All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  ‘What triumph?’ the man of the Caucasus had asked, screwing up his face so expressively that Eliza realised immediately that any explanations would be quite useless.

  ‘The triumph that you failed to achieve!’ she had exclaimed, imitating the great Zhemchuzhnikova in the role of Cleopatra. ‘And now you never will! Goodbye, Your Most Exalted Dignity, the honeymoon is over! There will not be any honeymoon trip. I am applying for a divorce!’

  It was appalling to recall what happened then. This scion of an ancient line, a direct descendant of Genghis Khan, sank to the level of base physical assault and foul barracks language, and then went dashing to the writing desk to take out a revolver and shoot his affronter on the spot. Of course, Eliza ran away while he was fiddling with the key, and after that she refused to meet the crazy Chingizid unless her lawyers were present.

  In front of witnesses, Iskander behaved in a civilised manner. He explained politely that he would not agree to any divorce, because in his family this was regarded as a grave sin and his father would take away his allowance. He raised no objections to living separately and even declared his willingness to pay his wife alimony, provided that she observed ‘the proprieties’ (Eliza rejected the offer disdainfully – thank God, she earned quite enough in the theatre).

  The khan displayed his savage nature when they met face to face. He must have had his wife followed, because he appeared in front of her in the most unexpected places, always without any warning. He just popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘Ah, so that’s it!’ he would say with a malign glint in those bulging eyes that she had once found handsome. ‘So the theatre means more to you than my love? Excellent. On the stage you can behave like a harlot. That is your business. But since you are still formally my wife, I will not permit you to drag my ancient name through the mud! Bear in mind, madam, that you can only have lovers in the glow of the footlights and in full view of an audience. Anyone you let into your bed will die. And you will die after him!’

  To be quite honest, she wasn’t really very frightened at first. On the contrary, life became a little more exciting. When there was a love scene during a show, Eliza deliberately looked round the auditorium, and if she encountered the withering gaze of her abandoned husband, she played her part with redoubled passion.

  Things continued like this until the entrepreneur Furshtatsky became seriously enraptured with her. A distinguished individual with good taste, and the owner of the finest theatre in Kiev, he made her an incredibly generous offer to join his theatre company, showered her with flowers, paid her compliments and tickled her ear with his fragrant moustache. He also made her a proposal of a different kind – of matrimony.

  She was prepared to accept both of these proposals. The world of theatre was all abuzz with the news, and once again her rivals were absolutely green with envy.

  Then all of a sudden, at a ceremonial banquet held in Furshtatsky’s honour by the trustees of the Theatre Society, he died! Eliza herself was not at the banquet, but she was given a very graphic description of the way the entrepreneur turned crimson, started wheezing and slumped over with his face in a plate of thick country soup.

  Eliza cried that evening, of course. She felt sorry for poor Furshtatsky and told herself: ‘It wasn’t meant to be’ and so on. But then the telephone rang and a familiar voice with a breathy Caucasian intonation whispered in the receiver: ‘I warned you. This death is on your conscience’. Even then she didn’t start taking Iskander seriously; he seemed to her like an operetta villain with a bristling moustache and goggling eyes that aren’t really frightening. To herself she thought of him mockingly as ‘Genghis Khan’.

  Oh, how cruelly fate had punished her for her flippancy!

  About three months after the entrepreneur’s death, which everyone had accepted, without the slightest doubt, as natural, Eliza allowed herself to develop a passion for another man, the heroic tenor at the Mariinsky Theatre. This time no career considerations were involved. The singer was quite simply handsome (oh, that eternal weakness of hers for the good-looking Adonis type!) and he had a breathtaking voice that sent a warm, heady languor flooding through her entire body. At that time Eliza was already working in Noah’s Ark, but was still concluding her concert engagements. And then one day she and the tenor (he was called Astralov) were giving a little one-act play-cum-duet called ‘Redbeard’. A delightful little piece of nonsense: she declaimed and danced a bit and Astralov sang – and he was so fine and handsome that afterwards they went to Strelna and what was bound to happen sooner or later happened there. And indeed, why not? She was a free, adult, modern woman. He was an attractive man – no great intellect, to be sure, but very talented and gallant. Eliza left in the morning because she had to get to a rehearsal at eleven, and her lover stayed in their hotel room. He was very particular about his appearance and always carried around a toiletry case with a manicure set, all sorts of little brushes, nail scissors and a mirror-bright razor for trimming his beard.

