by Boris Akunin
Eliza had not known what answer to give Andrei Gordeevich. Let come what may, she had thought in her hotel room in the morning, as she stood in front of the mirror, choosing her outfit. In fact, there was no doubt than she had to consent. But at the same time a lot would depend on Shustrov: the words that he said, the way that he looked at her.
The light purple with the black silk belt? Too funereal. Better with the dark green watered silk. A slightly risqué combination, but it suited both possible outcomes … The Viennese hat, of course, with the eye-veil …
At the same time, she had tried to picture what she would wear for the wedding. No corset, lace or frills, of course. And any mention of a bridal veil was absurd – for her third marriage! And all those orange blossoms were not for Eliza Lointaine in any case. The dress would have a close-fitting top and a sumptuous, full-bodied skirt. Quite definitely red, only not just red, but with black zigzags, as if she were being consumed by tongues of flame. She would have to make a sketch and show it to Bouchet, he was a magician, he would sew what she needed.
Eliza had imagined it: there she was, standing there like a blossom of flame, a single column of impulsive, upward aspiration; and there he was, erect and dignified, in black and white. They stood there in full sight of everyone, with flowers and crystal on the table, and her groom kissed her on the lips and she held out her arm in a long straw-yellow glove …
Brrrr! No, it was absolutely impossible for her, wearing a dress of flame, to kiss Shustrov on the lips to the sound of clinking glasses! Eliza only had to visualise this picture to realise immediately that it could not possibly happen. And what happened during the night that followed the wedding banquet was even more impossible.
Quickly, quickly, before the voice of reason intervened, she had dashed to turn the handle of the telephone and asked the operator to connect her with the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company. Eliza had been living in the Louvre again for almost three weeks now, Noah Noaevich had insisted on it – and Eliza had not tried to argue. She had grown accustomed to living without a bathroom, but poor Limbach would not be climbing in at her window again …
The secretary had answered, told her that Andrei Gordeevich was not expected in the office today and politely given her his home number. It must have been a compassionate fate’s attempt to give Eliza a chance to change her mind. But she didn’t take it.
When he heard her voice, Shustrov had said calmly:
‘It’s a good thing that you phoned. I’m just getting ready to come to your hotel. Perhaps you should cancel the rehearsal for an occasion like this? I ordered the table to be laid for breakfast and let the servants go. We can drink champagne together, just the two of us.’
‘No champagne!’ Eliza had blurted out. ‘Nothing is going to happen. It’s impossible. Impossible, and that’s all! Goodbye!’
He had gulped and tried to object, but she had hung up.
For a moment she had felt an incredible sense of relief. And then horror. What had she done? She had spurned her lifeline, now she could only drown.
But the genuine horror was still to come.
LIFE IS OVER
For the first time in her career Eliza was almost late for a rehearsal. But then today she was in especially good form – for two reasons. Nervous agitation always intensified the fervour of her acting; and in addition, when she was performing the fan dance, Fandorin came in and sat down quietly at the back.
‘Eliza’s the only one working!’ Stern shouted irritably (he was out of sorts today). ‘All the others are counting crows! Lev Spiridonovich, once again from the words: “What a beauty! I could just watch and watch!”’
The shimmering Japanese music started up again from the gramophone record and the central doors swung open with a crash. A young man with tousled hair and no hat came running in through the opening. His furious-looking face was flushed, he was dressed foppishly and waving one hand about wildly, with something glinting in it – apparently a little metal box.
At this Noah Noaevich went absolutely berserk.
‘Why is there an outsider here? Who let him in? What is this mayhem? Who is responsible for order in the theatre?’ he yelled at his assistant, who shrugged, and Stern turned his fury on the stranger, who had run up to the stage. ‘Who are you? And what do you think you are doing?’
Looking around, the young man handed him a business card. The director read it and broke into a toothy grin.
‘Monsieur Simon! Dear colleagues, we have a visit from Andrei Gordeevich’s partner! Soyez, so to speak, le bienvenu, cher ami!’
