by Boris Akunin
‘I implore you, please don’t argue!’ Vulpinova exclaimed in exaggerated consternation. ‘It’s my fault! I misheard, and then Anton took offence …’
‘You misheard? With your ears?’ Emeraldov quipped derisively.
The villainess blushed. So she does suffer because she is so plain, Erast Petrovich noted.
‘Comrades! Friends!’ said a round-faced man in a short, tight jacket, getting up off his chair. ‘Come on, really, stop it! We’re constantly quarrelling, lashing at each other with barbed remarks, but what for? After all, the theatre is such a fine, great-hearted, beautiful thing. If we don’t love each other, if we all keep trying to hog the blanket, we’ll rip it to pieces!’
‘There we have the judgement of a man who should never direct actors,’ Stern responded, putting his hand on the round-faced man’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, Vasya. And all of you settle down. You see what a madhouse I work in, Andrei Gordeevich? Right, who do we have left? Well this, as you have already guessed, is our villain, Anton Ivanovich Mephistov,’ he said, with a rather casual gesture in the direction of the dark-haired man. He jabbed his finger at the man with the round face. ‘This is Vasenka, our simpleton, that’s why his pseudonym is Gullibin. His particular range includes the roles of devoted brothers-in-arms and likeable birdbrains. In The Three Sisters he was Tuzenbach, in Hamlet he was Horatio … So that’s the entire company.’
‘What about Zoya?’ Altairsky’s voice asked reproachfully. It was only a few minutes since Erast Petrovich had heard that voice, but he was already missing it.
‘Everyone always forgets about me. Like some insignificant detail.’
The freckle-faced young lady who had kissed the hero Nonarikin and squeezed his injured hand in the intensity of her feelings pronounced these words in a theatrically cheerful voice. She was very short – her legs were dangling in the air because they didn’t reach the floor.
‘Sorry, Zoya. Mea culpa!’ said Stern, striking himself on the chest with his fist. ‘This is our wonderful Zoya Comedina. Her character is the fool, that is, a female jester. A magnificent talent for the grotesque, parody and general tomfoolery,’ he said, really laying himself out, evidently in an effort to make up for his oversight. ‘And she’s a quite incomparable principal boy as well – she can play boys or girls. And believe it or not, I abducted her from a midgets’ circus, where she was playing a monkey most comically.’
Shustrov glanced listlessly at the little woman and started looking at Fandorin.
‘The midgets thought I was overgrown, but here they think I’m stunted.’ Comedina took hold of the millionaire’s sleeve, to make him turn back towards her. ‘That’s my fate – there’s always either too much of me or too little.’ She twisted her face into a pitiful grimace. ‘But I can do something that no one else can. I’m exceptionally gifted where tears are concerned. I can cry, not only with both eyes, but with just one, whichever I choose. Of course, for my character tears are nothing more than a way of making people laugh.’ She suddenly started coughing with surprising hoarseness. ‘Pardon me, I smoke too much … It helps with playing juveniles.’
‘So that’s the entire company,’ Noah Noaevich repeated, gesturing round at his assembled troops. ‘The “dwellers in the ark”, so to speak. You can ignore Mr Fandorin. He’s a contender for the position of repertoire manager, but hasn’t been enlisted into the company as yet. For the present we’re still taking stock of each other.’
But for his part, Erast Petrovich had already taken stock. His initial hypotheses had already taken shape and he thought that the circle of suspects had been defined.
He had already clarified everything about the deadly basket of flowers. It had been ordered from the ‘Flora’ shop, paid for by fifty roubles attached to a note. The note had not survived, but in any case it had not contained anything unusual, merely the instruction to attach to the basket a card that read ‘To the divine E. A.-L.’. The basket had been delivered to the theatre by an errand-boy, and there it had stood backstage, in the ushers’ room. In principle, anybody could have gained access to the room, even someone from outside. However, Erast Petrovich was almost certain that the previous day’s vile trick had been perpetrated by one of the people presently in the room In any case, he considered it expeditious at this stage not to squander his efforts on any other theories.