  They found him with that razor in his hand. He was sitting in a chair, dead, with his shirt and his beard stained completely red with blood. The police came to the conclusion that after spending the night with a woman, the tenor had slit his own throat while sitting in front of the mirror. Eliza had been wearing a veil and the hotel staff had not seen her face, so it had all passed off without a scandal.

  She wept at the funeral (there were quite a number of ladies with tear-stained faces there), tormented by miserable bewilderment: what could she have said or done? This was so unlike the bon vivant Astralov! Suddenly she saw Genghis Khan there in the crowd. He looked at her, grinned and ran one finger rapidly across his throat.

  Eliza’s eyes were finally opened.

  Murder! It was murder! In fact, two murders; there was no doubt that Furshtatsky had been poisoned. For a few days she was completely bewildered and confused, as if she were delirious. What should she do? What should she do?

  Go to the police? But, in the first place, there was no proof. They would think it was all the wild ravings of a hysterical young woman. In the second place, Astralov had a family. And in the third place … In the third place, she was absolutely terrified.

  Genghis Khan had gone insane, his jealousy had become a paranoidal obsession. Everywhere – in the street, in a shop, in the theatre – she sensed that she was being followed. And this was no persecution mania! In her muff, in her hatbox, even in her powder compact, Eliza discovered little scraps of paper. There was not a word on them, not a single letter, only drawings: a skull, a knife, a noose, a coffin … In her suspicious state of mind she dismissed several maids because she thought they had been bribed.

  The nights were worst of all. In her distressed and lonely condition (lovers were out of the question!) Eliza had repulsive dreams in which eroticism mingled with appalling images of death.

  She thought about him often now. The moment would come when Genghis Khan’s insanity reached its climax and then the monster would kill her. It could happen very soon now.

  But then why did she not turn to anyone for help?

  There were several reasons.

  Firstly, as we have already said, there was no proof and nobody would believe her.

  Secondly, she was ashamed of her own horrendous stupidity – how could she have married such a monster? It serves you right, you little idiot!

  Thirdly, she was tormented by remorse for two lives that had been lost. If you’re guilty, then you must pay.

  And in addition – the most terrible reason of all – Eliza had never before felt the fragile beauty of the world so keenly. The psychiatrist she consulted very cautiously about Genghis Khan, without naming any names, told her that the condition of paranoiacs worsened in autumn. This is the final autumn of my life, Eliza told herself, as she looked at the poplars starting to turn yellow, and her heart contracted in sweet despair. A moth flying towards a candle flame probably feels much the same thing. It knows it is going to die, but doesn’t want to t
urn aside …

  The one and only time she had blurted out her fear, in a moment of weakness, had been about ten days ago, to that soul of kindness, Olga Knipper. The dam had burst, so to speak. Eliza didn’t explain anything specific, but she wept and babbled incoherently. Afterwards she was sorry she had done it. With her Germanic tenacity, Olga had pestered Eliza with questions. She had telephoned and sent notes, and after that business with the snake she had come rushing round to the hotel, hinted mysteriously about some man who would help Eliza in any situation, gasped and sighed and pried. But it was as if Eliza had turned to stone. She had decided that whatever must be could not be avoided, and there was no point in getting other people involved.

