All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! My friends!’ Stern exclaimed, surveying his colleagues with his eyes all aglow. ‘Miracles do not only happen on the stage. Today, as if in recompense for our loss, fate has presented us with a most generous gift. Look at this man …’ He indicated his companion with a sweeping gesture. ‘Who is he, in your opinion?’

  ‘The repertoire manager,’ someone answered in surprise. ‘We’ve already seen him today.’

  ‘Mr Fandorin, Erast Petrovich,’ prompted Shiftsky, who had returned unnoticed at some moment or other. He had always possessed a quite outstanding memory for names.

  ‘No, my comrades! This man is our saviour! He has brought us a quite fantastically promising play!’

  Nonarikin gasped.

  ‘But what about The Cherry Orchard?’

  ‘To hell with The Cherry Orchard! Take the axe to it, your Lopakhin is right! Erast Petrovich’s play is new, and no one except me has read it! It is ideal in every respect. In the complement of roles, the theme and the plot!’

  ‘Where did you obtain it, Mr Repertoire Manager?’ Reginina asked. ‘Who is the author?’

  ‘He is the author!’ Stern laughed, delighted by the general amazement. ‘I explained to Erast Petrovich what kind of play we need, and instead of searching for one he sat down and – hey presto! – wrote it himself. In ten days! Exactly the kind of play that I was dreaming about! Even better! This is phenomenal!’

  Of course, there was hubbub. Those who were satisfied with their parts in The Cherry Orchard were indignant; the others, on the contrary, expressed their ardent approval.

  Eliza said nothing for a while, looking at the handsome, grey-haired man with new interest.

  ‘Enough arguing,’ she said eventually. ‘When will we be able to acquaint ourselves with the text?’

  ‘This very moment,’ Noah Noaevich declared. ‘I have run my eyes over it. As you know, I possess the skill of photographic reading; however, this text has to be heard. The play is written in blank verse.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Gullibin, astounded. ‘In the style of Rostand, is it?’

  ‘Yes, but with an oriental flavour. How timely this is! The public is crazy about everything Japanese. Please, Erast Petrovich, take my seat and read.’

  ‘But I have a st-stammer …’

  ‘That’s not important. Please, ladies and gentlemen!’

  Everyone applauded and Fandorin, tugging on his neat black moustache, took a sheaf of paper out of a folder.

  ‘TWO COMETS IN A STARLESS SKY,’ he read out, and explained: ‘This is a title in the tradition of the Japanese theatre. My text is eclectic to some degree, something has been taken from kabuki, something from joruri, the old puppet theatre form, that is, from …’

  ‘Just read it, you can explain everything that’s not clear afterwards,’ Stern interrupted impatiently, winking at the actors, as if to say: Just you wait, now I’ll see you gasp.

  ‘Very well. Of course. I beg your pardon.’ The author coughed to clear his throat. ‘There is also a subtitle: “A puppet theatre play in three acts with songs, dances, tumbling tricks, sword-fighting scenes and michiyuki.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Sensiblin asked. ‘I didn’t understand the last word.’

  ‘That is a traditional kind of scene, in which the characters are on a journey,’ Fandorin explained. ‘For the Japanese the concept of the Path or the Road is very important, and so the michiyuki scenes stand out especially.’

  ‘That’s all, no more questions!’ Stern growled. ‘Read!’

  Everyone settled down in their seats. No one knows how to listen to a new play like the actors who are going to play in it.

  The same tense expression appeared on all their faces – each of them was trying to work out which part he or she would get. As the reading proceeded, one after another the listeners relaxed, having identified their roles. This reaction alone was enough to demonstrate that they liked the play. It’s a rare thing to find a play in which every actor has an impressive entrance, but Two Comets belonged to precisely this category. The characterisations fitted very neatly, and so there was nothing to quarrel over.

  Eliza also identified her own part with no difficulty: the geisha of the first rank Izumi. Very interesting. She could sing and, what was more, dance as well – well, God be praised; Eliza had graduated from ballet school, after all. And she could have such kimonos made, and such hairstyles!

