by Boris Akunin
Well, let it scatter, there was enough 'grain' to last Momos for ever. There would always be grist for the miraculous windmill.
He had made a thorough tour of all the trade fairs and provincial towns, constantly developing his skill. Last year he had reached the capital, St Petersburg, and cleaned up quite handsomely. The suppliers to the royal court, crafty bankers and commercial counsellors would not soon forget the Jack of Spades.
It was only quite recently that Momos had thought of declaring his exceptional gift to the public. He had succumbed to the blandishments of the imp of vanity, and begun to feel slighted. All those incomparably talented capers he had thought up, all that imagination and skill and passion he had invested, and there was no recognition for it. The blame was always lumped on to some band of swindlers, or Jewish plots, or the local authorities.
And the good people of Russia were unaware that all these elaborate chefs-d'oeuvre were the work of a single master.
Money was no longer enough for Momos; he wanted fame. Of course, it was much riskier to work with a trade mark, but fame was never won by the faint-hearted. And just you try to catch him, when he had his mask prepared for every operation! Who were you supposed to catch? Who should you be searching for? Had anyone ever seen Momos's genuine face? Well then ...
'Gasp and gossip and laugh in farewell' was Momos's mental valediction to his fellow-countrymen. Applaud a great artist, for I shall not be with you for ever.'
No, he wasn't preparing to die - not at all; but he had begun thinking seriously about parting with the Russian expanses that were so dear to his heart. There was just the old capital to work over, and then the time would be exactly right for Momos to make his debut on the international stage - he could feel that he was already strong enough to do it.
The wonderful city of Moscow. The Muscovites were even more stupid than the Petersburgians, more open-hearted and less callous, and they had just as much money. Momos had been based here since the autumn and had already pulled off several elegant swindles. Another two or three operations and it would be 'Farewell, my native land!' He ought to take a stroll around Europe and a look at America. They said many interesting things about the North American states. His instinct told him he would find the space to spread his wings there. He could launch a campaign to dig some canal, organise a stockholding company to construct a trans-American railroad or, say, to search for Aztec gold. And then again, German princes were in great demand just then, especially in the new Slav countries and on the South American continent. That was something worth thinking about. Indeed, in his prudent manner, Momos had already taken certain measures.
But for the time being, he had business in Moscow. He could go on shaking the apples off this tree for a long time yet. Give him time, and the writers of Moscow would be writing novels about the Jack of Spades.
*
The morning after the amusing caper with the English lord and the old governor, Momos woke late, with a headache - he had been celebrating all evening and half the night. Mimi just adored celebrations; they were her natural element, so they had had glorious fun.
The mischievous girl had transformed their deluxe suite in the Metropole Hotel into a Garden of Eden: tropical hothouse plants in tubs, the chandelier completely covered with chrysanthemums and lilies, the carpet littered with rose petals, baskets of fruit from Eliseev and bouquets from Pogodin everywhere. A python from Morselli's menagerie was looped round the palms in patterned coils, imitating the original Serpent Tempter - not very convincingly, however: because it was winter, the serpent dozed all the time and never once opened its eyes. But Mimi, in her role as Eve, was on top form. As he remembered, Momos smiled and rubbed his aching temple. That cursed Veuve Clicquot. When, after the fall had already taken place, Momos was luxuriating in the spacious porcelain bath tub, surrounded by floating Wanda orchids (at fifteen roubles apiece), Mimi had showered him with champagne from huge bottles. He had obviously been too zealous in striving to catch the frothing stream in his hps.
But yesterday even Mimi had worn herself out with her gambolling. Look at the way she was sleeping - you couldn't have woken her up if there was a fire. Her slightly swollen lips were half open, she had put both hands under her cheek in the way she usually did, and her thick golden locks were scattered across the pillow.
When they'd decided that they would travel together, Momos had told her: A man's life, my girl, is the same as he is. If he is cruel, then life is cruel. If he is timid, then it is terrifying. If he is sour, then it is sad. But I am a jolly man and my life is jolly, and so will yours be too.'