  There was only one way to get rid of this good-hearted meddler, and it was a cruel one: to provoke a quarrel with her. And Eliza knew how to do that. She said a lot of offensive, absolutely unforgivable things about Olga’s relationship with her deceased husband. Olga cringed and burst into tears and her tone of voice became cold and formal. ‘God will punish you for that,’ she said – and left.

  He will punish me, Eliza thought languidly, and soon. On that day she felt so numbed, barely even alive, that she didn’t repent in the least. She only felt relief at having been left in peace. Alone with her final autumn, insanity and nightmares.

  ‘Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap!’ The tapping on the glass came again and Eliza rubbed her eyes, driving away the appalling dream. There was no carriage, and no dead men pressing their faces avidly against the glass.

  The darkness was lightening. The outlines of objects had already appeared, she could see the hands of the clock on the wall: a few minutes after five. Dawn would break soon and, like a little nocturnal animal, the fear would creep away into its burrow until the evening twilight came again. She knew that now she could go to sleep without being afraid, there were no nightmares in the morning.

  But suddenly there it was again, a quiet ‘tap-tap-tap’.

  She raised herself up on her pillow and realised that her awakening had been false. The dream was continuing.

  She was dreaming that she was lying in her hotel room just before dawn, looking out of the window, and there was a dead face with a red, dishevelled beard – huge and blurred. Lord God, have pity!

  She pinched herself and rubbed her eyes, which were gluing themselves shut again. Her vision cleared. No, it wasn’t a dream!

  There was a huge bunch of peonies swaying outside the window. A hand in a white glove appeared out of it and knocked: ‘tap-tap-tap’. Then a face appeared beside it, not a dead one, but very much alive. The lips below the moustache with twirled ends stirred in a soundless whisper, the eyes goggled as they attempted to make out the interior of the room.

  Eliza recognised one of her most tenacious admirers – the Life Hussar Volodya Limbach. The St Petersburg cohort of reckless theatre lovers included quite a number of young officers. Any even slightly well-known actress, singer or ballerina always had these noisy, exuberant youths among her retinue. They engineered ovations, threw heaps of flowers, could even hiss at a rival actress, and on the day of a premiere or a benefit performance they unharnessed the horses from the carriage and pulled the sovereign of their hearts through the streets themselves. Their adoration was flattering and useful, but some of the young men did not know where to stop and allowed themselves to cross the line between adoration and harassment.

  If Eliza’s condition had been different, she might possibly have laughed at Limbach’s prank. God only knew how he had managed to clamber onto the cornice of a high first-floor window. But this time she flew into a fury. Damn the young pup! What a fright he had given her!

  She leapt up off the bed and ran to the window. Making out an unclad white figure in the half-light, the cornet pressed his face avidly against the glass. Without even bothering to think that the boy might fall and break his neck, Eliza turned the catch and pushed the flaps of the window, which swung wide open.

  The bouquet went flying down through the air and Limbach himself was knocked off balance by the blow, but he wasn’t sent tumbling into the abyss. In contradiction of the laws of gravity, the young officer hung suspended in mid-air, swaying to and fro and turning gently around his own axis.

  The mystery was explained: the impudent young man had lowered himself from the roof on a rope that was wound round his waist.

  ‘Divine one!’ Limbach exclaimed in a choking voice, and started speaking in brief phrases. ‘Let me in! I wish only! To kiss the hem! Of your nightgown! Reverently!’

  Eliza’s fury suddenly evaporated, its place taken by the terrible thought that if Genghis Khan found out about this, the foolish boy would be killed!

  She cast a glance along Tverskaya Street, which was absolutely deserted at this time in the morning. But how could she be sure that the cursed maniac was not hiding somewhere in a gateway or behind a street lamp?

  Without saying a word, Eliza shut the window and closed the curtains. Entering into negotiations, expostulating or scolding would only increase the risk.

