by Boris Akunin
Mizinov's voice spoke from behind the door: 'Mr Anwar, what is the point of dragging this business out? This is mere cowardice! Come out and I promise you the status of a prisoner of war.'
'And the gallows for Kazanzaki and Zurov?' whispered Anwar.
Varya filled her lungs with air, but the Turk was on the alert - he took the gag out of his pocket and shook his head expressively. Then he shouted: 'I shall need to think about that, Monsieur General! I'll give you my answer at half past seven.'
After that he said nothing for a long time, striding agitatedly around the vault and looking at his watch several times.
'If only I could get out of here!' this strange man eventually murmured, striking a cast-iron shelf with his fist. 'Without me Abdul-Hamid will devour the noble Midhat!'
He glanced apologetically at Varya with his clear blue eyes and explained: 'Forgive me, Mademoiselle Barbara, my nerves are under strain. My life is of some considerable consequence in this game. My life is also a chess piece, but I value it more highly than the Ottoman Empire itself. We might say that the empire is a bishop, while I am a queen. Though for the sake of victory even a queen may be sacrificed ... In any case, I have not yet lost the game, and a tie is guaranteed!' he laughed excitedly. 'I managed to delay your army at Plevna for much longer than I had hoped. You have squandered your forces and wasted precious time. England has had time to prepare herself for the confrontation, Austria has recovered its courage. Even if there is no second stage of the war, Russia will still be left on the sidelines. It took her twenty years to recover from the Crimean campaign, and she will be licking her wounds for another twenty after this war. And that is now, at the end of the nineteenth century, when every year is so important. In twenty years Europe will move on far ahead. Henceforth Russia is destined to play the role of a second-class power. She will be devoured by the canker of corruption and nihilism; she will no longer pose a threat to progress.'
At this point Varya's patience gave out. 'Just who are you to judge who is the bringer of good to civilisation and who is the bringer of destruction? You studied the state apparatus, became acquainted with the leaders! And have you made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky? Have you read Russian literature? I suppose you had no time for that? Two times two is always four and three times three is always nine, isn't it? And two parallel lines never intersect? In your Euclid they don't intersect, but for our Lobachevsky they have!'
'I do not follow your logic,' Anwar said with a shrug. 'But of course I have read Russian literature. It is good literature, no worse than English or French. But literature is a toy, - in a normal country it cannot have any great importance. I am myself something of a literary man, in a sense. But one must do something serious, and not just compose sentimental fairy tales. Look at Switzerland. It has no great literature, but life there is incomparably more dignified than in your Russia. I spent almost my entire childhood and adolescence in Switzerland, so you may take my word for it that—'
Before he could finish, there was a crackle of gunfire in the distance.
‘It has begun! They have attacked ahead of time!' Anwar pressed his ear against the door with his eyes glittering feverishly. 'Curses! It is just my bad luck that this infernal vault does not have a single window!'
Varya struggled in vain to calm her pounding heart. The thunderous noise of shooting was drawing nearer. She could hear Sobolev giving some command or other, but she couldn't make out the words. From somewhere there came a cry of 'Allah!' and a rapid volley of shots.
Anwar murmured as he spun the chamber of his revolver. ‘I could try to break out, but I have only three bullets left . . . How I detest inaction!' He started at the sudden sound of shots inside the building.
'If our men win, I shall send you to Adrianople,' Anwar said rapidly. 'Clearly, the war will end now. There will be no second stage. That is unfortunate. Not everything turns out the way you plan it. Perhaps you and I will meet again. At this moment, of course, you hate me, but time will pass and you will realise that I was right.'
‘I feel no hatred for you,' said Varya, 'but I do bitterly regret that such a talented man as you is engaged in such despicable goings-on. I remember Mizinov relating the story of your life . . .'
'Indeed?' Anwar put in absent-mindedly, still listening to the shooting.
'Yes. All those intrigues and all those people who died! Was that Circassian who sang an aria before his execution not a friend of yours? Did you sacrifice him as well?'
‘I do not care to recall that story’ he said severely. 'Do you know who I am? I am the midwife: I help the child to enter the world, and my arms are covered up to the elbows in blood and mucus . . .'