The climate in the company was sultry, with an abundance of all sorts of antagonisms, but not everyone fitted the role of the ‘snake catcher’.
It was hard, for instance, to imagine the regal Vasilisa Prokofievna engaging in that kind of activity. And despite his sardonic manner, the ‘philosopher’ would hardly be likely to soil his hands – he was altogether too dignified for that. Fandorin could exclude Gullibin without any qualms. The flirtatious coquette Aphrodisina would never have picked up the reptile with her pink fingers. And Truffaldino-Shiftsky? Pouring glue into the director’s galoshes – that kind of hooliganism might, perhaps, be his style, but the dastardly trick with a poisonous snake required an especially malicious nature. There was a feeling of rabid, pathological hatred here. Or of equally incandescent jealousy.
Now Madam Vulpinova, with her crooked mouth and bat’s ears, could easily be pictured as a snake charmer. Or Mr Mephistov, with his animus towards ‘pretty-pretty’ faces …
Suddenly Fandorin realised that he had unwittingly been caught on the cunning Noah Noaevich’s hook: he had confused real, live people with the character types that they acted. So it was no wonder that the prime suspects had turned out to be the ‘villain’ and the ‘villainess’.
No, he must not allow himself to be guided by first impressions. In general, at this stage it was best to wait a while before drawing conclusions. Not everything was as it seemed in this world. It was all make-believe and pretence.
He had to take a closer look than this. Actors were not like ordinary people. That is, they certainly looked like them, but it was quite possible that they were, in fact, some special sub-species of Homo sapiens, with specific behaviours of its own.
The opportunity to continue observing was provided then and there, as Andrei Gordeevich Shustrov began making a speech.
THE DESECRATION OF THE TABLETS
Shustrov’s speech matched his appearance very closely. Dry and precise, completely devoid of extravagance, as if the entrepreneur were reading out a memorandum or an official communiqué. This feeling was reinforced by his manner of enunciating his considerations in the form of numbered points. Erast Petrovich himself often had recourse to a similar method for the sake of greater clarity in his reasoning, but on the lips of this patron of the arts the enumeration sounded rather odd.
‘Point one,’ Andrei Gordeevich began, speaking to the ceiling, as if he could perceive a clear vision of the future up there. ‘In the twentieth century public entertainment will cease to be the domain of entrepreneurs, impresarios and other isolated individuals, and will expand into an immense, highly profitable industry. Those industrialists who realise this sooner than others and deploy their efforts more intelligently will occupy the dominant positions.
‘Point two. It was precisely with this purpose in mind that one year ago I and my associate M. Simon created the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company, in which I have assumed responsibility for the theatrical side of things, and he has taken on the field of cinematography. At the present stage M. Simon is looking for film-makers and agreeing terms with distribution agents, buying equipment, building a film factory and renting electric theatres. He has studied all of this in Paris at the Gaumont Studio. Meanwhile, I am helping to make your theatre famous throughout the whole of Russia.
‘Point three. I decided to back Mr Stern because I see his immense potential, which is perfectly suited to my project. Noah Noaevich’s theory of combining art with sensationalism seems to me to be absolutely correct.
‘Point four. I shall tell you how my associate and I intend to combine our two spheres of activity at our next meeting. Some things will undoubtedly seem unusua
l, even alarming, to you. Therefore, I would like first of all to earn your trust. You should realise that my interests and yours coincide completely, and that brings us to the final point, number five.
‘And so, point five. I state with all due seriousness that my support for Noah’s Ark is no whim or passing caprice. It might possibly have appeared strange to some of you that I have provided the theatre with everything it needs, while making no claim to your proceeds – which I believe to be extremely substantial …’
‘You are our benefactor!’ Noah Noaevich declared. ‘Nowhere in Europe do actors receive such salaries as in our, that is, your, theatre!’
The others started clamouring too. Shustrov waited patiently for the grateful babbling to subside before continuing his phrase from the precise point at which it had been interrupted.
