The Coronation: The Further Adventures Of Erast Fandorin (Erast Fandorin 7)

by Boris Akunin

  My hand trembled and for the first time in my life I spilled a few drops straight into the saucer.

  Pavel Georgievich did not utter a single word of reproach; he simply thanked me for the coffee, and that was even worse.

  I stood beside the door, suffering terribly.

  Mr Carr was chattering away incessantly, making elegant gestures with his slim white hands. I think he was talking about the opera – at least, I heard ‘Khovanshchina’ repeated several times. Lord Banville had not come to breakfast, owing to a migraine.

  What I had to do, I thought, was to approach Georgii Alexandrovich and say this: ‘The opinion that Your Highness has formed concerning my presumed relationship with a certain individual well known to you has absolutely nothing in common with reality, and the only reason I happened to be in thewardrobe is that the aforementioned individual wished to avoid compromising Pavel Georgievich. And as for the love that this individual declared for my own humble personage, if a feeling so very flattering to me should indeed exist, then it is without the slightest hint of any passion of a non-platonic nature.’

  No, that was probably too involved. What if I were to say: ‘The reverence in which I hold the members of the royal family and also the affections of their hearts would never, under any circumstances, allowme, even inmywildest fantasies, to imagine that . . .’ Just at that moment my glance accidentally met that of Lieutenant Endlung, who assumed an expression of admiration, raising his eyebrows and winking at me, as well as giving me a thumbs up sign under the tablecloth, from which I concluded that Pavel Georgievich had told him everything. It cost me an immense effort of will to maintain an air of imperturbability.

  The Lord had truly decided to subject me to grave trials.

  As everyone was leaving the table, Xenia Georgievna whispered to me: ‘Come to my room.’

  Five minutes later I set out for her room with a heavy heart, already knowing that nothing good awaited me there.

  The grand princess had already changed into a promenade dress and put on a hat with a veil, behind which her long beautifully moulded eyes glittered resolutely.

  ‘I wish to take a drive in the landau,’ she said. ‘It is such a bright sunny day today. You will drive, as you used to do when I was a child.’

  I bowed, feeling incredibly relieved.

  ‘Which pair of horses would you like to be harnessed?’

  ‘The sorrels, they are friskier.’

  ‘Right away.’

  But my feeling of relief proved premature. When I drove up to the porch Xenia Georgievna did not get into the carriage alone, but with Fandorin, who looked a genuine dandy in a grey top hat, grey frock coat and mother-of-pearl tie with a pearl pin. Now it was clear why her Highness had wanted me to occupy the coach box instead of the coachman Savelii.

  We drove through the park, along the avenue, and then Xenia Georgievna ordered me to turn towards the Sparrow Hills. The carriagewas brand new, with rubber shock absorbers, and driving it was a sheer pleasure – it did not jolt or pitch, and only swayed ever so slightly.

  While the horses were trotting between the trees, the quiet conversation behind my back merged into themuted background of sound, but on the Kaluga Highway we had a strong following wind that snatched up every word spoken and carried it tomyears, with the result that, despite myself, I played the part of aneavesdropper, and therewas nothing I could do about it.

  ‘. . . and nothing else matters . . .’ Those were the first words that the wind brought me (the voice belonged to Her Highness). ‘Take me away. It doesn’t matter where to. I would go to the end of the world with you. No, truly, do not grimace like that! We can go to America. I have read that there are no titles or class prejudices there. Why don’t you say something?’

  I lashed the entirely innocent horses and they started trotting a bit faster.

  ‘Class p-prejudices exist even in America, but that is not the problem . . .’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘Everything. I am forty years old and you are nineteen. That is one. I am, as Karnovich recently put it, “an individual of no definite profession”, while you, Xenia, are a grand princess. That is two. I know life only too well, and you do not know it at all. That is three. And the most important thing of all is that I belong only to myself, but you belong to Russia. We could not be happy.’

