by Boris Akunin
The general listened to all this and waved his hand dismissively. His voice sounded reassuring. Fandorin made out the familiar word ‘akunin’.
‘I was saying that it’s not possible to take a genuine villain alive, no matter how hard you try,’ said Suga, translating his own words. ‘When a man has a strong hara, there’s nothing you can do with him. But the mission is a success in any case. The minister will be delighted, he’s sick to death of sitting under lock and key. The great man has been saved, for which Japan will be grateful to Russia and to you personally, Mr Vice-Consul.’
That evening Erast Petrovich betrayed his principles and rode home in a kuruma pulled by three rikshas. After all his emotional and physical tribulations, the titular counsellor was absolutely worn out. He couldn’t tell what had undermined his strength more –the bloody spectacle of the two suicides or the hour and a half spent weeding, but the moment he got into the kuruma, he fell asleep, muttering:
‘I’m going to sleep all night, all day and all night again …’
The conveyance in which the triumphant victors rode back to the consulate presented a truly unusual sight: snoring away in the middle was the secretary Shirota, wearing a morning coat and a string tie; this respectable-looking gentleman was flanked by two semi-naked peasants, sleeping soundly with their heads resting on his shoulders, and one of them was caked all over in dried dung.
Alas, however, Erast Petrovich was not given a chance to sleep all night, all day and all night again.
At eleven in the morning, when he was sleeping like a log, the vice-consul was shaken awake by his immediate superior.
Pale and trembling, Vsevolod Vitalievich splashed cold water over Fandorin, drank the liquid remaining in the mug and read out the express message that had just arrived from the embassy:
‘Early this morning Okubo was killed on the way to the imperial palace. Six unidentified men drew concealed swords, killed the postillion, hacked at the horse’s legs and stabbed the minister to death when he jumped out of the carriage. The minister had no guards. As yet nothing is known about the killers, but eyewitnesses claim that they addressed each other in the Satsuma dialect. Please report to the embassy immediately with Vice-Consul Fandorin.’
‘How is that possible?’ the titular counsellor exclaimed. ‘The conspirators were wiped out!’
‘It is now clear that the group you have been hunting only existed in order to divert the authorities’ energy and attention. Or else the man with the withered arm and his group were given a secondary role once they had attracted the attention of the police. The main group was waiting patiently for its chance. The moment Okubo broke his cover and was left without any protection, the killers struck. Ah, Fandorin, I fear this is an irredeemable blow. And the worst disaster is still to come. The consequences for Russia will be lamentable. There is no one to tame the beast, the cage is empty, the Japanese tiger will break free.’
The zoo is empty,
All the visitors have fled.
Tiger on the loose
THE SCENT OF IRISES
Six morose-looking gentlemen were sitting in the office of the Russian ambassador: five in black frock coats and one in naval uniform, also black. The frivolous May sun was shining outside the windows of the building, but its rays were blocked out by thick curtains, and the room was as gloomy as the general mood.
The nominal chairman of the meeting was the ambassador himself, Full State Counsellor Kirill Vasilievich Korf, but His Excellency hardly even opened his mouth, maintaining a significant silence and merely nodding gravely when Bukhartsev, sitting on his right, had the floor. The seats on the left of the plenipotentiary representative of the Russian Empire were occupied by another two diplomatic colleagues, the first secretary and a youthful attaché, but they did not participate in the conversation, and in introducing themselves, they had murmured their names so quietly that Erast Petrovich could not make them out.
The consul and vice-consul were seated on the other side of the long table, which gave the impression, if not of direct confrontation, then at least of a certain opposition between Tokyoites and Yokohamans.
First they discussed the details of the assassination: the attackers had revolvers, but they fired only into the air, to cause fright and confusion; the unfortunate Okubo had tried to protect himself from the sword blades with his bare hands, so his forearms were covered in slashes; the fatal blow had split the brilliant minister’s head in half; from the scene of the killing, the conspirators had gone straight to the police to surrender and had submitted a written statement, in which the dictator was declared a usurper and enemy of the nation; all six were former samurai from Satsuma, their victim’s home region.
Fandorin was astounded.
‘They surrendered? They didn’t try to kill themselves?’
‘There’s no point now,’ the consul explained. ‘They’ve done their job. There will be a trial, they will make beautiful speeches, the public will regard them as heroes. Plays will be written about them, and prints will be made. And then, of course, they’ll chop their heads off, but they have secured themselves an honourable place in Japanese history.’
After that they moved on to the main item on the agenda – discussing the political situation and forecasting imminent changes. Two of the men – the consul and the maritime agent – argued, the others listened.
‘Japan will now inevitably be transformed from our ally into our rival and, with time, our sworn enemy,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich prophesied morosely. ‘Such, I fear, is the law of political physics. Under Okubo, an advocate of strict control over all aspects of social life, Japan was developing along the Russian path; a firm vertical structure of power, state management of the basic industrial sectors, no democratic games. But now the hour of the English party has been ushered in. The country will turn on to the British path – with a parliament and political parties, with the development of private capital on a large scale. And what is the British model of development, gentlemen? It is outward extension and expansion, a gaseous state, that is, the urge to fill all available space: a weak Korea, a decrepit China. That is the ground on which we will meet the Japanese tiger.’
Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev was not alarmed in the least by the prospect that the Yokohama consul had outlined.
‘What tiger are you talking about, sir? This is quite absurd. It’s no tiger, it’s a pussy cat, and a scabby, mangy one at that. Japan’s annual budget is only a tenth of Russia’s. And what can I say about their military forces? The Mikado’s peacetime army is thirty-five thousand men. The Tsar’s is almost a million. And what kind of soldiers do the Japanese have? They barely come up to the chests of our brave lads. And their navy! In the line of duty, I visited a battleship they bought recently in England. I could have laughed till I cried! Tiny little Lilliputs, crawling all over Gulliver. How do they intend to manage the turret mechanism for twelve-inch guns? Are five of them going to jump up and hang on the wheel? And as for Korea and China, oh, come now, Vsevolod Vitalievich! With God’s help, the Japanese might just liberate the island of Hokkaido!’
The ambassador liked what Bukhartsev had said – he smiled and started nodding. But out of the blue Doronin asked:
‘Tell me, Mstislav Nikolaievich, whose homes are cleaner – the Russian peasants’, or the Japanese peasants’?’
‘What has that go to do with the point?’
‘The Japanese say: “If the homes are clean, the government is respected and stable”. Our homes, my dear compatriots, are not clean – in fact, they are very unclean. Filth, drunkenness and, at the slightest provocation, the red cock crows under the landowner’s roof. We, my dear sirs, have bombers. Opposition is considered bon ton among our educated young people, but for the Japanese it is patriotism and respect for the authorities. And as for the difference in physique, that can be compensated for in time. We say: Healthy in body, healthy in mind. The Japanese are convinced of the opposite. And you know, I agree with them on that. Four-fifths of o
ur population are illiterate, but they have passed a law on universal education. Soon every child here will go to school. Patriotism, a healthy mind and education – that is the recipe for the feed that will allow this “mangy pussy cat” to grow into a tiger very quickly indeed. And, in addition, do not forget the most important treasure that the Japanese possess, one that is, unfortunately, very rare in our parts. It is called “dignity”.’
The ambassador was surprised.
‘I beg your pardon, how do you mean that?’
‘In the most direct sense possible, Your Excellency. Japan is a country of politeness. Every individual, even the very poorest, conducts himself with dignity. A Japanese fears nothing so much as to forfeit the respect of those around him. Yes, today this is a poor, backward country, but it stands on a firm foundation, and therefore it will realise its aspirations. And that will happen far more quickly than we think.’
Bukhartsev did not continue the sparring – he merely glanced at the ambassador with a smile and spread his hands eloquently.
And then His Excellency finally pronounced his own weighty word.
‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, I value you as a fine connoisseur of Japan, but I also know that you are an enthusiast. Staying too long in one place has its negative aspects: one starts viewing the situation through the eyes of the locals. This is sometimes useful, but don’t get carried away, don’t get carried away. The late Okubo used to say that he would not be killed as long as his country needed him. I understand fatalism of that sort, I take the same view of things and consider that, since Okubu is no longer with us, he had exhausted his usefulness. Naturally, you are right when you say that Japan’s political course will change now. But Mstislav Nikolaevich is also right: this Asiatic country does not have and cannot have the potential of a great power. It will possibly become a more influential and active force in the Far Eastern zone, but never a potential player. That is what I intend to state in my report to His Excellency the Chancellor. And henceforth the main question will be formulated in this way: Which tune will Japan dance to? – the Russian or the English?’ The baron sighed heavily. ‘I fear we shall find this rivalry hard going. The Britons have a stronger hand to play. And apart from that, we are still committing unforgivable blunders.’ His Excellency’s voice, which had so far been neutral and measured, took on a strict, even severe tone. ‘Take this business of hunting the false assassins. The entire diplomatic corps is abuzz with whispers that Okubo was killed because of a Russian plot. Supposedly we deliberately handed the police a few ragamuffins, leaving the real killers free to plot and strike unhindered. Today at lawn tennis the German ambassador remarked with a subtle smile: “Had Okubo ceased to be useful?” I was dumbfounded. I said: “Your Excellency, where could you have got such information?” It turned out that Bullcox had already found time to visit him. Oh, that Bullcox! It’s not enough for him that Britain has been relieved of its main political opponent, Bullcox wants to cast suspicion on Russia as well. And you gentlemen from Yokohama unwittingly assist his machinations!’
By the end of his speech, the ambassador was thoroughly annoyed and, although he had been addressing the ‘gentlemen from Yokohama’, he had not looked at the consul, but at Erast Petrovich, and his gaze was anything but benign.
‘It is as I reported to Your Excellency. On the one hand – connivance, and on the other – irresponsible adventurism.’
The two parties – the conniving (that is, Vsevolod Vitalievich) and the irresponsibly adventurist (that is, Fandorin) – exchanged surreptitious glances. Things were taking a very nasty turn.
The baron chewed on his dry Ostsee lips, raised his watery eyes to the ceiling and frowned. However, no lightning bolt ensued, things went no farther than a roll of thunder.
