by Boris Akunin
‘I’ll admit anything you like, just don’t press that button! Turn off the clock!’ Noah Noaevich implored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the madman’s left hand, which remained glued to the casket. ‘Your concept with the figures is outstanding, phenomenal, brilliant, we all appreciate the beauty of it, we are all enraptured, but …’
‘Shut up!’ The assistant waved his pistol towards the director and Stern bit his tongue. ‘There is nothing in the world apart from art. It is the only thing that is worth living and dying for. You have told me that a thousand times. We are all people of art. My benefit performance is a supreme act of art. So rejoice together with me!’
Suddenly the little ‘leading boy’ jumped up off her seat.
‘And love?’ she cried out piercingly. ‘What about love? All the world is not a stage, all the world is love! Lord, how much I love you, and you don’t understand! You have brain fever, you’re ill. Georges, I’ll do anything for you. I don’t need anyone but you! Don’t destroy these people, what are they to you? They don’t appreciate your great soul, then to hell with them! I’ll adore you for all of them! We can get out of here and go away!’
She reached her arms out to him. Despite her panic and terror, Eliza was moved, although she thought the monologue was delivered too fiercely. Eliza would have pronounced all those words differently – with no shouting, in half-tones.
‘Ah yes, love!’ Nonarikin squinted downwards at the electrical chronometer mounted in the little casket. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. Have I not fought for my love? Have I not laid low the insolent who have come between me and my Fair Lady? But she spurned me. She did not wish to be united with me on the bed of Life, so we shall be united on the bed of Death! Today is not only my benefit performance, but also my wedding! Sit down, half-woman!’ he shouted at Comedina. ‘The sight of you is an insult to the final minutes of my existence. And you, cold goddess, come here! Quickly, quickly! There are only four minutes left!’
Staring into the barrel of the Bayard that was aimed at her, Eliza got to her feet. She looked round helplessly at Fandorin.
‘Quickly,’ he whispered, ‘or else the psychopath will fire.’
She didn’t know how she walked up onto the stage and sat down beside Nonarikin. Below her eyes, directly in front of her, the figures on the counter glowed brightly: 11.08 – and the rapidly changing seconds.
‘At the final moment I shall take hold of your hand,’ the assistant director said in a quiet voice. He smelled very strongly of floral eau de cologne. ‘Don’t be afraid, the genuine comets are you and I.’
At that Eliza started shuddering in earnest.
‘L-listen, artist of Evil,’ Fandorin said in a loud voice, after whispering something to the Japanese. ‘Your arithmetic is faulty. The beauty of the benefit performance is marred. There are not eleven of us here before you, but twelve. One too many. Let me out of here.’
Nonarikin frowned.
‘I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, you are the twelfth. A playwright is entirely out of place here. I myself am the author of this play entitled The Apocalypse. Leave. Via the wings. And tell everyone about my benefit performance!’ He menaced Fandorin with the pistol as the playwright ran up onto the stage. ‘Only no tricks, now. If you hurry, you’ll be in time.’
‘Th-thank you.’
And the man whom Eliza loved so passionately, so awkwardly, ran away as fast his legs would carry him. Who could have imagined that he would behave in such a pitiful and unworthy manner! The world around her seemed to have gone completely mad. Her absurd and senseless life was ending in the same way: absurdly and senselessly.
TWICE ELEVEN
The tenth minute of the twelfth hour began.
The director of The Apocalypse sat there with a blissful smile on his face, keeping one hand on the button. The other was clutching the pistol.
‘How fine this is, such great happiness,’ the madman kept repeating. ‘And you are with me. Just a little bit longer, only a minute and a half …’
They were sitting beside each other on mats, Japanese-style.
Noah Noaevich’s mouth gaped open, but no sounds came out. In the final moments of his life his perennial loquaciousness had deserted him.
The ‘villain’ and the ‘villainess’ were weeping, with their arms round each other.
Poor Comedina was huddled up limply, like a rag doll that has been flung aside.
Sensiblin tried to take Vasilisa Prokofievna by the hand and seemed to beg her forgiveness, but Reginina shoved him away – she wouldn’t forgive him.
Aphrodisina tried to smile flirtatiously.
‘Georges, you’re just joking, aren’t you? There aren’t any bombs, are there? You just want to give us a fright?’
The poor coquette! Women of that type are so full of life that they simply can’t imagine their own death!
Shiftsky got up. His mobile features wrinkled up tearfully.
‘Georges, let me go! I never aimed to be one of the leaders. If you’re a number 9, then I’m no better than a number 6!’
‘You’re trying to be funny,’ Nonarikin replied. ‘Without artful dodgers the world is incomplete. Sit down!’
Eliza was astounded that with only a minute left, the only one to pray was Vasya Gullibin. He closed his eyes, folded his hands together and worked his lips.
‘It’s not good,’ Masa said suddenly, pressing a red, blood-soaked handkerchief to his wound. ‘If you want to die, it must be beautifur. But you have two zeros.’
‘What two zeros?’ Nonarikin asked with a frown.
‘The seconds. They should orso be ereven.’
