by Boris Akunin
‘It concerns the circumstances of Mr Emeraldov’s death,’ he said. ‘Let us therefore temporarily set aside questions of d-decorum. Tell me, where were you on the evening and the night of 13 September?’
Comedina’s freckled features extended into a foolish smile.
‘Oho! So you think I look like a woman who could spend the night with someone? That’s actually rather flattering.’
‘Don’t waste time on playing games. I’m in a hurry. Just tell me if you were with Mr Nonarikin. Yes or no? I am not interested in your morals, madam. I simply want to know the t-truth.’
The smile didn’t disappear, but every trace of contrived merriment evaporated, leaving the green eyes gazing at this uninvited visitor without any expression at all. It was impossible to guess what the owner of those eyes was thinking. It’s a good thing that Madam Comedina plays children on the theatrical stage, and not in the cinematograph, Erast Petrovich said to himself. With an expression like that you couldn’t possibly act the part of a child in a close shot.
‘You said today that Emeraldov didn’t kill himself,’ Comedina said slowly. ‘So you have your suspicions … And you suspect Georges, am I right?’
Fandorin was familiar with this type of personality. Other people were inclined not to take these individuals seriously, simply because of the way they looked and behaved. And more often than not other people were mistaken about them. Small individuals, regardless of their gender, usually possessed a strong character and were far from stupid.
‘I don’t know who you really are. And I don’t wish to know,’ Zoya went on. ‘But you can exclude Georges from your calculations. He spent the night on that bed over there.’ Without looking round, she jabbed her finger in the direction of the narrow iron bedstead and grinned even more unpleasantly. ‘First we abandoned ourselves to sinful passion. Then he slept and I lay beside him, watching. It’s a narrow bed but, as you can observe, I don’t take up very much space. Are you interested in the details?’
‘No.’ He lowered his eyes, unable to withstand her glittering gaze. ‘I beg your p-pardon, but it was necessary …’
After that he examined the rapier taken from the properties room in his home laboratory. Mr Nonarikin proved to be a very thorough individual. A genuine jack-of-all-trades. The point had been smeared with the venom of naja oxiana, mixed with animal fat, obviously added so that the toxin would not dry out. An injection of this filthy muck would undoubtedly have resulted in a very rapid and agonising death.
In the morning, before the rehearsal, Fandorin completed his essential check with a visit to the criminal police department, where he was very well known. He asked a question and received an answer. Emeraldov had been killed with a completely different poison – classic cyanide.
On his way to the theatre Erast Petrovich yielded to gloomy thoughts about how he had frittered away his detective skills and how remarkably stupid being in love had made him. Not only had he constructed a mistaken theory, he had also revealed himself to that whimsical eccentric, Georges Nonarikin. He would have to clarify the situation with Nonarikin today, and insist that the assistant director keep his mouth shut – otherwise he could frighten off the real poisoner.
However, he didn’t manage to talk to Nonarikin on that day, because Eliza suddenly agreed to go to Cricket Lane with him to choose a kimono, and first the miracle happened, and then the enchantment was shattered, leaving Erast Petrovich alone in a deserted, absolute dead house.
Nonarikin showed up himself in the afternoon of the following day. Fandorin had not left the house since Eliza had fled. He had just remained sitting there in his dressing gown, immersed in a strange lethargy and smoking one cigar after another. Every now and then he suddenly became agitated and started walking round the room, talking to someone invisible, then he sat down, sinking back into immobility. The hair of this habitual stickler for neatness dangled down in loose white locks, his chin was covered with black stubble and below his blue eyes matching blue circles had appeared.
The assistant director presented a stark contrast with the seedy-looking dramatist. When Fandorin finally shuffled feebly to the door in his slippers and opened it (the bell must have been ringing for five or ten minutes), he saw that Monsieur Nonarikin had decked himself out in a new morning coat, buttoned on a gleaming white shirt collar and knotted on a silk necktie, and he was clutching a pair of white gloves in his hand. His officer’s moustache jutted out to the sides in bellicose fashion, like two cobras poised to attack.
‘I asked Noah Noaevich for your address,’ Nonarikin said austerely. ‘Since you didn’t condescend to spare me any time yesterday and did not even put in an appearance today, I have come to you myself. There are two matters concerning which we need to clear the air.’
He has probably just seen Eliza, was the only thought that occurred to Fandorin when he saw the assistant director.
‘Is the rehearsal already over, then?’ he asked.
‘No. But Mr Stern has let everyone go apart from the two leads. Madam Lointaine and your stepson are rehearsing the love scene. I could have stayed, but I preferred to leave. He is far too eager altogether, this Japanese of yours. It was painful for me to watch it.’
This was a painful topic for Erast Petrovich too and his face contorted in a wry grimace.
‘What does that matter to you?’
‘I love Madam Lointaine,’ Nonarikin declared calmly, as if merely affirming a well-known fact. ‘Like many others. Including yourself. I would like to clear the air on this subject.’
‘Well, then, c-come in …’
They sat down in the drawing room. Georges held his back straight and kept hold of the gloves. Is he going to challenge me to a duel again? Fandorin chuckled languidly to himself.