And Mimi had fitted into the jolly life as if she had been created especially for it, although he had to assume that in her twenty-two years she must have tasted more than her share of bitter radish and mustard. But Momos had not asked her about that - it was none of his business. If she wanted to tell him, she would. But she wasn't one of those girls who cling to bad memories and she certainly wouldn't try to appeal to his pity.
He had picked Mimi up the previous spring in Kishinev, where she was passing herself off as an Ethiopian dancer in a variety show and was wildly popular with the local fast livers. She had blackened her skin, dyed and frizzed her hair, and she leapt around the stage wearing nothing but garlands of flowers, with bracelets on her arms and legs. The Kishinevians took her for an absolutely genuine Negress. That is, at first they had had their doubts, but a visiting Neapolitan merchant who had been to Abyssinia had confirmed that Mamselle Zemchandra really did speak Ethiopian, and so all doubts had been dispelled.
It was precisely this detail that had first delighted Momos, who appreciated the combination of impudence with meticulous attention to detail in hoaxes. With those blue eyes the colour of harebells and that absolutely Slavonic little face, dark as it may be, to claim to be an Ethopian - that required great daring. And to learn Ethiopian into the bargain!
Later, when they were already friends, Mimi told him how it had happened. She'd been living in Peter, all washed up after the operetta went bankrupt, when she'd managed by chance to get a job as a governess for twins, the children of the Abyssinian ambassador. The Ethiopian prince - or Rass, in their language -simply had not been able to believe his good fortune: an obliging, cheerful young lady, content with a small salary, and the children adored her - they were always whispering with her about some secrets or other, and they had begun behaving like little angels. One day the Rass had been strolling through the Summer Gardens with State Secretary Morder, discussing difficulties in Italian-Abyssinian relations, when he'd suddenly seen a crowd of people. He'd walked over to it and - Lord God of Ethiopia! -there he'd seen the governess playing an accordion and his own little son and daughter dancing and singing. The audience had been gawking at the little blackamoors, clapping and throwing money into a turban made out of a twisted towel, and it was given unstintingly from the heart.
Anyway, Mimi had been obliged to make her escape from Russia's northern capital with all possible haste - with no luggage and no residence permit. She wouldn't have minded, she sighed, but she felt so sorry for the children. Poor little Mariamchik and Asefochka - their life was probably very boring now.
But then, I'm not bored with you here, thought Momos, gazing lovingly at the shoulder protruding from under the blanket, with those three moles that formed a neat equilateral triangle.
He put his hands behind his head and gazed round the suite into which they had moved only the previous day in order to cover their tracks - a superb set of apartments, with a boudoir, a drawing room and a study. The gilded moulding was slightly overdone, a little too much in the merchant taste. The apartments in the 'Loskutnaya' had been more elegant, but it been time to move out of there - in a perfectly official manner, of course, doling out generous tips and posing for a sketch artist from the Moscow Observer. It would do no harm to appear on the cover of a well-respected illustrated journal in the guise of 'His Highness' - you could never tell when it might come in useful.
&n
bsp; Momos glanced up absent-mindedly at the gilded Cupid with fat, round cheeks who had ensconced himself under the canopy of the bed. The plaster mischief-maker was aiming his arrow straight at the guest's forehead. The arrow was not visible, though, because Mimi's 'flaming heart' lacy drawers were dangling on it. How had they got up there? And where had they come from? After all, Mimi had been playing the part of Eve. It was a mystery.
Something about the astounding drawers intrigued Momos. There ought to be an arrow underneath them, and nothing more - that was obvious. But what if there was no arrow there, but something else? What if the little Cupid was cocking a snook, with his plump little fingers folded into a contemptuous gesture that was held out like an arrow beneath the bright piece of material?
Yes, yes, he could make out the outline of something.
Forgetting his aching temples, Momos sat up on the bed, still staring at the drawers.
Anyone would have expected there to be an arrow underneath them, because an arrow was what was required by Cupid's official function and capacity; but what if there really was no arrow, only a contemptuous snook?
