by Boris Akunin
Feeling pitiful and weak-willed, Fandorin followed Eliza without speaking. Suddenly she took his arm in hers, which was strange – in enclosed premises ladies did not usually do that.
‘Oh Lord, to walk like this …’ she whispered about some thought of her own.
‘What?’
‘Never mind, never mind …’
She let go of him.
At the door of the dressing room, she apologised and asked him to wait while she put on her tabi – Japanese socks – for the sandals.
Five minutes later she called out.
‘You can come in now.’
Eliza was sitting in front of the dressing table, but looking at Fandorin, and he saw her immediately from every angle: the back of her head, her face, both profiles. In the light of the lamp her hair shimmered, like a golden helmet.
‘Please stay with me for a while. Just stay. I’m in a really bad way …’
He lowered his eyes in order not to look into hers. He was afraid of giving himself away, afraid that he would dash over to her and start babbling pitiful nonsense about love.
Erast Petrovich gritted his teeth and made himself think about the case. The extraction of saliva from the Tablets would obviously have to wait until the evening, but even without the analysis there was plenty to think over.
So, a fourth entry had appeared in the journal. The chronology and the arithmetic were as follows: on 6 September there were eight 1s remaining until a certain benefit performance and someone was called upon to ‘think again’, on 2 October, there were seven 1s remaining, on 1 November, for some reason, there were only five; and finally, today, 11 November, there were only four 1s remaining and the unknown author admonished his reader to ‘be ready’. Fandorin sensed a system in this arithmetical leapfrog, which at first glance appeared arbitrary. And if that was so …
‘My sincere condolences on your l-loss,’ he said out loud, because Eliza was clearly waiting for him to say something. ‘It is terrible to lose a fiancé.’
‘It is terrible to lose yourself! It is terrible to be in a state of despair and fear every minute!’
Is she crying? Why has she put her hand over her mouth?
Erast Petrovich moved towards her impulsively. And stopped. Then he took another step forward. Eliza turned towards him, put her arm round his waist, pressed her face against him and burst into sobs.
It’s her nerves. It’s very clear. The embrace only signifies that she needs support and consolation. Cautiously, very cautiously, he put one hand on her shoulder. He stroked her hair with the other.
Eliza wept for a long time, and for all that time Erast Petrovich’s thoughts refused to return to the mystery of the 1s.
But when the actress raised her wet face to him and glanced at him, Fandorin longed unbearably to lean down and dry every teardrop with his lips. He stepped back and clutched at his deductions as if they were the straw that could save him.
The changing remainder of 1s signifies that originally there was a specific number of them. As a result of 1s being deducted in a manner that is in some way connected with the passage of time, this number is being reduced. The first question is: what was that number? How many 1s were there to begin with?
‘I can’t go on,’ Eliza whispered. ‘I must tell you … No, no!’
She turned away quickly, saw herself in the mirror and gasped.
‘What do I look like? There are only fifty minutes left until the rehearsal! You mustn’t see me like this! Please, wait outside. I’ll tidy myself up and come out to you.’
However, the crying didn’t stop. Standing in the corridor, Fandorin could hear her sobbing and muttering something.
Eventually Eliza came out, with her face powered and her hair freshly brushed.
‘I’m having a nervous breakdown,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I think I’ll be magnificent in rehearsal today. As long as I don’t go into hysterics. Please allow me to lean on your arm, it will give me strength.’
Their shoulders touched; he could feel her trembling and felt frightened that he might be infected with this trembling too.
X minus Y is equal to eight. X minus Y plus one is equal to seven. X minus Y plus three is equal to five. X minus Y plus four is equal to four … In the grammar school Fandorin had not been brilliant at algebra and remembered it only vaguely, and he had not included this seemingly useless discipline in the programme of fruitful ageing. He should have done. A mathematician might possibly have solved this crazy equation. Although an equation with two unknowns didn’t have any solution, did it? Or did it? He couldn’t remember. If not for the proximity of Eliza’s hot shoulder, if not for the fragrance of her hair, his thinking wouldn’t twitch about and skip like this, from one thing to another …
They tried to enter the hall via the side door, but for some reason it turned out to be locked. They had to walk to the central door.
