The Coronation: The Further Adventures Of Erast Fandorin (Erast Fandorin 7)

by Boris Akunin

  ‘But how is that possible?’ I asked, raising my head above the grass growing on the riverbank. There was a line of soldiers and police standing right round the pond and the open field. ‘Everything here is cordoned off. And even if we broke out of the cordon, there is no way that we can walk right across the city in broad daylight!’

  ‘It’s easy to see that you know nothing of the geography of the old c-capital, Ziukin. What do you think that is?’ Fandorin jerked his chin towards the river.

  ‘What do you mean? The Moscow River.’

  ‘And what do you see every day from the windows of the Hermitage? That wet, g-greenish thing flowing slowly towards the Kremlin? We shall have to commit yet another crime, although not as serious as the theft of the Orlov.’

  He walked over to a flimsy little boat moored to the bank, looked it over and nodded.

  ‘It will do. Of course there are no oars, but I think that p-plank over there will suit perfectly well. Get in, Ziukin. They won’t think of looking for us on the river, and we don’t have very far to sail. I feel sorry for the boat’s owner. The loss will probably be more ruinous for him than the loss of the Orlov would be for the Romanovs. Right then, let’s have your treasure trove.’

  He delved into my pocket unceremoniously, clawed out the coins, put them beside the small stake to which the boat was moored and sprinkled a little sand over them.

  ‘Well, why are you just standing there? Get in. And be careful or this battleship will capsize.’

  I got in, soaking my shoes in the water that had accumulated in the bottom of the boat. Fandorin pushed off with the plank, andwe drifted out very, very slowly. Heworked away desperately with his clumsy oar, delving alternately on the left and the right, but despite these Sisyphean labours our bark barely moved at all.

  Ten minutes later, when we had still not even reached the middle of the river, I enquired: ‘But just how far do we have to sail to reach the Neskuchny Park?’

  ‘I th-think about . . . three v-versts,’ Fandorin replied with an effort, bright red from his exertions.

  I could not resist a sarcastic comment: ‘At this speedwe should probably get there by tomorrow morning. The current is slow here.’

  ‘We don’t need the current,’ Erast Petrovich mumbled.

  He started brandishing his plank even more vigorously, and the bow of our boat struck a log. A steam tug was passing by, towing a string of logs after it. Fandorin tied the mooring rope to a trimmed branch, dropped the plank in the bottom of the boat and stretched blissfully.

  ‘That’s it, Ziukin. We can take half an hour’s rest, and we’ll be at our destination.’

  Grassy fields and market gardens drifted by slowly on the left; then came thewhitewalls of the Novodevichy Convent, the sight of which I was thoroughly sick by now. On the right there was a tall wooded bank. I saw a white church with a round dome, elegant arbours, a grotto.

  ‘You see before you Vorobyovsky Park, laid out in the English manner in imitation of a n-natural forest,’ Fandorin told me in the voice of a true guide. ‘Note the hanging bridge across that ravine. I saw a bridge exactly like it in the Himalayas, only it was woven out of shafts of bamboo. Of course, the drop below it was not twenty sazhens, it was a gulf of two versts. But then, for anyone who falls, the difference is immaterial . . . And what have we here?’

  He leaned down and took a simple fishing rod out from under the bench. He examined it with interest, then turned his head this way and that and picked a green caterpillar off the side of the boat with an exclamation of joy.

  ‘Right, now, Ziukin, here’s to luck!’

  He tossed the line into the water and almost immediately pulled out a silver carp the size of an open hand.

  ‘How about that, eh?’ Erast Petrovich exclaimed, thrusting his trembling prey under my nose. ‘Did you see that? It took l-less than a minute! A very good sign! That’s the way we’ll hook Lind!’

  A perfect little boy! A boastful irresponsible boy. He put the wet fish in his pocket and it began moving as if his coat were alive.

  A familiar bridge appeared ahead of us, the same one that could be seen from the windows of the Hermitage. Soon I spotted the green roof of the palace itself beyond the crowns of the trees.

  Fandorin cast off from the log. When the rafts had drifted past us, we set a course for the right bank, and a quarter of an hour later we were at the railings of the Neskuchny Park.

