by Boris Akunin
I followed the direction of his glance. Lord Banville was standing behind a column nearby, although he was more difficult to identify than Mr Carr, because his mask covered his face right down to the chin. However, I recognised the familiar trousers with scarlet trimming.
I seated myself on a couch and the nymph gladly plumped down beside me, pressing her thigh against my leg.
‘Are you tired?’ shewhispered. ‘And you look like such a strong boy. What a sweet wart you have. Just like a raisin.’
She touched my cheek with her finger. I barely managed to stop myself from slapping the impudent woman, that is man, on the hand.
‘Lovely beard, so silky soft,’ the nymph cooed. ‘Are you always such a surly bugaboo?’
Without taking my eyes off Banville, Imuttered: ‘Yes, always.’
‘The way you looked at me just now stung like a whiplash.’
‘I’ll give you a lashing all right, if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,’ I snarled, deciding not to beat about the bush.
‘On my botty?’ she squealed with a quiver and pressed her entire body against me.
‘I’ll give you a drubbing you’ll remember for a long time,’ I said and shoved her away.
‘A long, long time?’ my tormentor babbled and heaved a deep sigh. ‘How lovely you are! Charming! Charming!’
The steward trotted over to a very tall slim gentleman wearing a scarlet silk mask beneath which a well-tended imperial beard could be seen. I spotted the austere dispassionate face of Foma Anikeevich behind the new arrival and immediately guessed who this was. The governor general’s butler looked as if he was accompanying his master to a perfectly ordinary rout. Foma Anikeevich had not put on a mask, and he was carrying a long velvet cloak over his arm – he had deliberately not left it in the cloakroom so that the guests would not be confused concerning his status. A subtle man, no two ways about it.
‘Where shall I seat you, divine Filador?’ I heard the steward ask in honeyed tones.
The governor general glanced round the hall from his height of almost two metres and set off resolutely towards the spot where Mr Carr was sitting alone. He sat down beside the Englishman, kissed him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear, tickling him with his moustache. Carr smiled, his eyes sparkled and he leaned his head over to one side.
I saw Banville withdraw deeper into the shadows.
A Columbine appeared quite close to him, the same one who had recently impressed me with her unaffected gracefulness. She stood by thewall, looking at His Highness and wringing her slim hands. This was a familiar gesture, and now I knew who it was – Prince Glinsky, Simeon Alexandrovich’s adjutant.
Meanwhile a performance began on the stage. Two pansies started singing a duet – a romance by Mr Poigin: ‘Oh, do not go; stay here with me.’
They sang most skilfully, with genuine feeling, and I was quite absorbed despite myself, but at the words ‘My fiery caresses will kindle and consume you’ the nymph suddenly laid her head on my shoulder and her fingers slid inside my shirt, as if unintentionally, which reduced me to a state of genuine horror. Overcome by panic, I looked round at Endlung. He was laughing wildly and lashing his wrinkled beau across the hands with his fan. The lieutenant was apparently faring no better than I was. The singers were rewarded with tumultuous applause, in which my admirer joined, relieving me temporarily of her importunate advances.
The stewardwalked up on to the stage and announced: ‘At the request of our dear Filador, there will now be a performance of the belly dance that everyone has come to love so well. The dancer is the incomparable Madam Desirée, who travelled to Alexandria especially in order to master this ancient and high art! Please welcome her!’
To the sound of applause a well-padded middle-aged gentleman walked up onto the stage, wearing turquoise stockings, a short cape and a skirt studded with sequins, so that his stomach – round and unnaturally white (I assume because it had recently been shaved) – was left exposed.
The accompanist started playing a Persian melody from the opera Odalisque and ‘Madam Desirée’ began shaking her hips and thighs, which set her substantial belly quivering in waves.
I found this sight extremely unappetising, but it threw the audience into a frenzy. There were shouts from all sides: ‘Bravo! You charmer!’
