by Boris Akunin
The fat man spoke with such mouth-watering enthusiasm that Erast immediately realised just how hungry he was, and wanted the quail and the oysters. But he had to find out a few things first.
Since his host was in no hurry to interrogate him, the vice-consul decided to seize the initiative.
‘Tell me, why do you need a gate leading into the next garden?’ he asked, feverishly trying to think of how to approach the most important question.
‘Algernon and I are friends …’ (the name came out as ‘Arudzenon’ on his Japanese lips) ‘… we pay each other neighbourly calls, with no formalities. It’s more convenient to go through the garden than round by the street.’
And it’s also more convenient for your lodger to sell his secrets, the vice-consul thought, but, naturally, he didn’t tell tales on Prince Onokoji. Fandorin recalled that, unlike the other guests, Bullcox and his consort had arrived at the Bachelors’ Ball on foot, and they had appeared from somewhere off to one side, not from the direction of the front gates. So they must have used that gate …
‘But … but how did you open it?’ Erast Petrovich asked, still avoiding the most important point.
The Don became excited.
‘O-oh, I have everything here running on electric power. I’m a great admirer of that remarkable invention! Here, look.’
He took the vice-consul by the elbow and half-led, half-dragged him to a kind of lectern standing beside the telescope. Erast Petrovich saw a bundle of wires running down to the floor and disappearing into a covered channel. On the lectern itself there were several rows of small, gleaming switches. Tsurumaki clicked one of them and the palace came to life, with yellowish-white light streaming out of all its windows. He clicked the switch again, and the house went dark.
‘And this here is our gate. Look through the telescope, the telescope.’
Fandorin pressed his eye to the end of the tube and saw the metal railings very close up, only an arm’s length away, with three canine silhouettes beyond them. A green spark glinted once again in a bulging eye. What patient brutes they were.
‘One, two!’ the Don exclaimed, and the gate swung open with a lively jerk, as if it were alive. One of the dogs bounded forward.
‘Three, four!’
The gate slammed shut again just as quickly, and the mastiff was flung back into the garden. And serve the son of a bitch right!
Pretending to adjust the focus, Erast Petrovich raised the aim of the telescope slightly. First the wall of the house appeared in the circle of vision, and then the drainpipe, and then the window – and all very close indeed.
‘That’s enough, enough!’ said the lover of electricity, tugging impatiently on his sleeve. ‘Now I’ll show you something that will really make you gasp. Nobody has seen it yet, I’m saving it for a big social event … The pond, watch the pond!’
Click! An emerald glow appeared above the black, shimmering patch of water as the tiny island was flooded with light from electric lamps, and the tiny stone pagoda standing on it was also lit up – but pink, not green.
‘European science!’ the millionaire exclaimed, with his eyes glittering. ‘The wires are laid along the bottom, in a special telegraph cable. And the bulbs have coloured glass, that’s the whole trick. How do you like that?’
‘Astounding!’ Fandorin exclaimed with genuine delight. ‘You’re a genuine inventor.’
‘Oh no, I’m not an inventor. Making discoveries is what you gaijins are good at. The Japanese are not inventors, our element is Order, but pioneers are always children of Chaos. But we are really clever at finding good uses for others’ inventions, and you can never keep up with us there. Give us time, Mr Fandorin: we’ll learn all your tricks, and then we’ll show you how clumsily you have used them.’
The Don laughed, and the titular counsellor thought: It doesn’t look to me as if your element is Order.
‘Are you interested in astronomy?’ Erast Petrovich enquired, clearing his throat and nodding at the telescope.
Tsurumaki understood the hidden meaning of the question quite clearly. His laughter rumbled even more freely and his fat cheeks crept upwards, transforming his jolly, sparkling eyes into two narrow slits.
‘Yes, astronomy too. But sometimes there are very curious things to be seen on the ground as well!’
He slapped his visitor on the shoulder in familiar fashion, choked on tobacco smoke and doubled over in laughter.
