by Boris Akunin
CHAPTER NINE
which Fandorin’s career prospects appear to improve
“AND THAT’S MOMUS, THE FOOL,” HIPPOLYTE explained, stretching luxuriously. “But it’s getting rather late. Will you take some champagne for courage or go straight outside?”
Erast Fandorin sat there, bright red. He was choking with fury not at the count but at himself for being such a total idiot. There was no point in such an idiot staying alive.
“I’ll do it right here,” he growled in his anger, deciding that he could at least play one last dirty trick on his host. “Your flunky can wash the floor. And spare me the champagne—it gives me a headache.”
In the same angry fashion, trying not to think about anything, Fandorin grabbed the heavy revolver and cocked the hammer. Then, after hesitating for a moment over where to shoot himself and deciding that it made no difference, he set the barrel in his mouth, started counting in his mind—three, two, one—and pressed the trigger so hard that he pinched his tongue painfully with the barrel. However, no shot ensued. There was nothing but a dry click. Totally bemused, Erast Fandorin squeezed the trigger again. There was another click, but this time the metal merely rasped repulsively against a tooth.
“That’ll do, that’ll do!” Zurov took the gun away from him and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good fellow! Even tried to shoot yourself without taking Dutch courage, without any hysterics. A fine younger generation we have growing up, eh, gentlemen? Jean, pour the champagne. Mr. Fandorin and I will drink to bruderschaft.”
Erast Fandorin, overcome by a strange apathy, did as he was bid. He listlessly drained his glass of the bubbly beverage and listlessly exchanged kisses with the count, who ordered him henceforth to address him simply as Hippolyte. Everyone around was laughing loudly and making a racket, but when the sound of their voices reached Fandorin’s ears it was strangely muffled. The champagne prickled his nose, and tears welled up in his eyes.
“How do you like that Jean.” The count laughed. “It only took him a minute to remove all the pins. Very adroit, Fandorin, you must admit!”
“Yes, adroit,” Erast Fandorin agreed indifferently.
“I’d say so. What’s your first name?”
“Erast.”
“Come on then, Erastus of Rotterdam. Let’s go and sit in my study and drink a little brandy. I’m fed up with all these ugly mugs.”
“Erasmus,” Fandorin automatically corrected him.
“What?”
“Not Erastus but Erasmus.”
“I beg your pardon. I misheard. Let’s go, Erasmus.”
Fandorin obediently stood up and followed his host. They walked through a dark enfilade of rooms and found themselves in a round chamber where a quite remarkable disorder prevailed—pipes and empty bottles were scattered around, a pair of silver spurs were flaunting themselves on the table, and for some reason a stylish English saddle was lying in the corner. Why this chamber should be called a study, Erast Fandorin could not understand, since there were neither books nor writing instruments anywhere in sight.
“Splendid little saddle, isn’t it?” Zurov boasted. “Won it yesterday in a wager.”
He poured some brown-colored beverage into glasses from a round-bellied bottle, seated himself beside Erast Fandorin, and said very seriously, even soulfully, “Forgive me for my joke, brute that I am. I am bored, Erasmus. Plenty of folk around, but no real people. I’m twenty-eight, Fandorin, but I feel sixty, especially in the morning when I wake up. In the evening or at night it’s not too bad. I kick up a rumpus, play the fool. Only it’s disgusting. It used to be all right before, but nowadays somehow it gets more and more disgusting. Would you believe that just now when we were drawing lots, I suddenly thought: why not really shoot myself? And, you know, I felt tempted…Why don’t you say anything? Come on now, Fandorin. Don’t be angry. I very much want you not to bear a grudge. Tell me, what can I do to make you forgive me, eh, Erasmus?”
And then Erast Fandorin said in a squeaky but perfectly clear voice, “Tell me about her. About Bezhetskaya.”
Zurov tossed an exuberant lock of hair back from his forehead. “Ah yes, I forgot. You’re from the train.”
“From where?”
“That’s what I call it. Amalia—she’s a queen, after all—she needs a train, a train of men. The longer the better. Take a piece of well-meant advice: put her out of your head or you’re done for. Forget about her.”