And at this point my nymph cast all restraint aside – I was only just in time to catch her hand as it descended onto my knee.
‘You’re so unapproachable, I adore you,’ she whispered in my ear.
Simeon Alexandrovich suddenly pulled his companion sharply towards him and pressed his lips against Mr Carr’s in a prolonged kiss. I involuntarily glanced at Foma Anikeevich, who was standing behind the grand duke’s chair with an imperturbable expression on his face, and thought: how much self-control and willpower he must have to bear his cross with such dignity. If Foma Anikeevich knew that I was here in the hall, he would probably die of shame. Thank God, I thought, that it is impossible to recognise me in this ginger beard.
And then something happened.
Lord Banville ran out from behind his column, shouting something unintelligible. He covered the distance to the table in several bounds, grabbed Mr Carr by the shoulders and dragged him to one side, lisping something in his foreign language. Simeon Alexandrovich jumped to his feet, took hold of Mr Carr’s dress and pulled him back. I also got up, realising that an appalling scandal highly dangerous to the monarchy was unfolding before my very eyes, but what happened next exceeded even my very worst fears. Banville let go of Mr Carr and gave His Highness a resounding slap across the face! The music broke off, the belly dancer squatted down on her haunches in fright, and it went very, very quiet. The only thing to be heard was Lord Banville’s agitated breathing.
This was unprecedented! A physical insult inflicted on a member of the royal family! And by a foreigner. I believe I groaned, and rather loudly too. But a moment later I realised that there was no member of the royal family present, and there could not be. The slap had been received by Mr Filador, the man in the scarlet mask.
Simeon Alexandrovich’s eyebrows curved together in an expression of perplexity – apparently His Highness had never found himself in a situation like this before. The governor general spontaneously put one hand to his bruised cheek and took a step back. His Lordship, however, no longer displaying the slightest sign of agitation, slowly pulled awhite glove off one of his hands. Oh God! This really would be beyond repair – there would be a challenge to a duel, and a public one. Banville would name himself, and then His Highness would no longer be able to maintain his anonymity.
Foma Anikeevich moved forward, but he was forestalled by Columbine. She ran up to His Lordship and delivered a rapid sequence of slaps – one, two, three, four – to the Briton’s face. They were even louder than the one that Simeon Alexandrovich had received. Banville’s head swung from side to side.
‘I am Prince Glinsky!’ the adjutant declared in French, tearing off his mask. He looked very fine at that moment – not a woman and not a youth, but some special kind of being, like the archangels in old Italian paintings. ‘You, sir, have violated the constitution of our club, and for that I demand satisfaction from you!’
Banville also removed his mask, and I seemed to see him properly for the first time. Fire in his eyes, cruel folds running down from the sides of his nose, bloodless lips and two patches of scarlet on his cheeks. I had never seen a face more terrible. How could I possibly have regarded this vampire as a harmless eccentric?
‘I am Donald Neville Lambert, the eleventh Viscount Banville. And you, Prince, will receive complete satisfaction from me. And I from you.’
Foma Anikeevich threw the velvet cloak across the grand duke’s shoulders and delicately tugged on his elbow. Ah, how superb! He had maintained complete presence of mind even in such a desperate situation. The governor general could not be present, even in a mask, at a challenge to a duel. Itwas not merely a scandal but a criminal offence, and itwa
s the authorities’ sacred responsibility to suppress such activities.
His Highness and Foma Anikeevich hastily withdrew. Mr Carr darted after them, holding on his half-mask.
The steward waved to the accompanist, who started fingering the piano keys again, and I did not hear how His Lordship’s conversation with the prince ended. They went out almost immediately, accompanied by two other gentlemen, one of whom was wearing a smoking jacket and the other a woman’s dress with gloves that reached up to his elbows.
I found the young adjutant’s action truly admirable. How about that for a pansy! To sacrifice his career and reputation, to put his very life at stake – and all to save the superior whom he loved and who had treated him in a manner that was far from charitable.