A volley of shots rang out very close by.
'I am going to open the door now and help my own side. You stay in here and for God's sake do not stick your head out. It will all be over soon.'
He pulled back the bolt and suddenly froze - there was no more shooting in the bank. There was a voice saying something, but it was not clear whether it was speaking Russian or Turkish. Varya held her breath.
‘I’ll rip your ugly face off! Sitting it out in the corner, you blankety-blank-blank,' a sergeant-major's deep bass roared, and the sweet sounds of her native speech set her heart singing.
They had held out! They had beaten them off!
The sound of shooting was moving further and further away, and there was a quite distinct, long-drawn-out cry of 'Hoorah!'
Anwar stood there with his eyes closed. His expression was calm and sad. When the firing stopped completely, he opened the door a little.
'It is over, mademoiselle. Your captivity is at an end. Go now.'
'What about you?' whispered Varya.
'The queen has been sacrificed without any particular gain. Regrettable. But everything else remains unchanged. Go, and I wish you happiness.'
'No!' she cried, dodging away from his hands. 'I will not leave you here. Give yourself up and I will testify on your behalf at the trial.'
'So that they can stitch up my throat and then hang me anyway?' laughed Anwar. 'Thank you kindly, but no. There are two things I detest more than anything else on earth: humiliation and capitulation. Farewell, I need to be alone for a moment.'
He managed to grab hold of Varya's sleeve and with a gentle push he sent her out through the doorway. The massive slab of steel immediately slammed shut.
Varya found herself facing a pale Fandorin. General Mizinov was standing by a shattered window and yelling at the gendarmes who were sweeping up the shards of glass. It was already light outside.
'Where is Michel?' Varya asked in fright. 'Is he dead? Wounded?'
'Alive and well,' replied Erast Petrovich, looking her over closely. 'He is in his natural element - pursuing the enemy. But poor Perepyolkin has been wounded again - a yataghan took off half of his ear. He will obviously be awarded another medal. And have no fear for Ensign Gridnev: he is alive too.'
'I know,' she said, and Fandorin's eyes narrowed slightly.
Mizinov came over to them and complained: 'Another hole in my greatcoat. What a day. So he let you out? Excellent! Now we can use the dynamite.' He approached the door of the strongroom cautiously and ran his hand over the steel surface. 'I'd say two charges ought to be just enough to do it. Or perhaps that's too much? It would be good to take the villain alive.'
A carefree and highly melodic whistling suddenly started up behind the door.
'And now he's whistling!' Mizinov exclaimed indignantly. 'Some nerve, eh? Well, I'll soon whistle you out of there! Novgorodtsev! Send the sappers' platoon for some dynamite!'
'No d-dynamite will be necessary,' Erast Petrovich said in a soft voice as he listened carefully to the whistling.
'You have started stammering again’ Varya told him. 'Does that mean everything is all over?'
Sobolev strode into the room with a loud clattering of boots, his white greatcoat with the scarlet cuffs hanging open.
'They have
fallen back!' he announced in a voice hoarse after the battle. 'Our losses are appalling, but never mind, there should be a troop train here soon. Who's whistling that tune so marvellously? It's Lucia di Lammermoor-, I adore it!' And the general began singing along in his pleasant, husky baritone.
Del ciel clemente un riso
la vita a noi sara!
He sang the final stanza with feeling and at the very moment he reached the end there was the sound of a shot from behind the door.
Epilogue
Moscow Provincial Gazette
19 February (3 March) 1878
Peace is Signed!
Today, on the joyous anniversary of His Imperial Majesty's magnanimous act of charity to the peasantry 17 years ago, a joyous new page has been written in the annals of the glorious reign of the Tsar-Liberator. In San Stefano Russian and Turkish plenipotentiaries have signed a peace bringing to a conclusion the glorious war for the liberation of the Christian nations from Turkish overlordship. The terms of the treaty grant Roumania and Serbia complete independence, establish an extensive Principality of Bulgaria and grant Russia the sum of one billion, four hundred and ten million roubles in reparation for her war costs, the greater part of this sum to be paid in territorial concessions, including Bessarabia and Dobrudja, as well Ardagan, Kars, Batoumi, Bajazet . . .
