by Boris Akunin
‘But even so,’ the titular counsellor declared firmly, ‘I must be in the assault g-group.’
They gave up trying to persuade him after that. The policemen grouped around their commander, talking in low voices. Then the one with the grey moustache shouted loudly: ‘Kuso! Umano kuso!’
The vice-intendant laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘What did he s-say?’
Shirota shrugged.
‘Commissar Iwaoka said: “Dung. Horse dung”.’
‘Did he mean me?’ Erast Perovich asked furiously. ‘Tell him that in that c-case he …’
‘No, no, how could you think that!’ the secretary interrupted him, while still listening to the conversation. ‘This is something else … Inspector Asagawa is asking what to do about your height. Peasants are never such ranky beanpours. Did I get that right?’
‘Yes, yes.’
Fandorin watched Commissar Iwaoka’s actions suspiciously. The commissar moved out of the group, removed his white glove and scooped up a handful of dung.
‘Mr Sasaki from the serious crimes group says you are a genuine kirin, but that is all right, because the peasants never straighten up.’
‘Who am I?’
‘A kirin – it’s a mythical animal. Like a giraffe.’
‘Aah …’
The man with the grey moustache walked up, bowed briefly and slapped the lump of dung straight on to the Russian diplomat’s chest. The vice-consul was stupefied.
‘There,’ Shirota translated. ‘Now you no longer look like the snowy peak of Mount Fuji.’
Commissar Iwaoka smeared the foul-smelling, yellow-brown muck across Erast Petrovich’s stomach.
Fandorin grimaced, but he endured it.
The true noble man
Is so pure that even dung
Cannot besmirch him
1 Company commanders, company commanders, company commanders! (Japanese)
TIGER ON THE LOOSE
It turned out to be possible to get used to a foul smell. The stench of the dung stopped tormenting the titular counsellor’s nose quite soon. The flies were far worse. Attracted by the appetising aroma, they flew to congregate on poor Fandorin from all over the Japanese archipelago or, at the very least, from all over the prefecture of Kanagawa. At first he tried to drive them away, then he gave up, because a peasant flapping his hands about might attract attention. He gritted his teeth and endured the nauseating tickling of the multitude of little green brutes busily crawling over his back and chest and face.
The doubled-over diplomat moved along slowly, up to his knees in water, pulling up some kind of vegetation. No one had bothered to explain to him what the weeds looked like, so he was very probably disposing of shoots of rice, but that was the last thing the sweat-drenched vice-consul was worried about. He hated rice, and flooded-field farming, and his own stubbornness, which had secured him a place in an assault group.
The other member of his group was the instigator of the anointment with dung, Iwaoka of the grey moustache. Although, in fact, the commissar no longer had his dashingly curled moustache – he had shaved it off before the operation began, in order to look more like a peasant. Erast Petrovich had managed to save his own moustache, but he had moistened it and let it dangle at the corners of his mouth like two small icicles. This was the only consolation now left to the titular counsellor – in every other respect Iwaoka had come off far more comfortably.
First, the flies took absolutely no interest in him at all – smelly Erast Petrovich was quite enough for them. Secondly, the commissar moved through the champing mud without any visible effort, and the weeding seemed to be no problem to him – every now and then he stopped and rested, waiting for his lagging partner. But Fandorin’s envy was provoked most powerfully of all by the large white fan with which the prudent Japanese had armed himself. The titular counsellor would have paid any price now, simply to be able to waft the air on to his face and blow off the accursed flies.
His straw hat, lowered almost all the way down to his chin, had two holes in it so that he could observe the shrine without raising his head. The two ‘peasants’ had covered the two hundred paces separating the hill from the edge of the field in about an hour and a half. Now they were trampling mud about thirty feet from dry land, but they mustn’t go any closer, in order not to alarm the lookout. He already had his eyes fixed on them as it was. They turned this way and that to let him see that they were men of peace, harmless, there was nowhere they could be hiding any weapons.
