by Boris Akunin
But Masa looked at his master with a most independent air and thrust his chin out proudly. The Japanese also had newspapers under his arm. He had only recently developed a passion for reading the press – since the journalists had started writing about the director Stern’s ‘oriental discovery’. Now Masa bought all the Moscow publications early in the morning.
‘Nothing today. They only write that the day after tomorrow is the second pu-er-o-form-ance,’ he enunciated painstakingly, placing the newspapers on the director’s little desk. ‘And that the pubric is waiting impatientry for the next triumph of Madam Rointaine and the inimitabur Swardirin. Look, here.’ He pointed out a tiny article circled in thick red pencil.
Some of the actors came over to see whether there was anything written about them as well. To judge from the expressions on their faces, no one was mentioned apart from the two leading artistes.
Fandorin gritted his teeth, feeling completely crushed by this new, double, betrayal. He no longer remembered that he had intended to patch things up with his friend. The only thing he wanted to do was to leave. But he could only do that without attracting attention to himself after the rehearsal began, and for some reason it simply didn’t begin.
Nonarikin walked out onstage.
‘Noah Noaevich telephoned. He apologised and said he was with Mr Shustrov and has been delayed.’
The actors, who had been about to take seats in the front row, got up again and scattered throughout the hall.
The ‘villainess’ Vulpinova walked over to the desk, beside which the two leading artistes were seated like a pair of turtle doves. She picked up The Capital Rumour and spoke to Masa in a sweet voice.
‘Dear Swardilin, please read us something interesting.’
‘Yes, yes, I love to listen to you too!’ Mephistov put in, smiling with his entire immense mouth.
The Japanese did not have to be asked twice.
‘What sharr I read?’
‘Anything you like, it doesn’t matter,’ said Vulpinova, winking at Mephistov. ‘You have such a resonant voice! Such enchanting delivery!’
At any other time Fandorin would not have permitted these spiteful characters to mock his comrade, but just at this moment, he experienced a repulsive gloating. Let this puffed-up turkey, this brand-new ‘star’, make a laughing stock of himself in front of Eliza and all the others! This wasn’t as easy as tumbling around the stage without a single line to speak!
Masa was very fond of the sound of his own voice, so he did not find the request surprising. He gladly opened the double page of newsprint, cleared his throat and with the intonation of a genuine orator started reading out everything, with no exceptions. There were advertisements in handsome frames at the top of the page – he didn’t even omit those.
He began with an advertisement for ‘Sobriety’ pastilles, which promised a cure for drinking bouts, and read the text expressively all the way to the end.
‘… A huge number of habituar drunkards have sent touching expressions of gratitude, enthusiasticarry praising the miracurous effects of the pastirres.’
‘We’ve tried these “Sobriety” pastilles,’ Sensiblin boomed in his deep voice. ‘They’re no good. Just give you heartburn.’
Masa read out with equal feeling an invitation by ‘the firus-crass artist V. N. Reonardov’ to enrol as one of his pupils in a course of painting and drawing.
‘What is “firus-crass”?’ he asked.
‘“Crass” means “very good”, “very beautiful”,’ Mephistov explained without batting an eyelid. ‘For instance, you could be called a “really crass actor”.’
Erast Petrovich frowned, seeing the grins on some of the actors’ faces as they listened to Masa. The jealous man was unable to take any pleasure in them.
However, not everyone was mocking the Japanese as he distorted his words. Aphrodisina, for example, was smiling wistfully. In the eyes of a woman of her character, infidelity probably only increased the value of a lover. The grande dame Reginina was also listening with a touching smile.
‘Ah, read something about animals,’ she requested. ‘I’m very fond of the “Zoological Gardens News” section on the last page.’
Masa turned over the sheet of newsprint.
‘“Pyton Attacks Doctor Sidorov”.’
And he did not simply read but in effect he reproduced the entire appalling scene of the python’s attack on the head of the terrarium. The doctor had been bitten on the arm and the reptile had only unclenched its teeth when it was doused with water.
