by Boris Akunin
‘Shustrov is too young for you, dear-heart Vasilisa Prokofievna,’ an imposing man with wonderful bluish-grey hair told her. ‘I don’t suppose he’s thirty yet. You won’t snare him with pearls and shot silk.’
The lady countered without even turning her head:
‘You old buffoon!’
There was a discreet knock at the door.
‘What did I tell you: quite remarkable punctuality!’ Noah Noaevich brandished his watch again and dashed to open the door.
Fandorin had been warned about the entrepreneur’s forthcoming visit. The director had said it was an excellent way for Erast Petrovich to get to know the members of the company – Stern would be introducing all the actors to their patron.
The owner of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company did not look much like an industrialist, at least not a Russian one. Young, lean, discreetly dressed and sparing with words. At a first impression it seemed to Fandorin that the most interesting feature of this rather unremarkable individual was a special kind of intensity in the glance of his eyes and a general air of exceptional seriousness. It seemed as if this man never joked or smiled and he never, ever made small talk. Erast Petrovich was usually impressed by people like this, but he took a dislike to Shustrov.
While Stern delivered his welcoming speech – a bombastic oration, with the customary actor’s exaggerations (‘most esteemed benefactor’, ‘enlightened patron of the muses’, ‘custodian of the arts and spiritual values’, ‘paragon of impeccable taste’ and so forth) the capitalist remained silent, calmly surveying the members of the company. He fixed his gaze on Altairsky-Lointaine and from that moment his attention was not distracted by anyone else.
And from that very moment Fandorin began to feel a positive hostility for the ‘paragon of impeccable taste’. He squinted at the prima donna – what was her reaction? She was smiling, and tenderly. Her eyes were glued to Shustrov too. And although this was seemingly quite natural – all the members of the company were smiling radiantly as they looked at the young man – Erast Petrovich’s mood darkened.
He might at least protest about the compliments, put on a show of modesty, Fandorin thought angrily.
But the truth of the matter was that the actors of Noah’s Ark had something to thank Andrei Gordeevich for. Not only had he paid for the move from St Petersburg to Moscow, he had provided a splendidly equipped theatre for their performances here. As Stern’s speech made clear, the company had at their disposal a full complement of musicians and attendants, make-up artists and wardrobe mistresses, lighting technicians and labourers, and also all the necessary stage props, with ateliers and workshops, in which experienced costumiers and craftsmen could quickly manufacture any costume or stage set. Probably no other theatre company, including the imperial ones, had ever existed in such pampered conditions.
‘The life you have provided us with here is like being in a magical castle!’ Noah Noaevich exclaimed. ‘It is enough to express a wish and simply clap one’s hands – and one’s dream comes true. Only in such ideal conditions is it possible to create art without being distracted by degrading and tedious fuss and bother over how to make ends meet. Let us welcome our guardian angel, my friends.’
In response to the applause and ardent exclamations from everyone present, with the sole exception of Fandorin, Mr Shustrov bowed slightly – and that was all.
After that the introductions of the actors began.
First of all Stern led their honoured guest over to the prima donna.
I can do it now, Fandorin thought, and finally allowed himself to focus entirely on the woman responsible for the agitated state in which he had been since the previous day. He knew a lot more about her today than he had known yesterday.
She was almost thirty years of age and came from a theatre family. She had graduated from the ballet department of a theatre college, but had followed a career in drama, thanks to a stage voice of astonishing depth and extremely delicate timbre. She had performed in theatres in both of Russia’s capital cities, displaying her brilliance several seasons earlier at the Art Theatre. Malicious gossips asserted that she had left because she did not wish to be on an equal footing with other strong actresses, of whom that theatre had too many. Before becoming the leading actress at Noah’s Ark, Altairsky-Lointaine had enjoyed immense success in St Petersburg with performances in the fashionable genre of recitation to musical accompaniment.
