by Boris Akunin
Ah, it’s a bitch in heat, Fandorin realised. Well done, Masa, brilliant!
The pack also set off at a rush after the terrifying suitors, but maintained a respectful distance. Five seconds later there wasn’t a single quadruped left in the street.
Masa walked out through the gate and bowed ceremoniously, gesturing to invite Erast Petrovich through on to the lawn. The vice-consul tossed his cloak into his servant’s arms, handed him the hat and went in – not over the fence, but in the conventional manner – through the gate.
In the distance he could hear the loud barking and lingering lovesick howls of the local canine community.
All things forgotten,
Careering along pell-mell,
Answering love’s call
THE GARDEN GATE
Erast Petrovich ran across the broad lawn, brightly illuminated by the moonlight. He walked round the house – if he was going to climb in through a window, it would be best to do it at the back, so that he would not be seen by some chance passer-by.
Behind the house he found a garden wrapped in dense shade – just what he needed.
Going up on tiptoe, the adventurer glanced into the first window after the corner. He saw a spacious room – a dining room or drawing room. A white tablecloth, candles burning out, the remains of a supper served for two.
His heart suddenly ached.
So, she dined with one and set out for a tryst with another? Or, even better, she returned from her dramatic rendezvous and calmly sat down to a meal with her ginger-haired patron? Women truly were mysterious creatures. After two more windows, the next room began – the study.
The windows here were slightly open and Fandorin could hear a man’s voice speaking, so he acted with caution and first listened to ascertain where the speaker was.
‘… will be reprimanded, but his superior will bear the greater part of the guilt – he will be obliged to resign in disgrace …’ said the voice in the study.
The words were spoken in English, but with a distinct Japanese accent, so it was not Bullcox.
However, the senior adviser was also there.
‘And our friend will occupy the vacancy?’ he asked.
Two men, Fandorin decided. The Japanese is sitting in the far right corner, and Bullcox is in the centre, with his back to the window.
The titular counsellor lifted himself up slowly, inch by inch, and examined the interior of the room.
Shelves of books, a desk, a fireplace with no fire.
The important thing was that O-Yumi was not here. Two men. He could see his rival’s fiery locks sticking up from behind the back of one armchair. The other armchair was occupied by a dandy with a gleaming parting in his hair and a pearl glowing in his silk tie. The minuscule man crossed one leg elegantly over the other and swayed his lacquered shoe.
‘Not this very moment,’ he said with a restrained smile. ‘In a week’s time.’
Ah, I know you, my good sir, thought Erast Petrovich, narrowing his eyes. I saw you at the ball. Prince … What was it that Doronin called you?
‘Well now, Onokoji, that is very Japanese,’ the Right Honourable said with a chuckle. ‘To reprimand someone, and reward him a week later with promotion.’
Yes, yes, Fandorin remembered, he’s Prince Onokoji, the former daimyo – ruler of an appanage principality – now a high society lion and arbiter of fashion.
‘This, my dear Algernon, is not a reward, he is merely occupying a position that has fallen vacant. But he will receive a reward, for doing the job so neatly. He will be given the suburban estate of Takarazaka. Ah, what plum trees there are there! What ponds!’
‘Yes, it’s a glorious spot. A hundred thousand, probably.’
‘At least two hundred, I assure you!’
Erast Petrovich did not look in the window – he was not interested. He tried to think where O-Yumi might be.
On the ground floor there were another two windows that were dark, but Bullcox was hardly likely to have accommodated his mistress next to his study. So where were her chambers, then? At the front of the house? Or on the first floor?
‘All right, then,’ he heard the Briton say. ‘But what about Prince Arisugawa’s letter? Have you been able to get hold of a copy?’
‘My man is greedy, but we simply can’t manage without him.’
‘Listen, I believe I gave you five hundred pounds!’
‘But I need a thousand.’
The vice-consul frowned. Vsevolod Vitalievich had said that the prince lived on Don Tsurumaki’s charity, but apparently he felt quite free to earn some subsidiary income. And Bullcox was a fine one, too – paying for court rumours and stolen letters. But then, that was his job as a spy.
