Erast Fandorin 01 - The Winter Queen

by Boris Akunin

  Blank translated what he had said to the baroness.

  “Fine,” she responded in English and then added in an undertone, “Andrew, just make sure that he doesn’t try to make a profit selling the horse and the carriage.”

  Fandorin did not catch any reply. No doubt the taciturn Andrew had merely nodded.

  Get on with it, you reptiles, unfasten me, thought Erast Fandorin, mentally urging his malefactors on. The school break’s starting soon. I’ll show you an experiment. Just as long as I don’t forget about the safety catch.

  However, there was a serious disappointment in store for Fandorin—no one began to unfasten him. Someone breathed loudly right into his ear, and he caught a whiff of onions. Timofei, the captive guessed with unerring perspicacity. Then there was a low rasping sound that was repeated a second time, then a third and a fourth.

  “That’s it. I’ve unscrewed it,” the doorkeeper announced. “Catch hold, Andriukha, and away we go.”

  They lifted up Erast Fandorin together with the armchair and bore him away. Opening his eyes very slightly, he glimpsed the gallery and the Dutch windows illuminated by the sun. Everything was clear now: they were taking him to the main building, to the laboratory.

  When his bearers stepped carefully into the recreation hall, trying to avoid making any noise, Fandorin thought seriously about whether he should suddenly come to and disrupt the educational process with bloodcurdling screams. Let the little children see the sort of business their kind ladyship was involved in. But the sounds coming from the classrooms conveyed such a feeling of peace and comfort—the measured bass of the teacher’s voice, a peal of boyish laughter, a phrase of music from a choir—that Fandorin did not have the heart to do it. Never mind, in any case it was still too early to show his hand, he thought in justification of his own spinelessness.

  Then it was too late and the classroom hubbub had been left far behind. Erast Fandorin took a peep and saw that they were carrying him up some staircase. A door creaked, and a key turned in a lock.

  Even through his closed eyelids he saw the bright flash of the electric light. He surveyed his surroundings rapidly through a single squinting eye, managing to distinguish some porcelain utensils, wires, and metal coils. He disliked the look of it all very much. In the distance there was the muffled ringing of a bell—evidently the lesson was over—and almost immediately he heard the clear sound of voices.

  “I do hope everything will work out well.” Lady Astair sighed. “I should regret it if the young man were to die.”

  “I hope so, too, my lady,” the professor replied, clearly nervous, and he began clanking some object made of iron. “But, alas, there is no such thing as science without sacrifices. A heavy price must be paid for every new step forward in knowledge. Fine feelings won’t get you very far. But if this young man means so much to you, that bear of yours ought not to have poisoned the coachman but merely slipped him a sleeping draught. Then I would have started with the coachman and left the young man for later. That would have improved his chances.”

  “You are right, my friend. Absolutely right. That was an unforgivable mistake.” Her ladyship’s voice was filled with sincere regret. “But do the best you can. Explain to me again what exactly it is that you intend to do.”

  Erast Fandorin pricked up his ears. This was a question he also found extremely interesting.

  “You are familiar with my general concept,” Blank proclaimed in a fervent voice, even ceasing his metallic clanking. “It is my belief that taming the force of electricity is the key to the coming century. Yes, indeed, my lady! There are still twenty-four years remaining until the twentieth century, but that is not so very long. In the new century the world will be transformed beyond all recognition, and this great transformation will be brought about precisely thanks to electricity. Electricity is not just a source of light, as the ignorant masses suppose. It is capable of working miracles, great and small. Imagine a horseless carriage that runs on an electric motor! Imagine a train without a steam engine—fast, clean, silent! And mighty canon striking down the enemy with a controlled bolt of lightning! Or an omnibus with no horse required to pull it.”

  “You have told me all of this many times before,” the baroness gently interrupted the enthusiast. “Please explain to me the medical application of electricity.”

