by Boris Akunin
What else happened?
Nothing out of the ordinary. Kleber-san, as always, was complaining of a migraine but eating with a voracious appetite. She looks the very picture of health, a classic example of an easy pregnancy. I am sure that when her time comes the child will pop out of her like a cork from sparkling French wine.
There was talk of the heat, of tomorrow's arrival in Aden, of precious stones. Fandorin-san and I discussed the relative advantages of Japanese and English gymnastics. I found myself in a position to be condescending, since in this sphere the superiority of the East over the West is self-evident. The difference, of course, is that for them physical exercise is sport, a game, but for us it is the path to spiritual self-improvement. It is spiritual improvement that is important. Physical perfection is of no importance; it is automatically dragged along behind, as the carriages follow a steam locomotive. I should mention that the Russian is very interested in sport and has even heard something of the martial arts schools of Japan and China. This morning I was meditating on the boat deck earlier than usual and I saw Fandorin-san there. We merely bowed to each other and did not enter into conversation, because each of us was occupied with his own business: I was bathing my soul in the light of the new day, while he, dressed in gymnast's tights, was performing squats and press-ups on each arm in turn and lifting weights which appeared to be very heavy.
Our common interest in gymnastics rendered our evening conversation unforced and I felt more relaxed than usual. I told the Russian about ju-jitsu. He listened with unflagging interest.
At about half past eight (I did not notice the precise time) Kleber-san, having drunk her tea and eaten two cakes, complained of feeling dizzy. I told her that this happens to pregnant women when they eat too much. For some reason she evidently took offence at my words and I realized that my comment was out of place. How many times have I sworn not to speak out of turn. After all, I was taught by wise teachers: when you find yourself in strange company, sit, listen, smile pleasantly and from time to time nod your head - you will acquire the reputation of a well-bred individual and at the very least you will not say anything stupid. It is not the place of an 'officer' to be giving medical advice!
Renier-san immediately leapt to his feet and volunteered to accompany the lady to her cabin. He is in general a most considerate man, and especially with Kleber-san. He is the only one who is not yet sick of her interminable caprices. He stands up for the honour of his uniform, and I applaud him for it.
When they left, the men moved to the armchairs and began smoking. The Italian ship's doctor and his English wife went to visit a patient and I attempted to din it into the waiter's head that they should not put either bacon or ham in my omelette for breakfast. After so many days they should have grown used to the idea by now.
Perhaps about two minutes later we suddenly heard a woman's high-pitched scream.
Firstly, I did not immediately realize that it was Kleber-san screaming. Secondly, I did not understand that her blood-curdling scream of 'Oscure! Oscure!' meant 'Au secours! Au secours!' But that does not excuse my behaviour. I behaved disgracefully, quite disgracefully. I am unworthy of the title of samurai!
But everything in order.
The first to reach the door was Fandorin-san, followed by the commissioner of police, then Milford-Stokes-san and Sweetchild-san, and I was still glued to the spot. They have all decided, of course, that the Japanese army is staffed by pitiful cowards. In actual fact, I simply did not understand immediately what was happening.
When I did understand it was too late - I was the last to come running up to the scene of the incident, even behind Stamp-san.
Kleber-san's cabin is very close to the saloon, the fifth door on the right along the corridor. Peering over the shoulders of those who had reached the spot before me I saw a quite incredible sight. The door of the cabin was wide open. Kleber-san was lying on the floor and moaning pitifully, with some immense, heavy, shiny black mass slumped across her. I did not immediately realize that it was a negro of immense stature. He was wearing white canvas trousers. The handle of a sailor's dirk was protruding from the back of his neck. From the position of his body I knew immediately that the negro was dead. A blow like that, struck to the base of the skull, requires great strength and precision, but it kills instantly and surely.
Kleber-san was floundering in a vain effort to wriggle out from under the heavy carcass that had pinned her down. Lieutenant Renier was bustling about beside her. His face was whiter than the collar of his shirt. The dirk scabbard hanging at his side was empty. The lieutenant was completely flustered, torn between dragging this unsavoury deadweight off the pregnant woman, and turning to us and launching into an incoherent explanation to the commissioner of what had happened.
Fandorin-san was the only one who remained calm and composed. Without any visible effort he lifted up the heavy corpse and dragged it off to one side (I remembered his exercises with the weights), helped Kleber-san into an armchair and gave her some water. Then I came to my senses and checked swiftly to make sure that she had no wounds or bruises. There did not seem to be any. Whether there is any internal damage will become clear later. Everyone was so agitated that they were not surprised when I examined her. White people are convinced that all Orientals are part-shaman and know the art of healing. Kleber-san's pulse was 95, which is perfectly understandable.
Interrupting each other as they spoke, Renier-san and Kleber-san told us the following story.
The lieutenant:
He saw Kleber-san to her cabin, wished her a pleasant evening and took his leave. However, he had scarcely taken two steps away from her door when he heard her desperate scream.
Kleber-san:
She went into her cabin, switched on the electric light and saw a gigantic black man standing by her dressing table with her coral beads in his hands (I actually saw these beads on the floor afterwards). The negro threw himself on her without speaking, tossed her to the floor and grabbed hold of her throat with his massive hands. She screamed.