“I can’t,” Erast Fandorin replied honestly.
“You’re still a babe in arms. Amalia’s bound to drag you down into the whirlpool, the way she’s dragged so many down already. Maybe the reason she took a shine to me was because I wouldn’t follow her into the whirlpool. I don’t need to—I have a whirlpool of my own. Not as deep as hers but still quite deep enough for me to drown in.”
“Do you love her?” Fandorin asked bluntly, claiming his privilege as the offended party.
“I’m afraid of her,” said Hippolyte with a dismal laugh, “more afraid than in love. And, anyway, it’s not love at all. Have you ever tried smoking opium?”
Fandorin shook his head.
“Once you’ve tried it, you’ll hanker after it for the rest of your life. That’s what she’s like. She won’t set me free! I can see perfectly well that she despises me and thinks I’m not really worth a damn, but she’s spotted something or other in me. Worse luck for me! You know, I’m glad she’s gone away, honest to God. Sometimes I used to think of killing her, the witch, strangling her with my own hands to stop her tormenting me. And she could tell, all right. Oh yes, brother, she’s clever. She was fond of me because she could play with me like with fire. First she would fan the flames, then she would blow them out, but all the time she knew that the fire might flare up and spread, and then she wouldn’t escape with her life. Otherwise what does she need me for?”
Erast Fandorin thought enviously that there was a great deal that might make a woman love the handsome Hippolyte, this devil-may-care hothead, without any need for flames. A handsome fellow like him was probably plagued by women. How was it that some people had such immoderate good luck? However, these were considerations that had nothing to do with the job at hand. He should be asking about business.
“Who is she, where from?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t like to talk about herself very much. All I know is that she grew up abroad somewhere. I think it was in Switzerland, in some boarding school or other.”
“And where is she now?” asked Erast Fandorin, without really expecting he would have any luck.
Zurov, moreover, was clearly taking his time to reply, and Fandorin’s heart stood still.
“Why—are you that badly smitten?” the count inquired morosely, and a hostile grimace momentarily distorted his handsome, capricious features.
“Yes!”
“Ye-es, well, it makes no difference, if a moth is drawn to a candle flame it will be burned up anyway…”
Hippolyte rummaged among the decks of cards, unironed handkerchiefs, and shop bills on the table.
“Where is it, dammit? Ah, I remember.” He opened a Japanese lacquered box with a mother-of-pearl butterfly on the lid. “There you are. It arrived by municipal post.”
Erast Fandorin took the narrow envelope with trembling fingers. Written on it in a slanting, impetuous hand was: To His Excellency Count Hippolyte Zurov, Yakovo-Apostolsky Lane, at his own house. According to the postmark, the letter had been sent on the sixteenth of May, the day that Bezhetskaya had disappeared.
Inside, he discovered a short note in French, with no signature.
I am obliged to leave without taking my leave. Write to me at: London, Grey Street, the Winter Queen Hotel, for the attention of Miss Olsen. I am waiting. And do not dare to forget me.
“But I shall dare,” Hippolyte threatened vehemently, but then he immediately wilted. “At least, I shall try…Take it, Erasmus. Do whatever you like with it…Where are you going?”
“I must be off now,�
� said Fandorin, tucking the envelope into his pocket. “I have to hurry.”
“Well, well.” The count nodded pityingly. “Off you go, fly into the flame. It’s your life, not mine.”
Outside in the yard Erast Fandorin was overtaken by Jean carrying a bundle.
“Here you are, sir. You left this behind.”
“What is it?” Fandorin asked in annoyance, glancing around.
“Are you joking, sir? Your winnings. His Excellency ordered me to be sure to catch up with you and give them to you.”
ERAST FANDORIN had a most peculiar dream.
