All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  ‘I didn’t bother you yesterday, in view of the circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, an absolutely macabre incident. All that screaming backstage! And the audience was so very excited!’ The director’s thin lips extended into a sweet smile. ‘But what is the reason for your visit? Olga Leonardovna didn’t explain. “Mr Fandorin will explain that,” she said … Pardon me, but what line of business is it that you are in?’

  Erast Petrovich limited himself to answering the first question.

  ‘Madam Chekhova considers that your leading actress …’ – he hesitated briefly. He had been about to pronounce the name, but for some reason he didn’t – ‘… is in danger. Yesterday’s incident d-demonstrates that Olga Leonardovna is right. I promised to get to the bottom of things.’

  The theatrical innovator’s sharp eyes glinted with curiosity.

  ‘But who are you? Could you really be some kind of psychic? I’ve heard that fortune-tellers and clairvoyants are all the fashion in Moscow. I find that very, very interesting!’

  ‘Yes, I have made a study of clairvoyance. In Japan,’ Erast Petrovich said with a serious expression. It had occurred to him that this story could be very convenient for the forthcoming investigation. And then again, clairvoyance (i.e. ‘clear vision’) and deduction (that is, clear thinking) did have quite a lot in common.

  ‘Phenomenal!’ Stern exclaimed, so enthused that he jumped up out of his chair. ‘Perhaps you could demonstrate your art? Well, if only on me, for instance. I ask you please, glance into my future! No, better, into my past, so that I can appreciate your skill.’

  What a mercurial gentleman, thought Fandorin. A veritable bead of mercury. (The comparison arose in response to the way the theatre director’s bald head glinted in a ray of sunlight – the September day had turned out fine.)

  The newspaper-reading and telephone calls on which Erast Petrovich had spent half of the present day had thrown very little light on Noah Stern’s biography. He had a reputation as a reticent individual who did not like to talk about his past. The only thing known about him was that he had grown up in the Jewish Pale, in extreme poverty, and lived a vagabond life during the days of his youth. He had started as a clown in a circus and then acted in provincial theatres for a long time until eventually he became well known. He had acquired his own theatre company only a year ago, when he won the patronage of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company, which had taken a gamble on his talent. Stern told the newspaper correspondents cock-and-bull stories about himself, always different ones – and he quite obviously did it deliberately. Everything added up to just one conclusion: here was a man obsessed by a single, solitary passion – the theatre. He had no family and did not seem to have a home either. Noah Noaevich was not even known to have had any casual affairs with actresses.

  ‘Glance into your p-past?’

  The director’s high-strung face started quivering in its craving for an immediate miracle.

  ‘Yes, something from out of my childhood.’

  Stern was certain that no one knew anything about that period of his life, Erast Petrovich realised.

  Well then, if clairvoyance was to be the thing …

  ‘Tell me. Is Noah Noaevich your real name?’

  ‘The absolutely genuine article. As stated on my birth certificate.’

  ‘I see …’ Fandorin drew his black eyebrows in towards the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes up towards his forehead, across which a greyish lock of hair dangled down (this was exactly the way he imagined that a clairvoyant would have behaved). ‘The beginning of your life is a sad one, my d-dear sir. Your father never even saw you. He departed to the next world while you still dwelt in your mother’s womb. His death was sudden – an unexpected blow of Fate.’

  The chances of being mistaken were not very great. Among Jews there was an old custom of naming children in honour of some relative who had died, but almost never in honour of the living. That was precisely why it was so rare for a son to be given his father’s name, except in cases when the father had died. The assumption that the death had been sudden was not so very risky either. Men who had been seriously ill for a long time did not produce such vigorous progeny.

  This simple little deduction absolutely bowled the impressionable showman over.

  ‘Phenomenal!’ he exclaimed, clutching at his heart. ‘I’ve never told anybody that! Not a single soul! There is no one around me who could know anything about my life! My God, how I adore everything that is inexplicable! Erast Petrovich, you are a unique individual! A miracle worker! From the very first moment I laid eyes on you, I realised that I saw before me an exceptional man. If I were a woman or a disciple of Oscar Wilde, I would absolutely fall in love with you!’