No, the Englishman would probably not accommodate his native mistress on the front façade of the house – after all, he was an official dignitary. So her window was probably on the back wall …
The wrangling in the study continued.
‘Onokoji, I’m not a milch cow.’
‘And in addition, for the same sum, you could have a little list from Her Majesty’s diary,’ the prince said ingratiatingly. ‘One of the ladies-in-waiting is my cousin, and she owes me many favours.’
Bullcox snorted.
‘Worthless. Some womanish nonsense or other.’
‘Very far indeed from nonsense. Her Majesty is in the habit of noting down her conversations with His Majesty …’
There’s no point in my listening to all these abominations, Fandorin told himself. I’m not a spy, thank God. But if some servant or other sees me, I’ll cut an even finer figure than these two: ‘RUSSIAN VICE-CONSUL CAUGHT EAVESDROPPING’.
He stole along the wall to a drainpipe and tugged on it cautiously, to see whether it was firm. The titular counsellor already had some experience in climbing drainpipes from his previous, non-diplomatic life.
His foot was already poised on the lower rim of brick, but his reason still attempted to resist. You are behaving like a madman, like a thoroughly contemptible, irresponsible individual, his reason told him. Come to your senses! Get a grip on yourself!
‘It’s true,’ Erast Petrovich replied abjectly, ‘I have gone completely gaga.’ But his contrition did not make him abandon his insane plan, it did not even slow down his movements.
The diplomat scrambled up nimbly to the first floor, propped one foot on a ledge and reached out for the nearest window. He clutched at the frame with his fingers and crept closer, taking tiny little steps. His frock coat was probably covered in dust, but that did not concern Fandorin just at the moment.
He had a far worse problem – the dark window refused to open. It was latched shut, and it was impossible for him to reach the small upper section.
Break it? He couldn’t, it would bring the entire household running …
The diamond on the titular counsellor’s finger – a farewell gift from the lady responsible for his missing the steamship from Calcutta – glinted cunningly.
If Erast Petrovich had only been in a normal, balanced state of mind, he would undoubtedly have felt ashamed of the very idea – how could he use a present from one woman to help him reach another! But his fevered brain whispered to him that diamond cuts glass. And the young man promised his conscience that he would take the ring off and never put it back on again for as long as he lived.
Fandorin did not know exactly how diamond was used for cutting. He took a firm grip on the ring and scored a decisive line. There was disgusting scraping sound, and a scratch appeared on the glass.
The titular counsellor pursed his lips stubbornly and prepared to apply greater strength.
He pressed as hard as he could – and the window frame suddenly yielded.
For just a moment Erast Petrovich imagined that this was the result of his efforts, but O-Yumi was standing in the dark rectangle that had opened up in front of him. She looked at the vice-consul with laughing eyes that reflected two tiny little moons.
‘You have overcome all the obstacles and deserve a l
ittle help,’ she whispered. ‘Only, for God’s sake, don’t fall off. That would be stupid now.’ And in an absolutely unromantic but extremely practical manner, she grabbed hold of his collar.
‘I came to tell you that I have also been thinking about you for the last two days,’ said Fandorin.
The idiotic English language has no intimate form of the second person pronoun, it’s always just ‘you’, whatever the relationship might be, but he decided that from this moment on they were on intimate terms.
‘Is that all you came for?’ she asked with a smile, holding him by the shoulders.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I believe you. You can go back now.’
Erast Petrovich did not feel like going back.
He thought for a moment and said:
‘Let me in.’
O-Yumi glanced behind her.
‘For one minute. No longer.’
Fandorin didn’t try to argue.
He clambered over the windowsill (how many times had he already done that tonight?) and reached his arms out for her, but O-Yumi backed away.
‘Oh no. Or a minute won’t be long enough.’
The vice-consul hid his hands behind his back, but he declared:
‘I want to take you with me!’
She shook her head and her smile faded away.