'You see, a peace has been signed, and a very good one - despite your gloomy predictions, Mister Pessimist,' said Varya, failing yet again to find the words she really wanted to say.
The titular counsellor had already said goodbye to yesterday's suspect and today's free man, Petya, who had got into the carriage to settle into a compartment and lay out their things. In honour of the victorious conclusion of the war Pyotr Yablokov had been granted a complete pardon and even a medal for diligent service.
They could have left two weeks earlier, but although Petya had tried to hurry her, Varya had kept putting it off, as if she were waiting for something that she couldn't explain.
It was a shame that her parting with Sobolev had not gone well; in fact Sobolev had taken offence. Bother him anyway. A hero like that would find someone to console him soon enough.
And now the day had arrived when she had to say goodbye to Erast Petrovich. Varya's nerves had been on edge since early that morning, she'd thrown a fit of hysterics because of some lost brooch and blamed Petya for it, then burst into tears.
Fandorin was staying on in San Stefano - the diplomatic hustle and bustle was by no means all over simply because the peace had been signed. He had come straight to the station from some reception, in a tailcoat, top hat and white silk tie. He gave Varya a bunch of Parma violets, sighed a little and shifted from one foot to the other, but his sparkling eloquence had deserted him today.
'The peace is f-far too good,' he replied. 'Europe will not recognise it. Anwar executed his gambit p-per-fectly, and I lost the game. They have given me a medal, but they ought to have put me on trial.'
'How unfair you are to yourself. Terribly unfair!' Varya exclaimed passionately, afraid that her tears would start to flow. 'Why are you always so hard on yourself? If not for you, I don't know what would have become of us all . . .'
'Lavrenty Arkadievich told me much the same thing’ said Fandorin with a smile. 'And he p-promised me any reward in his power.'
Varya was delighted. 'Really? Well, that is wonderful! And what did you wish for?'
'For a posting somewhere on the far side of the world, as far away as possible from all this.' He waved his hand vaguely through the air.
'What nonsense! What did Mizinov say?'
'He was furious. But a promise is a promise. When the negotiations are c-completed I shall travel from Constantinople to Port Said, and from there by steamship to Japan. I have been appointed second secretary at the embassy in Tokyo. There is nowhere further away than that.'
'To Japan . . .' The tears broke through after all, and Varya furiously wiped them away with her glove.
The bell rang and the locomotive sounded its whistle. Petya stuck his head out of the window of the carriage.
'Varya, it's time. We're leaving.'
Erast Petrovich hesitated and lowered his eyes. 'G-goodbye, Varvara Andreevna. I was very glad . . .' He did not finish the phrase.
Varya clutched hold of his hand impetuously and began blinking rapidly, shaking the teardrops off her eyelashes.
'Erast . . .' she began in sudden haste, but the words stuck in her throat and would not come out.
Fandorin jerked his chin and said nothing.
The wheels clanked and the carriage swayed.
'Varya, they'll take me away without you!' Petya shouted despairingly. 'Quick!'
She glanced round, hesitated for just one more second and leapt on to the step as it glided along the edge of the platform.
'. . . first of all a hot bath. Then Filippov's bakery and some of that apricot pastille you're so fond of. And then the bookshop for all the new publications, and then the university. Can you imagine all the questions everyone will ask, all the . . .'
Varya stood at the window, nodding in time to Petya's contented babbling. She wanted to keep the black figure left behind on the platform in sight for as long as possible, but the figure was acting strangely, blurring like that ... Or could there perhaps be something wrong with her eyes?
The Times (London) 10 March (26 February) 1878
Her Majesty's Government Says 'No'
Today Lord Derby announced that the British government, supported by the governments of the majority of European states, categorically refuses to recognise the exorbitant peace terms imposed on Turkey by the rapacious appetites of Tsar Alexander. The Treaty of San Stefano is contrary to the interests of European security and must be reviewed at a special congress in which all the great powers will take part.
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