That name of hers no longer seemed excessively pretentious to Erast Petrovich. It suited her: as distant as the star Altair … At the very beginning of her career she had given a vivid performance as Princess Daydream in the play of the same name by Rostand – hence ‘Lointaine’ (in the French original the heroine is call Princess Lointaine – the Distant Princess, or Princess Faraway). The other part of her pseudonym, which emphasised her inapproachable remoteness, had appeared more recently, following her brief marriage. The newspapers had been rather vague in what they wrote about that. Her husband was an oriental prince, almost a semi-sovereign khan, and some of the articles had referred to Eliza as ‘khatun’, i.e. a khan’s wife.
Well, as he looked at her, Fandorin was willing to believe absolutely anything. A woman like that could easily be a princess and a khatun.
Although he had spent a long time preparing himself before he studied her properly at close quarters, it really didn’t do very much to soften the blow. Through the field glasses Erast Petrovich had seen her in stage make-up and, moreover, playing the part of a naive village girl. But in life, in her own natural state, Eliza was quite different – not just from her stage image, but simply different, unlike other women, unique … Fandorin would have found it hard to explain exactly how to interpret this thought that made him take a tight grip on the armrests of his chair – because he felt an irresistible urge to stand up and move closer, in order to gaze at her point blank, avidly and continuously.
What is it that’s so special about her? he asked himself, trying as usual to rationalise the irrational. Where does this feeling of unparalleled, magnetic beauty come from?
He tried to judge impartially.
After all, strictly speaking, she is no great beauty. Her features are rather too small, if anything. The proportions are not classical. A thin-lipped mouth that is too broad. A slight hump in the nose. But instead of weakening the impression of a miracle, all these irregularities merely reinforced it.
It seems to be something to do with the eyes, Erast Petrovich decided. A certain strange elusiveness that makes you to want to catch her glance, in order to resolve its mystery. It seems to be directed at you, but tangentially somehow, as if she doesn’t see you. Or as if she sees something quite different from what is being shown to her.
Fandorin was certainly not lacking in powers of observation. Even in his present, distinctly abnormal condition, he quickly solved the riddle. Madam Altairsky had a slight squint, that was all there was to the elusiveness. But then another riddle immediately popped up – her smile. Or rather, the half-smile, or incomplete smile that played almost constantly on her lips. That, apparently, is where the enchantment lies, thought Erast Petrovich, advancing a different theory. It is as if this woman is in a constant state of anticipation of happiness – she looks at you as if she were asking: ‘Are you the one I’m waiting for? Are you really my happiness?’ And a certain bashfulness could also be read in that marvellous smile. As if Liza were making a gift of herself to the world and was slightly embarrassed by her own generosity.
All in all, it must be admitted that Fandorin failed to resolve the secret of the prima donna’s attractiveness completely. He would have carried on examining her for much longer, but Shustrov had already been led on to the person beside her, and Erast Petrovich reluctantly transferred his gaze to Hippolyte Emeraldov.
Now this was a kind of beauty that Fandorin didn’t need to rack his brains over. The actor was tall and well set up, with broad shoulders, an ideal parting in his hair, a clear gaze, a blinding smile and an abs
olutely splendid baritone voice. A sight for sore eyes, a genuine Antinous. The newspapers wrote that he had been followed from St Petersburg to Moscow by almost fifty lovesick female theatregoers, who never missed a single performance that their idol gave and lavished flowers on him extravagantly. Stern had lured him from the Alexandrinsky Theatre for a quite incredible salary of almost a thousand roubles a month.
‘You played Hamlet and Vershinin excellently. And you have made a success of Karamzin’s Erast too,’ the patron of the arts said, shaking Emeraldov by the hand. ‘But most important of all, you a have a highly advantageous appearance that can be examined from close up. That’s important.’
The millionaire had a peculiar way of speaking. You could tell that he wouldn’t squander compliments on anyone. He said what he really thought, without taking too much trouble to make his train of thought clear to the other party.
The leading man replied with a charming smile.
‘I could have said: “Look as much as you like, there’s no charge for a peek”, but with you it’s a sin not to ask. So in that connection, I’d like to enquire whether it might not be possible after all to have a benefit performance at the end of the season.’
