by Boris Akunin
“I don't want an injection,” Polina Andreevna sobbed. “Just take me to the guesthouse.”
Korovin shook his head and replied with gentle reproach, as if he were speaking to a foolish child. “In that condition? I won't hear of it. I have to examine you. What if you have a broken bone or a contusion somewhere? Or even, God forbid, concussion? Oh, no, my dear, I took the Hippocratic oath. Now, let's go. Where's your dress?”
He looked around and even glanced under the trestle bed. Lisitsyna didn't say anything, and neither did the limp, miserable Nikolai Vsevolodovich.
“All right, then, damn the dress. We'll find something for you there.”
He put one arm halfway around Polina Andreevna's shoulders and led her toward the door. She had no strength to resist, and anyway, how could she possibly appear in the town in such a state of undress?
For some reason Donat Savvich began by apologizing. Setting the pony moving at a light trot, he said guiltily, “Such an appalling thing to happen. I don't even know what excuse I can make. I have never had anything like it happen before. Naturally, you are entitled to complain to the authorities, take me to court, and so on. It will mean trouble for my clinic, perhaps even closure, but mea culpa, so I must be held responsible.”
“What have you got to do with it?” Polina Andreevna asked in surprise, pulling up her frozen feet; her shoes had been left in the lighthouse, and what good would they have been anyway—they were soaked through. “Why must you take responsibility for this man's crimes?”
She was on the point of revealing the whole truth about the Black Monk to the doctor, but before she could, Korovin gestured angrily and began speaking in a rapid, agitated manner.
“Because Terpsichorov is my patient and cannot stand trial. He is in my care and my responsibility. Ah, how could I have been so mistaken in my diagnosis! It is absolutely unforgivable! To fail to notice latent aggression, and such violent aggression! Using his fists on a woman—it's absolutely scandalous! In any case, I shall send him back to St. Petersburg. There is no place in my clinic for violent cases!”
“Who is your patient?” Lisitsyna asked, unable to believe her ears. “Nikolai Vsevolodovich?”
“Is that what he said his name was, Nikolai Vsevolodovich? Why, of course! Oh, I can guess who gave him that vile filth!”
“What filth?” asked Polina Andreevna, totally confused.
“You see, Laertes Terpsichorov (naturally, that is his stage name) is one of my most interesting patients. He used to be an actor, and a brilliant one—a gift from God, as they say. When he acted in a play, he was completely transformed into the character he played. The public and the critics adored him. Everybody knows that the very finest actors are those with a weak sense of their own individuality, whose own personality does not prevent them from mimicking every new role. Well, Terpsichorov has no distinctive personality of his own at all. If he is left without any roles to play, he will just lie on the divan all day long from morning till night, staring up at the ceiling, like a puppet lying in the puppet master's trunk. But the moment he enters into a role, he comes to life—he is charged with life and energy. Women fall madly, ecstatically in love with Terpsichorov. He has been married three times, and each time the marriage lasted for only a few weeks—on the longest occasion for a couple of months. Then every time, the wife realized that her chosen one was a zero, a nonentity—she had not fallen in love with Laertes Terpsichorov, but some literary character. Owing to his pathologically underdeveloped personality this actor used to immerse himself so deeply in his latest role that he even carried it with him into everyday life, extending the authors ideas, improvising, inventing new situations and lines. And he carried on like that until he was given the next play to learn. And so his first wife married Griboedov's Chatsky and then suddenly found herself the lifetime companion of Gogol's Khlestakov. The second one was wild about Cyrano de Bergerac, but soon ended up with Pushkin's Miserly Knight. The third one fell in love with the melancholy Prince of Denmark, but then he turned into Beaumarchais's foppish Count Almaviva. It was after the third divorce that Terpsichorov came to me. He loved his third wife very much and despair had driven him almost to the point of suicide. ‘I'll give up the theater,’ he said. ‘Help me to become myself!’ ”
“And did it not work?” asked Polina Andreevna, enthralled by this strange story.
“Oh, yes, it worked. The genuine, unadulterated Terpsichorov is a pale shadow of a man. He spends the whole day in a state of passive depression and is profoundly unhappy. Fortunately, I happened to acquire a Russian translation of a certain book, a collection of stories that describes a similar case. It also proposes a remedy—naturally, as a joke, but it seemed like a productive idea to me.”
