All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  Eliza sighed and took note of that.

  ‘So he tried a lot of women?’

  ‘Very many! There were genuine princesses, there were revorutionaries. Some women were rike andjers, others were worse than the devir.’

  ‘Beautiful?’ she asked, forgetting about caution. The conversation had turned out too enthralling altogether.

  Masa (that name suited him better, she thought, than ‘Mikhail Erastovich’) grimaced in a strange manner.

  ‘My master has sutrange taste,’ he said, and then, seeming suddenly to recall something, he corrected himself. ‘Very beautifur.’

  And he even demonstrated exactly how beautiful they were: with a huge bust, full sides, immensely wide hips and tiny little eyes.

  Fandorin really does have strange passions, Eliza concluded. He likes big women, I’m not to his taste at all.

  At that point she started pondering and became sad, and the conversation ended. Eliza didn’t even ask why Masa called Fandorin ‘master’.

  On closer acquaintance, however, it emerged that not all information acquired from the Japanese should be taken on trust. Her stage partner proved to be no novice when it came to telling a few fibs, or at least fantasising a little.

  When, following some complicated manoeuvring, Eliza once again succeeded in directing the conversation to the subject of Erast and asked what he actually did, Masa replied briefly.

  ‘He rescues.’

  ‘Whom does he rescue?’ she asked, astounded.

  ‘Whoever he has to, he rescues them. Sometimes he rescues his homerand.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His homerand. Mother Russia. He has saved it about ten times arready. And he has saved the whore worrd three or four times,’ Masa declared, dumbfounding her and continuing to glow with his usual smile.

  Well now, Eliza said to herself. It could well be that the information about the princesses and revolutionaries is from the same category.

  September came to an end. The city turned yellow and was pervaded with a smell of tears, sadness and nature’s dying. How well this matched the condition of her own soul! At night Eliza hardly slept at all. She just lay there with her hands set behind her head. The pale orange rectangle on the ceiling, a projection of the window illuminated by a street lamp, looked like a cinema screen, and on it she saw Genghis Khan and Erast Petrovich, the geisha Izumi and the Japanese assassins, pale images of the past and the blackness of the future.

  During the second night of the month of October the regular ‘screening’ concluded in a sudden shock.

  As usual, she was running through the events of the day and the course of today’s rehearsal. She counted the number of days since she had seen Fandorin (an entire fifteen!) and sighed. Then she smiled, recalling the latest scandal in the theatre company. Someone had played the hooligan again and written an idiotic entry in the ‘Tablets’: ‘SEVEN 1S UNTIL THE BENEFIT PERFORMANCE’. No one knew when it had appeared – they hadn’t looked into the log for a long time, since there were no performances. But then some ‘phenomenal aphorism’ had occurred to Stern and he opened the book – and there were the scribbles in indelible pencil on the page for 2 October. The director threw a hysterical fit. His target was the venerable Vasilisa Prokofievna, who had only just recalled what magnificent benefit performances she used to have in the old days: with silver trays, and grandiloquent addresses, and box-office takings of thousands. Only Noah Noaevich could possibly have imagined Reginina secretly slavering over the indelible pencil and vandalising the sacred book with those crooked letters. How amusingly he had pounced on her! And how thunderously she had expressed her outrage! ‘Don’t you dare to insult me with your suspicions! I’ll never set foot in this den of iniquity again!’

  Suddenly two immense black legs appeared, aimlessly swinging to and fro, on the ‘ceiling screen’ that Eliza was watching. She squealed and jerked upright on the bed. It was a moment before she thought of looking in the direction of the window. And when she did look, her fear turned to fury.

  The legs were not chimerical, but perfectly genuine, in cavalry boots and jodhpurs. They were descending slowly, with a sword scabbard beating against them; then came a hitched-up hussar’s jacket and finally Cornet Limbach in toto, lowering himself down on a rope. He hadn’t shown up for two weeks after the previous incident – no doubt he had been sitting in the guardhouse. But now here he was back again, out of the blue.

  This time the brat had prepared more thoroughly for his invasion. Standing on the windowsill, he took out a screwdriver or some other tool (Eliza couldn’t see it very well) and started fiddling with the window frame. The closed catch grated quietly and started turning.

  This was just the last straw!

  Jumping up off the bed, Eliza repeated the same trick as the last time: she pushed opened the window flaps. But this time the result was different. While he was twisting his screwdriver or whatever it was that he had, Limbach must have loosened his grip on the rope, or perhaps he had let go of it completely. In any case, he cried out pitifully at the sudden blow, turned a somersault in mid-air and went flying downwards.

  Transfixed with horror, Eliza leaned out over the windowsill, expecting to see a motionless body on the pavement (after all, it was a high first floor, a good fifteen feet), but the cornet proved as agile as a cat and landed on all fours. Spotting the empress of his heart leaning out of the window, he pressed his hands imploringly to his breast.

  ‘To fall to my death at your feet is happiness!’ he shouted out in a ringing voice.

  Eliza laughed despite herself and closed the window.

  However, things could not go on like this. She would have to swap rooms with someone after all. But with whom?

  It could be with Comedina. The ‘leading boy’ was always given the worst accommodation. And if Limbach climbed in the window again, Zoya, tiny little thing that she was, would still be able to see him off. If she wanted to, of course, Eliza thought slyly. And if she didn’t want to, then two birds would be killed with one stone: Zoya would have her amusement, and the little officer would leave Eliza alone.