  This time I surmounted the obstacle without the slightest difficulty, thanks to the experience I had accumulated. We made ourway into the thickets, but Fandorinwaswary of approaching the Hermitage.

  ‘They certainly won’t be looking for us here,’ he declared, stretching out on the grass. ‘But it would still be best t-to wait until dark. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes, very. Do you have some provisions with you?’ I asked hopefully because, I must confess, my stomach had been aching from hunger for a long time.

  ‘Yes, this.’ He took his catch out of his pocket. ‘Have you never tried raw fish? In Japan everybody eats it.’

  Naturally I declined such an incredible meal, and watched with some revulsion as Erast Petrovich gulped down the cold slippery carp, daintily extracting the fine bones and sucking them clean.

  After completing this barbarous meal, he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, took out a box of matches and then extracted a cigar from an inside pocket. He shook the matchbox and announced delightedly: ‘They have dried out. You don’t smoke, do you?’

  He stretched contentedly and put one hand under his head.

  ‘What a picnic we are having, eh? Wonderful. Real heaven.’

  ‘Heaven?’ I half-sat up at that, I felt so indignant. ‘The world is falling apart before our very eyes, and you call it “heaven”?The very foundations of the monarchy are trembling; an innocent child has been tormented by fiends; the most worthy of women is being subjected, perhaps, at this very moment to . . .’ I did not finish the sentence because not all things can be said aloud. ‘Chaos, that is what it is. There is nothing in the world more terrible than chaos, because from chaos comes insanity, the destruction of standards and rules . . .’

  I was overcome by a fit of coughing before I had fully expressed my thoughts, but Fandorin understood me and stopped smiling.

  ‘Do you know where your mistake lies, Afanasii Stepanovich?’ he said in a tired voice, closing his eyes. ‘You believe that theworld exists according to certain rules, that it possesses m-meaning and order. But I realised a long time ago that life is nothing but chaos. It possesses no order whatever, and no rules either.’

  ‘And yet you yourself give the impression of a man with firm rules,’ I said, unable to resist the jibe as I looked at his neat parting, which had remained immaculate despite all our alarming adventures.

  ‘Yes, I do have rules. But they are my own rules, invented by myself for myself and not for the wholeworld. Let theworld suit itself, and I shall suit myself. Insofar as that is possible. One’s own rules, Afanasii Stepanovich, are not the expression of a desire to arrange the whole of creation but an attempt to organise, to at least some degree, the space that lies in immediate proximity to oneself. And I do not manage even a trifle like that very well . . . All right, Ziukin. I think I’ll have a sleep.’

  He turned over on to one side, cradled his head on one elbow and fell asleep immediately. What an incredible man!

  I cannot say what I found more painful: my hunger, my anger or the awareness of my own helplessness. And yet I do know – it was the fear. Fear for the life of Mikhail Georgievich, for Emilie, for myself.

  Yes, yes, for myself. And itwas the veryworst of all the varieties of fear known to me. I was desperately afraid, not of pain or even of death, but of disgrace. All my life the thing of which I had been most afraid was to find myself in a position of disgrace and thereby sacrifice the sense of my own dignity. Whatwould I have left if I were deprived of my dignity? Who would I be then? A lonely ageing man of no account with a lumpy forehead,
a bulbous nose and ‘doggy sideburns’ who had wasted his life on something meaningless.

  I had discovered the recipe for maintaining dignity a long time before, in my youth. The magical formula proved to be simple and brief: make every possible effort to avoid surprises. This meant that I had to foresee and make provision for everything in advance. To be forearmed, to performmy duties conscientiously and not to go chasing after chimerical illusions. That was how I had lived. And what was the outcome? Afanasii Ziukin was a thief and a deceiver, a scoundrel and a state criminal. At least, that was what the people whose opinion I valued thought of me.

  The sun passed its highest point in the sky and began gradually declining towards the west. I grew weary of wandering around the small glade and sat down. An intangible breeze rustled the fresh foliage; a bumblebee buzzed with a bass note among the dandelions; lacy clouds slid slowly across the azure sky.