He was sitting at a desk in a classroom in his provincial gymnasium. He had dreams of this kind—usually alarming and unpleasant—quite frequently, in which he was once again a pupil at the gymnasium and had been called out to the front in a physics or algebra lesson and his mind was blank. However, this dream was not just miserable but genuinely terrifying. Fandorin simply could not comprehend the reason for this fear. He was not up at the blackboard but at his desk, with his classmates sitting around him: Ivan Brilling; Akhtyrtsev; some fine, handsome young fellow with a high, pale forehead and insolent brown eyes (Erast Fandorin knew this must Kokorin); two female pupils in white uniform aprons; and someone else sitting in front of Fandorin with his back turned to him. Fandorin was afraid of the fellow with his back to him and tried not to look his way, but he kept straining his neck to get a look at the girls—one dark haired and one light haired. They were sitting at their desks with their slim hands studiously clasped together in front of them. One turned out to be Amalia and the other Lizanka. The first shot him a searing glance from her huge black eyes and stuck her tongue out, while the second smiled bashfully and lowered her downy eyelashes. Then Fandorin noticed that Lady Astair was standing at the blackboard holding a pointer, and everything suddenly became clear to him: this was the latest English method of education, in which boys and girls were taught together. And very good, too. As though she had heard his thoughts, Lady Astair smiled sadly and said, “This is not simply coeducation—this is my class of orphans. You are all orphans, and I must set you on the path.”
“By your leave, my lady,” Fandorin said, surprised, “I happen to know for certain that Lizanka is not an orphan but the daughter of a full privy counselor.”
“Ah, my sweet boy,” said her ladyship, smiling even more sadly. “She is an innocent victim, and that is the same thing as an orphan.” The terrifying fellow in front of Fandorin slowly turned around and, staring straight at him with whitish, transparent eyes, whispered, “I, Azazel, am also an orphan.” He winked conspiratorially and, finally casting aside all restraint, said in Ivan Brilling’s voice, “And, therefore, my young friend, I shall be obliged to kill you, which I sincerely regret…Hey, Fandorin, don’t just sit there like a dummy. Fandorin!”
“Fandorin!” Someone was shaking him by the shoulder, rousing him from his terrifying nightmare. “Wake up now. It’s morning already.”
He shook himself awake and jumped to his feet, turning his head this way and that. Apparently he had been dozing in his chief’s office, overcome by sleep right there at the desk. The joyful light of morning was pouring in through the window between the open curtains, and Ivan Brilling was standing there beside him, dressed as a petit bourgeois in a cap with a cloth peak, a pleated caftan, and mud-stained, concertina-creased boots.
“Dropped off, did you, couldn’t wait?” Brilling asked merrily. “Pardon my fancy dress. I had to go out in the night on an urgent matter. Go and get a wash, will you—stop gawping like that. Quick march.”
While Fandorin was on his way to get washed, he recalled the events of the previous night, remembering how he had dashed away from Hip-polyte’s house at breakneck speed, how he had leapt into the cab with its somnolent driver and ordered him to drive hard to Miasnitskaya Street. He had been so impatient to tell his chief about his success, but Brilling had not been at his desk. Erast Petrovich had first dealt with a certain urgent matter, then sat down in the office to wait, and he had fallen asleep.
When he got back to the office Ivan Brilling had already changed into a light two-piece suit and was drinking tea with lemon. There was a second steaming glass in a silver holder standing opposite him, and there were bagels and plain rolls lying on a tray.
“Let’s have some breakfast,” Brilling suggested, “and we can talk at the same time. I already know the basic story of your nighttime adventures, but I have a few questions.”
“How can you know?” asked Fandorin, feeling aggrieved. He had been anticipating the pleasure of telling his story and—to be honest—had intended to omit certain details.
“One of my agents was at Zurov’s. I got back about an hour ago, but it would have been a shame to wake you. I sat and read his report. Fascinating reading—I didn’t even find time to get changed.”
He slapped his hand down on several sheets of paper covered with fine handwriting.
“He’s a clever agent, but his prose is terribly flowery. He imagines he has literary talent and writes to the newspapers under the name of Maximus Zorky, dreams of a career as a censor. Listen to this—you’ll find it interesting. Where is it…Ah yes.”
Description of the subject.
Name: Erasmus von Dorn or von Doren (determined by ear).
Age: not more than twenty.
Verbal portrait
Height: two arshins, eight vershoks*;
Build: skinny;
Hair: black and straight;
Beard and mustache: none, and appears unlikely to shave; eyes bright blue, close-set, slightly slanting toward the corners; skin white and clear;
Nose: narrow and straight;
Ears: set close to the head, small, with short lobes.