The support group, consisting of six policemen minus uniforms, was keeping its distance. There was another support group at work on the other side; it couldn’t be seen from here.
The vice-intendant was still nowhere to be seen, and Fandorin started feeling concerned about whether he would be able to straighten up when the time for action finally arrived. He cautiously kneaded his waist with one hand, and it responded with an intense ache.
Suddenly, without raising his head, Iwaoka hissed quietly.
It had started!
Two people were walking along the path to the shrine: striding along solemnly in front was the Shinto priest or kannusi, in black robes and a hood, and trotting behind him came the female servant of the shrine, or miko, in a white kimono and loose scarlet trousers, with long straight hair hanging down at both sides of her face. She stumbled, dropping some kind of bowl, and squatted down gracefully. Then she ran to catch up with the priest, wiggling her hips awkwardly like a young girl. Fandorin couldn’t help smiling. Well done, Asagawa, what fine acting!
In front of the steps, the kannusi halted, lowered a small twig broom into the bowl and started waving it in all directions, singing something at the same time – Suga had begun the ritual of purification. The vice-intendant’s moustache was now dangling downwards, like Fandorin’s, and a long, thin grey beard had been glued to His Excellency’s chin.
The commissar whispered:
‘Go!’
The sentry was surely watching the unexpected visitors, he wouldn’t be interested in the peasants now.
Erast Petrovich started moving towards the hill, trying not to splash through the water. Fifteen seconds later they were both in the bamboo thickets. There was liquid mud flowing down over the titular counsellor’s ankles.
Iwaoka went up the slope first. He took a few silent steps, stopped to listen, then waved to his partner to say: Come on, it’s all right.
And so Fandorin climbed to the top of the hill, staring at the commissar’s broad, muscular back.
They lay down under a bush and started looking around.
Iwaoka had picked the ideal spot. From here they could see the shrine, and the stone steps with the two figures – one black, one red and white – slowly climbing up them. On every step Suga stopped and waved his twig broom about. His nasal chant was slowly getting closer.
Up at the top, Semushi was waiting in the sacred gateway. He was wearing just a loincloth – in order to demonstrate his deformity, one must assume – and bowing abjectly right down to the ground.
He’s pretending to be a cripple who has found refuge in the abandoned shrine, Fandorin guessed. He wants to make the priest feel sorry for him.
But what about the others?
There they were, the cunning devils.
The Satsumans had hidden behind the shrine – Suga and Asagawa couldn’t see that, but from here in the bushes they had a very good view.
Three men in light kimonos were standing, pressing themselves up against the wall, about a dozen paces away from the commissar and the titular counsellor. One, with his withered left arm strapped to his side, was peeping cautiously round the corner, the two others kept their eyes fixed on him.
All three of them had swords, Fandorin noted. They had obtained new ones from somewhere, but he couldn’t see any firearms.
The man with the withered arm looked as if he was well past forty – there were traces of grey in the plait glued to the crown of his head. The other
two were young, mere youths.
Then the ‘priest’ noticed the tramp. He stopped chanting his incantations, shouted something angrily and started walking quickly up the steps. The miko hurried after him.
The hunchback flopped down on to his knees and pressed his forehead against the ground. Excellent – it would be easier to grab him.
The commissar seemed to think the same. He touched Fandorin on the shoulder: Time to go!
Erast Petrovich stuck his hand into his loincloth and pulled out a thin rope from round his waist. He rapidly wound it round his hand and his elbow, leaving a large loop dangling.
Iwaoka nodded sagely and demonstrated with his fingers: the one with the withered arm is yours, the other two are mine. That was rational. If they were going to take someone alive, of course it ought to be the leader.
‘But where’s your weapon?’ Fandorin asked, also in gestures.
The commissar didn’t understand at first. Then he smiled briefly and held out the fan, which turned out not to be made of paper or cardboard, but steel, with sharply honed edges.
‘Wait, I go first,’ Iwaoka ordered.
He moved soundlessly along the bushes, circling round behind the Satsumans.
