by Boris Akunin
It wasn’t a dream!
She had been here! It was the aroma of her perfume!
‘Iris is the main aroma of the present season,’ Shirota explained. ‘Women scent themselves with it and they steep the laundry in it at the washhouses. In April the aroma of the season was wistaria, in June it will be azalea.’
The smile slid off Erast Petrovich’s face.
‘May I continue?’ the Japanese asked, handing back the pillow.
And he continued his report. A minute later Fandorin had completely stopped thinking about the scent of irises and his nocturnal apparition.
The paddy fields shone unbearably brightly in the sunlight, as if the entire valley had been transformed into one immense cracked mirror. The dark cracks in the effulgent surface were the boundaries that divided the plots into little rectangles, and in each rectangle there was a figure in a broad straw hat, pottering through the water, bent double. The peasants were weeding the rice fields.
At the centre of the fields there was a small, wooded hill, crowned by a red roof with its edges curled upwards. Erast Petrovich already knew that it was an abandoned Shinto shrine.
‘The peasants don’t go there any more,’ said Shirota. ‘It’s haunted. Last year they found a dead tramp by the door. Semushi was right to choose a place like this to hide. It’s a very fine refuge for a bad man. And it has a clear view of all the approaches.’
‘And what will happen to the shrine now?’
‘Either they will burn it down and build a new one, or they will perform a ceremony of purification. The village elder and the kannusi, the priest, have not decided yet.’
A narrow embankment no more than five paces wide ran through the fields to the shrine. Erast Petrovich examined the path to the hill carefully, then the moss-covered steps leading up to the strange red wooden gateway: just two verticals and a crosspiece, an empty gateway with no gates and no fence. A gateway that did not separate anything from anything.
‘That is the torii,’ the secretary explained. ‘The gate to the Other World.’
Well, that made sense, if it led to the Other World.
The titular counsellor had an excellent pair of binoculars with twelve-fold magnification, a souvenir of the siege of Plevna.
‘I can’t see Masa,’ said Fandorin. ‘Where is he?’
‘You are looking in the wrong direction. Your servant is over there, in the communal plot. Farther left, farther left.’
The vice-consul and his assistant were lying in the thick grass at the edge of a rice field. Erast Petrovich caught Masa in the twin circles. He was no different from the peasants: entirely naked, apart from a loincloth, with a fan hanging behind his back. Except perhaps that his sides were rounder than those of the other workers.
The round-sided peasant straightened up, fanned himself and looked round towards the village. It was definitely him: fat cheeks and half-closed eyes. He looked close enough for Fandorin to flick him on the nose.
‘He has been here since the morning. He took a job as a field-hand for ten sen. We agreed that if he noticed anything special, he would hang the fan behind his back. See, the fan is behind his back. He has spotted something!’
Fandorin focused his binoculars on the hill again and started slowly examining the hunchback’s hiding place, square by square.
‘Did he come straight here from Yokohama? He d-didn’t stop off anywhere along the way?’
‘He came straight here.’
What was that white patch there, among the branches?
Erast Petrovich turned the little wheel and gave a quiet whistle. There was a man sitting in a tree. The hunchback? What was he doing up there?
But last night Semushi had been wearing a dark brown kimono, not a white one.
The man sitting in the tree turned his head. Fandorin still couldn’t make out the face, but the shaved nape glinted.
No, it wasn’t Semushi! His hair was cut in a short, stiff brush.
Fandorin moved the binoculars on. Suddenly something glinted in the undergrowth. Then again, and again.
Just adjust the focus slightly.
Oho!
A man wearing a kimono with its hem turned up was standing on an open patch of ground. He was absolutely motionless. Beside him was bamboo pole stuck into the earth.
Suddenly the man moved. His legs and trunk didn’t stir, but his sword scattered sparks of sunlight and severed bamboo rings flew off the pole: one, two, three, four. What incredible skill!