  His habitual manner of numbering off his arguments seemed inappropriate to me in this particular instance, but I had to admit that this time at least Erast Petrovich was speaking like a responsible man. From the ensuing silence I concluded that Her Highness had been sobered by his words of reason.

  A minute later she asked quietly: ‘Do you not love me?’

  And then he spoiled everything!

  ‘I didn’t s-say that. You . . . you have d-disturbed m-my emotional equilibrium,’ Fandorin babbled, stammering more than usual. ‘I d-did not think that such a thing could ever happen to me again, b-but it seems that it has . . .’

  ‘So you do love me then? You love me?’ she persisted. ‘If you do, then nothing else matters. If you don’t, it matters even less. One word, just one word. Well?’

  My heartwas wrung by the hope and fear that I heard in Xenia Georgievna’s voice, and yet at that moment in time I could not help admiring her resolve and noble candour.

  Naturally, the sly seducer replied: ‘Yes, I l-love you.’

  How could he possibly dare not to love Her Highness!

  ‘At least, I am in love,’ Fandorin immediately corrected himself. ‘Forgive me for speaking absolutely honestly. You have completely turned my head, but . . . I am not sure that it is simply a matter of you . . . Perhaps the m-magic of a title played some part in it . . . In that case it is shameful . . . I am afraid to p-prove unworthy of your love . . .’

  At this point I found this heroic gentleman rather pitiful. At least, in comparison with Her Highness, who was prepared to abandon everything for the sake of her feelings, and in this case ‘everything’ signified so much that it was simply breathtaking.

  ‘And also . . .’ he said in a more restrained, sadder voice, ‘I do not agree with you that nothing matters apart from love. There are more important things than love. That is probably the main lesson I have drawn from my life.’

  Xenia Georgievna replied in a ringing voice: ‘Erast Petrovich, you have been a poor student of life.’ And then she shouted to me: ‘Afanasii, turn back!’

  For the rest of the way they did not say a word to each other.

  I was not present at the meeting that preceded Mademoiselle’s departure for her next meeting with Lind, since none of the grand dukes were involved and no drinks were served. I was left languishing in the corridor, and now that my fears for Xenia Georgievna were a little less acute, I was able to focus on the most important thing – the fate of the young prisoner. What the all-wise Snezhnevskaya had said about having to sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater had seared my heart, but Izabella Felitsianovna did not know anything about Fandorin’s plan. There was still hope – everything depended on whether Mademoiselle was able to determine the location of the hiding place.

  The meeting did not last long. I caught Mademoiselle in the corridor and she told me in French: ‘I just hope I don’t lose count. I didn’t sleep all last night – I was training my memory. Erast said that the best way to do it is to learn poetry that you do not completely understand. So I learned a passage from your terrible poet Pushkin:

  ‘Oh ye at whom have trembled

  Europe’s mighty tribes,

  Oh, predatory Gauls (ce sont nous, les français)1

  You too have fallen in your graves.

  Oh dread! Oh fearsome times!

  Where are you now, beloved son of fortune and Bellona (il parle de Napoléon)2

  The voice that scorned the truth, and faith and law,

  Dreaming in pride of casting thrones down by the sword,

  Has vanished like a frightful dream when morning comes!’

  ‘After
that, memorising the creaks of the wheels will be a sheer pleasure. Just as long as I don’t lose count. Imust not lose count. Today is our last chance. I am very nervous.’

  Yes, I could see that her affected cheerfulness and all this jolly banter was merely a screen for profound anxiety.

  I wanted to say that I was I was verymuch afraid for her. After all, Fandorin had said that Doctor Lind did not leave witnesses. It would be nothing to him to kill the intermediary when she was no longer needed. If those in higher spheres were willing to abandon Mikhail Georgievich to his fate, then who would be concerned about the death of a mere governess?

  ‘I should not have run after that carriage. It was an unforgivable mistake,’ I finally said in Russian. ‘You see, now you will have to carry the can for me.’

  It was not what I wanted to say – it came out wrongly – and there was that phrase ‘carry the can’, which a foreigner was unlikely to know. But even so Mademoiselle understood me perfectly well.

