by Boris Akunin
But how can I explain to a man from a different culture that he is my onjin for all time? The European languages do not have such a word. Today I plucked up my courage and tried to speak with him about this, but I fear that the conversation came to nothing.
I waited for Fandorin-san on the boat deck, knowing that he would come there with his weights at precisely eight.
When he appeared, wearing his striped tricot (I must inform him that loose clothes, not close-fitting ones, are best suited for physical exercise), I approached him and bowed low in obeisance. 'Why, Mr Aono, what's wrong?' he asked in surprise. 'Why do you stay bent over and not straighten up?' Since it was impossible to make conversation in such a posture, I drew myself erect, although in such a situation I knew that I ought to maintain my bow for longer. 'I am expressing my eternal gratitude to you,' I said, greatly agitated. 'Oh, forget it,' he said, with a careless wave of his hand. This gesture pleased me greatly - Fandorin-san wished to belittle the significance of the boon he had bestowed on me and spare his debtor excessive feelings of gratitude. In his place any nobly raised Japanese would have done the same. But the effect was the reverse - my spirit was inspired with even greater gratitude. I told him that henceforth I was irredeemably in his debt. 'Nothing irredeemable about it,' he said with a shrug. 'I simply wished to take that smug turkey down a peg or two.' (A turkey is an ugly American bird whose pompous, strutting gait seems to express a risible sense of self-importance: figuratively speaking, a conceited and foolish person.) Once again I was struck by Fandorin-san's sensitivity and tact, but I had to make him understand how much I owed to him. 'I thank you for saving my worthless life,' I said and bowed again. 'I thank you three times over for saving my honour. And I thank you an infinite number of times for opening my third eye, with which I see what I could not see before.' Fandorin-san glanced (it seemed to me, with some trepidation) at my forehead, as if he were expecting another eye to open up and wink at him.
I told him that he is my onjin, that henceforth my life belongs to him, and that seemed to frighten him even more. 'O how I dream that you might find yourself in mortal danger so that I can save your life, as you have saved me!' I exclaimed. He crossed himself and said: 'I think I'd rather avoid that. If it is not too much trouble, please dream of something else.'
The conversation was turning out badly. In despair I cried out: 'Know that I will do anything for you!' And then I qualified my oath to avoid any subsequent misunderstanding: 'If it is not injurious to the emperor, my country or the honour of my family.'
My words provoked a strange reaction from Fandorin-san. He laughed! I am certain that I shall never understand the redheads. 'All right then,' he said, shaking me by the hand. 'If you insist, then by all means. I expect we shall be travelling together from Calcutta to Japan. You can repay your debt by giving me Japanese lessons.'
Alas, this man does not take me seriously. I wished to be his friend, but Fandorin-san is far more interested in Senior Navigator Fox, a limited man lacking in wisdom, than in me. My benefactor spends much time in the company of this windbag, listening attentively to his bragging of nautical adventures and amorous escapades. He even goes on watch with Fox! I must confess that I feel hurt by this. Today I heard Fox's lurid description of his love affair with an 'aristocratic Japanese lady' from Nagasaki. He talked about her small breasts and her scarlet mouth and all the other charms of this 'dainty little doll'. It must have been some cheap slut from the sailors' quarter. A girl from a decent family would not even have exchanged words with this foreign barbarian! The most hurtful thing of all was that Fandorin-san was clearly interested in these ravings. I was about to intervene, but just at that moment Captain Renier approached them and sent Fox off on some errand.
Oh yes! I have not mentioned a most important event that has taken place in the life of the ship! A firefly's feeble glow blinds his own eyes, so that he cannot see his surroundings in their true proportions.
On the eve of our departure from Bombay a genuine tragedy occurred, a calamity beside which my own sufferings pale into insignificance.
At half past eight in the morning, when the steamer had already weighed anchor and was preparing to cast off, a telegram was delivered from ashore to Captain Cliff. I was standing on the deck looking at Bombay, the scene of such a crucial event in my life. I wanted that view to remain engraved on my heart for ever. That was how I came to witness what happened.