Then the miraculous swordsman swung round to face the opposite direction – apparently there was another pole there. But Erast Petrovich was not watching the sword blade any longer, he was looking at the left sleeve of the kimono. It was either twisted or tucked up.
‘Why did you strike the ground with your fist? What did you see?’ Shirota whispered eagerly in his ear.
Fandorin handed him the binoculars and pointed him in the right direction.
‘Kataudeh!’ the secretary exclaimed. ‘The man with the withered arm!’ So the others must be there!’
The vice-consul wasn’t listening, he was scribbling something rapidly in his notebook. He tore the page out and started writing on another one.
‘Right now, Shirota. Go to the Settlement as fast you can. Give this to Sergeant Lockston. Tell him the d-details yourself. The second note is for Inspector Asagawa.’
‘Also as fast as I can, right?’
‘No, on the contrary. You must walk slowly from Lockston to the Japanese police station. You can even drink tea along the way.’
Shirota gaped at the titular counsellor in amazement. Then he seemed to get the idea and he nodded.
The sergeant arrived with his entire army of six constables armed with carbines.
Erast Petrovich was waiting for the reinforcements on the approach to the village. He praised them for getting there so quickly and briefly explained the disposition of forces.
‘What, aren’t we going to rush them?’ Lockston asked, disappointed. ‘My guys are just spoiling for a scrap.’
‘N-no scrap. We’re two miles from the Settlement, beyond the consular jurisdiction.’
‘Damn the jurisdiction, Rusty! Don’t forget: these three degenerates killed a white man! Maybe not in person, but they’re all in the same gang.’
‘Walter, we have to respect the laws of the country in which we find ourselves.’
The sergeant turned sulky.
‘Then why the hell did you write: “as quickly as possible and bring long-range weapons”?’
‘Your men are needed to put a cordon round the area. Set them out round the edge of the fields, in secret. Get your constables to lie on the ground and cover themselves with straw, with a distance of two to three hundred paces between them. If the criminals try to leave through the water, fire warning shots, drive them back on to the hill.’
‘And who’s going to nab the bandits?’
‘The Japanese police.’
Lockston narrowed his eyes.
‘Why didn’t you just call the Japs? What do you need the municipals for?’
The titular counsellor didn’t answer and the sergeant nodded knowingly.
‘To make sure, right? You don’t trust the yellow-bellies. You’re afraid they’ll let them get away. Maybe even deliberately, right?’
This question went unanswered too.
‘I’m going to wait for Asagawa in the village. You’re responsible for the other three sides of the square,’ said Fandorin.
He had to wait for a long time – obviously, before Shirota visited the Japanese police station, he had not only drunk tea, but dined as well.
When the sun reached its zenith, the workers started moving back to their houses to rest before their afternoon labours. Masa came back with them.
He explained with gestures that all three samurai were there, and the hunchback was with them. They were keeping a sharp lookout in all directions. They couldn’t be taken by surprise.
Erast Petrovich left
his valet to keep an eye on the only path that led to the shrine, while he set out to the other side of the village, to meet the Japanese police.
Three hours later a dark spot appeared on the road. Fandorin raised the binoculars to his eyes and gasped. An entire military column was approaching in marching formation from the direction of Yokohama. Bayonets glittered and officers swayed in their saddles in the cloud of dust.
The titular counsellor dashed forward to meet the troops, waving his arms at them from a distance to get them to stop. God forbid that the men on the hill should notice this bristling centipede!
Riding at the front was the vice-intendant of police himself, Kinsuke Suga. Catching sight of Fandorin’s gesticulations, he raised his hand and the column halted.
Erast Petrovich did not like the look of the Japanese soldiers: short and skinny, with no moustaches, uniforms that hung on them like sacks, and they had no bearing at all. He remembered Vsevolod Vitalievich telling him that military conscription had been introduced here only very recently and peasants didn’t want to serve in the army. Of course not! For three hundred years commoners had been forbidden to carry arms, the samurai chopped their heads off for that. And the result was a nation that consisted of an immense herd of peasant sheep and packs of samurai sheepdogs.