The nymph immediately jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, yes, let’s go,’ she whispered, grasping me firmly by the elbow. ‘I’m all on fire.’
Believing that it would not be difficult to rid myself of this outrageous creature outside in the street, I started walking towards the exit, but the nymph tugged me in the opposite direction.
‘No, silly. Not that way. Downstairs here, in the basement, they have excellent rooms! You promised to give me a drubbing that I would remember for a long time . . .’
My patience finally snapped at that.
‘Sir, release my arm,’ I said in a cool voice. ‘I am in a hurry.’
‘“Sir!”’ the nymph gasped, as if I had sworn at her in the foullest of language. And then she shrieked, ‘Gentlemen! He called me “sir”! He is not one of us, gentlemen!’
She pulled away from me in disgust.
Someone at one side said: ‘And I see that beard looks false too!’
A sturdy-looking gentleman in a light-blue morning coat tugged on Nero’s beard, and it slipped sideways in a most treacherous fashion.
‘Right, you villain, you odious spy, you’ll pay for this!’ the sturdy gentleman said with a ferocious grin, and I barely managed to dodge the weighty fist that he swung at me.
‘Hands off!’ Endlung roared, dashing up to my assailant and giving him a jab to the jawin accordance with the rules of English boxing.
This blow sent the gentleman in the light-blue morning coat tumbling to the floor, but then others came dashing towards us from every direction.
‘Gentlemen, they are Guardians,’ someone shouted. ‘There’s a whole gang of them here. Beat them!’
Punches and kicks showered down on me from all sides, and one, which landed in my stomach, winded me. I doubled over, was knocked off my feet and not allowed to get up again.
I think Endlung put up a desperate resistance, but the odds were simply too great. We were soon standing side by side, each restrained by a dozen pairs of hands.
There were faces radiating hate everywhere.
‘They’re Guardians! Squares! Bastards! Oprichniks! Kill them, gentlemen, just as they kill us.’
Another hail of blows descended on me. There was a salty taste in my mouth and one of my teeth was wobbly.
‘Put them in the torture chamber. Let them rot there!’ someone shouted. ‘To teach the others a lesson!’
This ominous suggestion met with approval from the others.
We were bundled out into the corridor and dragged down a narrow stairway. I was kept busy dodging kicks, but Endlung swore, using a range of maritime terms, and fought for every single step. Finally we were carried along a dimly lit passage without a single window and tossed into a dark room. I struck the floor painfully with my back and an iron door slammed shut behind us.
When my eyes had adapted slightly to the gloom I saw a small grey rectangle in the top corner of the opposite wall. Holding onto the wall, I went across to it. It was a small window, but I could not reach it – it was too high.
Turning towards the spot where I calculated they must have thrownEndlung, I asked: ‘Have these gentlemen lost their minds? What are squares? Guardians?’
The invisible lieutenant groaned in the darkness and spat. ‘,’ he said with profound feeling, using words that I will not repeat. ‘They’ve broken a crown on my tooth. Squares are non-homosexual men, which includes you and me. And the Guardians, Ziukin, are a secret society that protects the honour of the dynasty and ancient Russian houses against dishonour and disgrace. Surely you must have heard of them? The year before last they forced that . . . oh, what is his name . . . the composer . . . damn, I can’t remember . . . they forced him to take poison for pansifying .’ Endlung mentioned the name of one of the youthful grand dukes, which I shall most certainly not repeat. ‘And last year they threw that old bugger Kvitovsky into the Neva for pestering young lawyers. Those are the Guardians that they took us for. We’re lucky that they didn’t tear us to pieces on the spot. So we’re going to die of hunger and thirst in this cellar. What a fine day, Monday the thirteenth.’
The lieutenant started squirming about on the floor, evidently making himself more comfortable, and remarked philosophically: ‘And a fortune-teller in Nagasaki told me I would die in a sea battle. I’ll never believe any predictions of the future again.’