The Frenchman’s wandering gaze settled on Eliza. She was wearing that purple dress with the green belt, but in combination with Japanese lacquered sandals.
‘Madam Lointaine?’ the ill-mannered foreigner enquired.
‘Oui, monsieur.’
She had already guessed that Shustrov had sent his partner Simon to persuade her to change her mind. A rather strange emissary of Cupid, and he was behaving rather strangely!
But Monsieur Simon howled in perfect Russian:
‘You bitch! You murderer! What a man you’ve destroyed!’
He swung his hand and flung the little gold box. It struck Eliza directly on her breasts and fell to the floor, and a wedding ring with a diamond rolled out of it.
The troublemaker clambered up onto the stage, as if he intended to attack the leading lady with his fists. Vasya and Georges grabbed hold of his shoulders, but he shoved them away.
‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’ voices called from all sides.
The rowdy intruder shouted:
‘Coquette, viper! You led him up the garden path for three weeks and then refused! I hate your kind. Tueuse! An absolutely genuine tueuse!’
Frightened and dumbfounded, Eliza backed away. What sort of wild Mexican passion was this?
Fandorin and Masa darted out onto the stage simultaneously from both sides. They grabbed hold of the madman’s arms – and more securely than Gullibin and Nonarikin. Erast Petrovich turned Monsieur Simon to face him.
‘Why do you call Madam Lointaine a murderer? Explain yourself immediately!’
From the side Eliza saw the Frenchman start to blink.
‘Erast … Petrovich?’ he babbled. ‘Mr Masa?’
‘Senka-kun?’ Masa released his grip. ‘Odoroita na!’
Apparently he had recognised the stranger, And Fandorin also exclaimed:
‘Senya, you? It’s ten years since we last saw each other!’
‘Eleven, Erast Petrovich! Almost eleven!’
Simon shook hands with Fandorin and exchanged bows with Masa, and the Frenchman (although what kind of Frenchman could he be, if he was ‘Senya’) bowed low, from the waist. All this was extremely bewildering.
‘I was sure that you were in Paris … But wait, we’ll come to that later. Tell me what has happened. Why did you attack M-madam Lointaine?’
The young man sobbed.
‘Andriusha phoned me this morning. Disaster, he said. She turned me down. And his voice was so bleak. I got in my automobile. I have a Bugatti, Erast Petrovich, fifteen horse power – not like the old kerosene lamp we used to trudge around in, remember?’ He livened up for a moment and then his face fell again. ‘I got to Andriusha’s house on Prechistenka. And there were policemen at the door, a crowd of people, flashguns flaring …’
‘But what has happened? T-tell me in plain language!’
‘In his desperation he slit his throat, with a razor. I saw it – it was horrible. Everything covered in blood. Slashed away at himself as if he was slicing sausage … And in the other hand he was holding the box with the ring …’
Eliza didn’t hear how their conversation ended, or find out how Simon and Fandorin knew each other. The moment she heard about the razor and the slit throat, everything went dark and then something struck her hard on the back of the head. She had fainted and fallen, banging her head against the floor.
Eliza came round only a minute or two
later, but Erast and Senya-Simon were no longer in the hall. Sima and Vasilisa Prokofievna were fussing over her, Sima waving a fan and Vasilisa Prokofievna thrusting sal volatile in her face – the theatre always had substantial reserves of that, because the actresses’ nerves were easily agitated. Gloomy-faced Swardilin was sitting on the floor in the corner of the stage, with his legs crossed Japanese-style. The other members of the company were huddled round the director.
‘… A tragic event, but there is no need to despair!’ Noah Noaevich declared. ‘The deceased was a great-hearted man, and he made provision for us! As you recall, he settled on the Ark a capital sum that will allow us to exist quite comfortably. And in addition, his partner has made a very pleasant impression on me – emotional and impetuous. I think we shall hit it off. My friends, one must seek the positive aspects of every misfortune, otherwise life on earth would have come to an end long ago! Imagine what the scene will be like at our next performance, as soon as the public learns of the reason for the latest suicide!’