  I won’t get to sleep anyway, I thought, leaning back against the trunk of an elm.

  ‘Wake up, Ziukin. It’s time to go.’

  I opened my eyes. The clouds were moving as unhurriedly as before, but now they were pink instead of white, while the sky had darkened. The sun had already set, which meant that I had slept until about nine o’clock at least.

  ‘Stop batting your eyes like that,’ Fandorin said cheerfully. ‘We’re going to storm the Hermitage.’

  Erast Petrovich took off his long-skirted driver’s coat, and was left wearing a sateen waistcoat and a light-blue shirt – he was almost invisible against the thickening twilight.

  We walked quickly through the empty park to the palace. When I saw the brightly lit windows of the Hermitage, I was overcome by an unutterable melancholy. The house was like a white ocean-going yacht sailing calmly and confidently through the gloom, but I, who so recently had stood on its trim deck, had fallen overboard andwas floundering among the darkwaves, and I did not even dare to cry for help.

  Fandorin interrupted my mournful thoughts: ‘Whose window is that – the third from the left on the ground floor? You’re not looking in the right place. The one that is open but with no light in it?’

  ‘That is Mr Freyby’s room.’

  ‘Will you be able to climb in? All right, forward!’

  We ran across the lawn, pressed ourselves against thewall and crept up to the dark open window. Erast Petrovich formed his hands into a stirrup and hoisted me up so adroitly that I was easily able to climb over the window sill. Fandorin followed me.

  ‘Stay here for a while. I’ll be b-back soon,’ he said

  ‘But what if Mr Freyby comes in?’ I asked in panic. ‘How shall I explain my presence to him?’

  Fandorin looked around and picked up a bottle with brown liquid splashing about in it off the table. I thought it must be the notoriouswhisky withwhich the English butler had once regaled me.

  ‘Here, take this. Hit him on the head, tie him up and put a gag in his mouth – that napkin over there. There’s nothing to be done about it, Ziukin, this is an emergency. You can apologise to him later. The last thing we need now is for the Englishman to shout and raise the alarm. And stop shaking like that; I’ll be back soon.’

  And indeed he did return in no more than five minutes. He was holding a travelling bag in one hand.

  ‘I have all the most essential items here. They have searched my room but not touched anything. But Masa is not there. I’ll go to look for him.’

  I was left alone again, but not for long – the door soon opened again.

  This time, however, it was not Erast Petrovich but Mr Freyby. He reached out his hand, turned a small lever on the oil lamp, and the room was suddenly bright. I blinked in confusion.

  Grasping the bottle firmly, I took an uncertain step forward. The poor butler, he was not to blame for anything.

  ‘Good evening,’ Freyby said politely in Russian, glancing curiously at the bottle, then he added something in English: ‘I didn’t realise that you liked my whisky that much.’ He took the dictionary out of his pocket and with impressive dexterity – he had clearly developed the knack – rustled the pages and said: ‘Ya . . . ne byl . . . soznavat . . . chto vi . . . lyubit . . . moi viski . . . tak . . . mnogo.’

  This threw me into a state of total embarrassment. To hit someone over the head when he has started a conversation with you, that was absolutely unthinkable.

  The Englishman looked at my confused expression, chuckled good-naturedly, slapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the bottle: ‘A present. Podarok.’

  The butler noticed that I was holding the travelling bag in my other hand.

  ‘Going travelling? Coo-choo-choo?’ he asked, imitating the sound of a steam locomotive, and I realised that Freyby thought I was setting out on a journey and had decided to take the bottle of drink with me because I had taken such a liking to it.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I muttered in Russian. ‘Voyage. Tenk yoo.’

  Then I slipped out through the door into the corridor as quickly as I could. God only knew what Freyby thought about Russian butlers now. But this was no moment to be concerned about national prestige.

  In the next room, Mr Carr’s, a bell jingled to summon a servant.

  I barely had time to conceal myself behind a drape before the junior footman Lipps came trotting along the corridor. Oh, well done, Lipps. That meant therewas firmorder in the house. Iwas not on the spot, but everything was still working like clockwork.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Lipps asked as he opened the door.