The captain read the telegram and his face underwent a startling transformation. I have never seen anything like it! It was as if an actor of the Noh theatre had suddenly cast off the mask of the Fearsome Warrior and donned the mask of Insane Grief. The old sea dog's rough, weather-beaten face began to tremble. Then the captain uttered a groan that was also a sob and began pacing frantically around the deck. 'Oh God,' he cried out in a hoarse voice. 'My poor girl!' He dashed down the steps from the bridge, on his way to his cabin - as we discovered later.
The preparations for sailing were interrupted. Breakfast began as usual, but Lieutenant Renier was late. Everyone spoke of nothing but the captain's strange behaviour and tried to guess what could have been in the telegram. Renier-san called into the saloon as the meal was coming to an end. The first mate appeared distraught. He informed us that Cliff-san's only daughter (I have mentioned earlier that the captain doted on her) had been badly burned in a fire at her boarding school. The doctors feared for her life. The lieutenant said that Mr Cliff was beside himself. He had decided to leave the Leviathan and return to England on the first available packet boat. He kept saying that he must be with his little daughter. The lieutenant repeated over and over again: 'What is going to happen now? What an unlucky voyage!' We tried our best to comfort him.
I must admit that I strongly disapproved of the captain's decision. I could understand his grief, but a man who has been entrusted with a task has no right to allow personal feelings to govern his actions. Especially if he is a captain in charge of a ship. What would become of society if the emperor or the president or the prime minister were to set personal concerns above their duty? There would be chaos. The very meaning and purpose of authority is to fight against chaos and maintain harmony.
I went back out on deck to see Mr Cliff leave the ship that had been entrusted to him. And the Most High taught me a new lesson, the lesson of compassion.
Stooping low, the captain half-walked and half-ran across the gangway. He was carrying a travelling bag in one hand and there was a sailor following him with a single suitcase. When the captain halted on the quayside and turned to face the Leviathan, I saw that his broad face was wet with tears. The next moment he began to sway and collapsed forward onto his face.
I rushed across to him. From his fitful breathing and the convulsive twitching of his limbs, I deduced that he had suffered a severe haemorrhagic stroke. When Dr Truffo arrived he confirmed my diagnosis.
It often happens that the strident discord between the voice of the heart and the call of duty is too much for a man's brain to bear. I had wronged Captain Cliff.
After the sick man was taken away to hospital the Leviathan was detained at its mooring for a long time. Renier-san, ashen-faced with shock, drove to the telegraph office to conduct negotiations with the shipping company in London. It was dusk before he returned. He brought the news that Cliff-san had not recovered consciousness; Renier-san was to assume temporary command of the ship and a new captain would come aboard in Calcutta.
We sailed from Bombay after a delay of ten hours.
For days now I do not walk, I fly. I am delighted by the sunshine and the landscapes of the Indian coastline and the leisurely regularity of life on this great ship. Even the Windsor saloon, which I used to enter with such a heavy heart, has now become almost like home to me. My companions at table behave quite differently with me now - the antagonism and suspicion have disappeared. Everyone is very kind and considerate now, and I also feel differently about them. Even Kleber-san, whom I was prepared to throttle with my bare hands (the
poor woman!) no longer seems repulsive. She is just a young woman preparing to become a mother for the first time and entirely absorbed in the naive egotism of her new condition. Having learned that I am a doctor, she plagues me with medical questions about all manner of minor complaints. Formerly her only victim was Dr Truffo, but now we share the strain. And almost unbelievably, I do not find it oppressive. On the contrary, I now possess a higher status than when I was taken for a military officer. It is astounding!
I hold a privileged position in the Windsor saloon. Not only am I a doctor and an 'innocent martyr', as Mrs Truffo puts it, of police brutality. I am - more importantly - definitely not the murderer. It has been proved and officially confirmed. In this way I have been elevated to Windsor's highest caste - together with the commissioner of police and our new captain (whom we almost never see - he is very busy and a steward takes his food up to the bridge on a tray). We three are above suspicion and no one casts stealthy, frightened glances in our direction.