At that point everyone looked round and saw that Eliza had recovered consciousness. How expressive all those glances turned towards her were! How much they said about each member of the company! It was clear from Vulpinova’s face that she was bitterly envious of a woman for whose sake men killed themselves and who would be written about in the newspapers tomorrow. The ‘philosopher’ Lev Spiridonovich had a sad, sympathetic air. Vasya was sighing pitifully. Nonarikin was frowning disapprovingly. Mephistov ran one finger across his throat and applauded silently. Gullibin’s face was contorted into a grimace that signified: ‘Ah, gentlemen, what idiots you all are’. Shiftsky winked, as if to say: ‘Well, you certainly played that faint well, bravo’.
And Noah Noaevich came across to Eliza and whispered:
‘Hang on, little girl! Keep your head up! Nationwide fame, that’s what this means!’
If anything, he was even more repulsive than Mephistov.
There won’t be any performance for you, so you can stop rubbing your hands, Eliza told Stern in her own mind. The moment she came round she knew what to do. The idea had simply come to her. But don’t take it hard, Noah Noaevich. You’ll soon recover your losses. A concert in memory of a great actress, immense box-office takings, newspaper headlines about the theatre – you’ll have all that. Only without me.
It was pointless to explain to them all that this was a murder. They wouldn’t believe it. They liked the fairy tale of a Belle Dame Sans Merci, who drove admirers to their death with her cruelty. Well, so be it. If people wanted to remember Eliza Lointaine like that, so be it.
She felt a ghastly, infinite lassitude. She had no strength left to flutter her little wings. It was time to put an end to everything: the horror, the malevolence, the endless dance of death. No one else was going to die because of Eliza, no one. She had had enough. She was quitting.
Eliza didn’t take the decision. It manifested itself as the only possible, natural one.
Noah Noaevich was in a state of high excitement. In anticipation of a siege by reporters and idle gawpers, he took measures: he moved Eliza to the Metropole hotel, where there was a special floor for important guests – with a special doorman who didn’t allow strangers in. Of course, it wasn’t a matter of protecting her from the press. The important thing for Stern was to demonstrate what a luxurious life was led by the leading actress of his theatre.
Eliza didn’t argue. Aphrodisina and Gullibin took her to her new quarters in a luxurious three-room apartment with a piano and a gramophone, with a canopy above the bed, with voluptuous bunches of flowers in crystal vases.
She sat in the armchair without taking off her hat or cape, watching dully as Sima hung her clothes in the wardrobe. Killing herself also required an effort. And she didn’t have any strength left at all. Absolutely none.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Or the day after tomorrow. But I won’t live any longer than that, that’s quite certain.
‘I’ve set everything out,’ said Sima. ‘Shall I sit with you for a while?’
‘Go. Thank you. I’m all right.’
They went.
She didn’t notice it get dark. The street lamps came on outside in Theatre Square. There were lots of gleaming surfaces in the room – bronze, gilt, lacquer – and it all glittered and glimmered, casting little spots of light.
Eliza ran one hand over her thickly powdered face and frowned. She needed to have a wash.
As she wandered slowly to the bathroom, every step was a struggle.
She turned on the light and looked in the mirror at the white face with blue circles under the eyes, the face of a suicide.
There was something white lying on the toilet table, between the little bottles and boxes. A folded piece of paper. Where from?
She mechanically picked it up and unfolded it.
‘I warned you that you are mine for ever. Anyone you get mixed up with will die,’ Eliza read. Recognising the handwriting, she screamed.
Tomorrow won’t do, let alone the day after tomorrow! This torment must be stopped immediately! Even in hell it can’t be more terrible than this!
She didn’t rack her brains over how Genghis Khan had found out about the move and how he had managed to slip the note into the bathroom. Satan, he was Satan himself. But the apathy and lassitude had been dissipated, as if scattered by a gust of wind. Eliza was shuddering in impatience.