'Wake up, my girl!' he said, slapping the sleeper on her rosy cheek. 'Look lively! Paper and a pencil! We're going to compose an announcement for the newspaper!'
Instead of replying, Mimi pulled the blanket up over her head. Momos sprang out of bed, his feet landed on something rough and cold on the carpet and he shouted out in horror: the dozy python, the Tempter of Eden, was lying there, coiled up like a garden hose.
CHAPTER 3
A Cunning Rogue
Apparently you could spend your time at work in quite different ways.
As a police sleuth - standing out in the bushes under the pouring rain for hours, watching the second window from the left on the third floor - or trudging along the street after the 'mark' who had been passed on for you to take your turn, without knowing who he was or what he had done.
Or as a courier, dashing around the city with your tongue hanging out, clutching an official satchel crammed with packages.
Or even as a temporary assistant to His Honour the Governor's Deputy for Special Assignments ... Anisii was supposed to arrive at the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street at ten. That meant he could walk at a normal pace, not dashing through the dark side streets, not hurrying, but in a dignified manner, in the light of day. Anisii was also issued money for a cab, so he had no need to spend an hour on the journey; he could arrive at work in a carriage, like a lord. But it was all right, he didn't mind walking, and the extra fifty kopecks would always come in handy.
The door was always opened by the Japanese servant Masa, whom Anisii had already got to know well. Masa bowed and said, 'Goomorn, Tiuri-san,' which meant 'Good morning, Mr Tulipov.' The Japanese found it hard to pronounce long Russian words, and he could not manage the letter T at all, so 'Tulipov' was transformed into 'Tiuri'. But Anisii did not take offence at Fandorin's valet, and their relations had become perfectly friendly, one might even say conspiratorial.
The first thing Masa did was to inform Anisii in a low voice about 'the state of the atmosphere' - that was how Anisii referred to the mood pervading the house. If the Japanese said 'Cam,' it meant everything was calm, the beautiful Countess Addy had woken in a serene mood and was singing, billing and cooing with Erast Petrovich, and she would regard Tulipov with a distracted but benevolent glance. In that case, he could enter the drawing room quiet fearlessly. Masa would serve him coffee and a roll, Mr State Counsellor would launch into cheerful banter and his favourite jade beads would clack cheerfully and briskly in his fingers.
But if Masa whispered 'Lou,' which meant 'loud', Anisii had to slip through into the study on tiptoe and set to work immediately, because the atmosphere in the house was stormy. It meant that Addy was sobbing again and screaming that she was bored, that Erast Petrovich had ruined her life by taking her away from her husband, the most worthy and most noble of men. I'm sure you're very easy to lead, thought Anisii, leafing through the newspapers as he listened timidly to the peals of thunder.
That was his job in the morning now: to study the printed publications of the city of Moscow. It was pleasant work: you rustled the pages smelling of ink, reading about the rumours of the city and examining the tempting advertising announcements. There were sharp-pointed pencils on the desk, blue for ordinary marks, red for special notes. Yes indeed, Anisii's life was quite different now.
And by the way, the pay for such wonderful work was also twice as much as he had received before, and he had been promoted in the state rankings too. Erast Petrovich had dashed off a couple of lines to the department and Tulipov had immediately been made a candidate for a formal title. When the first vacancy arose, he would sit a trifling examination and that would be it - the former courier would be an official, Mr Collegiate Registrar.
This was how it had all begun.
On that memorable day when the white dove appeared to Anisii, he and Court Counsellor Fandorin went straight from the Governor's house to the notary's office that had registered the bill of sale with the scoffing signature. Alas, behind the door with the bronze plaque that read Ivan Karlovich Mobius, they found nothing. The titular counsellor's wife Kapustina, whose house it was, had opened the locked door with her own key and testified that Mr Mobius had rented the ground floor two weeks earlier and paid for a month in advance. He was a thorough and reliable man and he had printed very prominent announcements about his office in all the newspapers. She had been surprised when he had not appeared at the office the previous day.