‘I’m listening. Please c-continue.’
‘Tell me, are your intentions concerning Madam Lointaine honourable?’
‘They could not p-possibly be more so.’
Never to see her again and to try to forget her, he added to himself.
‘Then as one honourable man to another, I propose an agreement not to resort to any base, deceitful tricks in the contest for her hand. Let her be united in marriage with the one who is more worthy, who will be hallowed by the light of heaven!’ Following his penchant for lofty expression, the assistant director raised his eyes to the chandelier, from which little Japanese bells dangled, swaying in the draught. Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, they tinkled gently.
‘L-let her. I don’t mind.’
‘Excellent! Give me your hand! But bear in mind that if you break our agreement, I shall kill you.’
Fandorin shrugged. He had listened to similar threats from more dangerous opponents.
‘All right. That’s the first matter dealt with. We won’t come b-back to it again. What is the second matter?’
‘Hippolyte’s murder. The police aren’t doing anything. You and I must find the murderer.’ Georges leaned forward and tugged belligerently on his moustache. ‘In cases of this kind, I am even less adroit than you.’ (Erast Petrovich raised his eyebrows at that.) ‘But even so I can still come in useful. It will be easier if there are two of us. I am willing to be your deputy, the position of an assistant is one to which I am accustomed.’
‘Thank you, but I already have an assistant,’ Fandorin would have replied a few days earlier. But now he answered in a dull voice:
‘Very well. I shall bear that in mind.’
The sufferings occasioned by the rift with the woman he loved were aggravated by another that was equally onerous: the breach in his relationship with Masa, the only person with whom he was close. For thirty-three years they had been inseparable, they had come through a thousand trials together and were accustomed to relying on each other in everything. But in recent days Erast Petrovich had been feeling increasingly irritated with his old comrade.
It had begun on the fifteenth of the month, the day when the play was read. Fandorin had taken Masa with him to the theatre in
order to make the strongest possible impression on Stern. When dealing with theatre people, act theatrically. Here is a play drawn from Japanese life for you, and here as an appendix to it is an absolutely genuine Japanese, who can act as your consultant on any questions you might have.
Erast Petrovich had foreseen that the question would arise of where to find someone to play the male lead – someone who could juggle, walk a tightrope and perform various acrobatic tumbles – and he had been quite certain that no such actor existed anywhere in the world, so Stern would be obliged to invite the dramatist himself to play the part. In fact Fandorin had written this role for himself. It had no words, so that his damned stammer would not cause any problems; there was no need for him to show his face (except just once, at the very end); and most importantly of all – there was a love scene with the heroine. Imagining how he would embrace Eliza had lent the author’s inspiration a powerful additional impulse …
But what had happened? The Japanese had been given the part! The director had found Masa’s round face, with its narrow eyes, more interesting than Erast Petrovich’s features. And Masa, the swine, had had the insolence to accept the offer. And when he saw that his master was displeased, he had explained in Japanese that this way it would be much more convenient to observe the theatre company from the inside. That was entirely logical and Fandorin had muttered sourly: ‘Sore va tashikani soo da kedo …’* He couldn’t possibly argue about the role in front of witnesses. In his own mind he cursed himself: firstly, for not acquainting Masa with his plans; and secondly, for dragging the Japanese along with him.
Afterwards he had told his servant everything that he thought. He had emphasised in particular the fact that Masa would not be able to play a sinobi because, unlike Fandorin, he had not been trained in the clan. Masa objected that Russians would never notice subtle points like that, they couldn’t even tell the difference between udon noodles and soba. He was right, of course. In any case, the director had already made his decision. Erast Petrovich’s hopes of achieving intimacy with Eliza, at least in the role of her stage lover, had been wrecked.
True, intimate relations had been established anyway, and not onstage, but in real life. Only the conclusion had been a catastrophe, which would probably not have happened if they were acting in the same play. Erast Petrovich already knew enough about the psychology of actors to realise that a leading artiste would never allow herself to break off a relationship with her stage partner – it would have ruined the production.
However, even before the catastrophe there had been more than enough occasions of suffering. When Fandorin was still attending rehearsals, he was constantly tormented by his painful envy of Masa, who had the right to touch Eliza, and in the most intimate fashion too. That damned director, who was obsessed with sensuality, wanted to make the love scene look ‘convincing’. For instance, he introduced an unprecedentedly bold element: driven by his rampaging emotions, Masa’s hero did not simply embrace the geisha, but slipped his hand inside her kimono. Noah Noaevich assured everyone that a natural touch like that would absolutely stun the audience. Meanwhile, it was Erast Petrovich who was stunned. There was not a trace of naturalism in his play, which dealt with spiritual love.
Masa’s behaviour was simply repulsive. He kissed Eliza fervently on the neck, reached eagerly into the top of the actress’s kimono and toyed so freely with her bust that Fandorin got up and walked out. He was especially infuriated by the generous praise that the Japanese showered on Eliza. ‘Her lips are very soft, but her breasts on the contrary are firm and springy! My master has made a good choice,’ he said after the rehearsals, gleaming with sweat and smacking his lips – and all this with an air of the keenest possible friendship and sympathy!