‘… extremely substantial and, I fancy, have not yet reached their maximum limit. I promise all of you, ladies and gentlemen, that, having cast in your lot with the Theatrical and Cinematographical Company, you will forget for ever about the financial difficulties with which actors usually have to contend …’ – more lively hubbub, heartfelt exclamations and even applause – ‘and artistes of the first rank will become very seriously wealthy.’
‘Lead us into the battle, father and commander!’ exclaimed leading man Emeraldov. ‘And we will follow you through hell and high water!’
‘And to prove the seriousness of my intentions – this, in effect, is point five – I wish to take a step that will secure the financial independence of Noah’s Ark for ever. Today I deposited in the bank the sum of three hundred thousand roubles, the interest on which will be credited to you. It is impossible for me or my heirs to take this money back again. If you decide to part ways with me, the capital will still remain the collective property of the theatre. If I die, your independence will be guaranteed in any case. That is all I have to say. Thank you …’
They gave their generous benefactor a standing ovation, with whooping, tears and kisses, which Shustrov bore imperturbably, politely thanking each kisser in turn.
‘Quiet, quiet!’ Stern shouted, straining himself hoarse. ‘I have a suggestion! Listen!’
The actors turned towards him.
In a voice breaking with emotion the director announced:
‘I suggest that we make an entry in the Tablets! This is a historic day, ladies and gentlemen! Let us record it thus: Today Noah’s Ark has acquired true independence.’
‘And we shall celebrate every sixth of September as Independence Day!’ Altairsky added.
‘Hoorah! Bravo!’ they all shouted.
But Shustrov asked the question that had occurred to Fandorin.
‘What are the “Tablets”?’
‘That is what we call our holy book, the prayer book of the theatrical art,’ Stern explained. ‘Genuine theatre is unthinkable without traditions and ritual. For instance, after a performance we always drink a glass of champagne each and I conduct a critique of each artiste. On the day we made our debut, we decided that we would record all important events, achievements, triumphs and discoveries in a special album entitled “The Tablets”. Each of the artistes has the right to record in the Tablets his or her own epiphanies and exalted thoughts concerning our craft. Oh, it contains many items of very great value! Some day our Tablets will be published as a book that will be translated into many languages! Vasya, hand them to me.’
Gullibin went over to a marble plinth with a large, luxurious, velvet-bound tome lying on it. Erast Petrovich had presumed that it was a stage prop from some production, but in reality it was the prayer book of the art of theatre.
‘There,’ said Stern, starting to leaf through the pages covered in various styles of handwriting. ‘For the most part, of course, I’m the one who does the writing. I expound my brief observations on the theory of theatre and record my impressions of the performance that has just been given. But the others write quite a lot of valuable material too. Listen, now. This is Hippolyte Emeraldov: “A performance is like an act of passionate love, in which you are the man and the audience is the woman, who must be roused to ecstasy. If you have failed, she will remain unsatisfied and will run off to a more ardent lover. But if you have succeeded, she will follow you to the ends of the earth.” There you have the words of a true hero and lover! That is why his admirers are howling outside the windows.’
The handsome Hippolyte bowed ostentatiously.
‘There are witty observations here too,’ said Stern, turning another page. ‘Look, Kostya Shiftsky drew this. And the caption above it reads: “And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood. Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing that creepeth upon the earth, there went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female.” And we are all represented with very fine likenesses. Here I am with my progeny, Eliza and Hippolyte, here are our grande dame and Sensiblin as noble beasts, here are the cattle – Kostya himself and Serafima Aphrodisina – here are our villain and villainess creeping upon the face of the earth, here are the fowls – Vasya as an eagle owl and Zoya as a humming-bird – and Nonarikin is shown as the anchor!’
Shustrov examined the caricature with a serious air.
‘There is another promising genre in cinematography – the animated drawing,’ he said. ‘It is little pictures, but they move. We shall have to take that on as well.’
‘Hey, someone give me a pen and an inkwell!’ Noah Noaevich ordered, and he started solemnly tracing out characters on an empty page. Everyone clustered together, looking over his shoulder. Fandorin walked across too.
Printed out in capital letters at the top of the page were the words: 6 (19) SEPTEMBER 1911, MONDAY.