  This joke was accompanied by an extremely charming smile. The wide-open brown eyes gazed at Fandorin with an expression of such sincere liking that it was impossible not to respond in kind.

  He’s overwhelming me, thought Erast Petrovich, turning on his charm – and with superb skill. This man is an excellent actor and a born manipulator. He was frightened by my little trick and now he wants to know just what sort of creature I am, get my measure and crack open my shell. Well then, bite away, do. Only be careful not to break your teeth.

  ‘You possess the inner strength of magnanimity,’ said Noah Noaevich, continuing with his fawning. ‘Oh, I understand about such things. There are not many people with whom I feel a desire to be frank, but you inspire the desire to be defenceless … I am terribly glad that Olga Leonardovna has sent you to us. There really is some strange process of fermentation taking place in the company. It would be excellent if you could take a close look at my actors and were able to perceive the villain who hid the snake in the flowers. And at the same time it would be good to find out who poured glue into my galoshes the day before yesterday. An idiotic prank! I had to have a completely new pair of boots resoled and throw the galoshes out!’

  Erast Petrovich promised to ‘perceive’ the destroyer of the galoshes as well, when he was given a chance to meet the company.

  ‘Then we’ll see to that straight away!’ Stern declared. ‘No point in putting it off! We have a meeting scheduled right now. In half an hour. I’m going to announce the new play for production and give out the parts. The actors display their genuine egos most clearly of all when the squabbling over parts begins. You’ll see them as if they were naked.’

  ‘What play is it?’ Erast Petrovich asked, recalling what his companion in the box had said. ‘Or is that still a secret?’

  ‘Oh, come now.’ Noah Noaevich laughed. ‘What secrets can there be from a clairvoyant? And in any case tomorrow all the newspapers will write about it. I’ve chosen The Cherry Orchard for my new production. Excellent material for routing Stanislavsky with his own weapon and on his own territory! The public can compare my Cherry Orchard with their anaemic exercises! I won’t deny that the Art Theatre used to be pretty good once, but it has lost its fizz. Any mention of the Maly is simple laughable! And Korsh’s theatre is low farce for merchants’ wives! I’ll show them all what real directing and genuine work with actors look like! Would you like me to tell you, my dear Erast Petrovich, what the ideal theatre should be like? I can see that you would make an intelligent and appreciative listener.’

  It would have been impolite to decline the offer, and in any case Fandorin wished to get to grips with the bizarre workings of this world that was so new to him.

  ‘Do t-tell me. I’m interested.’

  Noah Noaevich stood over his visitor in the pose of an Old Testament prophet, with his eyes glittering.

  ‘Do you know why my theatre is called “Noah’s Ark”? Firstly, because only art will save the world from the flood, and the highest form of art is the theatre. Secondly, because in my theatre company I have a full set of human types. And thirdly because I have two of every kind of beast.’

  Noticing the puzzlement on his visitor’s face, Stern smiled contentedly.

  ‘Oh, y
es. I have a hero and a heroine; a high-minded, no-nonsense father and a grande dame, otherwise known as a matron; a male servant-cum-prankster-cum-buffoon and a pert maidservant-cum-prankster-cum-ingénue-cum-coquette; a male villain and a female villain; a simpleton and a principal boy (not a pair – for these two types, singleness is the prescribed arrangement); and then finally, for performing all the other possible roles, there is myself and my assistant director – I play the secondary roles and he plays the tertiary ones. According to my theory of acting, one should not rely on artistes of the so-called versatile type, who are capable of playing absolutely any part. I, for instance, I am an all-round actor. I can play anyone at all to equally good effect – whether it be Lear or Shylock or Falstaff. But one very rarely come across geniuses like that,’ Noah Noaevich said regretfully. ‘It is not possible to assemble an entire company of them. However, there are any number of actors who are very good in their one and only type. I take a person like that and help him develop his strong but narrow talent to perfection. The type should become inseparable from the individual, that is the very best way. Moreover, artistes are susceptible to that kind of mimicry, and I am very good at guiding them. When I take actors into the company, I even require them to adopt a stage-name that matches the genre of their roles. You know, give a thing a name and that’s the way it will be. Only the prima donna and the male lead have kept their former pseudonyms – they both had names that are a draw for the public. My no-nonsense philosopher became Sensiblin, my villain became Mephistov, my coquette became Aphrodisina, and so on. When you take a look now, you’ll see immediately that each of them has literally grown into the skin of his or her type. Even offstage they’re still working on their characters!’

