, and started thinking of pleasant things. Of how you and I will sit on a white veranda and gaze into the distance, trying to guess where the sea ends and the sky begins. You will smile and say: 'Darling Reggie, here we are together at last.' Then we will get into a cabriolet and go for a drive along the seashore.

  Lord, what nonsense is this! What cabriolet?

  I am a monster, and there can be no forgiveness for me.

  Renate Kleber

  She woke up in an excellent mood, smiled affably at the spot of sunlight that crept onto her round cheek where it was creased by the pillow, and listened to her belly. The baby was quiet, but she felt terribly hungry. There were still 50 minutes left until breakfast, but Renate had no lack of patience and she simply did not know the meaning of boredom. In the morning sleep released her as swiftly as it embraced her in the evening, when she simply sandwiched her hands together and laid her head on them, and a second later she was immersed in sweet dreams.

  As Renate performed her morning toilet she purred a frivolous little song about poor Georgette who fell in love with a chimney sweep. She wiped her fresh little face with an infusion of lavender and then styled her hair quickly and deftly, fluffing up the fringe over her forehead, drawing her thick chestnut tresses into a smooth bun and arranging two long ringlets over her temples. The effect was precisely what was required -demure and sweet. She glanced out of the porthole. Still the same view: the regular border of the canal, the yellow sand, the white mud-daub houses of a wretched little hamlet. It was going to be hot. That meant the white lace dress, the straw hat with the red ribbon, and she mustn't forget her parasol - a stroll after breakfast was de rigueur. Only she couldn't be bothered to drag her parasol around with her. Never mind, someone would fetch it.

  Renate twirled in front of the mirror with evident satisfaction, stood sideways and pulled her dress tight over her belly. Although to tell the truth, there was not much to look at as yet.

  Asserting her rights as a pregnant woman, Renate arrived ahead of time for breakfast - the waiters were still laying the table. She immediately ordered them to bring her orange juice, tea, croissants with butter and everything else. By the time the first of her table-mates arrived - it was the fat M. Gauche, another early bird - the mother-to-be had already dealt with three croissants and was preparing to set about a mushroom omelette. The breakfast served on the Leviathan was not some trifling Continental affair, but the genuine full English variety: with roast beef, exquisite egg dishes, blood pudding and porridge. The French part of the consortium provided nothing but the croissants. At lunch and dinner, however, the menu was dominated by French cuisine. Well, one could hardly serve kidneys and beans in the Windsor saloon!

  The first mate appeared, as always, at precisely nine o'clock. He enquired solicitously as to how Mme Kleber was feeling. Renate lied and said she had slept badly and felt absolutely shattered, and it was all because the porthole didn't open properly and it was too stuffy in the cabin. Alarmed, Lieutenant Renier promised that he would make inquiries in person and have the fault rectified. He did not eat eggs or roast beef - he was a devotee of some peculiar diet, sustaining himself largely on fresh greens. Renate pitied him for that.

  Gradually the others also put in an appearance. The conversation over breakfast was usually listless. Those who were a bit older had not yet recovered from a wretched night, while the young people were still not fully awake. It was rather amusing to observe the bitchy Clarissa Stamp attempting to coax a response out of the stammering Russian diplomat. Renate shook her head in disbelief: how could she make such a fool of herself? After all, my dear, he could be your son, despite those impressive streaks of grey. Surely this handsome boy was too tough a morsel for this ageing, simpering creature?

  The very last to arrive was the Ginger Lunatic (Renate's private name for the English baronet). Tousled hair sticking out in all directions, red eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth - he was a quite appalling mess. But Mme Kleber was not in the least bit afraid of him, and given the chance she never missed the opportunity to have a bit of fun at his expense. This time she passed the milk jug to the Lunatic with a warm, guileless smile. As she had anticipated, Milford-Stokes (what a silly name!) squeamishly moved his cup aside. Renate knew from experience that now he would not even touch the milk jug, and he would drink his coffee black.

  'Why do you start back like that, sir?' she babbled in a quavering voice. 'Don't be afraid, pregnancy is not infectious.' Then she concluded, no longer quavering: 'At least not for men.'

  The Lunatic cast her a glance of withering scorn that shattered against the serenely radiant glance opposed to it. Lieutenant Renier concealed a smile behind his hand, the rentier chuckled. Even the Japanese raised a smile at Renate's prank. Of course, this M. Aono was always smiling, even when there was absolutely no reason for it. Perhaps for the Japanese a smile was not an expression of merriment at all, but indicated something quite different. Boredom, perhaps, or repugnance.

  When he had finished smiling, M. Aono disgusted his neighbours at table by playing his usual trick: he took a paper napkin out of his pocket, blew his nose into it loudly, crumpled it up and deposited it neatly on the edge of his dirty plate. A fine ikebana arrangement for them to contemplate. Renate had read about ikebana in one of Pierre Loti's novels and the aura of the word had stuck in her memory. It was an interesting idea - composing bouquets of flowers not simply to look nice, but with a philosophical meaning. She would have to try it some time.

  'What flowers do you like?' she asked Dr Truffo.

  He translated the question to his English jade, then replied:

  'Pansies.'

  Then he translated his reply into English as well.

  'I just adore flowers!' exclaimed Miss Stamp (what an impossible ingenue!). 'But only live ones. I love to walk across a flowering meadow! My heart simply breaks when I see poor cut flowers wither and drop their petals! That's why I never allow anyone to give me bouquets.' And she cast a languid glance at the handsome young Russian.