  It was simply astounding how she could have been so blind – a woman who apparently wasn’t stupid and had seen something of life. How could she have failed to appreciate Mr Fandorin at his true worth? His grey hair and black moustache were so very stylish! And what a pleasant, manly voice he had. While he was reading his stammer disappeared completely. That was actually rather a pity – this slight speech defect really had a certain charm to it.

  Ah, what a play it was! Not a play, but a miracle!

  Even Xanthippe Petrovna Vulpinova was ecstatic. And no wonder – she didn’t often get such an appetising role.

  ‘Bravo, Erast Petrovich!’ the villainess called out first of all when the author said: ‘Curtain. The end’. ‘A new Gogol has appeared amongst us.’

  Everyone jumped to their feet and gave a standing ovation. They shouted:

  ‘This is a hit!’

  ‘The season will be ours!’

  ‘Banzai!’

  Kostya Shiftsky made everyone laugh by imitating a Japanese accent.

  ‘Nemirovich and Stanislavsky will commit hara-kiri,’ and he mimed plump Nemirovoch-Danchenko and skinny Stanislavsky with his pince-nez, slitting open their stomachs.

  The only one not to join in the universal jubilation was Nonarikin.

  ‘I didn’t understand what parts you and I will get, teacher,’ he said with mingled hope and suspicion.

  ‘Well I, naturally, shall be the Storyteller. A unique opportunity to direct the tempo of the action and the actors’ playing from right there onstage. A combined producer and director, a brilliant innovation. And you, my dear Georges, will get three roles: the First Assassin, the Second Assassin and the Invisible One.’

  The assistant director glanced at the notes he had made during the reading.

  ‘But I beg your pardon! Two of these roles have no words, and the third has words, but no one can see the character!’

  ‘Naturally. He is an Invisible One. But what expressive lines! And then, the Invisible One is the core, the driving motor of the action. And in the roles of the hired killers you can demonstrate your brilliant sword-fighting skills. You told me yourself that at military college you were the top cadet in the fencing class.’

  Flattered by these compliments, Nonarikin nodded, but somewhat uncertainly.

  ‘Japanese sword-fighting differs substantially from the Western v-variety,’ Fandorin remarked, beginning to stammer again. ‘Some d-degree of training will be required.’

  ‘Yes. The problem that concerns me is all the Japanese realia. All those gestures, musical instruments, songs, facial expressions, rhythms of movement, and so on. We shall have to find a live Japanese from somewhere and take him on as a consultant. I cannot allow myself to put on a hotchpotch like the production of Madam Butterfly at Milan.’ Stern frowned anxiously, but the author of the play reassured him.

  ‘I have thought about that, naturally. Firstly, I myself have a good grasp of Japanese matters. And secondly, I have brought you a Japanese. He is waiting in the foyer.’

  Everyone simply gasped, and Eliza thought: this man is a magician, all he needs is a cloak spangled with stars and a magic wand. Just imagine it – he takes a real live Japanese around with him!

  ‘Then call him quickly!’ Noah Noaevich exclaimed. ‘Truly, you were sent to us by the god of the theatre! No, no, stay here! Gentlemen, call an usher, let him bring our Japanese guest here. And in the meantime, Erast Petrovich, I would like to ask, since you are so prudent, whether you might perhaps have any thoughts concerning who should play the part of this … what is his
name …’ He glanced into the play. ‘… this Si-no-bi with the alias of the Inaudible One? As far as I understand it, the Sinobi are a clan of professional killers, like the Arab assassins. In your play he juggles, walks a tightrope and dodges a knife blade.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Sensiblin. ‘We don’t have a hero. If only Emeraldov were alive …’

  ‘I find it hard to imagine Hippolyte strolling along a tightrope,’ Reginina remarked.

  ‘Yes, that is a problem,’ Nonarikin put in. ‘An insoluble one, I’m afraid.’

  The director disagreed with him.

  ‘Insoluble, my hat. We can find some acrobat from a circus. Circus performers can sometimes be quite artistic.’

  ‘Perhaps we don’t necessarily need a professional actor,’ the miraculous Erast Petrovich suggested commonsensically. ‘The part of the Inaudible One has no words, and his face remains concealed by a mask right to the very end.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Stern, peering hopefully at Fandorin, ‘when you were living in Japan, did you engage in all these various oriental tricks? No, no, don’t refuse me. With your figure and appearance you could make an excellent partner for Eliza!’