“What idea was that?”
“A perfectly sensible one from the psychiatric point of view: it is not always the right thing to straighten out a crooked psyche—that can crush the individual personality. What is needed is to transform a weakness into a strength. After all, turn any depression through a hundred and eighty degrees, and it becomes an elevation. If a man cannot live without playacting, and only lives a full life when he is playing some part or other, he should be provided with a permanent repertoire. And the roles chosen should be ones that positively glitter with the finest, most exalted qualities of the human soul. No Khlestakovs, Miserly Knights, or—God forbid—Richard the Thirds.”
“So ‘Nikolai Vsevolodovich’ is Nikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin from Dostoyevsky's novel The Possessed,” Lisitsyna gasped. “But why did you choose such a dangerous part for your patient?”
“I didn't choose it at all,” the doctor exclaimed in annoyance. “I follow his reading very closely; I know what kind of role can enthrall him, and so for a year now the only book he has been allowed to read is another one by Dostoyevsky—The Idiot. Of all the characters in that book the only one suited to Terpsichorov is Prince Mishkin himself. And Laertes really took to the role. He was transformed into the absolutely inoffensive and extremely conscientious Lev Nikolaevich Mishkin, the very best of men in the entire world. Everything was going really well until some hooligan gave him a copy of The Possessed and I failed to notice. Well, of course, Stavrogin is far more impressive than Prince Mishkin, and so Terpsichorov switched roles. In dramatic terms: Byron-ism, theomachism, and the poeticization of Evil are far more attractive than feeble Christian compassion and forgiveness for all. When I realized what had happened, it was too late—Laertes had already become someone else, and I had to adapt as best I could. For the period of crisis, I moved him as far away as possible from the other patients and tried to choose some reading even more dramatic than The Possessed for him. But I must say, that is by no means easy. I had not suspected that Stavrogin could be so dangerous, and I had underestimated the strength of Laertes’ own creative fantasy. But even so, the idea of Stavrogin beating a woman is too bold an interpretation of the character. He is an aristocrat, after all.”
“He didn't beat me,” Mrs. Lisitsyna said in a quiet voice. She had guessed where the poor madman had acquired the detrimental novel: Father Mitrofanii had given it to Alyosha to read on his journey, for pedagogical purposes—and now look what it had led to!
Feeling almost like an accomplice to the crime (for it was she who had induced the bishop to start reading novels), Polina Andreevna said, “Do not throw Nikolai Vsevolodovich out—he is not to blame. I shall not make a complaint.”
“Really?” Korovin asked in a more cheerful voice. He wagged a threatening finger at an invisible Terpsichorov. “Well, now I shall have you learning the part of the sugar loaf in Maeterlinck's Blue Bird!” But then he immediately hung his head in dejection again. “I have to confess that I am not a very good healer of souls. The people I am able to help are too few. Terpsichorov's case is serious, but not hopeless; but how to save Lentochkin I have not the slightest idea.”
Lisitsyna shuddered as she realized that Alyosha's disappearance had not yet been discovered, but she said n
othing.
The gig was already rolling through the pine grove, between the gaily colored little houses of the clinic in their various styles. The doctor's mansion appeared from around a corner: standing in front of it was a low black carriage with a gold crest on its door, harnessed to a four-in-hand.
“His Reverence has come calling,” Donat Savvich said in surprise. “Why would he do that? He usually invites me to call on him, with advance warning. Something out of the ordinary must have happened. I'll show you through to my private apartments, Polina Andreevna, and see that you are taken care of. And if you will pardon me, I'll go through to the study to see the master of the island.”
However, things did not work out as Korovin had proposed. The archimandrite must have seen the carriage approaching through the window and he came out into the hallway to meet it. In fact he came flying out, a black figure of fury, beating his staff menacingly on the ground. He glanced briefly at the tormented creature of the female sex with a grimace of disgust and turned his eyes away—as if he were afraid of defiling his gaze by contemplating such obscenity. It was not clear whether he had recognized the generous pilgrim or not. Even if he had, there was no need to worry, Mrs. Lisitsyna reassured herself: he would simply think that the extravagant woman had had another crocodile dream.
