by Boris Akunin
In the morning Masa’s eye had been caught by the consul’s maid, a girl by the name of Natsuko. His instinct told him it would be worthwhile spending a bit of time on her – it could lead to something.
He could see the girl doing the cleaning, moving from room to room, but she didn’t look out of the window.
Masa opened the curtains a bit wider, put a mirror on the windowsill and started pretending to shave – exactly the way his master did. Masa’s cheeks were round and remarkably smooth, no beard grew on them, the Buddha be praised, but why shouldn’t he lather them up with fragrant foam?
Working away gravely with the brush, Masa moved the mirror about a bit, trying to direct a spot of sunlight into Natsuko’s eyes.
He had to break off for a while, because Shirota-san and the dead captain’s yellow-haired daughter came out into the garden. They sat down on a bench under a young gingko tree and the interpreter began reading something out loud from a book, waving his hand about at the same time. Every now and then he cast a sideways glance at the young lady, but she sat with her eyes lowered and didn’t look at him at all. Such a learned man, but he had no idea how to court women, Masa thought, feeling sorry for Shirota-san. He ought to turn away from her completely and be casual, uttering only an occasional word. Then she wouldn’t turn her nose up, she’d start worrying that perhaps she wasn’t attractive enough.
They sat there for about a quarter of an hour, and when they left they forgot the book, leaving it on the bench. It was lying there with the front cover facing upwards. Standing up on tiptoe, Masa was able to make out the cover – it showed a gaijin with frizzy hair and curly hair on his cheeks at both sides, exactly like the orang-utan Masa had seen in the Asakusa park last week. There were lots of curiosities on show there: a performance by a master of passing wind, and a woman who smoked with her navel, and a spider-man with an old man’s head and the body of a five-year-old child.
He started fiddling with the mirror again, turned it this way and that, and eventually, after about half an hour, he was successful. Natsuko started showing interest in the ray of light that kept getting in her eyes. She turned her head right and left, glanced out of the window and saw the vice-consul’s servant. By that time, of course, Masa had already set the mirror on the windowsill and was making wild eyes as he waved a sharp razor about in front of his face.
The girl froze with her mouth open – he saw that very clearly out of the corner of his eye. He knitted his eyebrows together, because women appreciate sternness in a man; he pushed his cheek out with his tongue, as his master had done earlier, and turned sideways on to Natsuko, so she wouldn’t feel shy about examining her new neighbour more closely.
In about an hour’s time he should go out into the garden. As if he needed to clean his master’s sword (the narrow one in a beautiful scabbard with a gilded hilt). He could be sure Natsuko would also find herself something to do out there.
The maid stared at him for about a minute and then disappeared.
Masa stuck his head out of the window: it was important to understand why she had gone away – whether her mistress had called her or he had failed to make a strong enough impression.
There was a faint rustling sound behind him.
Erast Petrovich’s valet tried to turn round, but he was suddenly overcome by an irresistible urge to sleep. Masa yawned, stretched and slid down on to the floor. He started snoring.
Roused from sleep by a deafening sound of uncertain origin, Erast Petrovich jerked upright on the bed and for a brief moment felt frightened: there was an outlandish Oriental sitting on the floor, dressed in check trousers, a white shirt-front and a black bowler hat. The Oriental was watching the titular counsellor intently, and when he saw that Erast Petrovich had woken up, he swayed forward, like a bobbling Chinese doll.
And then Fandorin recognised his new servant. What was his name? Ah, yes, Masa.
The breakfast prepared by this native Sancho Panza was a nightmare. How could they eat that slimy, smelly, cold stuff? And raw fish! And gooey rice that stuck to the roof of your mouth! And it was better not even to think about what that sticky diarrhoea-coloured glue was made of. Not wishing to offend the Japanese, Fandorin quickly swallowed all this poison and washed it down with tea, but the tea seemed to have been brewed out of fish scales.