Now he was right behind them: an intent expression on his face, his knees slightly bent, his feet stepping silently across the ground.
The samurai didn’t see him or hear him – the two young ones were looking at the back of their leader’s head, and he was following what was happening on the steps.
Suga was acting for all he was worth: yelling, waving his arms about, even striking the ‘tramp’ on the back of the neck with his twig broom a couple of times. The miko stood slightly to one side of the hunchback, with her eyes lowered modestly.
Erast Petrovich got up and started swaying his lasso back and forth.
One more second and it would start.
Iwaoka would drop one and get to grips with another. When they heard a noise, Suga and Asagawa would grab the hunchback. The titular counsellor’s job was to throw the lasso accurately and pull it good and tight. Not such a difficult trick if you had the knack, and Erast Petrovich certainly did. He had done a lot of practising in his Turkish prison, to combat the boredom and inactivity. It would all work out very neatly.
He didn’t understand how it happened: either Iwaoka wasn’t careful enough, or the Satsuman turned round by chance, but it didn’t work out neatly at all.
The last samurai, the youngest, looked round when the commissar was only five steps away. The young man’s reactions were simply astounding.
Before he had even finished turning his head, he squealed and jerked his blade out of the scabbard. The other two leapt away from the wall as if they had been flung out by a spring and also drew their weapons.
A sword glinted above Iwaoka’s head and clanged against the fan held up to block it, sending sparks flying. The commissar turned his wrist slightly, opened his strange weapon wider and sliced at the air, almost playfully, but the steel edge caught the Satsuman across the throat. Blood spurted out and the first opponent had been disposed of. He slumped to the ground, grabbing at his throat with his hands, and soon fell silent.
The second one flew at Iwaoka like a whirlwind, but the old wolf easily dodged the blow. With a deceptively casual movement, he flicked the fan across the samurai’s wrist and the sword fell out of the severed hand. The samurai leaned down and picked the katana up with his other hand, but the commissar struck again, and the samurai tumbled to the ground with his head split open.
All this took about three seconds. Fandorin still hadn’t had a chance to throw his lasso. He stood there, whirling it above his head in whistling circles, but the man with the withered arm moved so fast that he couldn’t choose the moment for the throw.
The steel blade clashed with the steel fan, and the fearsome opponents leapt back and circled round each other, ready to pounce again.
When the man with the withered arm slowed down, Erast Petrovich seized the moment and threw his lasso. It went whistling through the air – but the Satsuman leapt forward, knocked the fan aside, swung round his axis and slashed at Iwaoka’s legs.
Something appalling happened: the commissar’s feet stayed where they were, but his severed ankles slipped off them and stuck in the ground. The old campaigner swayed, but before he fell, the sword blade sliced him in half – from his right shoulder to his left hip. The body settled into a formless heap.
Celebrating his victory, the man with the withered arm froze on the spot for a mere second, but that was enough for Fandorin to make another throw. This one was faultlessly precise and the broad noose encircled the samurai’s shoulders. Erast Petrovich allowed it to slip down to his elbows and tugged it towards him, forcing the Satsuman to spin round his own axis again. In just a few moments, the prisoner had been bound securely and laid out on the ground. Snarling furiously and baring his teeth, he writhed and twisted, even trying to reach the rope with his teeth, but there was nothing he could do.
Suga and Asagawa dragged over the hunchback with his wrists tied to his ankles, so that he could neither walk nor stand – when they let go of him, he tumbled over on to his side. There was a wooden gag protruding from his mouth, with laces that were tied at the back of his head.
The vice-intendant walked over to the commissar’s mutilated body and heaved a deep sigh, but that was as far as the expression of grief went.
When the general turned towards Fandorin, he was smiling.
‘We forgot about the signal,’ he said cheerfully, holding up his whistle. ‘Never mind, we managed without any back-up. We’ve taken the main two villains alive. That’s incredibly good luck.’