“Good morning, Father,” said Korovin, inclining his head as he regarded the wrathful father superior with jovial puzzlement. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”
“You are violating our contract!” Vitalii cried, slamming his staff against the floor. “And a contract, sir, means more than mere money! Did you or did you not promise me that she would leave the brethren alone? And now what has happened?”
“Yes, what has happened?” the doctor asked, not frightened in the least. “What is this terrible thing that has happened?”
“The Basilisk did not sail this morning! The captain has disappeared! He is not in his cell, he is not on the landing stage, he is not anywhere! The passengers are complaining, there is an urgent cargo of monastery sour cream in the hold, and there is no one to captain the ship!” His Reverence grabbed hold of the cross hanging around his neck—clearly in order to remind himself of the Christian virtue of meekness. It did not help. “I conducted an inquiry! Yesterday Jonah was seen with your whore of Babylon!”
“If you are referring to Lidia Evgenievna Boreiko,” Donat Savvich replied calmly, “then she is by no means a whore; her diagnosis is quite different: pathological quasinymphomania with obsessive-compulsive delusions and chronic libidinal deficiency. In other words, she is one of those inveterate coquettes who turn men's heads, but would never, under any circumstances, allow them to touch their bodies.”
“We had an agreement!” Vitalii roared in a deafening voice. “She was not to go near the monks! She could practice her wiles on the visitors if she wished! Did we or did we not have an agreement?”
“We did,” the doctor admitted. “But perhaps your Jonah himself behaved with her in a manner not entirely becoming to a monk?”
“Brother Jonah is a simple, artless soul. I take his confession myself. I know all his ingenuous sins inside out!”
Korovin screwed up his eyes. “A simple soul, you say? I found a packet of cocaine in Lidia Evgenievna's bedroom here, and another two empty packets, with traces of the powder. Do you know who brings this filth from the mainland for her? Your sailor.”
“Lies! Whoever told you that is nothing but a liar and a spreader of slander!”
“Lidia Evgenievna admitted it herself,” said Donat Savvich. He gestured in the direction of the lake. “And at this moment your fallen lamb, the simple soul, is lying, blind drunk, over there, beside the old lighthouse. You can go and see for yourself. And so it is not Miss Boreiko's fault that the steamer did not sail on time.”
The archimandrite's eyes flashed, but he did not argue any more. Like a black tornado he hurtled outside to his carriage, slammed the door, and shouted, “Let's go! Come on!”
The carriage started with a sudden jerk, scattering the gravel from under its wheels.
“So Boreiko is one of your patients too?” Polina Andreevna asked, nonplussed.
The doctor frowned as he listened to the wild clatter of hooves retreating into the distance. “I'm not so sure now that it is Terpsichorov who gets the captain drunk … I beg your pardon? Ah, Boreiko. Why, naturally she is one of my patients. Can you not tell just from looking at her? A rather common accentuation of the female personality, usually referred to as a femme fatale, but in Lidia Evgenievna's case it has developed to an extreme degree. The girl constantly needs to feel that she is the object of desire of the greatest possible number of men. She derives her sensual satisfaction from others’ lust. She used to live in the capital, but after several tragic stories that ended in duels and suicides, her parents entrusted her to my care. The island life is good for Lidia Evgenievna. Far fewer stimuli, almost no temptations, and—most important—a total absence of competitors. She feels that she is the most beautiful woman in this isolated little world and so she is calm. Sometimes she tries out her charms on one of the visitors to convince herself that she is irresistible, and she is satisfied with that. I can see nothing dangerous in these little pranks. Boreiko promised not to experiment on the monks—and strict sanctions are envisaged for any violation of trust. Evidently this Jonah really is to blame himself.”
“Little pranks?” Mrs. Lisitsyna echoed with a sad laugh. And she told the doctor about the “Empress of Canaan.”
Korovin listened and clutched his head in his hands.