The attempt to compose a verbal portrait of the suspicious old man from the Rakuen ended in failure – it couldn’t be done without an interpreter, and the titular counsellor had not yet decided whether it was appropriate to let Shirota know all the details of the investigation.
But on the other hand, the introductory lesson on Japanese pugilism was a tremendous success. English boxing proved to be quite powerless against it. Masa moved with incredible speed and he struck with strength and precision. How right it was to fight with the legs instead of the arms! The lower limbs were so much stronger and longer! This was a skill well worth learning.
Then Erast Petrovich put on his uniform with the red cuffs and went to the consular premises to present himself to his superior with all due ceremony – for after all, this was his first day in his new position.
Doronin was sitting in his office, dressed in a frivolous shantung two-piece suit, and he gestured at the uniform as if it were a piece of silly nonsense.
‘Tell me, quickly!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know you got back early in the morning, and I’ve been waiting impatiently for you to wake up. Naturally, I understand that you came back empty-handed, otherwise you would have come to report straight away, but I want to know all the details.’
Fandorin briefly expounded the meagre results of the investigation’s first operation and announced that he was ready to perform his routine duties, since he had nothing else to deal with for the time being – until information was received from the Japanese agents who were following the hunchback.
The consul pondered that for a moment.
‘So, what do we have? The instigators didn’t show up, thereby only deepening our suspicions. The Japanese police are searching for three men who speak the Satsuma dialect and have swords. And the hilt of one man’s sword, the one who has a withered arm, is covered with glasspaper (if the captain didn’t imagine it). At the same time your group has focused its attention on the owner of the Rakuen and the mysterious old man whom your servant saw near Blagolepov. We’ll get a verbal portrait – I’ll have a word with Masa myself. I tell you what, Fandorin. Forget your vice-consular duties for the present, Shirota will manage on his own. You need to study the Settlement and its surroundings as soon as possible. It will make your detective work easier. Let’s take a pedestrian excursion around Yokohama. Only get changed first.’
‘With great pleasure,’ Erast Petrovich said, and bowed. ‘But first, if you will p-permit me, I shall take a quarter of an hour to show Miss Blagolepova the principles of the typewriter.’
‘Very well. I shall call for you at your quarters in half an hour.’
In the corridor he met Sophia Diogenovna – she seemed to have been waiting for the young man. When she saw him, she blushed and pressed the book she was holding tight against her chest.
‘There, I left it behind in the garden,’ she whispered, as if she were making excuses for something. ‘Kanji Mitsuovich, Mr Shirota, gave me it to read …’
‘Do you like Pushkin?’ asked Fandorin, glancing at the cover and wondering whether he ought to offer the young spinster his condolences on the occasion of her father’s demise once again, or whether enough had been said already. He decided it would be better not to – she might burst into floods of tears again.
‘He writes quite well, but it’s very long-winded,’ Sophia Diogenovna replied. ‘We were reading Tatyana’s letter to the object of her passion. Some girls are really so daring. I would never have dared … but I really love poetry. Before Papa took to smoking, sailor gentlemen often used to visit us, they wrote things in my album. One conductor from the St Pafnutii composed very soulful poems.’
‘And what
did you like best?’ Erast Petrovich asked absentmindedly.
The young lady lowered her eyes and whispered:
‘I can’t recite it … I’m too embarrassed. I’ll write it out for you and send it later, all right?’
At this point ‘Kanjii Mitsuovich’ glanced out of the door leading to the office. He gave the vice-consul a strange look, bowed politely and announced that the writing machine had been unpacked and installed.
The titular counsellor led the new operator off to introduce her to this great achievement of progress.
Half an hour later, exhausted by his pupil’s inept diligence, Erast Petrovich went to get changed for the proposed excursion. He took his boots off in the entrance hall and unbuttoned his short undercoat and shirt, in order not to delay Vsevolod Vitalievich, who was due to appear at any minute.
‘Masa!’ the titular counsellor called as he walked into the bedroom. He spotted his servant immediately. He was sleeping peacefully on the floor under the open window, and hovering over him was a little old Japanese man in worker’s clothes: grey jacket, narrow cotton trousers, straw sandals over black stockings.