1 That is us, the French.
2 He is speaking of Napoleon.
14 May
When I woke up, I was barely able to straighten my arms and legs. Sleeping on a stone floor, even one covered with a carpet, was a harsh and cold experience. It had taken a long time for my nerves to settle down the night before. I had walked along the walls, tried picking at the lock with a tiepin, until I could feel that my strength was almost exhausted. I had lain down, thinking that I would never fall asleep and envying Endlung, who was snoring away serenely in the darkness. But eventually even I was overcome by slumber. I cannot say that it was refreshing – I awoke feeling completely shattered – but the lieutenant was still sleeping as sweetly as ever, with his head cradled on one elbow, and the thick-skinned fellow could clearly not give a damn for anything in the world.
I was able to examine the pose in which my companion in misfortune was sleeping because our prison cell was no longer pitch black: therewas a feeble grey light entering the cell through the small window. I got up and limped closer. The windowturned out to be barred and I was not able to see anything through it. It obviously opened into a niche that was a lot lower than street level. But there could be no doubt that the niche did look out towards the street – I could hear the muted clattering of wheels, horses neighing and a police constable’s whistle. All of which meant that the morning was well advanced. I took my watch out of my pocket. It was almost nine o’clock. What were they thinking about our absence in the Hermitage? Ah yes, their Highnesses would be too busy to be concerned about us – it was coronation day. And then afterwards, when Pavel Georgievich told them about our mission, it would not make any difference. After all, Banville and Carr were not to blame for what had happened to us. Were we really going to die in this stone cell?
I looked around. Ahigh, gloomy ceiling. Barewalls, absolutely empty. But suddenly I noticed that the walls were not bare at all – therewere strange objects hanging on them. Iwalked closer and shuddered in horror. For the first time in my life I realised that cold sweat was not just a figure of speech but a genuine natural phenomenon: I automatically raised a hand to my forehead, and it was sticky, wet and cold.
Hanging on thewalls in a strict geometrical arrangementwere rusty chains with shackles, enormous spiked whips, seven-tailed lashes and other instruments intended for infernal torture.
We really had been confined in a torture chamber!
I do not normally think of myself as a coward, but Iwas unable to contain a howl of genuine horror.
Endlung lifted his head up off his elbow, blinking sleepily and looking around. Yawning, he said: ‘Good morning, Afanasii Stepanovich. Only don’t tell me that it isn’t good. I can see that for myself from that twisted expression on your face.’
I pointed a trembling finger at the instruments of torture. The lieutenant froze just as he was, with his mouth open in an unfinished yawn.
He whistled, got lightly to his feet and took the shackles down off the wall, then the terrible whip. He turned them over this way and that in his hands and shook his head.
‘Oh, the jokers. Take a look at this . . .’
I timidly took hold of the whip and saw that it was not leather at all. It was light and soft, made of silk. The shackles proved to be dummies too – the iron hoops for wrists and ankles were lined with thick quilted material.
‘What are these for?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘We must assume that this chamber is intended for sadomasochistic fun and games,’ Endlung explained with the air of a connoisseur. ‘All people can be divided into two categories . . .’ He raised one finger didactically. ‘Those who like to make others suffer, and those who like to be made to suffer. The first group are called sadists, and the second masochists, I don’t remember why. You, for instance, are definitely a masochist. I read somewhere that it is mostly masochists who go into service. And I am probably a sadist, because I really hate it when people batter me in the face, like yesterday. The best marriages and friendships are formed between a sadist and a masochist – each provides what the other needs. To put it simply, I hurt and abuse you in everyway I can, and you lap it up like honey. Understand?’
No, I did not understand this at all, but I remembered the mysterious words spoken by my nymph the previous day and suspected that there might just be a grain of truth in Endlung’s strange theory.
I felt better about the whips and the chains, but I had enough reasons to feel distressed even without them.
Firstly, there was my own fate. Were they really going to leave us here to die of hunger and thirst?