  The handsome man hesitated and looked in her direction for the first time.

  ‘Yes, I can do all of that, even walk a tightrope, but … I wouldn’t dare to go out on stage … No, no, please spare me that.’

  ‘You ask him, Eliza! Implore him! Go down on your knees!’ Noah Noaevich shouted out excitedly. ‘Just look at those features. There is so much elegance in them! So much strength! When the Inaudible One takes off his mask at the end and his face is picked out by a beam of light, the audience will go wild!’

  Eliza extended her arm towards the author in the gesture of Desdemona begging for mercy and sent him her absolutely most radiant smile – no man had ever been able to stand against that.

  But the conversation was interrupted, because an usher glanced in at the door.

  ‘Noah Noaevich, I’ve brought him. Come in, my good gentleman.’

  This remark was addressed to a short, stocky oriental individual in a two-piece check suit. He took several steps forward and bowed to everyone from the waist, without bending his back, at the same time removing his straw boater. His ideally round, shaven head gleamed as if it had been polished.

  ‘Mikhair Erastovit Fandorin,’ he proclaimed loudly, introducing himself, and bowed again.

  ‘Is he your son?’ Stern asked the author in amazement.

  ‘He’s not a relative,’ Fandorin replied drily. ‘His real name is Masahiro Sibata.’

  ‘Phenomenal,’ said Noah Noaevich, drawling his favourite word as he avidly examined the man from the East. ‘Tell me, Mikhail Erastovich, do you happen to know how to juggle?’

  ‘Dzugger?’ the Japanese asked. ‘Ah. I can do a rittur.’

  He took a watch out of his breast pocket, a penknife out of his trouser pocket, half of a round cracknel out of a side pocket and started deftly tossing all these things up in the air.

  ‘Magnificent!’ A predatory expression with which Eliza was very familiar appeared on the director’s face. That was how Noah Noaevich looked when some especially daring creative idea was gestating in his head. ‘And have you ever walked on a tightrope?’ He clasped his hands prayerfully. ‘Even just a little bit! I have read that your nation is exceptionally nimble in physical gymnastics.’

  ‘I can do a rittur,’ Fandorin junior replied, and after a moment’s thought added cautiously: ‘If it is not too high.’

  ‘Phenomenal! Simply phenomenal!’ Stern exclaimed, almost with tears in his eyes. ‘We won’t harass you, Erast Petrovich. I understand that at your age it is strange to go out on to the stage. I have a more grandiose idea. Ladies and gentlemen, we shall have a genuine Japanese acting in our play! That will add authenticity and novelty to the production. Just cast a glance at this face! Do you see that Asiatic modelling, that visceral strength? A statue of the Buddha!’ Under the director’s outstretched hand, the Japanese thrust out his chest, knitted his brows and narrowed his already narrow eyes. ‘We shall keep it a secret until the opening night that the leading male role is being played by a Japanese. But when he removes his mask at the moment of revelation, there will be a furore. There has never been a leading man of this kind on the European stage! And tell me, my friend, could you portray the passion of love?’

  ‘I can do a rittur,’ Mikhail-Masahiro replied imperturbably.

  He looked round, selected Aphrodisina as his object and fixed her with a glance that was suddenly aflame. The wings of his small nose distended voraciously, the veins stood out on his forehead and his lips trembled slightly, as if he were struggling to hold back a groan.

  ‘Mamma mia!’ Simochka babbled in a feeble voice, blushing bright red.

  ‘Phenomenal!’ Stern boomed ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. But I still haven’t asked the most important question; will you agree to act in your foster father’s play? We all ask you to do it, everyone here. Ask him!’

  ‘Please do it, please!’ the actors roared.

  ‘The success of the play and the new playwright will depend on this,’ Stern proclaimed solemnly. ‘You wish to help your foster father, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much.’

  The Japanese looked at Fandorin, who was standing there with a completely stiff face, as if he found everything that was happening extremely unpleasant.