Erast Petrovich flushed bright red – he had seen it, he had seen everything! But what could Fandorin say now?
‘Bravo, Fandorin-san, bravo!’ said the joker, brushing away his tears. ‘Here’s my hand!’
The vice-consul shook the proffered hand very feebly and asked morosely:
‘What are you so pleased about?’
‘The fact that good old Algernon is a … what’s the English word, now … a cuckord!’
Erast Petrovich did not immediately realise that the word intended was ‘cuckold’. He asked with emphatic coolness, in order to bring the conversation back within the bounds of propriety:
‘But you said he was your f-friend.’
‘Of course he is! As far as a native princeling can be a white sahib’s friend.’ The Don’s sanguine features dissolved into a smile that was no longer jolly, but frankly spiteful. ‘Do you really not know, my dear Fandorin-san, that one of the greatest of pleasures is the feeling of secret superiority over someone who thinks he is superior to you? You have given me a wonderful present. Now every time I look at Bullcox’s snobbish features, I shall remember your magnificent leap from the window and the clothes flying through the air, and inside I shall be roaring with laughter. Thank you very, very much for that!’
He tried to shake hands again, but this time the dumbfounded vice-consul hid his hand behind his back.
‘Are you offended? You shouldn’t be. I have a proposal for you, a secret Japano-Russian alliance, directed against British imperialism.’ The Don winked. ‘And I am offering you an excellent base for undermining English influence. You see the little pavilion by the water? A fine, secluded spot. I shall give you a key to the gates, and you will be able to get in at any time of the day or night. And I shall present the lovely O-Yumi with a key to the gate in the garden. Make yourselves at home. Feast on love. Only one condition: don’t turn out the lamp and don’t close the curtains on this side. Consider that the rental charge for the premises … Oh, just look at his eyes flash! Oh! I’m joking, I’m joking!’
He burst into laughter again, but to Erast Petrovich these playful jokes about the exalted and fateful power that had bound him and O-Yumi together seemed like unforgivable blasphemy.
‘I will ask you never to speak about this l-lady and my relationship with her in that tone again …’ he began furiously, in a hissing whisper.
‘You’re in love!’ Tsurumaki interrupted with a laugh. ‘Head over heels! Oh, you unfortunate victim of jojutsu!’
It is quite impossible to be seriously angry with a man who abandons himself to such good-natured merriment.
‘What has jujitsu got to do with it?’ Erast Petrovich asked in amazement, thinking that Tsurumaki meant the Japanese fighting art that he was studying with his valet.
‘Not JUjitsu, but jOjutsu! The art of amorous passion. An art of which top-flight courtesans have complete mastery.’ The bon vivant’s gaze turned thoughtful. ‘I too was once snared in the nets of a mistress of jojutsu. Not for long, only a month and a half. Her love cost me thirty thousand yen – all that I had in those days. Afterwards I had to start my business all over again, but I don’t regret it – it is one of the best memories of my life!’
‘You’re mistaken, my dear fellow,’ said Fandorin, smiling condescendingly. ‘Your jojutsu has nothing to do with it. I have not paid for love.’
‘It is not always paid for with money,’ said the Don, scratching his beard and raising his thick eyebrows in surprise. ‘O-Yumi not using jojutsu? That would be strange. Let’s check. Of course, I don’t
know all the subtle points of this intricate art, but I remember a few things that I experienced for myself. The initial stage is called “soyokadzeh”. How can I translate that, now … “The breath of wind” – that’s pretty close. The goal is to attract the attention of the chosen target. To do this the mistress of the art gives the man a chance to show himself in the best possible light. It’s a well-known fact that a man loves those who he believes should admire him more than anyone else. If a man prides himself on his perspicacity, the courtesan will arrange things so that he appears before her in all his intellectual brilliance. If he is brave, she will give him a chance to show that he is a genuine hero. Fake bandits can be hired, so that the target can defend a beautiful stranger against them. Or he might suddenly see a beautiful woman fall into the water from a capsized boat. The most audacious courtesans will even risk being maimed by conspiring with a riksha or a coach driver. Imagine a carriage that has run out of control, and a delightful woman sitting in it, screaming pitifully. How can you possibly not go dashing to assist her? At the first stage of jojutsu it is very important, firstly, for the target to feel that he is a protector and, secondly, for him to be inspired with lust for the huntress, not merely compassion. To achieve that she is certain to expose, as if by accident, the most seductive part of her body: a shoulder, a foot, a breast, it varies from one individual to another.’