‘I can’t put up with this nonsense about 1s in the journal any longer!’ Noah Noaevich was shouting and waving his arms about. ‘Whoever is doing this is trying to finish me off! He’s jabbing his 1s into me like needles! Slashing me with them like razors!’
The assistant director’s warning of the previous day about fines for lateness had had its effect. Even though it was only about twenty minutes to eleven, almost the entire company had already gathered. The actors were sitting in the front row, indolently listening to the director’s howls.
‘Let’s slip in behind them,’ Eliza said to Fandorin. ‘I need to get a grip on myself … I just can’t seem to manage it somehow … I’m about to shatter into fragments at any moment. Like a broken mirror.’
Slashing him with 1s like razors? Erast Petrovich thought with a start. How many cuts were there on the millionaire’s neck?
‘No more, I can’t go on like this. So come what may!’ Eliza said in a breaking voice, but Erast Petrovich was no longer looking at her, or listening to her. The figures were clicking away in his head.
‘It’s Genghis Khan who’s killing everyone! My ex-husband. His jealousy has driven him insane! He killed two of my admirers in St Petersburg! He’s not a man, he’s a devil! He’s going to kill me!’ the actress babbled, choking on her tears.
‘Genghis Khan lived in the twelfth century,’ Fandorin said absent-mindedly. ‘Twelve isn’t right. The correct number is eleven. Eleven 1s. Right then. Eight is eleven minus three. Seven is eleven minus four. Five is eleven minus six. But why the sudden skip? Ah, damnation! Because it’s 1 November! And on 11 November, today, there are only four 1s left. But what are those four 1s?’
She looked at him in alarm.
‘Are you unwell?’
‘What?’
‘Were … weren’t you listening to me?’
Erast Petrovich tore himself away from his arithmetic with an effort.
‘Certainly I was. Of course I’m listening. Your former husband, Genghis Khan, is the one who is killing everybody … This is a psychosis. You’ve been through far too much. You need to calm down.’
The fear in her eyes intensified.
‘Oh yes, a psychosis! You don’t think it’s of any importance! I’m not well. Promise me you won’t do anything!’ She clasped her hands as if in prayer. ‘Forget all about it! I implore you!’
Vasilisa Prokofievna floated into the hall, looking red faced.
‘Ooph, I was almost late!’
She glanced at Eliza’s tear-stained face and enquired:
‘What are you rehearsing, Elizochka? Ah, I’ve guessed. King Lear, Act Five. Cordelia: For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down, Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown.” Are we really going to play Shakespeare, then?’
We really are like father and daughter, Fandorin thought irritably. She’s a young woman and I have grey hair. But Eliza flushed and moved away.
‘Am I the last?’ Reginina looked round. ‘No, Georges Cerberus isn’t here yet, the Lord be praised for that.’
It was true, everybody had already gathered e
xcept for the assistant director. At the very end of the front row Fandorin made out Masa’s round head. The Japanese was whispering about something with Sima Aphrodisina, but squinting at his master at the same time.
Four 1s – it’s time! Hours and minutes! But where do I put the 1s that fall out of line?
Eliza’s breath tickled his ear.
‘Do you promise to forget what I said?’
Stern appeared on the stage and looked round the hall.
‘Geisha Izumi! Stop distracting the esteemed author! Join us, if you please! We’re starting! Damn it all, where is Georges? A fine keeper of discipline. One minute to eleven, and he’s not here yet! Has anyone seen Nonarikin? Where’s Nonarikin?’
Fandorin swayed in his seat.
But of course! Nonarikin! The figure nine!
‘Where’s Nonarikin?’ he exclaimed, echoing Stern, and got to his feet.
‘Here I am, here!’
The assistant director appeared in the central aisle. Georges was looking different today: in a frock coat, with a starched shirtfront and a white chrysanthemum in his buttonhole. He swung round and locked the door for some reason. When he spotted Fandorin with Eliza, he seemed to be delighted.
‘Erast Petrovich? I wasn’t expecting you. But this is even better. Without the dramatist the picture of the world would be incomplete.’
‘Nonarikin, I need to have a word with you.’ Fandorin looked at the assistant director intently. ‘Answer my questions.’