  ‘Do not be so afraid, Athanas,’ she said with a smile, calling me by my given name for the first time. On her lips it acquired an unfamiliar Caucasian ring. ‘Lind will not kill me today. I still have to bring him the Orlov tomorrow.’

  I am ashamed to admit it, but at that moment I felt a sense of relief as I recalled how confidently Snezhnevskaya had declared that the Orlovwould not be handed over to the kidnappers under any circumstances. Itwas a base unworthy feeling, and I blanched at the realisation that in that moment I had betrayed poor little Mikhail Georgievich, who had already been abandoned by everyone else. In my opinion, the very worst of sins is to abuse those most precious of human feelings, love and trust.

  And then I felt even more ashamed, because I remembered that Mr Masa had called me that Japaneseword. Ura . . . girimono?

  I really had behaved irresponsibly on that occasion. And as a decent human being I was obliged to apologise.

  Having wished the governess success in her difficult and dangerous mission, I went to find the Japanese servant.

  I knocked at the door and heard an unintelligible soundwhich, upon reflection, I decided to regard as permission to enter.

  Mr Masawas sitting on the floor in nothing but his underwear, that is in the same attire in which I had once seen him jumping against the wall. There was a sheet of paper lying in front of him, and Fandorin’s valet was painstakingly tracing out complicated patterns on it with a brush.

  ‘What you want?’ he asked, squinting at me with his narrow, spiteful little eyes.

  I was rather taken aback by his rude tone of voice, but I had to finish what I had begun. My late father always used to say that true dignity lay not in the way one was treated by others, but in the way one acted oneself.

  ‘Mr Masa,’ I said, bowing, ‘I have come to tell you, firstly, that I harbour no claims on you for the blow that you gave me, for my own offence was fully deserving of such treatment. And, secondly, that I am truly sorry that I was unwittingly responsible for the failure of Mr Fandorin’s plan. Please forgive me.’

  The Japanese bowed formally to me in reply, without getting up off the floor.

  ‘And I ask you forgive me,’ he said, ‘but cannot forgive you. Your humbre servant.’

  And he bowed again.

  Well, have it your own way, I thought. I had done my duty. I said goodbye and left the room.

  I needed to occupy myself with something until Mademoiselle’s return, so that the time would not drag so very slowly. I walked round the rooms, and in the drawing room my eye was caught by a carpet on the wall hung with weapons from the Caucasus and Turkey. I stood on a chair, took down a dagger with silver knurling decoration and ran my finger along it. The scabbard was clean, with not a single speck of dust. I wondered if Somov was meticulous enough to pay the same attention to the blade as he did to the scabbard.

  I slowly drew the blade out, breathed on it and held it up to the light. Just as I had thought – smears. And what if one of the guests were to examine it, out of simple curiosity? That would be awkward. Somov had a long way to go before he would be a genuine butler after all, I decided with a certain feeling of inner satisfaction.

  I heard strange flapping footsteps and saw Mr Masa, still in his Japanese underwear and with no shoes on his feet. Good Lord, the liberties that he took! Wandering round the house in that state!

  I suppose Imust have looked very angry, and the naked dagger in my hand probably looked most ominous. In any case, the Japanese was clearly frightened.

  He ran up to me, seized hold of my arm and began jabbering so fast that I could not make out more than half of what he said: ‘Now I see you trury sorry. You genuine samurai, accept your aporogies. No need hara-kiri.’

  All I understoodwas that for some reason he wished to temper his wrath with mercy and was no longer angry with me. Well then, so much the better.

  I did not complete my round of the rooms. The footman Lipps sought me out in the pantry, where I was checking whether the napkins had been well ironed, and told me I was wanted immediately in Pavel Georgievich’s room on the first floor.

  Lieutenant Endlung was also sitting in the room. He glanced at mewith a mysterious air as he smoked a longTurkish chibouk.

  ‘Sit down, Afanasii, sit down,’ His Highness said to me, which was already unusual in itself.

  I cautiously lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, anticipating nothing good from this conversation.