No more! No more! Out of this world! Quickly!
Turning on the lights everywhere, she started dashing through the rooms in search of a suitable means of exit.
Death stood ready to take her into its embrace everywhere. The window was an open door into Non-existence – she only had to step across the threshold. The candelabra glittered with pendants, among which a place could easily be found for a dangling body. Lying in the medicine cabinet was a little phial of laudanum. But an actress could not leave this life like an ordinary woman. Even in death she had to be beautiful. The final scene, just before the curtain, had to be choreographed and played so that it would be remembered.
The preparations for this scene occupied Eliza’s mind, distracting her, and the horror was replaced by a feverish animation.
She took the flowers out of the vases and scattered them across the floor in a bright, fragrant carpet. She positioned the armchair. With a crystal vase on each side of it.
She telephoned reception and told them to bring a dozen bottles of red wine, the very best, to her room.
‘A dozen?’ the velvety voice asked. ‘Straight away, madam.’
While they were delivering it, Eliza got changed. The black silk dressing gown with Chinese dragons was like a kimono – a reminder of her final role.
Here was the wine. She told them to remove all the corks.
‘All of them, madam?’ the waiter asked, but he wasn’t really surprised. You could expect absolutely anything from an actress.
‘Yes, all of them.’
Eliza emptied six bottles into one vase and six into the other.
It was no accident that when women with a highly developed sense of beauty decided to do away with themselves, they usually slit their veins open. Some lay in a bath, after first filling it up it with lilies. Some lowered their slashed wrists into a basin of water. But crystal vases with red Bordeaux, so that the noble wine would consume the blood with its own colour – Eliza had never read about anything like that. It was exotic, it would be remembered.
Should she put on some music? She ran through the gramophone records and chose Saint-Saens. But then she put him back. When the record played through to the end, her own consciousness might not yet have faded away. She would have to die to the repulsive scratching of the needle instead of the beautiful music.
She imagined to herself what a furore would be stirred up by her death and – it was stupid, of course – regretted that she would not see it all. She could picture the kind of funeral that Noah Noaevich would arrange. The crowd behind the hearse would extend for miles and miles. A
nd what they would write in the newspapers! What headlines there would be!
She wondered who Stern would take on for the role of Izumi. He would have to introduce the replacement urgently, before all the ballyhoo died down. He would probably lure Germanova from the Art Theatre. Or summon Yavorskaya by telegram. The poor things. It was hard to rival the ghost of someone whose blood had flowed out into wine.
Another idea also occurred to her. Should she not leave a letter, telling the whole truth about Genghis Khan? She could attach his note to it, that would be proof.
But no. That would be too flattering. The villain would milk the part, revelling in his role as the diabolical fiend who drove the great Eliza Lointaine into her grave. And he might even get clean away with it. One note would probably not be enough for the court. Better to leave everyone pondering and guessing at what kind of impulse had carried off the mysterious comet into the starless sky.
And so she sat down in the armchair, rolled up her wide sleeves and took out her sharp little manicure scissors. In an article about some decadent young woman who had committed suicide (there was, after all, an entire epidemic of suicides in Russia at the time) Eliza had read that before she slit open her veins the woman had held her hands in water for a long time – it assuaged the pain. Not that a mere trifle like pain was of any consequence now, but it was still best to avoid the intrusion of coarse physiology into an act of the pure spirit.
Ten minutes, she told herself, lowering her hands into the vases. The wine had been cooled, and Eliza realised that she wouldn’t be able to sit like that for ten minutes – her fingers would go numb. Five minutes would probably do. Without thinking, almost indifferently, she started watching the clock. A minute proved to be a terribly long time, an eternity in fact.
Three times the minute hand shifted from one division to the next, and then the telephone rang.
At first Eliza frowned. Just at the wrong moment! But then she felt curious: who could it be! What signal was this that life was sending her at the final moment, and from whom?