‘What’s g-going on here? And who are you, anyway?’ Fandorin began, but broke off, first because he realised that the native man was hardly likely to understand English and, secondly, because he was astounded by the little old man’s behaviour.
The old man smiled imperturbably, transforming his face into a radiant mass of wrinkles, slipped his hands into his broad sleeves and bowed – he was wearing a close-fitting cap on his head.
‘What’s wrong with Masa?’ Fandorin asked, unable to resist uttering further pointless words. He dashed across to his sweetly snuffling valet and leaned down over him – Masa really was asleep.
What kind of nonsense was this!
‘Hey, wait!’ the titular counsellor shouted to the old man, who was ambling towards the door.
When the little old man didn’t stop, the vice-consul overtook him in two bounds and grabbed him by the shoulder. Or rather, he tried to. Without even turning round, the Japanese swayed imperceptibly to one side, and the vice-consul’s figures clutched at empty air.
‘Dear man, I d-demand an explanation,’ said Erast Petrovich, growing angry. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing here?’
His tone of voice, and the situation in general, should have rendered these questions comprehensible without any translation.
Realising that he would not be allowed to leave, the old man turned to face the vice-consul. He wasn’t smiling any more. The black eyes, glittering like two blazing coals, observed Fandorin calmly and attentively, as if they were deciding some complicated but not particularly important problem. This cool gaze finally drove Fandorin into a fury.
This Oriental was damned suspicious! He had clearly sneaked into the building with some criminal intent!
The titular counsellor reached out his hand to grab the thief (or, perhaps, spy) by the collar. This time the old man didn’t dodge; without taking his hands out of his sleeves, he simply struck Fandorin on the wrist with his elbow.
The blow was extremely light, almost insubstantial, but the titular counsellor’s arm went completely numb and dangled uselessly at his side – the elbow must have hit some kind of nerve centre.
‘Why, damn you!’ Erast Petrovich exclaimed.
He delivered a superb left hook, which should have flattened the obnoxious old man against the wall, but his fist merely described a powerful arc through the empty air. The inertia spun Fandorin round his own axis and left him standing with his back to the Japanese.
The villainous intruder immediately took advantage of this and struck him on the neck with his other elbow, again very lightly, but the young man’s knees buckled. He collapsed flat on his back and was horrified to feel that he couldn’t move any part of his body.
It was like a nightmare!
The most terrifying thing of all was the searing, blazing gaze of the old man’s eyes; it seemed to penetrate into the prostrate vice-consul’s very brain.
The old man leaned down, and that was when the most incredible thing of all happened.
He finally took his hands out of his sleeves.
In his right hand he was clutching a greyish-brown snake with small, beady, glittering eyes. Gripped tight by the neck, it was straining its jaws open.
The prone man groaned – that was all he had the strength for.
The snake slithered smoothly out of the sleeve and fell on to Fandorin’s chest in a springy coil. He felt its touch on his skin, at the spot where his collar was unbuttoned – a cold, rough sensation.
The diamond-shaped head swayed very close, only a few inches away from his face. Erast Petrovich heard the quiet, fitful hissing, he saw the sharp little fangs, the forked tongue, but he couldn’t even stir a finger. Ice-cold sweat trickled down off his forehead.
He heard a strange clicking sound – it was made by the old man, who seemed to be urging the reptile to hurry.
The jaws swayed towards Fandorin’s throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, with the thought that nothing could possibly be more terrible than this horror. Even death would be a blessed release.
Erast Petrovich opened his eyes again – and didn’t see the snake.
But it had been here, he had felt its movements.
The reptile had apparently decided to settle down more comfortably on his chest – it curled up into a ball and its tail crept in under his shirt and slithered ticklishly across his ribs.
With a struggle, Fandorin focused his eyes on the old man – he was still gazing directly at his paralysed victim, but something in his eyes had changed. Now, if anything, they were filled with surprise. Or was it curiosity?