  Mr Carr said something in Russian in a lazy voice. I made out ‘ink’, spoken with a quite incredible accent, and the footman left at the same praiseworthy trot. I backed into the adjoining corridor that led to my room; I had decided to hide in there for the rest of my wait. I took a few short steps, clutching the travelling bag and the bottle tight against my chest, and then my back suddenly encountered something soft. I looked round. Oh Lord, Somov.

  ‘Hello, Afanasii Stepanovich,’ my assistant babbled. ‘Good evening. I have been moved into your room . . .’

  I gulped and said nothing.

  ‘They said that you had run off . . . that you and Mr Fandorin would soon be found and arrested. They have already taken the gentleman’s Japanese servant. They say you are criminals,’ he concluded in a whisper.

  ‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘But it is not true, Kornei Selifanovich. You have not had much time to get to know me, but I swear to you that what I am doing is for the sake of Mikhail Georgievich.’

  Somov looked at me without saying anything, and from the expression on his face I could not tell what he was thinking. Would he shout or not? That was the only thing that concerned me at that moment. Just in case, I took a firm grip on the neck of the bottle with my fingers.

  ‘Yes, I really have had very little time to get to know you well, but you can tell a great butler straight away,’ Somov said in a quiet voice. ‘Permit me to take the liberty of saying that I admire you, Afanasii Stepanovich, and have always dreamed of being like you. And . . . and if you require my help, simply let me know. I will do anything.’

  I felt a sudden tightness in my throat and was afraid that if I tried to speak, I might burst into tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said eventually. ‘Thank you for deciding not to give me away.’

  ‘How can I give you away when I have not even seen you?’ he asked with a shrug, then turned and walked away.

  As a result of this entirely remarkable conversation, I lowered my guard a little and turned the corner without bothering to look first and see if there was anyone in the corridor. But there was Her Highness’s maid, Liza Petrishcheva, turning this way and that in front of the mirror.

  ‘Ah!’ squealed Liza, the foolish empty-headed girl who had been caught in the embraces of Fandorin’s valet.

  ‘Sh-sh-sh!’ I said to her. ‘Quiet, Petrishcheva. Do not shout.’

  She nodded in fright, then suddenly swung round and darted away, howling: ‘Help! Murder! He’s he-e-e-ere!’
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br />   I dashed in the opposite direction, towards the exit, but heard the sound of excited men’s voices coming from there. Which way could I go?

  Up to the first floor, there was nowhere else.

  I dashed up the stairs in the twinkling of an eye and saw a white figure in the dimly lit passage. Xenia Georgievna!

  I froze on the spot.

  ‘Where is he?’ Her Highness asked hastily. ‘Where is Erast Petrovich?’

  I heard the tramping of many feet downstairs.

  ‘Ziukin’s here! Find him!’ I heard an authoritative bass voice say.

  The grand princess grabbed hold of my arm. ‘To my room!’

  We slammed the door and thirty seconds later several people ran by along the corridor.

  ‘Search the rooms!’ the same bass voice commanded.

  Suddenly there were shouts from downstairs and someone howled: ‘Stop! Stop, you filthy swine!’

  There was a shot and then another.

  Xenia Georgievna squealed and swayed on her feet, and I was obliged to grab hold of her arms. Her face was as white as chalk, and her dilated pupils had turned her eyes completely black.

  There was the sound of breaking glass on the ground floor.

  Her Highness pushed me away sharply and dashed to the window sill. I followed her. Down below we saw a dark figure that had obviously just jumped from a window.

  It was Fandorin – I recognised the waistcoat.

  The next second another two figures in civilian clothes leapt out of the same window and grabbed Erast Petrovich by the arms. Xenia Georgievna gave a piercing screech.

  However, Fandorin demonstrated a quite remarkable flexibility. Without freeing his hands, he twisted round like a spring and struck one of his opponents in the groin with his knee, and then dealt with the other in exactly the same manner. Both police agents doubled over, and Erast Petrovich flitted across the lawn like a shadow and disappeared into the bushes.

  ‘Thank God!’ Her Highness whispered. ‘He is safe!’