He stood in front of the man with the withered arm, who had stopped thrashing about on the ground and was lying there quite still, pale-faced, with his eyes squeezed tight shut.
Suga said something harsh and kicked the prone man contemptuously, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and stood him on his feet.
The samurai opened his eyes. Never before had Fandorin seen such sheer animal fury in a human stare.
‘An excellent technique,’ said Suga, fingering the noose of the lasso. ‘We’ll have to add it to our repertoire. Now I understand how the Turks managed to take you prisoner.’
The titular counsellor made no comment – his didn’t want to disappoint the Japanese police chief. In actual fact he had been captured with a brigade of Serbian volunteers who had been cut off from their own lines and used up all their cartridges. According to the samurai code, apparently they should have choked themselves with their own shoulder belts …
‘What is that for?’ Erast Petrovich asked, pointing to the gag in the hunchback’s mouth.
‘So that he won’t take it into his head …’
Suga never finished what he was saying. With a hoarse growl, the man with the withered arm pushed the general aside with his knee, lunged forward into a run and smashed his forehead into the corner of the shrine at full speed.
There was a sickening crunch and the bound man collapsed face down. A red puddle started spreading rapidly beneath him.
Suga bent down over the samurai, felt the pulse in the man’s neck and waved his hand hopelessly.
‘The hami is needed to prevent the prisoner from biting off his own tongue,’ Asagawa concluded for his superior. ‘It is not enough simply to take enemies like this alive. You have to prevent them dying afterwards as well.’
Fandorin said nothing, he was stunned. He felt guilty – and not just because he had not bound an important prisoner securely enough. He was feeling even more ashamed of something else.
‘There’s something I have to tell you, Inspector,’ he said, blushing as he led Asagawa aside.
The vice-intendant was left beside the remaining prisoner: he checked to make sure the ropes were pulled tight. Once he was convinced that everything was in order, he went to inspect the shrine.
In the meantime Fandorin, stammering more than usual, c
onfessed his perfidious deceit to the inspector. He told him about the tar, and about his suspicions concerning the Japanese police.
‘I know I have c-caused you a great deal of unpleasantness and damaged your reputation with your s-superiors. I ask you to forgive me and bear no grudge …’
Asagawa heard him out with a stony face; only the slight trembling of his lips betrayed his agitation. Erast Petrovich was prepared for a sharp, well-deserved rebuff, but the inspector surprised him.
‘You could have never admitted anything,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I would never have known the truth, and you would have remained an impeccable hero. But your confession required even greater courage. Your apology is accepted.’
He bowed ceremoniously. Fandorin replied with a precisely similar bow.
Suga came out of the shrine, holding three bundles in his hands.
‘This is all there is,’ he said. ‘The search specialists will take a more thorough look later. Maybe they’ll find some kind of hiding place. I’d like to know who helped these villains, who supplied them with new swords. Oh, I have plenty to talk about with Mr Semushi! I’ll question him myself,’ said the vice-intendant, with a smile so ferocious it made Erast Petrovich wonder whether the interrogation would be conducted in accordance with civilised norms. ‘Everyone is in line for decorations. A high order for you, Fandorinsan. Perhaps even … Miro!’ the general exclaimed suddenly, pointing to Semushi. ‘Hami!’
The titular counsellor saw that the wooden gag was no longer protruding from between the hunchback’s teeth, but dangling on its laces. Inspector Agasawa dashed towards the prisoner, but too late – Semushi opened his mouth wide and clenched his jaws shut with a snarl. A dense red torrent gushed out of his mouth on to his bare chest.
There was a blood-curdling roar that faded into spasmodic gurgling. Suga and Asagawa prised open the suicide’s teeth and stuffed a rag into his mouth, but it was clear that the bleeding could not be stopped. Five minutes later Semushi stopped groaning and went quiet.
Asagawa was a pitiful sight. He bowed to his superior and to Fandorin, insisting that he had no idea how the prisoner could have chewed through the lace – it had evidently not been strong enough and he, Asagawa, was to blame for not checking it properly.