“That's awful, simply awful!” he said, sounding crushed. “What an appalling relapse! And once again it's entirely my fault. My experiment with supper for three has to be acknowledged a total failure. You did not give me a chance to explain at the time. You see, Polina Andreevna, a psychiatrist's relations with patients of the opposite sex are constructed according to several models. One of them, the most effective, uses infatuation as its instrument. My power over Boreiko, my lever of influence on her, is that I provoke her vanity. I am the only man who remains entirely indifferent to all her cunning charms as a femme fatale. If not for my inaccessibility, Lidia Evgenievna would long ago have fled from the island with some admirer or other, but until she has managed to conquer me, she will not go anywhere—her vanity will not allow it. Every now and then some salt needs to be rubbed into this wound, which is what I attempted to do with your help. Alas, the effect produced far exceeded my expectations. Instead of feeling slightly envious of the marks of attention that I paid to my attractive guest, Boreiko relapsed into a paranoid-hysterical state and interpreted your arrival here as a conspiracy. And you almost paid with your life as a result. Ah, I shall never forgive myself for this!”
Donat Savvich was so upset that the kindhearted Mrs. Lisitsyna had to console him again. She even went so far as to say that she was to blame for everything, because she had deliberately taunted the poor psychopath (which was partly true). And as for the doctor's mistake—who did not make mistakes, especially in such subtle matters as healing a sick soul? On the whole, she apparently succeeded in setting the despondent doctor's mind at rest.
Korovin rang to summon the duty doctor to his study and told him glumly, “Bring Lidia Evgenievna Boreiko to me immediately. Prepare an injection of tranquilium—a nervous fit is quite likely. Have the head nurse choose some shoes and clothes for Mrs. Lisitsyna. And make sure she has a relaxing massage and a lavender bath.”
Blue, Green, Yellow, Straw-Colored
AND SO THE summary result of all the shocks of the night and the morning was that Polina Andreevna had arrived right back where she started.
She had made not the slightest progress with the main business that had brought her to New Ararat. And the most annoying thing of all was that twice already in a short space of time she had believed with all her heart first in one theory and then in another, and now she could not have said which of them was the more absurd. Never before had the
perspicacious Sister Pelagia suffered such an embarrassing fiasco. Of course, there had been special circumstances interfering with the smooth process of her thought, but even so, now that she was rested and her head was clear, she felt ashamed.
The results of the investigation into the Black Monk presented a sorry picture.
First of all, there were the people who had died untimely deaths: the barrister Kubovsky, terrified into having a stroke; then the buoy keeper's wife, who had miscarried her baby; the buoy keeper, who had drowned; Lagrange, who had been shot; and finally, poor Alyosha Lentochkin.
Kubovksy had been taken away on the steamship in a zinc-lined coffin; the unfortunate mother and her lifeless child had been buried in the ground; Felix Stanislavovich was lying in the morgue, packed in blocks of ice; and the bodies of those who drowned were carried away to who knew where by the dark underwater currents.
And was Matvei Bentsionovich's lot any happier, with his reason clouded?
During the last few days, bearing in mind Alexei Stepanovich's fate (the attendants from Korovin's clinic had searched the whole of Canaan, but failed to find him), Mrs. Lisitsyna had visited Berdichevsky frequently, but found nothing to console her—he was deteriorating steadily. He either did not recognize his visitor, or took no interest in her at all. They sat facing each other without speaking, and then Polina An-dreevna went on her way with a heavy heart.
That terrible night filled with fateful events had concluded in total farce—and also, of course, in the strict punishment of the guilty parties.
His Reverence Vitalii had demoted Brother Jonah from captain to stoker and immediately put him in the punishment cell for a month on nothing but bread, water, and prayer.
Dr. Korovin had dealt with his own charges no less severely. Lidia Evgenievna had been forbidden (also for an entire month) to use powder, perfume, or pomade, and to wear black. The actor Terpsichorov had been placed under house arrest with a single solitary book, another work by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, but a harmless one, the short novel Poor People— to make him forget his dangerous role as “the gentleman from the canton of Uris” and adopt the image of the sugary-sweet, retiring Makar Devushkin. Two days later Polina Andreevna had visited the prisoner and been amazed by the change that had taken place in him. The former seducer had regarded her with a sincere, gentle smile and called her “dear friend” and “little mother.” To be quite honest, his visitor was actually rather upset by this metamorphosis—Terpsichorov had been far more interesting in his previous role.