The lieutenant:
He burst into the cabin, saw the appalling (he said 'fantastic') scene and for a moment was at a loss. He grabbed the negro by the shoulders, but was unable to shift the giant by even an inch. Then he kicked him in the head, but again without the slightest effect. It was only then, fearing for the life of Kleber-san and her child, that he grabbed his dirk out of its sheath and struck a single blow.
It occurred to me that the lieutenant must have spent a turbulent youth in taverns and bordellos, where skill in handling a knife determines who will sober up the following morning and who will be carried off to the cemetery.
Captain Cliff and Dr Truffo came running up. The cabin became crowded. No one could understand how the African had come to be on board the Leviathan. Fandorin-san carefully inspected a tattoo covering the dead man's chest and said that he had come across one like it before. Apparently, during the recent Balkan conflict he was held prisoner by the Turks, and there he saw black slaves with precisely the same zigzag lines surrounding the nipples in concentric circles. They are the ritual markings of the Ndanga tribe, recently discovered by Arab slave traders in the very heart of Equatorial Africa. Ndanga men are in great demand at markets throughout the East.
It seemed to me that Fandorin-san said all of this with a rather strange expression on his face, as though he were perplexed by something. However, I could be mistaken, since the facial expressions of Europeans are freakish and do not correspond at all to ours.
Commissioner Gauche listened to the diplomat carefully. He said that there were two questions that interested him as a representative of the law: how the negro had managed to get on board and why he had attacked Mme Kleber.
Then it emerged that things had begun disappearing in a mysterious fashion from the cabins of several of the people present. I remembered the item that had disappeared from my cabin, but naturally I said nothing. It was also established that people had seen a massive black
shadow (Miss Stamp) or a black face peeping in at their windows (Mrs Truffo). It is clear now that these were not
hallucinations and not the fruit of morbid imaginings.
Everyone threw themselves on the captain. Apparently, the passengers had been in mortal danger all the time they had been on board and the ship's command had not even been aware of it. Cliff-san was scarlet with shame. And it must be admitted that a terrible blow has been struck at his prestige. I tactfully turned away so that he would suffer less from his loss of face.
Then the captain asked all the witnesses to the incident to move into the Windsor saloon and addressed us with a speech of great power and dignity. Above all he apologized for what had happened. He asked us not to tell anyone about this 'regrettable occurrence', since it might cause mass psychosis on board the ship. He promised that his sailors would immediately comb all the holds, the 'tween-decks space, the wine cellar, the store rooms and even the coal holes. He gave us his guarantee that there would not be any more black burglars on board his ship.
The captain is a good man, a genuine old sea dog. He speaks awkwardly, in short, clipped phrases, but it is clear that he is strong in spirit and he takes his job with serious enthusiasm. I once heard Truffo-sensei telling the commissioner that Captain Cliff is a widower and he dotes on his only daughter, who is being educated in a boarding school somewhere. I find that very touching.
I seem to be recovering my composure gradually. The lines of writing are more even now and my hand is no longer shaking. I can go on to the most unpalatable moment in all of this.
During my superficial examination of Kleber-san I noticed that she had no bruising. There were also several other observations which ought to be shared with the captain and the commissioner. But I wished above all to reassure a pregnant woman who was struggling to recover her wits after a shock, who seemed intent, in fact, on plunging into hysterics.
I said to her in a most soothing tone of voice:
'Perhaps this black man had no intention of killing you, madam. You entered so unexpectedly and switched on the light and he was simply frightened. After all, he . . .'
Kleber-san interrupted before I could finish.
'He was frightened?' she hissed with sudden venom. 'Or perhaps it was you who was frightened, my dear Oriental monsieur? Do you think I didn't notice your nasty little yellow face peeping out from behind other people's backs?'
No one has ever insulted me so outrageously. The worst thing of all was that I could not pretend these were the foolish words of a silly hysterical woman and shield myself from them with a smile of disdain. Kleber-san's thrust had found my most vulnerable spot!
There was nothing I could say in reply, I was badly hurt, and the grimace on her tear-stained face when she looked at me was humiliating. If at that moment I could have fallen through the floor into the famous Christian hell, I would certainly have pressed the lever of the trapdoor myself. Worst of all, my sight was veiled by the red mist of rage, and that is the condition which I fear most. It is in this state of frenzy that a samurai commits those deeds that are disastrous for his karma. Then afterwards he must spend the rest of his life seeking to expiate the guilt of that single moment of lost self-control. He can do things for which even seppuku will not be sufficient atonement.
I left the saloon, afraid that I would not be able to restrain myself and would do something terrible to a pregnant woman. I am not sure that I could have controlled myself if a man had said something like that to me.
I locked myself in my cabin and took out the sack of Egyptian gourds that I had bought at the bazaar in Port Said. They are small, about the size of a human head, and very hard. I bought 50 of them.
In order to disperse the scarlet mist in front of my eyes, I set about improving my straight chop with the edge of the hand. Because of my extreme agitation I delivered the blow poorly: instead of two equal halves, the gourds split into seven or eight pieces.