‘Well then, you gentlemen from Yokohama, from now on, please stick to your immediate consular duties. There will be plenty of work for you, Fandorin: arranging supplies for ships, repairing ships, assisting sailors and traders, summarising commercial data. But do not stick your nose into political and strategic matters, they are beyond you. We have a military man, a specialist, for that.’
Well, it could have been worse.
They drove from the diplomatic quarter with the beautiful name of the Tiger Gates to the Shimbashi Station in the ambassador’s carriage – His Excellency was a tactful individual and he possessed the major administrative talent of being able to give a subordinate a dressing-down without causing personal offence. The carriage with the gilded coat of arms on the door was intended to sweeten the bitter pill that the baron forced the Yokohamans to swallow.
To Erast Petrovich, the city of Tokyo seemed remarkably like his own native Moscow. That is to say, naturally, the architecture was quite different, but the alternating hovels and palaces, narrow streets and waste lots were entirely Muscovite, and the fashionable Ginja Street, with its neat brick houses, was precisely like prim Tverskaya Street, pretending as hard as it could to be Nevsky Prospect.
The titular counsellor kept looking out of the window, contemplating the melange of Japanese and Western clothes, hairstyles and carriages. But Doronin gazed wearily at the velvet wall, and the consul’s conversation was dismal.
‘Russia’s own leaders are its ruin. What can be done so that the people who rule are those who have the talent and vocation for it, not those with ambition and connections? And our other misfortune, Fandorin, is that Mother Russia has her face turned to the West, and her back to the East. And furthermore, we have our nose stuck up the West’s backside, because the West couldn’t give a damn for us. But we expose our defenceless derrière to the East, and sooner or later the Japanese will sink their sharp teeth into our flabby buttocks.’
‘But what is to be done?’ asked Erast Petrovich, watching a double-decker omnibus drive past, harnessed to four stunted little horses. ‘Turn away from the West to the East? That is hardly possible.’
‘Our eagle is double-headed, so that one head can look to the West, and the other to the East. We need to have two capitals. And the second one should not be Moscow, but Vladivostok.’
‘But I’ve read that Vladivostok is an appalling dump, a mere village!’
‘What of it? St Petersburg wasn’t even a village when Peter stretched out his hand and said: “It is nature’s command that we break a window through to Europe here”. And in this case even the name suits: Vladivostok – Rule the East!’
Since conversation had touched on such a serious topic, Fandorin stopped gazing idly out of the window and turned towards the consul.
‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, why should I rule other people’s lands if I can’t even set my own to rights?’
Doronin smiled ironically.
‘You’re right, a thousand times right. No conquest can be secure if our own home is tottering. But that doesn’t apply only to Russia. Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria’s house also stands on shaky foundations. The Earth will not belong to either us or the Britons. Because we set about conquering it in the wrong way – by force. And force, Fandorin, is the weakest and least permanent of instruments. Those defeated by it will submit, of course, but they will simply wait for the moment to come when they can free themselves. None of the European conquests in Africa and Asia will last long. In fifty or a hundred years, at most, there will be no colonies left. And the Japanese tiger won’t come to anything either – they’re learning from the wrong teachers.’
‘And from whom should they learn?’
‘The Chinese. No, not the empress Tzu Hsi, of course, but the Chinese people’s thorough and deliberate approach. The inhabitants of the Celestial Empire will not budge until they have put their own house in order, and that’s a long job, about two hundred years. But then afterwards, when the Chinese started feeling cramped, they’ll show the world what genuine conquest is. They won’t rattle their weapons and send expeditionary forces abroad. Oh no! They’ll show the other countries that living the Chinese way is better and more rational. And gradually everyone will become C
hinese, although it may take several generations.’
‘But I think the Americans will conquer the whole world,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And it will happen within the next hundred years. What makes the Americans strong? The fact that they accept everyone into their country. Anyone who wants to b-be American can be, even if he used to be an Irishman, a Jew or a Russian. There’ll be a United States of the Earth, you’ll see.’
‘Unlikely. The Americans, of course, behave more intelligently than the European monarchies, but they lack patience. Their roots are Western too, and in the West they place too much importance on time. But in fact, time does not even exist, there is no “tomorrow”, only an eternal “now”. The unification of the world is a slow business, but then, what’s all the hurry? There won’t be any United States of the Earth, there’ll be one Celestial Empire, and then the hour of universal harmony will arrive. Thank God that you and I shall never see that heaven on earth.’
And on that melancholy note the conversation about the future of mankind broke off – the carriage had stopped at the station.
The following morning Vice-Consul Fandorin took up his routine work: compiling a register of Russian ships due to arrive in the port of Yokohama in June and July 1878.
Erast Petrovich scribbled the heading of this boring document in slapdash style (the spinster Blagolepova would type it out again later anyway), but that was as far as the work got. The window of the small office located on the first floor presented a glorious view of the consulate garden, the lively Bund and the harbour roadstead. The titular counsellor was in a sour mood, and his thoughts drifted aimlessly. Propping one cheek on his fist, he started watching the people walking by and the carriages driving along the promenade.