  “Oh, that is the most interesting part,” said the professor, growing even more excited. “That is the very sphere of electrical science to which I intend to devote my life. Macroelectricity—turbines, motors, powerful dynamos—will change the outside world, but microelectricity will change man himself, correcting the imperfections in nature’s design for Homo sapiens. It is electrophysiology and electrotherapy that will save mankind, not your clever know-it-alls who spend their time playing the great politician or, even more funny, daubing pictures.”

  “You are mistaken, my boy. They are also performing very important and necessary work. But please continue.”

  “I’ll give you the means to make a man, any man, ideal—to rid him of his faults. All the defects that determine a person’s behavior are located here, in the subcortex of the brain.” A rigid finger tapped Erast Fandorin very painfully on the temple. “To explain in simple terms, there are regions of the brain that control logic, pleasure, fear, cruelty, sexual feeling, and so on and so forth. A man could be a harmonious personality if all these regions functioned in balance, but that almost never happens. In one person the region responsible for the instinct of self-preservation is overdeveloped, and that person is a pathological coward. In another the zone of logic is insufficiently active, and that person is a complete and utter fool. The burden of my theory is that it is possible to use electrophoresis, that is, a specifically targeted and strictly dosed discharge of electrical current, to stimulate certain regions of the brain and suppress other, undesirable, regions.”

  “That is very, very interesting,” said the baroness. “You know, my dear Gebhardt, I have never restricted you financially at all, but why are you so convinced that adjusting the psyche in this manner is possible in principle?”

  “It is possible! Of that there is not the slightest doubt! Are you aware, my lady, that in Incan burial sites skulls have been discovered with an identical opening just here?” The finger prodded twice again at Erast Fandorin’s head. “This is the location of the region that controls fear. The Incas knew that, and even with their primitive instruments they were able to gouge the cowardice out of boys of the warrior caste and render their soldiers fearless. And the mouse? Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, your ‘fearless mouse’ that flung itself at a cat made a great impression on me.”

  “Ah, but that is merely the beginning. Imagine a society in which there are no criminals! When a vicious murderer, a maniac, or a thief is arrested he is not executed or sentenced to hard labor. He is simply subjected to a small operation and the unfortunate man—freed forever of his morbid cruelty, excessive lust, or inordinate greed—becomes a useful member of society! And just imagine if one of your boys, already so talented, were to undergo my electrophoresis, reinforcing his ability still further!”

  “I certainly will not give you any of my boys,” the baroness interrupted. “An excess of talent leads to insanity. You had better experiment on criminals. And now tell me, what exactly is a ‘blank individual’?”

  “It is a relatively simple operation. I think I am almost ready for it. It is possible to deliver a shock to the region where memory is accumulated so that a person’s brain becomes a blank page, as if you had wiped it clean with an eraser. All the intellectual abilities will be retained, but the acquired skills and knowledge will disappear. What you have is a person as blank as a newborn baby. Do you recall the experiment with the frog? After the operation it had forgotten how to hop, but its motor reflexes were intact. It had forgotten how to catch midges, but its swallowing reflex remained. Theoretically it would have been possible to teach it all of this again. Now let us take our pati
ent here…What are you two doing standing there gawping? Take him and put him on the table. Macht schnell!”

  This was the moment at last! Fandorin readied himself. But the base, dastardly Andrew gripped him so firmly by the shoulders that it was quite pointless even to attempt to reach for the gun. Timofei clicked something, and the steel hoops constricting Fandorin’s chest fell away.

  “One, two, and up!” commanded Timofei, holding Fandorin by the legs. Andrew, maintaining his firm grip, lifted him with ease out of the chair.

  They carried their guinea pig over to the table and laid him out on his back, Andrew still grasping him by the elbows and Timofei clutching his ankles. The bell could be heard ringing again—the break between classes was over.

  “After I apply a synchronous electrical discharge to two regions of the brain, the patient will be completely purged of all previous experience of life and transformed, so to speak, into a little infant. He will have to be taught everything all over again—how to walk and to chew, how to use the toilet, and later how to read, write, and so on. I expect that your teachers will find that interesting, especially as you already have some notion of the proclivities of this individual.”

  “Yes, he has excellent reactions. He is courageous, with well-developed logical thinking and unique powers of intuition. I hope that is all capable of being restored.”