Distinctive feature: his cheeks are always flushed.
Personal impressions: typical representative of vicious and depraved gilded youth, shows quite exceptional promise as an incorrigible duelist. After the events described above he and the gambler withdrew to the latter’s study. They talked for twenty-two minutes. They spoke quietly, with pauses. Because of the door I could hear almost nothing, but I did clearly make out the word ‘opium’ and also something about fire. I felt it was necessary to shadow von Doren, but he evidently discovered my presence and escaped me most cleverly, leaving in a cab. I suggest…
“Well, the rest is not very interesting.” Brilling looked at Fandorin with curiosity. “So what was it you were discussing about opium? Don’t keep me waiting. I’m burning up with curiosity.”
Fandorin gave a brief account of the conversation with Hippolyte and showed Brilling the letter. Brilling heard him out most attentively, asked for clarification of several points, and then fell silent, gazing out the window. The pause continued for a long time, about a minute. Erast Fandorin sat quietly, afraid of disturbing the thinking process, although he had his own thoughts, too.
“I am very pleased with you, Fandorin,” his chief said, coming back to life. “You have been quite brilliantly effective. In the first place, it is absolutely clear that Zurov is not involved in the murder and does not suspect the nature of your activity. Otherwise, would he have given you Amalia’s address? That gets rid of scenario three for us. In the second place, you have made a lot of progress with the Bezhetskaya scenario. Now we know where to look for that lady. Bravo. I intend to set all of the agents who are now free, including you, on to scenario four, which seems to me to be the basic one.” He jabbed his finger toward the blackboard, where the fourth circle contained the white chalk letters NO.
“How do you mean?” Fandorin asked anxiously. “But, by your leave, chief—”
“Last night I came across a very promising kind of trail that leads to a certain dacha outside Moscow,” Ivan Brilling declared with quite evident satisfaction (that accounted for the mud-spattered boots). “Revolutionaries—extremely dangerous ones—use it as a meeting place. There also appears to be a thread leading to Akhtyrtsev. We shall work on it. I shall need everybody. A
nd it seems to me that the Bezhetskaya scenario is a blind alley. In any case, it is not urgent. We’ll forward a request to the English via diplomatic channels and ask them to detain this Miss Olsen until the matter is clarified, and that will be an end of that.”
“That’s exactly what we must not do under any circumstances!” Fandorin cried out so vehemently that Ivan Brilling was quite taken aback.
“Why not?”
“Surely you can see that it all fits together perfectly!” Erast Fandorin began very quickly, afraid of being interrupted. “I don’t know about the nihilists—it’s entirely possible, and I understand its importance—but this is also a matter of importance, state importance! Look at the picture we have taking shape, Ivan Franzevich. Bezhetskaya has gone into hiding in London—that’s one.” (He did not even notice that he had adopted his chief’s manner of expressing his thoughts.) “Her butler is English and a very suspicious character, the kind that will slit your throat without batting an eyelid—that’s two. The white-eyed man who killed Akhtyrtsev spoke with an accent and also looks like an Englishman—that’s three. Now for number four: Lady Astair is, of course, a most noble creature, but she is also an Englishwoman. And Kokorin’s estate, say what you will, has gone to her. Surely it’s obvious that Bezhetskaya deliberately prompted her admirers to draw up their wills in favor of the Englishwoman!”
“Stop, stop,” said Brilling with a frown. “What exactly are you driving at? Espionage?”
“It’s obvious, surely,” Erast Fandorin said with a flurry of his arms. “English plots. You know yourself the state of relations with England at the moment. I don’t wish to say anything untoward about Lady Astair—she probably doesn’t know a thing—but her organization can be used as a cover, as a Trojan horse for infiltrating Russia.”
“Oh yes,” said his chief with an ironical smile. “Queen Victoria and Mr. Disraeli are not satisfied with the gold of Africa and the diamonds of India—they want Petrusha Kokorin’s fabric mill and Nikolenka Akhtyrtsev’s three thousand desyatins* of land.”