‘Out of the question!’ Noah Noaevich snapped. ‘The company articles of Noah’s Ark state that no one shall have any benefit performances.’
‘Not even your favourite?’ the handsome devil asked, tossing his head in the direction of Eliza, while still addressing Shustrov.
‘What an insolent individual, Fandorin thought, and frowned. Surely someone will put him in his place? And what did he mean by saying that about a favourite?
‘Shut up, Hippolyte. Everyone’s sick of you,’ the lady who had recently been concerned about her shot-silk dress said in a loud voice.
‘And this is Vasilisa Prokofievna Reginina, our “grande dame”,’ the man with the bluish-grey hair put in.
To the sound of muffled giggling, the monumental Vasilisa Prokofievna hurled a withering glance at the joker.
‘A voice from the next world,’ she hissed. ‘Dead men are supposed to hold their tongues.’
The giggling grew louder.
Relationships within the company are strained, Erast Petrovich noted.
‘There is no greater calamity for an actress than to cling on for too long to playing the heroine. A woman should know how to move from one age to the next at the right time. I shall be eternally grateful to Noah Noaevich for persuading me to have done with the Desdemonas, Cordelias and Juliets. Good Lord, what a liberation it is not having to act younger than my age, not having a fit of hysterics over every new wrinkle! Now at least I can calmly play the Catherine the Greats and the Kabanyayas until the day I die. I eat cakes, I’ve put on forty pounds and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest!’
This proclamation was made with genuine majesty.
‘My queen! Truly a regina!’ Stern exclaimed. ‘Eat your heart out, dear fellow, for letting your happiness slip away,’ he said reproachfully to the grey-haired man. ‘This is our “philosopher”, Lev Spiridonovich Sensiblin, an extremely wise man, although he can be a bit prickly. He used to be a romantic lead. And not only on the stage, I think, eh, Lev Spiridonovich? Will you finally reveal to us the secret of why you and Vasilisa Prokofievna got divorced? Why does she call you a corpse and a dead man?’
Seeing the sudden animation among the actors, Fandorin guessed that this subject was a popular one in the theatre and felt surprised: surely it was strange to keep a former married couple together in a small company, especially if they had not managed to remain on good terms?
‘Vasilisa calls me that because for her I am dead,’ the ‘philosopher’ replied in a meek, sorrowful voice. ‘I really did do something absolutely monstrous. Something that is impossible to forgive. Not that I have exactly begged her, by the way … But let the details remain our secret.’
‘A corpse. A living corpse,’ Reginina said, pulling a wry mouth as she spoke the title of the play that everyone in Russia was talking about this season.
Shustrov suddenly livened up.
‘That’s the idea!’ he said. ‘A Living Corpse is an excellent example of how the theatre and the cinematograph support and advertise each other. Count Tolstoy leaves an unpublished play, in some mysterious manner the text finds its way into the hands of my rival Persky, and he has already begun making a film, without waiting for the stage production to appear! No one knows what the play is about, typed copies leak out and are sold on for three hundred roubles! The family of the deceased is taking legal action! I can imagine how the public will go rushing to the cinematograph halls and theatres! An excellent arrangement! We shall talk about that later on.’
His excitement passed off as suddenly as it had arisen. Everyone looked at the entrepreneur in respectful bewilderment.
‘My assistant, Nonarikin,’ said Noah Noaevich, indicating the man who had been bitten. ‘And also an actor without any character type. Monstrously bad, but with a classical repertoire. Our lieutenant is smitten, lovesick, bewitched! He leaves the army and treads the boards under a romantic pseudonym, acting appallingly in appalling productions. And then a new miracle occurs. When he is passing through St Petersburg, he watches my show and finally understands what real theatre is. He comes to me and begs to be taken on in any capacity at all. I have a good understanding of people – it’s my profession. I took him on as my assistant and I have never once regretted it. And yesterday Nonarikin showed that he is a hero. But of course, you know about that, Andrei Gordeevich.’
‘Yes I do.’ Shustrov gave the assistant’s unbandaged left hand a firm shake. ‘Well done. You saved us all some serious losses.’