  But Limbach would not back down. Now she would have no peace from him even at night, in her own room. And the worst thing of all was that the window looked straight out onto the street …

  During their Moscow tour the company of Noah’s Ark was staying in the ‘Louvre-Madrid’ on the corner of Leontiev Lane. The ‘Louvre’ was the name of a luxurious hotel with a façade overlooking Tverskaya Street. The director, leading man and leading lady lived here, in deluxe apartments. The more modest part of the complex, the ‘Madrid’ lodging rooms, had windows that looked out onto Leontiev Lane. This was where the other actors were quartered. Visiting companies often stayed in this twin establishment, which seemed to be specially adapted for the theatrical hierarchy. The wits of the theatre scene had dubbed the long corridor connecting the magnificent hotel and the modest lodging rooms ‘the impassable Pyrenees’.

  If this happened again, she would have to exchange rooms with someone on the other side of the Pyrenees, Eliza thought, calming down slightly and even starting to smile. After all, it is hard to remain indifferent in the face of such insane amatory follies. He had come dashing down here from St Petersburg, the little devil. Probably without saying a word to his superiors. And now he would spend a long stretch in the guardhouse. But that wasn’t the most terrible thing that could happen to him …

  TERRIFYING

  Following the uproar at the performance of Poor Liza, the theatre was written and talked about so much that Stern changed his original plans and decided not to halt the performances. The scale of the furore over Noah’s Ark was quite unprecedented: speculators were selling on tickets, not for three times their price, but for almost ten times. Additional seats had been set out in the auditorium, at absolutely every point where it was possible. With every entrance she made, Eliza felt two thousand eyes peering avidly at her, as if they were waiting for something outlandish to happen to the prima donna. But she abandoned her former habit and tried not to look out into the hall. She was afraid to see that glance blazing with hatred from under those fused eyebrows …

  They performed each of the old productions again once: Poor Liza, The Three Sisters and Hamlet. They were received very well, although Noah Noaevich was dissatisfied. During the analytical sessions after the performance, when everyone drank champagne, wrote entries in the ‘Tablets’ and made flattering or barbed comments to each other, the director complained that ‘the emotional intensity’ was falling.

  ‘Irreproachable, but vapid,’ he exclaimed. ‘Like Stanislavsky! We are losing all of our lead. A theatre without uproar, provocation and scandal is only half a theatre. Give me scandal! Give me the pulsing of blood!’

  The day before yesterday there had been a scandal in Hamlet, and the object of it had once again been Eliza. It was less impressive than on 5 September, but it was hard to say which was more repulsive – to see that snake or to suffer Emeraldov’s despicable tomfoolery!

  If there was one person Eliza
simply could not bear, it was her primary stage partner. A pompous, unintelligent, petty, envious, vainglorious peacock! He simply could not accept the fact that she was indifferent to his chocolate-box charm and that the public appreciated her more. If not for the small group of hysterical young ladies who electrified the rest of the audience with their squealing, everyone would have noticed long ago that the king was naked! He couldn’t act properly, only shoot fire out of his eyes. And the brute actually tried to kiss her properly, on the lips. He even tried to thrust his tongue in!

  The day before yesterday he had gone way beyond the limit. In the scene where Hamlet tries to woo Ophelia, Emeraldov had played the Prince of Denmark like some licentious ruffian. He had hugged her tight, squeezed her breasts and then, to the horror and delight of the audience, pinched her on the buttock, like an officer’s orderly pinching the maid!

  Offstage Eliza had slapped him hard across the face, but Emeraldov had only smirked like the cat that got the cream. She was sure that at the critique the impudent scoundrel would get a real roasting, but Stern actually praised this ‘innovative discovery’ and promised that the next day all the newspapers would write about it. They did write about it, and moreover that yellow-press rag Kopeck Life went as far as to hint transparently at a ‘special relationship’ between Mme Altairsky-Lointaine and the ‘irresistible Mr Emeraldov’, putting in a comment on ‘the African passion that erupted so directly on the stage’.