The hypocrite! Oh, Fandorin knew all about his servant’s habits. And that avaricious glint in his eyes, and that voluptuous smacking of his lips. It was the riddle of all riddles how Masa managed to win women’s hearts (and bodies), but in that area he could give his master a clear hundred points’ start.
On the other hand, it was unjust to condemn the Japanese for being unable to resist Eliza’s magic. She was that kind of woman. Everyone lost their head over her.
True love and true friendship are incompatible, Erast Petrovich ruminated bitterly. It’s either one or the other. This is a rule which admits no exceptions …
* That’s right, I suppose.
THE COURSE OF THE ILLNESS
What had happened to Fandorin is what happens to every strong-willed, cerebral man who is accustomed to keeping his feelings on a tight rein when his prancer suddenly zooms off, flinging its abhorrent rider out of the saddle. This had already happened to Erast Petrovich twice before, on both occasions because of love that had been broken off tragically. Of course, this time the finale appeared farcical, rather than tragic, but that only made the helpless condition that had overwhelmed the former rationalist all the more humiliating.
His will had evaporated, not a trace remained of his mental harmony, his reason had declared a strike. Fandorin sank into a shameful apathy that dragged on for many days.
He didn’t leave the house, but just sat there for hours, staring at an open book without even seeing the letters. And when a period of agitation set in, he started exercising furiously, to the point of physical exhaustion. Only when he had drained his strength completely could he get to sleep. Then he woke up at some unpredictable time of day – and everything started all over again.
I am unwell, he told himself. Some day this will end. The other times were far, far worse, and it passed off after all. Ah, but then, he protested, he had been young. A long life made the heart grow weary and weakened its capacity for recovery.
Perhaps the illness would have passed off more quickly if not for Masa.
Every day he returned from the rehearsal at the theatre exhilarated and greatly pleased with himself, and started reporting on his success: what he had said to Eliza and what she had said to him. Instead of telling him to shut up, Erast Petrovich couldn’t help listening, and that was bad for him.
The Japanese was not surprised by his master’s pitiful condition. In Japanese it was called koi-wazurai, ‘love disease’, and was considered perfectly respectable for a samurai. Masa advised him not to fight against the melancholy, to write poetry and ‘water his sleeves with tears’ as often as he could, in the way that the great hero Yoshitsune did when parted from the beautiful Shizuka.
On that fateful night when Eliza had made Fandorin the happiest and then the unhappiest man in the world (in his sick condition Erast Petrovich thought in precisely such ludicrously stilted expressions), Masa had seen everything. The Japanese had slipped out discreetly through the rear entrance and loitered in the courtyard for several hours. When the heavy rain set in, Masa had hidden under the archway of the gates. He had only come back into the house when Fandorin was left alone. And he had immediately begun pressing him with questions.
‘What did you do to her, master? Thank you for not closing the curtains, it was interesting. But at the end it turned really dark and I could not see anything any more. She ran off wildly and aimlessly, sobbing loudly and even slightly unsteady on her feet. You must have permitted yourself something quite exceptional. Tell me, in the name of our friendship – I am dying of curiosity!’
‘I don’t know what I did,’ Fandorin replied in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand what happened.’
His expression was wretched, and his servant stopped pestering him. He patted the tormented man on the head and made him a promise,
‘Never mind. I will set everything right. She is a special woman. She is like an American mustang. Do you remember the American mustangs, master? They have to be tamed gradually. Trust me, all right?’
Fandorin nodded listlessly – and condemned himself to the torment of listening to Masa’s stories every day.
If the Japanese could be believed, he went to the theatre exclusively in order to ‘tame’ Eliza. Supposedly he did nothing els
e there but describe his master’s virtues to Eliza as advantageously as possible. And supposedly she was gradually mellowing. She had begun asking after Fandorin without displaying any resentment or animosity. Her heart was thawing day by day.
Fandorin listened morosely, without believing a single word. He found the sight of Masa abhorrent. Envy and jealousy choked him. The Japanese spoke to her and as part of his role he hugged her tight, kissed her and touched her body (damn it!). Was it possible to imagine a man who would not submit to the necromantic charms of this woman in those circumstances?
September came to an end and October began. There was no difference between one day and another. Fandorin waited for the next report about Eliza in the way that a totally degraded opium addict waits for the next dose of his drug. And when he got it, he didn’t feel any relief, he merely despised himself and hated the supplier of this poison.
The first sign of a recovery appeared when it occurred to Erast Petrovich to take a look at himself in the mirror. In normal life he paid a considerable amount of attention to his appearance, but now it was more than two weeks since he had combed his hair.
He looked – and was horrified (also an encouraging symptom). His limply dangling hair was almost completely white, while his beard, on the contrary, was completely black, without even a single thread of grey. Not a face, but a drawing by Aubrey Beardsley. A noble man does not descend to the crudeness of the brute even in the most onerous of circumstances, said the sage. And there is nothing onerous about your circumstances, Fandorin told his reflection reproachfully. Merely a temporary paralysis of the will. And he immediately realised the first step that must be taken in order to restore his self-control.
Leave the house, in order not to see Masa and not listen to what he said about Eliza.