‘How terrible!’ Vasilisa Prokofievna exclaimed, clutching at her ample bosom. ‘I immediately recalled the nightmarish snake in the basket! I can’t imagine how you survived that, dear Eliza. Really, I would have died on the spot!’
Madam Lointaine turned pale and squeezed her eyes shut. Masa (the scoundrel, the scoundrel!) got up, stroked her shoulder soothingly and carried on reading – about a newborn lion cub that had been rejected by its mother. The little mite had been saved by a stray mongrel bitch who agreed to feed it with her milk.
Reginina liked this article far more.
‘I can just imagine it, how charming – the tiny little lion cub! And that wonderful, magnanimous mongrel! Really, I could just go and take a look at that!’
Encouraged by his success, Masa said:
‘Farther on here there’s a very interesting rittur articur. “Bears’ Rives in Danger”.’ And he read out an article about the mysterious illness of two brown bears and how the mystery had been solved by the veterinarian Mr Tobolkin. It had been suspected that the animals were suffering from plague but, as Masa joyfully informed his listeners: ‘“In the doctor’s opinion, the irrness was the resurt of the intensive masturbation in which the bears indurged from morning untir evening. This fate is rare among bears, but it often affects monkeys and camers.” That’s absorutery true! In the jungur I myserf have often seen rittur monkeys …’
Masa stopped short, with an expression of incomprehension on his round face: why had Vasilisa Prokofievna turned away indignantly and the two ‘villains’ burst into hysterical laughter?
Fandorin suddenly felt sorry for the poor fellow. The difference in codes of education, in conceptions absorbed in childhood concerning what was decent and what was not, were an almost insuperable barrier. The callow youth from Yokohama had lived far away from Japan for almost thirty years, but he still could not completely accustom himself to the mores of the ‘redheads’: either he blurted out something that was scandalous from the viewpoint of a ‘grande dame’, or blushed bright red in shame at something which to the Western eye was entirely innocent – for instance, a seated woman has dropped her umbrella and pulled it closer with the toe of her little shoe (monstrous vulgarity!).
From sympathy it was only a single step to understanding. Erast Petrovich looked at Masa’s red face – and suddenly seemed to see the light. The Japanese had quite deliberately made up to Eliza, and the fact that he had arrived with her following his overnight absence was no coincidence either! This was not the action of a traitor; on the contrary, it was the action of a true and faithful friend. Knowing his master as well as he did and seeing the pitiful state that he was in, Masa had tried to cure him of his fatal obsession, using a method that was cruel but effective. He had not tried to persuade Erast Petrovich by wasting empty words on him – they would not have had any effect in any case. Instead of that he had graphically demonstrated the true worth of the woman who – exclusively through a perfidious concatenation of circumstances – had forced a breach in a heart encased for so long in horny defences. It was all the same to this artiste whom she conquered – just as long as the trophy was presentable. She had turned the boy-cornet’s head, but not allowed him into her bed – he was not a high enough flyer. A successful playwright or a fashionable Japanese actor, now that was a different matter. There was nothing surprising here, nothing to wax indignant about. Fandorin had intuitively sensed that from the very beginning, had he not, w
hen he was figuring out the most reliable path to Madam Lointaine’s heart (no, only to her body)? Indeed it was Masa, that connoisseur of women’s hearts, who had prompted him to take that path.
Of course, Erast Petrovich was no longer angry with his comrade. He was actually grateful to him.
But even so, to watch the way Eliza smiled affectionately at the Japanese and the way he took her by the elbow and whispered something in her ear was beyond all enduring.
Without an assistant Erast Petrovich could not carry out the operation he had planned. But he felt that he could not take Masa with him; he did not wish to. The very idea seemed intolerable to him, and Fandorin immediately found logical grounds for his feeling. A surgical incision, although it was made for a virtuous purpose, always stung and bled. Time was required for the scar to heal over.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ the assistant director appealed loudly to the assembled company. ‘Do not let yourselves be distracted! You know that Noah Noaevich demands absolute concentration before a rehearsal! Let us begin the first scene. And when Noah Noaevich arrives, we’ll go through it again.’