  Erast Petrovich, who had already learned the membership of the company off by heart, asked:

  ‘And what is the type of the god Pan, who demonstrated such bravery yesterday? Nonarikin is not a name that arouses associations with anything in particular, except perhaps the number nine, from the Latin nonus.’

  ‘Well he is indeed a number nine in the deck of cards, so to speak, not an ace or any kind of face card. But he’s the secondary director, my irreplaceable assistant, one in nine persons and a jack of all trades. And also, by the way, the only one apart from myself who performs under his own natural name. I picked him up in an appalling provincial company, where he was playing heroes quite appallingly under the name of “Lermont”, although he is actually more like Lieutenant Solyony in The Three Sisters. Now he’s in the right place and he’s absolutely indispensable; without him I’m all thumbs and no fingers. The basic ploy involved here is that in my theatre absolutely everyone is in the right place. Apart from Emeraldov, I suppose.’ The skin on the director’s forehead gathered into tragic folds. ‘I regret to say that I was beguiled by a striking appearance and a long train of female admirers. A hero should be played by a hero, and our Hippolyte is merely a peacock with bright feathers …’

  The genius did not grieve for long, however. His face soon recovered its triumphant radiance.

  ‘My theatre is ideal! Do you know what an ideal theatre is?’

  Fandorin said no, he didn’t know that.

  ‘Well then, I’ll explain to you. It’s a theatre which has everything that is necessary and nothing superfluous, since a deficit or superfluity of anything is equally injurious to the company. The problem is that there are very few ideal plays in the world. Do you know what an ideal play is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a play in which all the types are represented vividly. Griboedov’s Woe from Wit is considered the classic example. However, no one writes like that any more, and you can’t exist on a diet of nothing but the classics all the time. The audience gets fed up. It would be good to have something new, something exotic, with a whiff of a different culture. You say you have lived in Japan? You ought to translate something about geishas and samurais. After the war the public became very keen on everything Japanese.’ He laughed. ‘I’m joking. The Cherry Orchard is almost an ideal play. Just the right number of parts that I need. Set a few things right here and there, state some things a bit more distinctly, and there you have an excellent comedy of masks, built entirely on characters, without Chekhov’s usual half-tones. We’ll see whose orchard has more blossom when the time comes, Konstantin Sergeevich!’

  ‘My name is Erast Petrovich,’ Fandorin reminded him, and didn’t understand why Stern gave him such a commiserating look.

  THE DWELLERS IN THE ARK

  At the meeting of the theatre company, which took place in the green room, the director, as agreed, casually introduced Fandorin as a contender for the post of repertoire manager or ‘play-picker’, that is, head of the literary section. Stern had told him that in the theatre this position was generally regarded as unimportant, and the artistes wouldn’t show off for such an insignificant figure. And so it turned out. For a moment at the beginning, everyone stared curiously at the elegant gentleman with the picturesque appearance (grey hair streaked slightly with black, parted on a slant, and a well-groomed black moustache), but when they heard who he was, they soon stopped paying any attention to him. This situation suited Erast Petrovich. He seated himself modestly in the farthest corner and started examining them – everyone except Altairsky. Fandorin could feel her presence very keenly (she was sitting opposite him at a slight angle), as if there were a scintillating radiance streaming out of that section of the room, but he did not dare to gaze into it, fearing that the rest of the room would be submerged in twilight, and then he would not be able to work. Erast Petrovich promised himself that he would gaze at her to his heart’s content later, after he had studied the others thoroughly.