Georges looked at his electric clock.
‘But then it won’t be eleven digits,’ he objected. ‘Although, of course, two zeros … It’s not really … I agree.’
‘It wirr be thirteen digits. That’s even better. The most beautifur number. And thirteen prus nine is twenty-two. Twice ereven – that’s twice as good!’
‘Why, that’s right!’ said Georges, brightening up. ‘The Japanese know all about beauty! Eleven seconds won’t change anything. I’ll reset the chronometer this moment!’
And now I have time to pray too, thought Eliza. Our Father, Who art in heaven …
She raised her eyes. Of course, she was not expecting to see the sky. Up there the velvet top mask of the curtain was swaying slightly, there were dark girders and the black gangway with its dangling cables. What else should an actress look at as she prepared to take her leave of this life?
Oh God, what was that?
Right above Nonarikin’s head, Fandorin was slipping down one of the cables used to secure the scenery to its fly-bars, moving rapidly hand over hand. In two minutes he had managed to run up onto the gangway, creep out to the very centre and start climbing down. But what for? He could have been somewhere safe now, and instead of that he would be killed together with everyone else! He wouldn’t have time to climb down in the few remaining seconds in any case. And even if he did, Nonarikin would simply press the button – he was on his guard!
Her prayer was left unspoken.
The author of the benefit performance took his finger off the button and started turning a little wheel on the clock face, setting the number 11 in the second frame. He pushed a little lever, obviously changing the time of the detonation. At that very instant Fandorin jumped from more than twenty feet up in the air and landed directly on top of Nonarikin. Something crunched, Eliza was thrown aside, and when she got up, there were two motionless bodies lying beside her, one on top of the other. In the little middle window of the clock two single digits popped up, but the seconds were still blinking.
11:11:01, 11:11:02, 11:11:03, 11:11:04 …
Swardilin flew up onto the stage with a guttural croak. He swayed, unable to stay on his feet, and fell.
‘The wires!’ he shouted. ‘Eriza-san, the wires!’
‘What?’ she asked in confusion, staring spellbound at the blinking figures.
11:11:05, 11:11:06, 11:11:07 …
Crawling sideways like a crab, the Japanese tumbled in over the threshold of the geisha’s little house and jerked the casket towards him with all his might. The wires snapped, the display went blank and for some reason sparks showered down from the ceiling above the hall.
‘That’s orr,’ said Swardilin, and he lay down on his back and squeezed his eyes shut. His head must have been spinning very badly. ‘A beautifur death can wait. First a beautifur rife.’
There won’t be any explosion. We’re saved, Eliza thought. And she burst into tears. What good was that if he, he had been killed? It would have been better for them to die together. Enveloped in thunder and flame!
‘Erast Petrovich … He saved us all and he’s been killed, he’s been killed,’ she moaned.
Masa opened his eyes and sat up. He looked at his master, lying there face down, and protested resentfully.
‘I saved orr of us. My master herped me. He onry tord me: “Masa, jyuichibyo!” – “Masa, ereven seconds!” and ran off. And I had to puzzur out what he meant. My head was broken anyway, it hurt. It was hard to think. But I understood!’
‘What difference does it make, who saved everybody … He has been killed! He fell from such a great height!’
She crept across to her beloved on her knees, fell against his back and started crying.
Swardilin touched her on the shoulder.
‘Ret me see, prease, Eriza-san.’
He gently moved Eliza aside, then felt his motionless master for a short while and nodded in satisfaction. He turned Fandorin over onto his back. Erast Petrovich’s face was pale and motionless, quite unbearably handsome. Eliza bit herself on the wrist to stop herself howling with grief.
The Japanese, however, treated the fallen hero disrespectfully. He pressed on his neck with one finger, leaned down and started blowing into his nose.
Fandorin’s eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened. The blue eyes gazed at Masa – first indifferently and then in astonishment. Erast Petrovich pushed the Japanese away from him.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ he exclaimed, and started staring around.
It’s a miracle!
He’s alive, alive!
Swardilin shook his head and said something reproachfully. Fandorin’s face took on an embarrassed expression.
‘Masa says that I have completely forgotten how to jump from a height. I haven’t p-practised it for a long time. He’s right. There are no bones broken, but the impact knocked me unconscious. I’m ashamed. Well now, how is our artist of Evil doing?’
He and Masa started massaging and probing at Nonarikin. The assistant director cried out. He was alive too.
‘A quite exceptionally hardy constitution. He got off with a broken collarbone,’ Erast Petrovich summed up, and turned towards the hall. ‘It’s all over, calm down! Those who can get up may do so. Those who are too agitated had better remain in their seats. Gentlemen of the company, bring the ladies some water! And sal volatile.’
Cautiously, still not fully believing that they had been saved, several of the actors got up. The first to jump to her feet was Comedina.
‘Don’t touch him! You’re hurting him!’ she shouted at Masa, who was tying the assistant director’s wrists together with a leather belt.
‘He should be sent off to serve hard labour! He almost did for the lot of us!’ Mephistov brandished his bony fist at Nonarikin. ‘I’ll testify at the trial. Oh, I’ll testify, won’t I just!’