At first Fandorin listened to this story with a scornful smile. Then, when he heard the words about a carriage running out of control, he shuddered. But he immediately told himself: No, no, it’s impossible, it’s just coincidence. But what about the torn dress, and the alabaster shoulder with the scarlet scratch? a satanic little voice whispered.
Nonsense, the titular counsellor thought with a shake of his head. It really was absurd.
‘And what does the second stage consist of?’ he enquired ironically.
Tsurumaki took a bite out of a large, luscious red apple and continued with his mouth full.
‘It’s called “Two on an Island”. A very subtle moment. The point is to maintain distance, while demonstrating that there is some special kind of connection between the courtesan and the target – they are bound together by the invisible threads of fate. For this purpose all means are good: the mistress of the art sets spies on the target, gathers information about him, and then many of the ladies also have a good command of ninso – that’s like your physiognomics, only far, far more subtle.’
The vice-consul turned cold, but the jolly narrator crunched on his apple and implacably drove needle after needle into his poor suffering heart.
‘I think they call the third stage “The Scent of a Peach”. The target has to be allowed to inhale the seductive aroma of the fruit, but the fruit is still hanging high up on the branch and no one knows whose hands it will fall into. This is to show that the creature provoking his desire is a living, passionate woman, not some incorporeal angel, and she will have to be fought for. At this stage a rival is certain to appear, and a serious one at that.’
How she rode past the consulate with Bullcox, leaning her head on his shoulder! Erast Petrovich recalled. And she didn’t even glance in my direction, although I was sitting right there in the window …
Oh no, no, no!
The Don squinted up at the moon.
‘How does it continue now? Ah yes, but of course! The “Typhoon” stage. Immediately after the despair (“alas and alack, she will never be mine!”), the courtesan arranges a lover’s tryst, completely without any warning. Absolutely breathtaking, employing all the secret arts of the bedroom, but not too long. The target must get the real taste of pleasure, but not be sated. After that comes the “Ayatsuri” stage. Separation resulting from insuperable difficulties of some kind. Ayatsuri is the way a puppet master controls a puppet in the theatre. Have you ever been to a bunraku performance? You must go, you have nothing like it in Europe. Our puppets are just like real people, and …’
‘Stop!’ Fandorin cried out, feeling that he could not take any more. ‘For God’s sake, stop t-talking!’
Crushed, Erast Petrovich brushed a drop of icy sweat off his forehead and forced himself to speak.
‘I see now that you are right … And I … I am grateful to you. If not for you I really would have lost my reason completely … In fact, I have already … But no more, I will not be a puppet in her hands any longer!’
‘Ah, you are wrong there,’ Tsurumaki said disapprovingly. ‘You still have the very best stage to come: “The Bow String”. In your case the title is doubly piquant,’ he said with a smile. ‘“Bow” in Japanese is yumi.’
‘I know,’ Fandorin said with a nod, looking off to one side. A plan was gradually taking shape in the demoralised vice-consul’s head.
‘This is the stage of total happiness, when both soul and body attain the very summit of bliss and reverberate with delight, like a taut bowstring. In order to highlight the sweetness even more, the mistress of the art adds just a little bitterness – you will certainly never know …’
‘I tell you what,’ Erast Petrovich interrupted, staring sombrely into the eyes of the man who had saved him from insanity, but broken his heart. ‘That’s enough about jojutsu. I’m not interested in that. Give me your key, I’ll take it from you for one day. And give … give her the other key, from the gate in the garden. Tell her that I shall be waiting for her in the pavilion, starting from midnight. But not a word about this conversation of ours. Do you promise?’