‘I have no time for talking with you.’ The miraculously transformed assistant director smiled confidently. ‘And now the questions will all fall away of their own accord. I shall explain everything. Follow me, if you please, to the stage.’
‘Why did you lock the door?’ Eliza asked. ‘Is that some new kind of rule?’
But Georges didn’t answer, he moved between the seats towards the stage with a gliding gait. He darted lightly up the steps to the hanamichi. He took his watch out of his pocket with his left hand and displayed it to the assembled company.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, my congratulations!’ he declared triumphantly. ‘The benefit performance will commence shortly. There are only two 1s remaining!’
The benefit performance
ELEVEN 1S AND THE FIGURE 9
Surprisingly enough, dandified Georges took it upon himself to address the assembled company without Noah Noaevich’s permission and spouted drivel from the stage.
‘It is now precisely eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1911. That is nine 1s. In eleven minutes’ time the number of 1s will reach eleven and the moment will be become perfect. Then I shall halt it! And my benefit performance will commence, ladies and gentlemen.’
Eliza wasn’t exactly listening closely to this balderdash, she was preoccupied with her own sufferings. She cursed herself for falling to pieces and blurting out too much. Thank God, Erast had not taken her hysterical muttering seriously. He was acting rather strangely today. Was it just that kind of day, everyone as mad as march hares?
Choking on his assistant’s impudence, Stern really blew his top when he heard about the benefit performance.
‘Aha, so it was you!’ he howled in a terrible voice, and flew up onto the stage. ‘It was you who scribbled nonsense all over the sacred book. Why you, I’ll …’
The assistant director struck his idol and teacher a deft, resounding smack across the face. Everybody froze and Noah Noaevich grabbed at his cheek and cringed, with his eyes goggling out of his head.
‘Sit down in your place,’ Georges ordered him. ‘You are no longer the director! I am the director now.’
The poor man had lost his reason. It was obvious.
He strode over to the centre of the stage, where the scenery had been installed, and climbed up into the geisha’s room. He stopped at the low table and lifted up the lid of the casket – the one connected to the wires that ignited the flight of the two comets in the finale.
The original stupefaction passed off.
‘Hey, brother, you’ve lost it …’ Shiftsky got to his feet, twirling one finger at his temple. ‘You need calming down.’
Sensiblin got up.
‘Georges, my dear man, what are you doing up there on the stage? Come here and we’ll have a talk.’
‘Nonarikin-san, you mustn’t hit your sensei!’ Swardilin said angrily. ‘It’s the worst thing you can do!’
But Stern, still clutching his cheek, whined:
‘There’s no point in talking to him, he should be tied up and sent off to a lunatic asylum.’
Suddenly everyone fell silent again. A pistol had appeared in Nonarikin’s hand – the Bayard that Eliza knew so well, the witness to her shameful flop.
‘Sit down! Everyone sit in the front row!’ the assistant director commanded. ‘Be quiet. Listen. Time is short!’
Sima started shrieking. Vasilisa Prokofievna gasped.
‘Mother of God. He’ll kill us, the raving lunatic! Sit down, don’t provoke him!’
Kostya, Lev Spiridonovich and Stern backed away and sat down in chairs, while in his fright Sensiblin even sat on his former spouse’s knees and she didn’t utter a peep, although at any other time a liberty like that would have cost the philosopher dear.
The Japanese was the only one who wasn’t frightened.
‘Give me the pistor, you rittur foor,’ he said affectionately, still walking forward. ‘Ret’s sort this thing out the friendry way.’
The acoustics in the hall were miraculously good. The shot thundered out so loudly that Eliza was deafened. In the basement, when they were practising shooting, the Bayard had fired more quietly. Masa was just stepping off the hanamichi onto the stage. He flung his arms up and went flying down into the seats of the front row. He was wounded in the head. There was blood pouring out of his torn ear and a red ribbon of it lay across his temple. Aphrodisina squealed despairingly, splattered with red drops.
Then it began! The actors went dashing in all directions, screaming as they ran. Only Swardilin lay there, stunned, on the floor, and Fandorin didn’t stir from his seat.
Eliza grabbed him by the arm.
‘He’s gone insane! He’ll shoot everybody! Let’s run for it!’