‘Now look what he wants,’ Sensiblin growled. ‘A rehearsal of a rehearsal – that’s something new.’
The others took no notice of Nonarikin’s appeals either. In his anguish, the assistant director pressed his hands against his breast – the edge of a false cuff protruded from the sleeve of his skimpy little jacket.
‘None of you genuinely love art!’ he exclaimed. ‘You only pretend to believe in Noah Noaevich’s theory! Ladies and gentlemen, that isn’t right! You have to devote yourself wholeheartedly to your calling! Remember: “All the world’s a stage!” Let us try to begin! I shall read the Storyteller’s part myself!’
No one apart from Fandorin was listening to him. But Erast Petrovich was struck by an unexpected idea.
Why not take Georges Nonarikin with him on the job?
He had his eccentricities, of course, but he was very brave – one only had to recall the poisoned rapier. That was one.
A former officer. That was two.
And also – a point of particular importance – not indiscreet. He wouldn’t let anything slip to anyone about Fandorin’s investigation into Emeraldov’s death. And, what was more, not once since that incident had he made any attempts to talk about it, although Erast Petrovich had caught his curious, enquiring glance. Truly exceptional restraint for an actor!
Yes, really. The plan of the operation could be adjusted to reduce the role of the assistant to a minimum.
Basically, Masa’s talents – his fighting skills, initiative and lightning-fast reactions – would not be required here. A sense of duty and firm resolution would be enough. And Georges certainly had no lack of those qualities. It was no accident that Stern had chosen him as his assistant …
The conversation with the assistant director confirmed the correctness of the spontaneous decision.
Erast Petrovich led the distressed Nonarikin into the side apron of the stage.
‘You once offered t-to help me. The hour has come. Are you ready? But I must tell you that the job entails a certain risk.’ He corrected himself: ‘I would even say, a significant risk.’
Nonarikin didn’t think about it for even a moment.
‘I am entirely at your disposal.’
‘Are you not even going to ask what it is that I want from you?’
‘There is no need.’ Georges looked at Fandorin unflinchingly with his big, round eyes. ‘Firstly, you are a man who has seen the world. I saw how respectfully the police officer listened to you.’
‘And secondly?’ Fandorin asked curiously.
‘Secondly, you could not suggest anything unworthy to me. You are a man of noble spirit. That is clear from your play and from your manner. I especially appreciate the fact that since our conversation on that occasion your conduct with regard to a certain individual has been beyond reproach. And neither have you told anyone about my own unfortunate weakness (I mean Mademoiselle Comedina). In short, whatever idea you may have come up with, I am prepared to follow you. And all the more so if the business that lies ahead is dangerous.’ The assistant director jerked up his chin in a dignified manner. ‘If I refused, I should lose all respect for myself.’
Of course, he was slightly comical with that high-flown manner of speaking that he had, but moving at the same time. Erast Petrovich, who was accustomed to playing close attention to his own attire, could not help noticing that Nonarikin was dressed poorly; a jacket that was neat, but had seen better days; a shirtfront instead of a shirt; shoes that were well polished, but had patched heels. Noah Noaevich did not reward the efforts of his assistant very generously – in fact, he paid him as a ‘third-level’ actor, in accordance with the significance of the roles that he played.
And all because, Fandorin mused, the model of humanity created by Stern lacks one important set of parts. It is somewhat exotic, but without it the palette of dramatic roles is incomplete and life is insipid. Moreover, this type is encountered more often in literature than in everyday life. Georges would suit the role of a ‘noble eccentric’ quite excellently – Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Griboedov’s Chatsky, Dostoevsky’s Prince Mishkin.
Certainly, Nonarikin’s awkwardness could result in unexpected problems. Erast Petrovich promised himself to reduce his assistant’s role to the absolutely simplest possible. Never mind, it was better to go on serious business with a man who might be slightly inept, but was noble, than with some self-seeking police careerist, who at the crucial moment would decide that his own interests were more important. Someone who possessed a highly developed sense of his own dignity could let you down through an inadvertent blunder, but never out of base villainy or cowardice.