  Mikhail Erastovich said something rather long in a strange-sounding language, addressing Fandorin senior.

  ‘Sore va tasikani soo da kedo …’ Fandorin senior replied, as if admitting something reluctantly.

  ‘I agree,’ said the Japanese, bowing first to Stern and then to all the others.

  The company burst into applause and joyful exclamations.

  ‘I’ll order the set design today from Sudeikin or Bakst, whichever one is free,’ said Noah Noaevich, switching to a businesslike tone. ‘The costumes are not a problem. There is something left over from our production of The Mikado, there’s something in stock in the storerooms here, and our predecessors staged Jones’s Geisha. We’ll make the rest. And we’ll rustle up plenty of props from the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company. We’ll restructure the stage. Nonarikin: typewritten texts by roles, in the folders as usual. Absolute secrecy! Until the announcement no one must know what we are putting on. We’ll simply inform the press that The Cherry Orchard is cancelled. And we’ll make sure to announce that we have found a stronger play!’

  Eliza noticed that Fandorin shuddered and even squirmed at those words. Perhaps he was no stranger to modesty after all? How sweet!

  ‘Weekends are cancelled!’ Stern boomed. ‘We are going to rehearse every day!’

  UNFORGIVABLE WEAKNESS

  He was strange, this Erast Petrovich Fandorin. During the days that followed Eliza became more and more convinced of that. He definitely liked her, there was no doubt about it. But then, she had not often encountered men who looked at her without desire. Except for someone like Mephistov, who seemed genuinely to hate beauty. Or Noah Noaevich, with his obsession for the theatre – he was capable of seeing an actress only as an actress, a means for the realisation of his creative concept.

  Men who lusted after a woman behaved in one of two ways. They either flung themselves directly into the attack. Or – if they were of a proud disposition – they pretended to remain indifferent, but nonetheless tried hard to make an impression.

  At first Fandorin seemed to be trying to appear indifferent. During the rehearsal, or rather, during the break, he struck up a trivial conversation, with a disinterested air. Something about Queen Gertrude’s goblet and the keys to the properties room. Eliza replied politely, smiling inwardly. How funny he is, thinking he can fool me with this twaddle. He just wants to hear the sound of my voice, she thought. And she also thought that he was very handsome. And touching. With the way he glanced out from under his thick eyebrows – and blushed. She had always found men who still possesse
d the ability to blush, even at a mature age, very appealing.

  She had already anticipated that he would break off the conversation, as if he was bored with it, and would walk off with a casual air, but would be sure to squint back at her to see what she was thinking. Had she been impressed or not?

  But Fandorin behaved differently. He suddenly stopped questioning her about which members of the company had access to the properties room, blushed even more deeply, raised his eyes resolutely and said:

  ‘I won’t try to pretend. I’m a poor actor. And I think you cannot be fooled in any case. I am asking you about one thing, and thinking about something completely different. I think I am in love with you. And it is not simply that you are talented, beautiful and all the rest of it. There are special reasons why I have lost my head … It doesn’t matter what they are … I know very well that you are spoilt for admirers and accustomed to ad-doration. It is torment for me to jostle in the crowd of your worshippers. I cannot compete with the freshness of a young hussar, the wealth of Mr Shustrov, the talents of Noah Noaevich, the good looks of the leading men, etc., etc. I had only one chance of attracting your interest – to write a play. For me this was a feat requiring a greater effort than it cost Commodore Robert Peary to conquer the North Pole. If not for the constant g-giddiness that has not left me since the moment we first met, it is most unlikely that I would ever have written a drama, and especially one in verse. Being genuinely in love works miracles. But I wish to warn you …’

  Here Eliza interrupted him, alarmed by that ‘But’.

  ‘How well you speak!’ she said agitatedly, taking hold of his hot hand. ‘No one ever talks to me so simply and seriously. I can’t give you an answer now, I have to puzzle out my own feelings! Swear that you will always be so open with me. And for my part, I promise you the same!’

  It seemed to her that her tone and her words had been correct: sincerity in combination with tenderness and a quite clear, but at the same time chaste, invitation to develop their relationship. But he understood her differently and smiled ironically with just his lips.