‘Why? Do you love him?’ he asked in a trembling voice.
‘Not any more.’
‘Th-then why?’
She glanced behind her again – apparently at the door. Erast Petrovich himself had not looked round even once, he hadn’t even noticed what room this was – a boudoir or a dressing room. To tear his gaze away from O-Yumi’s face for even a second seemed blasphemous to him.
‘Go quickly. Please,’ she said nervously. ‘If he sees you here, he’ll kill you.’
Fandorin shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly.
‘He won’t kill me. Europeans don’t do that. He’ll challenge me to a d-duel.’
Then she started pushing him towards the window with her fists.
‘He won’t challenge you. You don’t know this man. He will definitely kill you. If not today, then tomorrow or the next day. And not with his own hands.’
‘Let him,’ Fandorin murmured, not listening, and tried to pull her towards him. ‘I’m not afraid of him.’
‘… But before that he’ll kill me. It will be easy for him to do that – like swatting a moth. Go. I’ll come to you. As soon as I can …’
But he didn’t let her out of his arms. He pressed his lips against her little mouth and started trembling, only coming to his senses when she whispered:
‘Do you want me to be killed?’
He staggered back, gritted his teeth and jumped up on to the windowsill. He would probably have jumped down just as lightly, but O-Yumi suddenly called out:
‘No, wait!’ – and she held out her arms.
They dashed to each other as precipitately and inexorably as two trains that a fatal chance has set on the same line, hurtling towards each other. What follows is obvious enough: a shattering impact, billows of smoke and flashes of flame, everything thrown head over heels and topsy-turvy, and God only knows who will be left alive in this bacchanalian orgy of fire.
The lovers clung tightly to each other. Their fingers did not caress, they tore, their mouths did not kiss, they bit.
They fell on the floor, and this time there was no heavenly music, no art – only growling, the sound of clothes tearing, the taste of blood on lips.
Suddenly a small but strong hand pressed against Fandorin’s chest and pushed him away.
A whisper right in his ear.
‘Run!’
He raised his head and glanced at the door with misty eyes. He heard footsteps and absentminded whistling. Someone was coming, moving up from below – no doubt climbing the stairs.
‘No!’ groaned Erast Petrovich. ‘Let him come! I don’t care!’
But she was no longer there beside him – she was standing up, rapidly straightening her dishevelled nightgown.
She said:
‘You’ll get me killed!’
He tumbled over the windowsill, not in the least concerned about how he would fall, although, incredibly enough, he made a better landing than he had earlier on, at the Grand Hotel, and didn’t hurt himself at all.
His frock coat then came flying out of the window after him, followed by his left shoe – the titular counsellor hadn’t even noticed when he lost it.
He buttoned himself up somehow or other and tucked in his shirt, listening to hear what was happening now up above him.
But there was a loud slam as someone closed the window; after that there were no more sounds.
Erast Petrovich walked round the side of the house and started off across the lawn in the reverse direction – Masa was waiting there, outside the open gate. The vice-consul took only ten steps and then froze as three long, low shadows came tearing in from the street.
The mastiffs!
They had either concluded their male business or, like the ill-fated titular counsellor, withdrawn disappointed, but either way the dogs were back, and they had cut off his only line of retreat.
Fandorin swung round and dashed back into the garden, hurtling along, unable to make out the path, with branches lashing at his face.
The damned dogs were running a lot faster, and their snuffling was getting closer and closer.
The garden came to an end, and there was a fence of iron ahead. Too high to scramble over. And there was nothing to get a grip on.
Erast Petrovich swung round and thrust one hand into the holster behind his back to take out his Herstal, but he couldn’t fire – it would rouse the entire house.
The first mastiff growled, preparing to spring.
‘RUSSIAN VICE-CONSUL TORN TO PIECES’ – the headline flashed through the doomed man’s mind. He put his hands over his face and throat, and instinctively pushed his back against the fence. Suddenly there was a strange metallic clang, the fence gave way, and the titular counsellor fell, sprawling flat on his back.