Noah Noaevich mopped the top of his head with a handkerchief.
‘Forget it, Anton Ivanovich, what trial are you talking about? He’s a violent lunatic.’
The leader of the Ark was recovering before their very eyes. His expression grew firm again, and his eyes started glittering. Clambering up onto the stage, the director assumed a majestic pose, standing over the groaning Nonarikin.
‘Congratulations on a phenomenal flop, my talentless pupil. An artist with this specific gift belongs in the aforementioned lunatic asylum. They employ progressive means of treatment there, and I think there is even a drama circle. When you have recovered a bit, you can lead it.’
Suddenly Stern was almost sent flying as Comedina jumped up and crashed into him from behind.
‘Don’t you dare make fun of him! That’s mean and base! Georgy Ivanovich is unwell!’ She went down on her knees and started rubbing the dust and dirt off Nonarikin’s face. ‘Georges, I still love you anyway! I’ll always love you! I’ll come to visit you in the hospital every day! And when you get well, I’ll take you away. The only problem is that you imagined you were a titan. But there’s no need to be a titan. Titans are always huffing and puffing, so they’re unhappy. It’s better to be a little person, believe me. See how little I am? And you’ll be the same. We were made for each other. You’ll come to understand that. Not now, but later.’
Stunned and in pain, Nonarikin couldn’t speak. He merely tried to move away from the stage fool. If his grimace was anything to go by, he didn’t wish to be a little person.
‘Well now, colleagues,’ Noah Noaevich exclaimed. ‘The benefit performance turned out rather impressive, as a matter of fact. It was only a shame that there was no audience. And if we tell anyone, no one will believe us. They’ll think that we acted out the whole thing ourselves and stuck dynamite all over the place for the sake of the publicity … By the way,’ he added anxiously, switching to a whisper, ‘dynamite can’t simply go and detonate for some reason or other, can it? Quiet, I implore you! Konstantina Petrovna, don’t shout like that, please!’
After the benefit performance
RECONSTRUCTION
A woman in love spoke beautiful words to the man who had almost blown up the theatre. Then an ambulance carriage arrived and orderlies led away the madman, carefully supporting him from both sides. Soft-hearted Vasilisa Prokofievna, forgetting the terror she had suffered, threw a coat over the shoulders of the wilted assistant director and also made the sign of the cross over the sick man.
People are compassionate with the insane, thought Fandorin, and that is probably right. But at the same time, the type of psychological disorder known as manic obsession gives rise to the most dangerous criminals in the world. They typically possess steely determination, absolute fearlessness and brilliant inventiveness. The greatest threat is represented by manic obsession on a grand scale. Those who are not possessed by the petty demon of lust, but by the demon of global transformation. And if they cannot manage to transform the world in accordance with their ideal, they are willing to kill everything that lives. Fortunately, as yet it is not possible for any Herostratus to incinerate the temple of life, that is beyond their reach. But progress is creating ever more powerful means of destruction. The imminent war – which is clearly, unfortunately, inevitable – will be unprecedentedly bloody. It will break out not only on the land and the surface of the sea, but also in the air and in the depths of the waters, everywhere. And the century has only just begun, technical progress is unstoppable. The tragicomic Georges Nonarikin is not simply a theatre director driven insane by his artistic vanity. He is the prototype of a new kind of villain. They will not be satisfied with just a theatre as a model of existence: they will want to transform the entire world into a gigantic stage and present on it the plays that they themselves have penned, to allocate to mankind the role of obedient extras, and if the production is a flop – to die together with the Universal Theatre. That is exactly how everything will end. Madmen obsessed by the grandeur and beauty of their conceptions will blow up the Earth. The only hope is that people will be found to stop them in time. Such people are essential. Without them the world is doomed.
But these people are not all-powerful, they are vulnerable and prone to weaknesses. For instance, a certain Erast Petrovich Fandorin, faced with a catastrophe not on the scale of the universe, but on the scale of a doll’s house, almost allowed the model of existence to be destroyed. It must be admitted that in this
absurd story his behaviour has been pitiful.
Of course, there are extenuating circumstances.
Firstly, he was not himself. Blinded and deafened, he forfeited his clarity of thought and lost his self-control. In this case both parties – the criminal and the investigator – were in a state of insanity, each in his own way.
Secondly, it is hard not to lose one’s way in the labyrinths of an unnatural world where play is more genuine than reality, the reflection is more interesting that the essence, the articulation replaces the underlying feelings and the face under the make-up cannot be discerned. Only in the theatre, and among people of the theatre, could a crime take place with such motives and in such a setting.
The little officer from the distant edge of the empire would have dragged out a dreary army career, like Chekhov’s Solyony, acting out demonic poses for the garrison ladies. But the swirling tornado of the theatre flew down to the Asiatic backwoods, swooped down on the lieutenant, tore his feet off the ground, swirled him round and bore him off.
The little man wished to become a big artist, and in order to satisfy this unassuageable hunger, he was prepared to sacrifice absolutely anything and absolutely anyone, including himself.