‘Your Excellency, why didn’t you bring the artillery too?’ Fandorin exclaimed angrily as he raced up to the top man.
Suga chuckled contentedly and twirled his moustache.
‘If it’s needed, we will. Bravo, Mr Fandorin! How on earth did you manage to track down these wolves? You’re a genuine hero!’
‘I asked the inspector for ten capable agents. Why have you brought an entire regiment of soldiers?’
‘It’s a battalion,’ said Suga, flinging one leg across the saddle and jumping down. His orderly took the reins immediately. ‘As soon as I got Asagawa’s telegram, I telegraphed the barracks of the Twelfth Infantry Battalion, it’s stationed only a mile from here. And I dashed here by train. The railway is a fine invention too!’
The vice-intendant positively radiated energy and enthusiasm. He gave a command in Japanese and the word passed along the line ‘Chutaicyo, Chutaicyo, Chutaicyo!’1 Three officers came running towards the head of the column, holding their swords down at their sides.
‘We shall need the army for setting an external cordon,’ Suga explained. ‘Not one of the villains must slip away. You needn’t have been so worried, Fandorin, I wasn’t going to bring the soldiers any closer. The company commanders will now form the men up into a chain and locate them round the large square. They won’t see that from the hill.’
The shoddy-looking soldiers moved with remarkable nimbleness and coordination. Not soaring eagles, of course, but they are rather well drilled, thought Fandorin, correcting his first impression.
In about a minute the battalion had reformed into three very long ranks. One of them stayed where it was, the other two performed a half-about-face and marched off to the left and the right.
Only now could Fandorin see that there was a group of police standing at the end of the column – about fifteen of them, including Asagawa, but the Yokohama inspector was behaving modestly, not like a commander at all. Most of the policemen were middle-aged, severe-looking individuals, the kind that we in Russia call old campaigners. Shirota was there with them – judging from the green colour of his face, he could barely stay on his feet. That was only natural: a sleepless night, nervous stress and the long dash all the way to Yokohama and back again.
‘The finest fighters in our police,’ Suga said proudly, indicating the men. ‘Soon you’ll see them in action.’
He turned to one of his deputies and started speaking Japanese.
The embassy secretary started, recalling his official duties, and walked up to the titular counsellor.
‘The adjutant is reporting that they have already spoken to the village elder. The peasants will work as usual, without giving away our presence in any way. They’re going to hold a meeting now. There is a very convenient place.’
The ‘very convenient place’ proved to be the communal stables, permeated with the stench of dung and horse sweat. But the broad chinks in the wall provided an excellent view of the field and the hill.
The vice-intendant sat on a folding stool, the other police officers stood in a half-circle and the operational staff set about planning the operation. Suga did most of the talking. Confident, brisk, smiling – he was clearly in his element.
‘… His Excellency objects to the commissar, Mr Iwaoka, that there is no point in waiting for night to come,’ Fandorin’s interpreter babbled in his ear. ‘The weather is expected to be clear, there will be a full moon and the fields will be like a mirror, with every shadow visible from afar. Better during the day. We can creep up to the hill disguised as peasants weeding the fields.’
The police officers droned approvingly in agreement. Suga spoke again.
‘His Excellency says that there will be two assault groups, each of two men. Any more will look suspicious. The other members of the operation must remain at a distance from the hill and wait for the signal. After the signal they will run straight through the water without worrying about disguise. The important thing here is speed.’
This time everyone started droning at once, and very ardently, and Inspector Asagawa, who had not opened his mouth until this moment, stepped forward and started bowing like a clockwork doll, repeating over and over: ‘Kakka, tanomimas nodeh! Kakka, tanomimas nodeh!’
‘Everybody wants to be in an assault group,’ Shirota explained. ‘Mr Asagawa is requesting permission to atone for his guilt. He says that otherwise it be very difficult for him to live in this world.’