  To begin with, Noah Noaevich delivered an energetic speech, congratulating the company on the colossal success of Poor Liza and bemoaning the fact that ‘owing to a certain incident’ it had not been possible to follow usual practice and review the performance immediately after its conclusion.

  ‘Let me remind you of yesterday’s agreement: we are not going to discuss that vile business. An investigation will be carried out, and the guilty party will be unmasked, you have Noah Stern’s word …’ – a brief, suggestive glance in the direction of Fandorin – ‘… But there will be no more of the screaming and oriental ruckus that we had yesterday. Is that clear?’

  From out of the zone where the opalescent light was shimmering there came the gentle voice that Erast Petrovich had been yearning to hear again.

  ‘Just one thing, if you will permit me, Noah Noaevich. Yesterday I was in no condition to thank dear Georgy Ivanovich properly for being so brave. He came dashing to help me, at the risk of his own life! I … I don’t know what would have happened to me … If that hideous thing had simply touched me, let alone bitten me …’ There was a sound of muffled sobbing, which wrung Fandorin’s heart. ‘Georgy Ivanovich, you are the last true knight of our time! Permit me to kiss you!’

  Everyone applauded and for the first time Fandorin allowed himself to glance, but only briefly, at the prima donna. Altairsky was wearing a light-coloured dress, caught in at the waist with a broad, maroon scarf, and a light, wide-brimmed hat with feathers. Her face could not be seen, because she was sitting half-turned away from Fandorin to face a short, pale-faced man with his arm in a sling. The hair at his temples was sleeked down in the style of Lermontov, his high forehead was glistening with sweat and his brown eyes were gazing adoringly at Eliza.

  ‘Thank you … That is, I mean to say, don’t mention it,’ Nonarikin babbled when she took off her hat and touched her lips to his cheek. And then he suddenly blushed bright red.

  ‘Bravo!’ a small young lady cried out energetically, jumping to her feet while continuing to applaud. She had an amusing little freckly face with a snub nose, and in his own mind Fandorin immediately dubbed her Halfpint. ‘My dear Georges, you are like St George, who defeated the dragon! I want to kiss you too. And shake your poor hand!’

  She dashed across to th
e embarrassed hero, went up on tiptoe and embraced him, but the assistant director received Halfpint’s kiss with rather less enthusiasm.

  ‘Don’t squeeze so hard, Zoya, it hurts! You’ve got bony fingers.’

  ‘So this is where my fate was lurking, the threat of death lay in this bone.’ The sardonic quotation from Pushkin’s poem came from a breathtaking gentleman in a white suit, with a red carnation in the buttonhole. This, of course, was the leading man Emeraldov, who was even more handsome from close up than onstage.

  Erast Petrovich glanced cautiously at Eliza, to see what she was like without the hat. But the prima donna was tidying up her hairstyle, and all he could see was her hair raised up and drawn tight in a knot that was either very simple or, on the contrary, incredibly intricate, and lent a certain Egyptian hint to her profile.

  ‘I am obliged to interrupt this touching scene. Enough of all this rapturous admiration and spooning, it’s already one minute to four,’ said the director, brandishing the watch he had taken out of his pocket. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very important event today. Before we proceed to an analysis of the new play, our benefactor and good angel, Andrei Gordeevich Shustrov, has expressed a desire to meet with us.’

  Everyone started and some of the women even shrieked.

  Stern was smiling.

  ‘Yes, yes. He wants to get to know everyone. So far only Eliza and I have enjoyed the company of this remarkable patron of the arts, without whom our Ark would never have been launched on its voyage. But we are in Moscow, and Mr Shustrov has set aside the time to greet you all in person. He promised to be here at four, and this man is never late.’

  ‘You villain, couldn’t you have warned us? I’d have put on my shot-silk dress and pearls,’ a plump lady with a regal appearance, who had undoubtedly once been very beautiful, complained in a rich contralto voice.