  In different circumstances Erast Fandorin would have felt flattered by such a complimentary testimonial, but now it made him squirm in horror. He imagined himself lying in a pink cot with a pacifier in his mouth, goo-gooing senselessly, and Lady Astair leaning over him and saying, “Aren’t we a naughty boy, now, lying there all wet again.” No, death would be better than that!

  “He’s having convulsions, sir.” Andrew was the first to comment. “I hope he won’t come ‘round.”

  “Impossible,” retorted the professor. “The anesthetic will last for at least two hours. Slight convulsions are quite normal. There is only one danger, my lady. I did not have sufficient time to calculate precisely the charge required. If I use more than necessary it will kill the patient or make him an idiot for life. If I do not use enough, the subcortex will retain vague residual images, which under the influence of external stimuli might one day fuse to form specific memories.”

  The baroness was silent for a moment and then she said, with evident regret, “We cannot take any risks. Make the charge on the strong side.”

  There was a strange buzzing sound, followed by a crackling that made Fandorin’s flesh creep.

  “Andrew, cut away two circles of hair—here and here,” said Blank, touching the head of his subject. “I need to attach the electrodes.”

  “No, let Timofei do that,” Lady Astair declared firmly. “I am leaving. I do not wish to see this—I shall not be able to sleep tonight if I do. Andrew, you will come with me. I shall write a few urgent telegrams and you will take them to the telegraph. We must take precautionary measures. After all, our friend here will soon be missed.”

  “Yes, yes, my lady. You will only be in my way here,” the professor replied absentmindedly, absorbed in his preparations. “I shall inform you immediately of the outcome.”

  At long last the iron talons in which Erast Fandorin’s elbows had been grasped released their grip.

  No sooner had the footsteps beyond the door receded into silence than Fandorin opened his eyes, tore his legs free, flexed his knees, and gave Timofei a kick in the chest that sent him flying into the corner. A moment later Erast Fandorin had already leapt to the floor and, still blinking in the light, pulled out his trusty Herstal from under his coattails.

  “Don’t move or I’ll kill you!” the resurrected victim hissed venge-fully, and at that moment he really did want to shoot both of them: Timofei as he sat there stupidly batting his eyelids and the mad professor standing frozen in amazement with two metal knitting needles in his hand. Thin wires led from the needles to some cunning apparatus with a number of small, winking lamps. The laboratory was crammed with all sorts of curious items, but now was clearly not the time to be studying them.

  Timofei made no attempt to get up off the floor and simply kept crossing himself with small, rapid movements, but Fandorin could see that the situation with Blank was less secure. The scientist was not scared in the least, merely infuriated at this unexpected obstacle that could ruin his entire experiment. The thought ran through Fandorin’s head: he’s going to throw himself at me! And suddenly the desire to kill him shriveled and melted away without trace.

  “Don’t do anything stupid! Stay where you are!” Fandorin shouted, his voice trembling slightly.

  That very moment Blank roared, “Mistker! Du hast alles verdorben” and made a dash at him, crashing into the edge of the table on the way.

  Erast Fandorin pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. The safety catch! He clicked the button. Then he pressed the trigger twice. Ba-bang! There was a double peal of thunder and the professor fell facedown, his head at Fandorin’s feet.

  Fearing an attack from behind, Fandorin swung around sharply, ready to fire again, but Timofei merely huddled back against the wall and began jabbering in a tearful voice, “Don’t kill me, Your Honor! Don’t do it! In Christ’s name! In God’s name, Your Honor!”

  “Get up, you scoundrel!” howled Erast Fandorin, half deafened and crazed. “That way! March!”

  Prodding Timofei in the back with the barrel of his gun, he drove him along the corridor and then down the staircase. Timofei staggered along with short steps, gasping out loud every time the gun barrel nudged his spine.

  They rushed quickly through the recreation hall, and Fandorin tried not to look at the teachers peering out from behind the open doors of the classrooms and the silent children in blue uniforms peeping out from behind their backs.