The vice-intendant raised his hand and silence fell immediately.
‘I wish to ask the Russian vice-consul’s opinion,’ Suga said to Fandorin in English. ‘What do you think of my plan? This is our joint operation. An operation of two “vices”.’
He smiled. Now everyone was looking at Fandorin.
‘To be quite honest, I’m surprised,’ the titular counsellor said slowly. ‘Assault g-groups, an infantry cordon – this is all very fine. But where are the measures to take the conspirators alive? After all, their contacts are really more important to us than they are.’
Shirota translated what had been said – evidently not all the policemen knew English.
The Japanese glanced at each other strangely, one even snickered, as if the gaijin had said something stupid.
The vice-intendant sighed. ‘We shall, of course, try to capture the criminals, but we are not likely to succeed. Men of this kind are almost never taken alive.’
Fandorin did not like this response, and his suspicions stirred again more strongly than ever.
‘Then I tell you what,’ he declared. ‘I must be in one of the assault groups. In that case I give you my guarantee that you will receive at least one of the c-conspirators alive and not dead.’
‘May I enquire how you intend to do this?’
The vice-consul replied evasively:
‘When I was a prisoner of the Turks, they taught me a certain trick, but I had better not tell you about it in advance, you will see for yourselves.’
His words produced a strange impression on the Japanese. The policemen started whispering and Suga asked doubtfully:
‘You were a prisoner?’
‘Yes, I was. During the recent Balkan campaign.’
The commissar with the grey moustache gazed at Erast Petrovich with clear contempt, and the way the others were looking could certainly not have been called flattering.
The vice-intendant walked over and magnanimously slapped Fandorin on the shoulder.
‘Never mind, all sorts of things happen in war. During the expedition to Formosa, Guards Lieutenant Tatibana, a most courageous officer, was also taken prisoner. He was badly wounded and unconscious, and the Chinese took him away in a hospital cart. Of course, when he came round, he strangled hims
elf with a bandage. But there isn’t always a bandage.’
Then he repeated the same thing in Japanese for the others (Erast Petrovich made out the name ‘Tatibana’) and Shirota explained quietly:
‘In Japan it is believed that a samurai should never be taken prisoner. An absurd idea, of course. A prejudice,’ the secretary added hastily.
The titular counsellor became furious. Raising his voice, he repeated stubbornly:
‘I must be in the assault group. I insist on it. P-permit me to remind you that without me and my deputies, there would not even be any operation.’
A discussion started among the Japanese, and Fandorin was clearly the subject of it, but his interpreter expounded the essence of the argument briefly and rather apologetically.
‘It … Generally speaking … The gentlemen of the police are discussing the colour of your skin, your height, the size of your nose …’
‘May I ask you to undress to the waist?’ Suga suddenly asked, turning towards the titular counsellor.
And, to set an example, he removed his tunic and shirt first. The vice-intendant’s body was firm and compact, and although his stomach was large, it was not at all flabby. But it was not the details of the general’s anatomy which caught Erast Petrovich’s attention, but the old gold cross dangling on the convex, hairless chest. Catching Fandorin’s glance, Suga explained.
‘Three hundred years ago our family were Christians. Then, when European missionaries were expelled from the country and their faith was forbidden, my forebears renounced the alien religion, but kept the cross as a relic. It was worn by my great-great-great-grandmother, Donna Maria Suga, who preferred death to renunciation. In her memory, I have also accepted Christianity – it is not forbidden to anyone any longer. Are you undressed? Right, now look at me and at yourself.’
He stood beside Fandorin, shoulder to shoulder, and the reason why they had had to get undressed became clear.
Not only was the vice-consul an entire head taller than the other man, his skin also gleamed with a whiteness that was quite clearly not Japanese.
‘The peasants are almost naked,’ said Suga. ‘You will tower over the field and sparkle like snowy Mount Fuji.’