‘You won’t kill her, will you?’ the Don asked cautiously. ‘I mean, it doesn’t really matter to me, but I wouldn’t like it to be on my estate … And then Algernon would resent it. And he’s not the kind of man I’d like to quarrel with …’
‘I won’t do her any harm. On m-my word of honour.’
It took Fandorin an agonisingly long time to walk to the gates. Every step cost him an effort.
‘Ah, jojutsu?’ he whispered. ‘So they call it jojutsu, do they?’
A host of students,
But such scanty progress made
In passion’s science
A ONE-HANDED CLAP
The day that arrived after this insane night was like nothing on earth. In defiance of the laws of nature, it did not move from morning to evening at a uniform rate, but in jerks and bounds. The hands of the clock either stuck fast or leapt over several divisions all at once. However, when the mechanism began striking either eleven or twelve, Erast Petrovich seemed to start thinking seriously and continuously for the first time; one mood was displaced by another, several times his thoughts completely reversed their direction, and tiresome old Big Ben carried on chiming ‘bong-bong-bong’ and simply would not shut up.
The vice-consul did not show his face in the consular office – he was afraid he would not be able to maintain a conversation with his colleagues. He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink, and he didn’t lie down or sit down even for a minute, he just strode round and round his room. Sometimes he would start talking to himself in a furious whisper, then he would fall silent again. On several occasions his alarmed valet peeped through the crack of the door and sighed loudly, rattling the tray with his master’s cold breakfast, but Fandorin neither saw nor heard anything.
To go or not to go, that was the question that the young man was simply unable to answer.
Or, to be more precise, the decision was taken repeatedly, and in the most definitive terms, but then time was affected by the aforementioned paradox, the hands of Big Ben froze and the torment began all over again.
When he had moved a little beyond his initial numbness and entered a state not entirely dissimilar to normality, Erast Petrovich naturally told himself that he would not go to any pavilion. This was the only dignified way out of the horrifyingly undignified situation into which the vice-consul of the Russian Empire had been drawn by the inopportune awakening of his heart. He had to amputate this whole shameful business with a firm hand, and wait until the blood stopped flowing and the severed nerves stopped smarti
ng. In time the wound would certainly heal over, and the lesson would have been learned for the rest of his life. Why create melodramatic scenes, with accusations and hands upraised to the heavens? He had played the fool’s part long enough, it was shameful enough to remember, even without that …
He was going to send the key back to the Don immediately.
He didn’t send it.
He was prevented by an upsurge of rage, rage of the most corrosive sort – that is, not fiery but icy rage, which does not set the hands trembling, but clenches them into fists, the sort of rage that sets the pulse beating slowly and loudly and paints the face with a deadly pallor.
How had he, an intelligent and dispassionate individual, who had passed honourably through numerous trials, allowed himself to be treated like this? And even more importantly, by whom? A venal woman, a calculating intriguer! He had behaved like a pitiful young pup, like a character out of some vulgar harlequinade! He gritted his teeth, recalling how his coat-tail had snagged on a nail, how he had pressed on the pedals to escape from the pack of homeless mongrels …
No, he would go, he had to go! Let her see what he, Fandorin, was really like. Not a pitiful, besotted boy, but a firm, calm man who had seen through her satanic game and stepped disdainfully over the trap that had been set for him.
Dress elegantly, but simply: a black frock coat, a white shirt with a turndown collar – no starch, no neckties. A cloak? He thought yes. And a cane, that was indispensable.
He dressed up, stood in front of the mirror, deliberately ruffled his hair so that a casual lock dangled down across his forehead – and suddenly flushed, as if he had seen himself from the outside.