I feel sorry for the Windsor group, I really do. With my recently acquired spiritual vision I can see clearly what none of them can see, even the sagacious Fandorin-san.
There is no murderer among my companions. None of them is suited for the role of a scoundrel. When I examine these people closely, I see that they have faults and weaknesses, but there is no black-hearted villain who could have killed 11 innocent victims, including two children, in cold blood. I would have detected the vile odour of their breath. I do not know whose hand felled Sweetchild-sensei, but I am sure it must have been someone else. The commissioner's assumptions are not entirely correct: the criminal is on board the steamship, but not in the Windsor saloon. Perhaps he was listening at the door when the professor began telling us about his discovery.
If Gauche-san were not so stubborn and took a more impartial view of the Windsor group, he would realize that he is wasting his time.
Let me run through all the members of our company.
Fandorin-san. It is obvious that he is innocent. Otherwise why would he have diverted suspicion from me when no one doubted that I was guilty?
Mr and Mrs Truffo. The doctor is rather comical, but he is a very kind man. He would not harm a grasshopper. His wife is the very embodiment of English propriety. She could not have killed anyone, because it would simply be indecent.
M.-S.-san. He is a strange man, always muttering to himself, and his manner can be sharp, but there is profound and genuine suffering in his eyes. People with eyes like that do not commit cold-blooded murders.
Kleber-san. Nothing could be clearer. Firstly, it would be inhuman for a woman preparing to bring a new life into the world to extinguish other lives so casually. Pregnancy is a mystery that teaches us to cherish human life. Secondly, at the time of the murder Kleber-san was with the police commissioner.
And finally, Stamp-san. She has no alibi, but it is impossible to imagine her creeping up behind someone she knows, covering his mouth with one slim, weak hand and raising my scalpel in the other . . . The idea is utter nonsense. Quite impossible.
Open your eyes, Commissioner-san. This path is a dead end.
Suddenly I find it hard to catch my breath. Could there be a storm approaching?
Commissioner Gauche
His blasted insomnia was really running wild now. Five nights of sheer misery, and it was getting worse all the time. And Lord protect him if he did drop off just before dawn, his dreams were so appalling that he woke up a broken man, his mind so numbed by his nocturnal visions that it concocted all sorts of nonsense. Maybe it really was time to retire and just forget about everything? But he couldn't. Nothing on earth was worse than a squalid old age spent in poverty. Someone here was all set to nab a treasure worth one and a half billion francs, and this old flic would have to live out the pitiful remainder of his days on a miserly 125 francs a month!
All night long the sheet lightning had flashed across the sky, the wind had howled in the masts and Leviathan had pitched ponderously to and fro on the heaving black rollers. Gauche lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling which was alternately dark and stark white - when it was lit up by lightning. The lashing rain drummed on the deck, and the glass that held his forgotten liver medicine skidded backwards and forwards across the table, with the spoon tinkling inside it.
It was Gauche's first storm at sea, but he wasn't afraid. A sea monster like this couldn't possibly sink! It might get rattled and shaken about a bit, but certainly nothing more. His only problem was that he couldn't get to sleep with the thunder booming away like that. The moment he started nodding off, there it went again - crash, boom!
But he must have fallen asleep somehow, because he suddenly jerked upright in bed, wondering what was happening. The cabin was echoing with the heavy, laboured beating of his heart.
No, it wasn't his heart. It was someone pounding on the door.
'Commissioner! (Bang-bang-bang) Commissioner! (Bang-bang-bang-bang) Open up! Quick!'
Whose voice was that? It couldn't be Fandorin!
'Who's there? What do you want?' cried Gauche, pressing his hand to the left side of his chest. 'Have you lost your mind?'
'Open up, damn you!'
Oho! What kind of a way was that for a diplomat to talk? Something really serious must have happened. 'Just a moment!'
Gauche pulled off his nightcap with the tassel (his old Blanche had knitted it for him), stuck his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown and slipped on his bedroom slippers.