‘Independence Day, made possible by the phenomenal generosity of A. G. Shustrov: to be celebrated every year!’ Stern wrote, and everyone shouted out ‘Vivat!’ three times.
They were about to throw themselves on their benefactor to kiss and hug him again, but he beat a nimble and hasty retreat to the door.
‘I have to be at a meeting of the municipal council at five o’clock. An important matter – whether grammar school pupils should be allowed into the evening session at electric theatres. They are almost a third of the potential audience. I bid you farewell.’
After his departure the actors carried on exclaiming rapturously for some time, until Stern told them to take their seats. Everyone immediately fell silent.
Something important was about to take place: the announcement of the new play and – most importantly of all – the allocation of the roles. Faces assumed identical, tense expressions, in which suspicion and hope mingled together. The artistes all looked at their manager. Emeraldov and Altairsky-Lointaine watched him more calmly than the others – they had no need to fear disadvantageous roles. But they seemed to be agitated nonetheless.
Having returned to his observation post, Fandorin also made ready, remembering what Noah Noaevich had said about this being the very moment when players, who were in the habit of dissimulating their feelings, laid bare their genuine egos. The picture might possibly be clarified.
The news that the new production in store for the company was The Cherry Orchard failed to arouse any enthusiasm or lighten the atmosphere.
‘Couldn’t you find anything newer?’ Emeraldov asked, and several of the others nodded. ‘What’s the good of a repertoire manager …’ – the leading man indicated Fandorin – ‘… if we’re choosing Chekhov again? We need something a bit livelier. With more spectacle to it.’
‘Where can I find you a new play with good characters for every one of you?’ Noah Noaevich asked angrily. ‘The Orchard resolves itself neatly into twelve parts. The public already knows the plot, that’s true. But we’ll capture them with the revolutionary impulse of our interpretation. What do you think the play is about?’
Everyone started pondering.
‘About
the victory of crude materialism over the futility of love?’ Altairsky suggested.
Erast Petrovich thought: She is intelligent, that is wonderful.
But Stern disagreed.
‘No, Eliza. It’s a play about the comicality and impotence of cultural refinement and also about the inevitability of death. It’s a very frightening play with a hopeless ending, and at the same time very spiteful. But it’s called a comedy because fate mocks human beings pitilessly and makes fun of them. As usual with Chekhov, everything is in hints and half-tones. But we shall make everything that has been left unspoken completely clear. It will be an anti-Chekhovian production of Chekhov!’ The director grew more and more animated. ‘In this drama of Chekhov’s there is no conflict, because when he wrote it, the author was seriously ill. He had no strength left to fight against Evil, or against Death. You and I shall recreate the Evil, fully armed. It will be the main motor of the action. With Chekhov’s multilevel characters, such an interpretation is perfectly permissible. We shall render the fuzzy psychology of Chekhov’s characters clear and distinct, bringing them into focus, as it were, sharpening their edges, dividing them into the traditional character types. That will be the innovative principle of our production!’
‘Brilliant!’ Mephistov exclaimed. ‘Bravo, teacher! And who is the main agent of Evil? Lopakhin, the cherry orchard’s destroyer?’
‘Well, aren’t you setting your sights high!’ Emeraldov chuckled. ‘Lopakhin he wants!’
‘The agent of Evil is the clerk Yepikhodov,’ the director replied to his ‘villain’, and Mephistov’s face fell. ‘This pitiful little man is the embodiment of the banal, petty evil that every member of our audience encounters in real life far more often than Evil on a demonic scale. But that’s not all. Yepikhodov is also a walking Token of Disaster – and with a revolver in his pocket. His nickname is “22 misfortunes”. It’s a terrifying thing when there are so many misfortunes. Yepikhodov is a harbinger of destruction and death, senseless and pitiless death. It’s no accident that the characters keep repeating that ominous refrain: “Yepikhodov’s coming! Yepikhodov’s coming!” And there he is wandering about somewhere offstage, plucking at the strings of his “mandolin”. I shall make it play a funeral march.’