  “Police!” Erast Fandorin shouted into empty space. “Teachers, keep the children in the classrooms! And stay there yourselves!”

  Sweeping through the long gallery at the same half-walking, half-running pace, they came to the wing. When they reached the white and gold door Erast Fandorin shoved Timofei with all his might, and the doorkeeper rammed open the doors with his forehead, scarcely managing to stay on his feet. No one. The room was empty!

  “Forward march! Open every door!” ordered Fandorin. “And remember: one false move and I’ll shoot you like a dog!”

  The doorkeeper merely threw his arms up into the air and raced back into the corridor. In five minutes they examined all the rooms on the first floor. There was not a single soul, except in the kitchen, where the poor coachman, slumped heavily across the table with his dead face twisted to one side, was sleeping the sleep of eternity. Erast Fandorin cast a quick glance at the crumbs of sugar in his beard and the puddle of spilt tea, then ordered Timofei to move on.

  On the second floor there were two bedrooms, a dressing room, and a library. The baroness and her servant were not there either. Where could they be? Had they heard the shots and hidden somewhere? Or had they fled the scene altogether?

  In his fury Erast Fandorin swung the hand holding the gun through the air and suddenly a shot rang out. The bullet whined as it ricocheted off the wall and hit the window, printing a neat little star with radiating points on the glass. Damn. The safety catch was off, and the trigger was light, Fandorin remembered. He shook his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears.

  The shot produced a magical effect on Timofei, who sank to his knees and began whining, “Your Hon—Your Worship…Don’t take my life. The devil led me astray. I’ve got little children and a sick wife! I’ll show you! As sure as God’s holy I will! They’re down in the cellar, in the secret basement! I’ll show you, but spare my soul!”

  “In what basement?” Erast Fandorin asked menacingly, raising the gun as if he really did intend to enact justice there and then.

  “You follow me, follow me, Your Honor.”

  Timofei leapt to his feet and, glancing around at every moment, led Fandorin back to the first floor,
into the baroness’s study.

  “I just happened to peep once, by chance…She wouldn’t let me anywhere near it. She didn’t trust me. Why should she—a Russian Orthodox, none of their English blood in me.” Timofei crossed himself. “Only that Andrew of hers was ever allowed in there, but not me, oh no!”

  He darted around behind the desk and turned a handle on a cabinet, and the cabinet suddenly moved to one side, revealing a small copper door.

  “Open it!” ordered Erast Fandorin.

  Timofei crossed himself again three times and pushed the door. It opened without a sound, revealing a stairway that led down into darkness.

  Prodding Timofei in the back, Fandorin began cautiously descending. The stairs ended in a blank wall, but there was a low corridor running off at a sharp angle to the right.

  “Go on! Go on!” Erast Fandorin hissed at the reluctant Timofei.

  They turned the corner into pitch-black darkness. should have brought a candle, Fandorin thought, reaching into his pocket for matches with his left hand, but suddenly somewhere ahead of him there was a bright flash and a loud report. Timofei gave a gasp and sank to the floor, but Erast Fandorin held his Herstal out in front of him and pressed the trigger, holding it down until the hammer began clicking against empty shell cases. A hollow silence fell. With trembling fingers Fandorin took out his matchbox and struck a match. Timofei was slumped against the wall in a motionless heap. Taking a few steps forward, Erast Fandorin saw Andrew lying on his back on the ground. The trembling flame glimmered for a moment in the glassy eyes before it went out.

  On finding oneself in the dark, the great Fouché teaches us, one should screw one’s eyes tight shut and count to thirty to give the pupils time to contract, and then one’s vision will be capable of discerning the most insignificant source of light. In order to be quite certain, Erast Fandorin counted to forty before opening his eyes, and indeed there was a ray of light filtering through from somewhere. Extending ahead of him the hand clutching the now useless Herstal, he took a step forward, then another, then a third. In front of him he saw a door standing slightly ajar, a faint beam of light emerging from the gap. The baroness could only be in there. Fandorin stepped decisively toward the glowing beam and pushed the door hard.