How much easier it would be to live in this world, if only everybody regarded himself with respect, Fandorin thought after his conversation with the assistant director.
There was a class of human individuals that Erast Petrovich had always regarded with disgust. There were people who said quite calmly, without the slightest embarrassment: ‘I know that I’m shit’. They even saw a certain virtue in this, a distinctive kind of honesty. Of course, the immediate continuation of this remorseless confession was this: ‘And everyone around me is shit too, only they hide behind beautiful words’. In every noble action a person like this immediately searched for a base motive and he was furious if he could not guess it immediately. But in the end, of course, he figured something out and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, come on!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t fool me. We’re all cut from the same cloth.’ The philanthropist was generous, because he felt flattered by the awareness of his own superiority. The humanist was kind only in words, but in actual fact he was false through and through and only wanted to show off. Anyone who went to serve hard labour for his beliefs was a stupid ass, pure and simple. The martyr offered himself up for slaughter because individuals of that kind derived perverted sexual pleasure from feeling victimised. And so on. People who were willing to consider themselves shit could not live without rationalisations – that would have shattered their entire picture of existence.
THE DEER GROVE OPERATION
On the way there he asked his partner to demonstrate the result of his training once again. It was evening time, almost night, the Isotta Fraschini was hurtling along between the ill-famed vacant lots and flophouses of the Sokolniki streets and the undulating trill that Nonarikin emitted after applying his fingers, folded into a ring, to his teeth rang out ominously. If there was anyone wandering belatedly through the darkness somewhere near by, the poor devil’s heart must surely have sunk into his boots.
After the rehearsal Erast Petrovich had secluded himself with Georges in the empty make-up room and informed him of the results of the investigation.
According to the conclusions drawn by Fandorin, the sequence of events was as follows:
Emeraldov’s male jealousy and envy of his stage partner’s success drive him to commit the vile tric
k with the viper. The Tsar instructs his lieutenant to find out who is responsible for the trick. Mr Whistle reports to his boss that the actor is the guilty party. Aware that the success of the extremely profitable tour by Noah’s Ark depends first and foremost on Eliza, and fearing that Emeraldov will play another mean trick on her, the Tsar orders the threat to be removed. In his opinion (and he has been proved right), a leading man like Emeraldov will be no great loss for the company in any case. When Whistle shows up at Hippolyte’s dressing room with the wine, the actor doesn’t suspect anything bad. They have probably drunk together before. The former policeman slips poison into the Chateau Latour. If not for the crack in the second goblet, the staged suicide would have passed off entirely successfully.
Not everything about the second murder was so clear. Obviously, Limbach owed the Office a lot of money and he did not want to repay it, and, what’s more, he did everything he could to avoid any discussion of the matter – Fandorin had witnessed one such scene in front of the entrance to the theatre. During the premiere of Two Comets, Whistle somehow found out that Limbach had sneaked into Eliza’s dressing room and was waiting for her there – probably in order to congratulate her face to face. This time there was no way the cornet could avoid the discussion. Apparently the conversation had ended in an argument and Whistle had been obliged to make use of his clasp knife. The murder was most likely not premeditated – otherwise the criminal would have finished off his victim. Instead of that, he panicked, ran out into the corridor and waited until the wounded man went quiet. The duplicate key had probably been made by the cornet, especially so that he could sneak into the dressing room – it was possible to surmise that Whistle had discovered this in the course of their turbulent discussion. While Whistle was holding the door to prevent the wounded man from getting out into the corridor, a plan had occurred to him. If he locked the door with the key from the board and the second key was discovered on the dead man, everybody would be certain that Limbach had locked himself in and slashed his own stomach. All that was required was to put the knife in the dead man’s hand, and this had been done. However, as in the case of the leaking goblet, Mr Whistle had again failed to pay close enough attention. He hadn’t noticed that the dying man had traced out in blood on the door the initial letters of the name ‘Lipkov’, which had eventually led the police (as Fandorin modestly put it) onto the trail.