When he peeped through the crack of the half-open door he saw it really was Fandorin. In a frock coat and tie, holding a walking cane with an ivory knob. His eyes were blazing.
'What is it?' Gauche asked suspiciously, certain his nocturnal visitor could only have brought bad news.
The diplomat began speaking in an untypical jerky manner, but without stammering.
'Get dressed. Bring a gun. We have to arrest Captain Renier. Urgently. He's steering the ship onto the rocks.'
Gauche shook his head - maybe it was just another of those awful dreams he'd been having.
'Monsieur le russe, have you been smoking hashish?'
'I am not here alone,' replied Fandorin.
The commissioner stuck his head out into the corridor and saw two other men standing beside the Russian. One was the half-crazy baronet. But who was the other? The senior navigator, that's right. What was his name now? . . . Fox.
'Pull yourself together!' said the diplomat, launching a new staccato assault. 'There's not much time. I was reading in my cabin. There was a knock. Sir Reginald. He measured our position at one in the morning. With his sextant. The course was wrong. We should go left of the Isle of Mannar. We're going to the right. I woke the navigator. Fox. Tell him.'
The navigator stepped forward. He looked badly shaken. 'There are shoals there, monsieur,' he said in broken French. 'And rocks. Sixteen thousand tonnes, monsieur. If it runs aground it will break in half like a French loaf. A baguette, you understand? Another half-hour on this course and it will be too late to turn back!'
Wonderful news! Now old Gustave had to be a master mariner and lift the curse of the Isle of Mannar!
'Why don't you just tell the captain that . . . that he's following the wrong course?'
The navigator glanced at the Russian.
'Mr Fandorin says we shouldn't.'
'Renier must have decided to go for broke.' The Russian began jabbering away again. 'He's capable of anything. He could have the navigator arrested. For disobeying orders. He could even use a gun. He's the captain. His word is law on board the ship. Only the three of us know what is happening. We need a representative of authority. You, Commissioner. Let's get up there!'
'Wait, wait!' Gauche pressed his hands to his forehead. 'You're making my head spin. Has Renier gone insane, then?'
'No. But he's determined to destroy the ship. And everyone on board.'
'What for? What's the point?'
No, no, this couldn't really be happening. It was all a
nightmare.
Realizing that the commissioner wasn't going to be lured out of his lair that easily, Fandorin began speaking more slowly and clearly.
'I have only a hunch to go on. An appalling suspicion. Renier wants to destroy the ship and everyone on it to conceal his crime and cover his tracks. Hide all the evidence at the bottom of the ocean. If you find it hard to believe that anyone could snuff out thousands of lives so callously, then think of the rue de Grenelle and remember Sweetchild. In the hunt for the Brahmapur treasure human life is cheap.'
Gauche gulped.
'In the hunt for the treasure?'
'Yes,' said Fandorin, controlling himself with an effort. 'Renier is Rajah Bagdassar's son. I'd guessed, but I wasn't sure. Now there can be no doubt.'
'What do you mean, his son? Rubbish! The rajah was Indian, and Renier is a pure-blooded Frenchman.'
'Have you noticed that he doesn't eat beef or pork? Do you realize why? It's a habit from his childhood. In India the cow is regarded as a sacred animal, and Moslems do not eat pork. The rajah was an Indian, but he was a Moslem by religion.'
'That proves nothing!' Gauche said with a shrug. 'Renier said he was on a diet.'
'What about his dark complexion?'
'A suntan from sailing the southern seas.'
'Renier has spent the last two years sailing the London-New York and London-Stockholm routes. Renier is half-Indian, Gauche. Think! Rajah Bagdassar's wife was French and at the time of the Sepoy Mutiny their son was being educated in Europe. Most probably in France, his mother's homeland. Have you ever been in Renier's cabin?'
'Yes, he invited me in. He invited everybody.'
'Did you see the photograph on the table? "Seven feet under the keel. Francoise B."?'
'Yes, I saw it. It's his mother.'
'If it's his mother, then why B instead of R? A son and his mother should have the same surname.' 'Perhaps she married a second time.'