  Pavel Georgievich looked excited and determined, but the subject that he broached was not at all what I had been dreading.

  ‘Filya has been telling me for a long time, Afanasii, that you are not at all as simple as you seem,’ the grand duke began, with a nod towards Endlung, ‘but I would not believe him. Now I see that it is true.’

  Iwas on the point of trying to explain myself, but His Highness gestured abruptly as if to say ‘Be quiet’ and then continued.

  ‘And that iswhy we have discussed things and decided to enlist your support. Youmust not think that I am some heartless good-for-nothing, and I have just been sitting around doing nothing all this time or making the rounds of the restaurants. No, Afanasii, all that is nothing but a facade, in actual fact Filya and I have been thinking of only one thing – how to help poor Mika. The police are all well and good, but we’re not entirely useless either. We have to do something, otherwise those state know-it-alls will finally get the criminals to starve my brother to death or just simply kill him. That glass bauble means more to them!’

  This was the plain truth. I thought exactly the same but, to be quite honest, I was not expecting any sensible proposals from the dashing sailors, and I merely inclined my head respectfully.

  ‘Endlung has a theory of his own,’ Pavel Georgievich went on excitedly. ‘Tell him, Filya.’

  ‘Gladly,’ the lieutenant responded, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘Judge for yourself, Afanasii Stepanovich. It couldn’t possibly be simpler. What do we know about this Doctor Lind?’

  Iwaited for Endlung to answer his own question. He raised one finger and continued: ‘Only one thing. That he is a misogynist. He simply has to be a misogynist! Any normal man fond of the tootsies, like youandme–’ I could not help wincing at that remark ‘– would never stoop to such abominations. That’s true, surely?’

  SomehowIwas not really convinced of the lieutenant’s powers of analysis. However, Endlung surprised me.

  ‘And who is it that cannot stand women?’ he asked with a triumphant air.

  ‘Yes, indeed, who?’ Pavel Georgievich echoed.

  His Highness and his friend exchanged glances.

  ‘Come on now, Afanasii, think.’

  I thought a little more.

  ‘Well, there are many women who cannot bear their sisters.’

  ‘Ah, Afanasii, what a slowcoach you are, really. We’re talking about Doctor Lind, not women.’

  Endlung said emphatically: ‘Buggers.’

  For a moment I did not understand what he meant, but then I realised that he was
employing the French word bougre, which means menwho are referred to in decent society as homosexuals. In any case, the lieutenant immediately explained his idea by using a different term that is not accepted at all in good society, and which I therefore shall not repeat.

  ‘And suddenly everything is clear!’ Endlung exclaimed. ‘Lind is a bugger, and his entire gang are all queers – buggers and pansies.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Pansies, also known as girlies, little nieces, snivellers, passive queers. Naturally, in a gang like that, they’ll all stick up for each other! And it’s no accident that Lind chose Moscow for his atrocities. Thanks to Uncle Sam, this place is a real Mecca for queers now. You know what the people say: “What a queer place Moscow is these days!”’

  I had heard this phrase alluding to the specific partialities of Simeon Alexandrovich before and I considered it my duty to say to Endlung: ‘Surely, Mr Gentleman of the Bedchamber, you do not think that the governor general of Moscowcould be involved in the abduction of his own nephew?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘But crowds of all sorts of riff-raff hang around Uncle Sam. For instance, take our own dear guests, Carr and Banville. Let us concede that His Lordship is more or less known to us, although the acquaintance is only recent. But who is this Mr Carr? And why did Banville ask Papa to invite him here?’

  ‘Oh come now, Your Highness, such a great event – the coronation.’

  ‘And what if it was for a completely different reason?’ Endlung asked, with a sweeping gesture of his pipe. ‘What if he’s not really a lord at all? And of course that slicker Carr is especially suspicious. Remember, they arrived at the Hermitage on the very day of the kidnapping. They’re always wandering about, ferreting things out. I’m absolutely certain that one or the other of them is connected with Doctor Lind, or perhaps even both of them are.’