When evening time comes,
In the mystical silence
The garden gate creaks
THE SCIENCE OF JOJUTSU
Still not understanding what had happened, Erast Petrovich rose to a squatting position, ready for the hopeless skirmish with three bloodthirsty monsters, but the amazing fence (no, gate!) slammed shut with a squeak of springs.
On the other side a heavy carcass slammed into the iron bars at full pelt. He heard an angry yelp and snarling. Three pairs of furiously glinting eyes gazed at their inaccessible prey.
‘Not your day, folks!’ shouted the titular counsellor, whose English speech had clearly been vulgarised somewhat by associating with Sergeant Lockston.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and breathed out again, trying to calm his heartbeat. He looked around: who had opened the gate that saved him?
There was not a soul to be seen.
He saw Don Tsurumaki’s palace in the distance and, much closer, a pond overgrown with water lilies, glinting in the moonlight – it was inexpressibly beautiful, with a tiny island, little toy bridges and spiky rushes growing along its banks. He could hear the melancholy croaking of frogs from that direction. The black surface seemed to be embroidered with silver threads – the reflections of the stars.
The vice-consul thought that the dark pavilion by the water’s edge looked particularly fine, with the edges of its roof turned up like wings, as if it were preparing to take flight. A weather vane in the form of a fantastic bird crowned a weightless tower.
Erast Petrovich set off along the bank of the pond, gazing around. He was still stupefied. What kind of miracles were these? Someone must have opened the gate, and then closed it. Someone had rescued the nocturnal adventurer from certain death.
Not until the pavilion and the pond had been left behind did Fandorin think to look at the palace.
An elegant buildi
ng, constructed in the style of the mansions on the Champs Élysées, with a terrace that faced in the direction of the little lake, and on the first floor someone standing behind the elegant balustrade was waving to the uninvited visitor – someone in a long robe and a fez with a tassel.
Erast Petrovich recognised him from the fez: it was the owner of the estate in person. Seeing that he had finally been spotted, Don Tsurumaki gestured invitingly in welcome.
There was nothing to be done. Fandorin could hardly take to his heels. Cursing under his breath, the titular counsellor bowed politely and set off towards the steps of the porch. His supple mind started functioning again, trying to invent some at least vaguely credible explanation for his scandalous behaviour.
‘Welcome, young assistant of my friend Doronin!’ a rich male voice said above his head. ‘The door is open. Come in and join me up here!’
‘Th-thank you,’ Fandorin replied drearily.
Erast Petrovich walked through the dark hallway, where the orchestra had thundered and skirts had been lifted above kicking legs in the cancan during the Bachelors’ Ball, and then up the stairs, as if he were mounting the scaffold.
What should he do? Repent? Lie? What good would it do if he did lie? The Russian vice-consul, fleeing from the British agent’s garden. The situation was quite unambiguous: one spy spying on another …
But Fandorin had still not realised just how wretched his situation really was.
Walking out on to the stone terrace, he saw a table laid with a magnificent spread of various kinds of ham, salami, fruits, cakes and sweets, as well as an array of sweet liqueurs; candles protruded from candelabra, but they had not been lit – evidently because of the bright moon. But the table was not the problem – there was a powerful telescope on an iron stand beside the balustrade, and its seeing eye was not pointed up at the heavens, but towards Bullcox’s house!
Had Don Tsurumaki seen or hadn’t he? Erast Petrovich froze on the spot when the thought hit him. But no, the real point was: What exactly had he seen – just a man running away through the garden or …
‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ said the Don, puffing on his black briar pipe as he moved towards Fandorin. ‘Would you like something to eat? I love eating alone at night. With no forks and no chopsticks – with just my bare hands.’ He held up his palms, gleaming with grease and smeared with chocolate. ‘Sheer piggishness, of course, but so help me, it’s my favourite time of the day. I regale my soul with the sight of the stars and my body with all sorts of delicacies. Take a quail, they were still soaring over the meadow this morning. And there are oysters, absolutely fresh. Would you like some?’