‘Erast Petrovich!’ a voice called from somewhere far away. ‘Fandorin! Is it all right if I come in?’
What happened after that took less than a second.
In two absolutely silent leaps the old Japanese was by the window; he jumped up, somersaulted in the air, propping one hand against the windowsill as he flew over it, and disappeared.
And then Vsevolod Vitalievich appeared in the doorway – in a panama hat and carrying a cane, ready for their pedestrian excursion.
A prickling sensation ran across Fandorin’s neck, and he discovered that he could turn his head.
He turned it, but he couldn’t see the old man any more – just the curtain swaying at the window.
‘Now, what’s this I see? An adder!’ Doronin shouted. ‘Don’t move!’
The startled snake darted off Erast Petrovich’s chest and made for the corner of the room.
The consul dashed after it and started beating it with his cane – so furiously that the stick broke in half at the third blow.
The titular counsellor raised the back of his head off the carpet – the paralysis seemed to be gradually passing off.
‘Am I asleep?’ he babbled, barely able to control his tongue. ‘I dreamed I saw a snake …’
‘It was no dream,’ said Doronin, wrapping his handkerchief round his fingers and squeamishly lifting the reptile up by its tail.
He examined it, shifting his spectacles down to the end of his nose, then carried it to the window and threw it out. He cast a disapproving glance at Masa and heaved a sigh.
Then he took a chair, sat down facing his feebly stirring assistant and fixed him with a severe stare.
‘Now then, my dear,’ the consul began sternly. ‘Let’s have no nonsense, everything out in the open. What an angel he made himself out to be yesterday! Doesn’t go to brothels, has never even heard of opium addicts …’ Doronin drew a deep breath in through his nose. ‘Not a whiff of opium here, though. So you prefer injections? Do you know what they call what has happened to you? Narcotic swoon. Don’t shake your head, I wasn’t born yesterday! Shirota told me about your heroics yesterday in the gambling den. A fine servant you’ve picked up for yourself! Did he procure the drug for you! Of course, who else! He took some himself, and obliged his master at the same
time. Tell me one thing, Fandorin. Only honestly now! How long have you been addicted to drugs?’
Erast Fandorin groaned and shook his head.
‘I believe you. You’re still so young, don’t destroy yourself! I warned you: the drug is deadly dangerous if you’re not capable of keeping yourself in hand. You were very nearly killed just now – by an absurd coincidence! A mamusi crept into the room while both of you were in a narcotic trance – that is, in a completely helpless state!’
‘Who?’ the titular counsellor asked in a weak voice. ‘Who c-crept in?’
‘A mamusi. A Japanese adder. It’s a gentle-sounding name, but in May, after the winter hibernation, mamusis are extremely dangerous. If one bites you on the arm or leg, that’s not too bad, but a bite on the neck is certain death. Sometimes mamusis swim into the Settlement along the canals from the paddy fields and they get into courtyards, or even houses. Last year one of those reptiles bit the son of a Belgian businessman and they couldn’t save him. Well, why don’t you say something?’
Erast Petrovich didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have the strength for any explanations. And what could he have said? That there was an old man in the room, with eyes like blazing coals, and then he just flew out of the window? That would only have reinforced the consul’s certainty that his assistant was an inveterate drug addict who suffered from hallucinations. Better postpone the fantastic story until later, when his head stopped spinning and his speech was articulate again.
And in all honesty, the young man himself was no longer absolutely sure that it had all been real. Did things like that actually happen?
‘But I didn’t imagine the little old man with the snake in his sleeve who can jump so high. And I have reliable p-proof of that. I’ll present it to you a little later,’ Fandorin concluded, and glanced round at his listeners: Sergeant Lockston, Inspector Asagawa and Dr Twigs.
The titular counsellor had spent the entire previous day flat on his back, slowly recovering, and his strength had been completely restored only after ten hours of deep sleep.