  What a shame, otherwise absolutely everyone would be tossing bouquets at you, thought Renate, but aloud she said:

  'I believe that flowers are the crowning glories of God's creation and I think trampling a flowering meadow is a crime.'

  'In the parks of Paris it is indeed considered a crime,' M. Gauche pronounced solemnly. 'The penalty is ten francs. And if the ladies will permit an old boor to light up his pipe, I will tell you an amusing little story on the subject.'

  'O, ladies, pray do indulge us!' cried the owlish Indologist Sweetchild, wagging his beard a la Disraeli. 'M. Gauche is such a wonderful raconteur!'

  Everyone turned to look at the pregnant Renate, on whom the decision depended, and she rubbed her temple as a hint. Of course, she did not have the slightest trace of a headache - she was simply savouring the sweetness of the moment. However, she too was curious to hear this 'little story', and so she nodded her head with a pained expression and said:

  'Very well, smoke. But then someone must fan me.'

  Since bitchy Clarissa, the owner of a luxurious ostrich-
feather fan, pretended this remark did not apply to her, the Japanese had to fill the breach. Gintaro Aono seated himself beside Renate and set to work, flapping his bright fan with the butterfly design in front of the long-suffering woman's nose so zealously that the bright kaleidoscope rapidly make her feel genuinely giddy. The Japanese received a reprimand for his excessive fervour.

  Meanwhile the rentier drew on his pipe with relish, puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke and embarked on his story:

  'Believe it or not as you wish, but this is a true story. There was once a gardener who worked in the Luxembourg Gardens, little papa Picard. For forty years he had watered the flowers and pruned the shrubs, and now he had only three years to go until he retired and drew his pension. Then one morning, when little papa Picard went out with his watering can, he saw a swell dolled up in a white shirt and tails sprawling in the tulip bed. He was stretched out full length, basking in the morning sunshine, obviously straight from his nocturnal revels - after carousing until dawn, he had dozed off on the way home.' Gauche screwed up his eyes and surveyed his audience with a sly glance. 'Picard, of course, was furious - his tulips were crushed - and he said: "Get up, monsieur, in our park lying in the flower beds is not allowed! We fine people for it, ten francs." The reveller opened one eye and took a gold coin out of his pocket. "There you are, old man," he said, "now leave me in peace. I haven't had such a wonderful rest in ages." Well, the gardener took the coin, but he did not go away. "You have paid the fine, but I have no right to leave you here, monsieur. Be so good as to get up." At this the gentleman in the tails opened both eyes, but he seemed in no haste to rise. "How much do I have to pay you to get out of my sun? I'll pay any amount you like if you'll just stop pestering me and let me doze for an hour." Old papa Picard scratched his head and moved his lips while he figured something out. "Well then, sir," he said eventually, "if you wish to purchase an hour's rest lying in a flower bed in the Luxembourg Gardens, it will cost you eighty-four thousand francs and not a single sou less."' Gauche chuckled merrily into his grey moustache and shook his head, as if in admiration of the gardener's impudence. ' "And not a single sou less," he said, so there! And let me tell you that this tipsy gentleman was no ordinary man, but the banker Laffitte himself, the richest man in the whole of Paris. Laffitte was not in the habit of making idle promises: he had said "any amount" and now he was stuck with it. As a banker it would have been shameful for him to back down and break his word. Of course, he didn't want to give away that kind of money to the first impudent rogue he met for a mere how-d'ye-do. But what could he do about it?' Gauche shrugged, mimicking a state of total perplexity. 'Then suddenly Laffitte ups and says: "Right, you old scoundrel, you'll get your eighty-four thousand, but only on one condition. You prove to me that lying for an hour in your rotten flower bed is really worth the money. And if you can't prove it, I'll get up this very moment and give your sides a good drubbing with my cane, and that act of petty hooliganism will cost me a forty franc administrative fine."' Crazy Milford-Stokes laughed loudly and ruffled up his ginger mane in approval, but Gauche raised a yellow-stained finger, as if to say: don't be so hasty with your laughter, it's not the end yet. 'And what do you think happened, ladies and gentlemen? Old papa Picard, not put out in the slightest, began drawing up the balance: "In half an hour, at precisely eight o'clock, monsieur le directeur of the park will arrive, see you in the flower bed and start yelling at me to get you out of there. I shall not be able to do that, because you will have paid for a full hour, not half an hour. I shall get into an argument with monsieur le directeur, and he will kick me out of my job with no pension and no severance pay. I still have three years to go before I retire and take the pension due to me, which is set at one thousand two hundred francs a year. I intend to live at my ease for twenty years, so altogether that makes twenty-four thousand francs already. Now for the matter of accommodation. They will throw me and my lady wife out of our municipal apartment. And then the question is - where are we going to live? We shall have to buy a house. Any modest little house somewhere in the Loire region will run to twenty thousand at least. Now, sir, consider my reputation. Forty years I've slaved away loyally in this park and anyone will tell you that old papa Picard is an honest man. Then suddenly an incident like this brings shame on my old grey head. This is bribery, this is graft! I think a thousand francs for each year of irreproachable service would hardly be too much by way of moral compensation. So altogether it comes out at exactly eighty-four thousand." Laffitte laughed, stretched himself out a bit more comfortably in the flower bed and closed his eyes again. "Come back in an hour, you old monkey," he said, "and you'll be paid." And that is my wonderful little story, ladies and gentlemen.'