Fandorin listened, nodding his head and occasionally asking brief questions. He ordered Anisii to make a note of the description of the vanished notary's appearance. Average height,' Tulipov's pencil recorded with a studious squeak. 'Moustache, little goatee beard. Mousy hair. Pince-nez. Rubs his hands and laughs all the time. Polite. Large brown wart on right cheek. Looks at least forty. Leather galoshes. Grey coat with black roll collar.'
'Don't write about the g-galoshes and coat,' said the Court Counsellor, glancing briefly at Anisii's notes. 'Only the physical appearance.'
Behind the door there was a perfectly ordinary office: in the reception room there was a writing desk, a safe with its door half open and shelves with files. The files were all empty, mere cardboard shells, but in the safe on the metal shelf, in the most obvious spot, there was a playing card: the jack of spades. Erast Petrovich took the card, examined it through a magnifying glass and dropped it on the floor.
He explained to Anisii: 'It's just an ordinary card, the same as they sell everywhere. I can't stand cards, Tulipov, and especially the jack of spades (which they also call Momos). I have some extremely unpleasant memories associated with it.'
From the office they went to the English consulate to meet Lord Pitsbrook. On this occasion the son of Albion was accompanied by a diplomatic translator, and so Anisii was able to record the victim's testimony himself.
The British citizen informed the Court Counsellor that the 'Mobius' notary office had been recommended to him by Mr Speier as one of Russia's most respectable and oldest legal firms. In confirmation of this assertion, Mr Speier had shown him several newspapers, each of which carried a prominent advertisement for 'Mobius'. The lord did not know any Russian, but the year of the company's foundation - sixteen hundred and something - had made a most favourable impression on him.
Pitsbrook also showed them one of the newspapers, the Moscow Provincial Gazette which, in his English manner, he called the Moscow News. Anisii stretched his neck to peer over Mr Fandorin's shoulder and saw a huge advertisement covering a quarter of the page:
MOBIUS
Notary's Office
Ministry of Justice registration certificate No. 1672
Wills and bills of sale drawn up, powers of attorney witnessed, mortgages secured, representation for the recovery of debts, and other sundry services
They took the British citizen to the office of ill-fame, and he gave a detailed account of how, ha
ving received the paper signed by 'the old gentleman' (that is, His Excellency the Governor-General) he had set out to come here, to the 'office'. Mr Speier had not gone with him, because he was not feeling very well, but he had assured him that the head of the firm had been informed and was expecting his titled foreign client. The lord had indeed been received very courteously and offered tea with 'hard round biscuits' (spice cakes, perhaps?) and a good cigar. The documents had been witnessed very promptly and the notary had taken the money - a hundred thousand roubles - for safe keeping and put it in the safe.
'Yes indeed, safe keeping,' Erast Petrovich muttered, and asked something, pointing at the safe.
The Englishman nodded, opened the unlocked iron door and hissed an oath.
The lord was unable to add anything substantial to the portrait of Ivan Karlovich Mobius; he simply kept repeating that he had a wart. Anisii even remembered the English word for it.
A distinctive feature, Your Honour. A large brown wart on the right cheek. Perhaps we'll find the rogue after all?' said Tulipov, expressing his sound idea with timid reserve. He had taken the Governor-General's words about being ground into dust very much to heart. He wanted to prove useful.
But the Court Counsellor did not take Anisii's contribution seriously and said absent-mindedly: 'That's nothing, Tulipov. A psychological trick. It's not difficult to give yourself a wart or, say, a birthmark that covers half your cheek. Usually witnesses only remember a striking feature like that, and pay less attention to the others. Let us focus instead on the protector of juvenile harlots, "Mr Speier". Did you note down his portrait? Show it to me. Height uncertain, because in wheelchair. Dark blondish-brown hair, short at the temples. Soft, gentle expression. (Hmm ...) Eyes apparently light-coloured. (That is important, we shall have to question His Excellency's secretary again.) Open, pleasant face. So, there is nothing to give us a lead. We shall have to trouble His Highness the Duke of Saxen-Limburg. Let us hope he knows something about this "grandson", since he provided him with a special letter of recommendation to the "grandfather".'