‘There’s nowhere to run,’ said Erast Petrovich, keeping his eyes fixed on the stage. ‘And it’s too late.’
All three doors of the hall turned out to be locked, and no one dared to run backstage – there was a madman sitting cross-legged on the stage and waving a pistol about. Then he threw up his hand, aimed upwards and there was another shot. Crystal crumbs sprinkled down from the chandelier.
‘Everybody in you places!’ Nonarikin shouted. ‘Two minutes have been wasted for nothing. Or do you want to die like stupid animals without understanding a thing? I never miss when I shoot. If anyone is not in their place in five seconds, I’ll kill them.’
Everyone came dashing back as promptly as they scattered. They sat down, breathing heavily. Eliza had stayed right beside Erast Petrovich, who lifted up Masa, seated him beside himself and wiped the bleeding wound with a handkerchief.
‘Nan jya?’ Swardilin hissed through his teeth.
‘A concussion. I’ve forgotten the Japanese word.’
The Japanese nodded briefly.
‘I didn’t mean the scratch! What is that? That?’ he asked, jabbing his finger in Nonarikin’s direction.
Fandorin’s answer was incomprehensible.
‘Eleven 1s and one figure 9. I am very badly at fault. I realised t-too late. And I don’t have a gun with me …’
Another shot thundered out. Splinters went flying from the back of the empty seat beside Erast Petrovich.
‘Silence in the hall! I’m the director now! And this is my benefit performance! The fine for chattering is a bullet. There are eight minutes left!’
Nonarikin was holding his left hand on the casket with the buttons that switched on the electricity.
‘If you make any sudden movements, I’ll p
ress it.’ The assistant director was addressing Fandorin. ‘I won’t take my eyes off you. I know how nippy you are.’
‘That’s not just light switches, is it?’ Erast Petrovich paused and gritted his teeth (Eliza heard the sound quite clearly). ‘The hall is m-mined, isn’t it? You’re a sapper, after all … And I’m a damned stupid idiot …’
The final words were spoken very quietly.
‘What do you m-mean by “m-mined”?’ Noah Noaevich hissed. His voice was breaking. ‘With b-bombs?’
‘Now look, Erast Petrovich, you’ve ruined the entire effect!’ Nonarikin complained, as if he were offended. ‘I was going to tell them that right at the very end. Supremely fine electrical engineering work! The charges have been calculated so that the shock wave will destroy everything inside the hall without damaging the building. That’s called “implosion”. What lies beyond the boundaries of the world we share is of no interest to me. Let it remain. Quiet, gentlemen and artistes!’ he shouted at his noisy audience. ‘What are you all cackling about? Why, are you, my teacher, clutching at your heart? You said yourself that all the world’s a stage and the stage is the whole world. Noah’s Ark is the best theatre company in the world. All of us together, pure and impure, are an ideal model of humanity! How many times have you repeated that to us, my teacher?’
‘That’s true. But why blow us all up?’
‘There are two supreme artistic acts: creation and destruction. So there must be two types of artists: the artist of Good and the artist of Evil, alias the artist of Life and the artist of Death. It is an open question whose art is the higher! I have served you faithfully, I have studied with you, I have waited for you to appreciate my boundless devotion, my zeal! I was willing to make do with the role of an artist of Life, a theatre director. But you mocked me. You gave my role to that mediocre Emeraldov. You said that I was just a mere jack of all trades, a make-weight, like a number nine in a deck of cards. But I have invented my own benefit productio. There are eleven of you here, all established artistes, all wanting to claim good roles and be number ones, aces. Now appreciate the beauty of my play. I have sought out the point at which eleven 1s will coincide with one figure 9. Precisely at eleven minutes past eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1911 …’ – Nonarikin laughed loudly – ‘… our theatre will go flying to kingdom come. When the time 11:11 appears on the electrical clock, there will be thunder and lightning. And if you get it into your heads to turn rebellious, I shall press the button myself – look, I’m holding my finger on it. The roof and walls of this ark will become our sarcophagus! You must admit, my teacher, that there has not been a performance as beautiful as this since the times of Herostratus! You must admit that – and admit that the pupil has outdone his teacher!’