Erast Petrovich’s left eyebrow rose slightly and his mood suddenly improved. If Eliza’s health was merely a matter of potential ‘losses’ for this patron of the arts, then … That was quite a different matter.
‘I didn’t do it to save your losses,’ Nonarikin muttered, but the visitor was already being introduced to the next artiste.
‘Kostya Shiftsky. As the pseudonym indicates, an actor who plays shifty customers and rogues,’ said Stern, introducing a young man with incredibly lively features. ‘He has played Goldoni’s Truffaldino, de Molina’s Lepporello and Molière’s Scapin.’
The actor ran one hand through his exuberant, curly hair, bared his teeth in a thick-lipped grin and bowed buffoonishly.
‘At Your Excellency’s service.’
‘A funny face,’ Shustrov observed approvingly. ‘I have ordered an investigation to be undertaken. The public loves comics almost as much as femmes fatales.’
‘We’re here to serve. We’ll play whoever you tell us to play. You desire a femme fatale? My pleasure!’ Shiftsky saluted like a solder and immediately gave a very recognisable imitation of Altairsky: he bleared his eyes, intertwined his hands elegantly and even reproduced the half-smile.
All the actors laughed, even Lointaine herself. Only two individuals were not amused: Shustrov, who nodded with a serious air, and Fandorin, who found this clowning disagreeable.
‘And here is our “coquette”, little Serafima Aphrodisina. I saw her as Susanna in The Marriage of Figaro and immediately invited her to join the company.’
The pretty, plump little blonde bobbed down in a rapid curtsy.
‘Is it true what they say, that you’re a bachelor?’ she asked, and her eyes started twinkling mischievously.
‘Yes, but I intend to marry soon,’ Shustrov replied equably, without reacting to the flirtatious provocation. ‘It’s time. My age.’
A gangly woman with a bony face twisted her immense mouth into a wry grin and spoke in a loud stage whisper.
‘Sound the retreat, Sima. The fish is too big for the bait.’
‘Xanthippe Petrovna Vulpinova – our “villainess”,’ said the director, extending his open hand in her direction. ‘A foxy schemer, so to speak. She used to act comic characters, not very successfully. But I revealed her true calling. I’ve had
an excellent Lady Macbeth from her and she is very fine in The Three Sisters; her Natalya had the audience really seething with hatred.’
‘The genre of the children’s story is very promising too,’ Shustrov remarked to that, following some internal logic of his own. However, he did explain. ‘You could make a good Snow Queen. A frightening one, the little toddlers will cry.’
‘Merci beaucoup,’ the villainess replied, and starchily ran one hand through her hair, which seemed to have been deliberately combed back so tightly in order to display her disproportionately large ears. ‘Oh, do you hear that?’
She pointed to the window
A chorus of female voices was chanting loudly outside.
‘Em-er-ald-ov! Em-er-ald-ov!’ Erast Petrovich made out.
It must be his admirers, hoping that their idol will glance out of the window.
‘What’s that they’re shouting?’ Vulpinova asked, pretending to be listening closely. ‘“Me-phi-stov”, so help me, “Me-phi-stov”!’ And she turned to the man beside her in joyful excitement. ‘Anton Ivanovich, the Moscow public has recognised your talent! Ah, you played the part of a swindler fantastically well!’
Fandorin was surprised – it was quite impossible to mishear the name.
The person whom the foxy schemer had addressed, a man with dark hair, a large nose and kinked, bushy eyebrows, grinned sardonically.
‘If popularity was determined by talent and not appearance,’ he said, darting a baleful glance at Emeraldov, ‘they would be lying in wait to ambush me at the entrance. But no matter how brilliantly you play Iago or Claudius, they’ll never shower you with flowers for it. Pleasures like that are for talentless trash with pretty-pretty faces.’
Listening to the shouts with a smile on his face, the leading man drawled lazily:
‘Anton Ivanich, I know you start working your way into the role of a fiendish villain first thing in the morning, but there is no show today, so come back to the world of decent people. Or is that impossible already?’