It is hard.
PART TWO
Aden to Bombay
Gintaro Aono
The seventh day of the fourth month In Aden
The Russian diplomat is a man of profound, almost Japanese intellect. Fandorin-san possesses the most un-European ability to see a phenomenon in all its fullness, without losing his way in the maze of petty details and technicalities. The Europeans are unsurpassed masters of everything that concerns doing, they have superlative understanding of how. But true wisdom belongs to us Orientals, since we understand why. For the hairy ones the fact of movement is more important than the final goal, but we never lower our gaze from the lodestar twinkling in the distance, and therefore we often neglect to pay due attention to what lies closer at hand. This is why time and again the white peoples are the victors in petty skirmishes, but the yellow race maintains its unshakeable equanimity in the certain knowledge that such trivial matters are unworthy of serious attention. In all that is truly important, in the genuinely essential matters, victory will be ours.
Our emperor has embarked on a great experiment: to combine the wisdom of the East with the intellect of the West. Yet while we Japanese strive meekly to master the European lesson of routine daily conquest, we do not lose sight of the ultimate end of human life - death and the higher form of existence that follows it. The red-hairs are too individualistic, their precious ego obscures their vision, distorting their picture of the world around them and making it impossible for them to see a problem from different points of view. The soul of the European is fastened tight to his body with rivets of steel, it cannot soar aloft.
But if Fandorin-san is capable of illumination, he owes it to the semi-Asiatic character of his homeland. In many ways Russia is like Japan: the same reaching out of the East for the West. Except that, unlike us, the Russians forget about the star by which the ship maintains its heading and spend too much time gazing idly around them. To emphasize one's individual I or to dissolve it in the might of the collective 'we' - therein lies the antithesis between Europe and Asia. I believe the chances are good that Russia will turn off the first road onto the second.
However, I have become carried away by my philosophizing. I must move on to Fandorin-san and the clarity of mind which he has demonstrated. I shall describe events as they happened.
The Leviathan arrived in Aden before dawn. Concerning this port my guidebook says the following:
The port of Aden, this Gibraltar of the East, serves England as her link with the East Indies. Here steamships take on coal and replenish their reserves of fresh water. Aden's importance has increased immeasurably since the opening of the Suez Canal. The town itself, however, is not large. It has extensive dockside warehouses and shipyards, a number of trading stations, shipping offices and hotels. The streets are laid out in a distinctively regular pattern. The dryness of the local soil is compensated for by 30 ancient reservoirs which collect the rainwater that runs down from the mountains. Aden has a population of 34,000, consisting primarily of Indian Moslems.
For the time being I must be content with this scanty description, since the gangway has not been lowered and no one is being allowed ashore. The alleged reason is quarantine for medical reasons, but we vassals of the principality of Windsor know the true reason for the turmoil and confusion: sailors and police from ashore are combing the gigantic vessel from stem to stern in search of negroes.
After breakfast we stayed on in the saloon to wait for the results of the manhunt. It was then that an important conversation took place between the commissioner and the Russian diplomat in the presence of our entire company (even for me it has already become 'ours').
At first people spoke about the death of the negro, then as usual the conversation turned to the murders in Paris. Although I took no part in the discussion on that topic, I listened very attentively, and at first it seemed to me that they were trying yet again to catch a green monkey in a thicket of bamboo or a black cat in a dark room.
Stamp-san said: 'So, we have nothing but riddles. We don't know how t
he black man managed to get on board and we don't know why he wanted to kill Mme Kleber. It's just like the rue de Grenelle. More mystery.'
But then Fandorin-san said: 'There's no mystery there at all. It's true that we still haven't cleared up the business with the negro, but I think we have a fairly clear picture of what happened on the rue de Grenelle.'
Everyone stared at him in bewilderment and the commissioner smiled scornfully: 'Is that so? Well then, out with it, this should be interesting.'
Fandorin-san: 'I think what happened was this. That evening someone arrived at the door of the mansion on the rue de Grenelle . . .'
The commissioner (in mock admiration): 'Oh, bravo! A brilliant deduction!'
Someone laughed, but most of us continued listening attentively, for the diplomat is not a man to indulge in idle talk.
Fandorin-san (continuing imperturbably): '. . . someone whose appearance completely failed to arouse the servants' suspicion. It was a physician, possibly wearing a white coat and certainly carrying a doctor's bag. This unexpected visitor requested everyone in the house to gather immediately in one room, because the municipal authorities had instructed that all Parisians were to receive a prophylactic vaccination.'
The commissioner (starting to get angry): What idiotic fantasy is this? What vaccination? Why should the servants take the word of a total stranger?'
Fandorin (sharply): 'If you do not take care, M. Gauche, you may find yourself demoted from Investigator for Especially Important Cases to Investigator for Rather Unimportant Cases. You do not take sufficient care in studying your own materials, and that is unforgivable. Take another look at the article from Le Soir that mentions Lord Littleby's connection with the international adventuress Marie Sanfon.' The detective rummaged in his black file, took out the article in question and glanced through it.