  She spluttered with laughter as she imagined the brash cornet’s amazement when he discovered the substitution. And there was probably no need to warn Zoya. It would turn out more interesting that way – a little scene from the commedia dell’arte. It was only one short step from the appalling to the comic in life.

  Only was there a mirror in Zoya’s little kennel? She could ask to have the one here moved.

  Eliza couldn’t live in a room without any mirrors. If she didn’t look at herself at least once every two or three minutes, she got the feeling that she didn’t really exist. This psychosis, rather common among actresses, goes by the name of ‘reflectiomania’.

  ACROSS THE PYRENEES

  Eliza herself observed the events that transpired in the ‘Louvre-Madrid’ the following night only in part, and so she had to reconstitute the overall picture from the accounts of eyewitnesses.

  It should be mentioned that late that evening the electricity went off in the hotel and the lodging rooms. It was too late to call the electricians and the dramatic events took place either in complete darkness or by the uncertain light of kerosene and candles.

  The best place to start is with Zoya Comedina’s account.

  ‘I always fall asleep like a cat. As soon as my head touches the pillow, I’m gone. And this was an imperial bed, you could say. A bed of swan’s down! Pillows of angels’ feathers! And before that I lounged in a hot bath to my heart’s content. Anyway, there I am, sleeping sweetly and dreaming that that I’m a frog, sitting in a swamp and it’s warm and damp there, but I’m lonely. I swallow unappetising mosquitoes and croak. What are you laughing at, Eliza? It’s true, honestly! Suddenly – thwack! – an arrow thrusts itself into the ground. And then I realise that I’m not just any amphibian, I’m a frog-princess, and now a handsome prince will appear to get his arrow back. If I grab hold of that arrow and hold on tight, it will br
ing me good fortune.

  ‘The prince immediately appears and puts me on the palm of his hand. “Oh,” he says, “how green you are and how pretty! And what wonderful little warts you have! Let me give you a kiss!” And he really does kiss me, hotly and passionately.

  ‘Then I suddenly wake up and what do you think? The prince isn’t a prince, but some fop or other with a little moustache and he’s panting into my face and slavering my lips with kisses. Oh, did I yell! He tried to put his hand over my mouth – and I sank my teeth into his finger.

  ‘I sat up and I was going to yell again, only when I looked, I saw I knew him. That cornet of hussars. The one who showers you with flowers. The window was wide open and there were tracks on the windowsill.

  ‘So he looks at me and waves his finger about, with his face all twisted.

  ‘“Who are you?” he hisses. “Where did you come from?”

  ‘With my short hair, he took me for a boy.

  ‘I say to him: “No, where did you come from?”

  ‘He puts his fist up against my nose. “Where is she?” he whispers. “Where’s my Eliza? Tell me, you little devil!” And then he goes and twists my ear, the rotten beast.

  ‘I got frightened. “She’s moved to the Madrid, to room number ten,” I said. I don’t know why I said that. I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head. Word of honour! What are you laughing at? Don’t you believe me? Well, you should. Why didn’t I kick up a rumpus when he left? Well, I was really frightened, I couldn’t even catch my breath. Honest to God.’

  No witnesses were found to the bold cornet’s traversal of the dark Pyrenean corridors from the Louvre to Madrid, so the next episode of the drama was played out directly in room number ten.

  ‘I don’t know how the miscreant managed to open the door without waking me up. I’m a very light sleeper, I wake up at the slightest stirring of the air … Don’t lie, Lev Spiridonovich, I have never snored. And anyway, how would you know how I sleep now? Thank God, it’s a very long time since you kept me company. I want him to go out. I won’t tell the story with him here!

  ‘… And through my light doze I hear someone whispering: “Queen, Empress, ruler of heaven and earth! I am ablaze with passion at the aroma of your perfume”. I should mention that at night I always perfume myself with “Fleur de Lys”. And then someone starts kissing me on the neck and the cheek, and presses his lips against mine. Naturally, I decided that I was dreaming. And what point is there in being shy in a dream? And then, since there are no men around, I ask you, which of us wouldn’t like to have a dream like that? Well, naturally, I fling my arms open to embrace this miraculous reverie … Stop giggling, or I won’t tell you!

  ‘Now it all happened in pitch darkness, note, so I couldn’t even recognise that despicable boy …

  ‘But when he turned brazen and tried to take the kind of liberties that I don’t permit myself even in dreams, I finally realised that this wasn’t a dream, but an absolutely genuine assault on my honour. I pushed the blackguard off, and he fell onto the floor. I started shouting. And that disgusting Limbach, realising that his intentions had been foiled, ran off into the corridor.’

  Whereas Zoya’s story inspired absolute trust (apart from her directing the villain to room number ten by accident), Reginina’s story required a few corrections. Otherwise it was hard to explain why she took so long to shout out to the rest of Madrid and why Limbach had suddenly become ‘despicable’ and ‘disgusting’ to her, although previously she had been well disposed towards him.

  It was far more probable that Limbach, drowning in Vasilisa Prokofievna’s monumental corpulence, realised he had come to the wrong place, started floundering about and had broken free, thereby provoking the grande dame’s indignant howling.

  However that might be, the next point on the night raider’s route was known for certain. At the sound of screaming, Sensiblin looked out of room number eight with a lamp in his hand and saw an agitated figure with a sword dangling on its belt running hell for leather along the corridor.

  Turning a corner, Limbach ran into Xanthippe Petrovna. She had also stuck her nose out of her room, clad only in her nightshirt and curlers.

  This is her story.

  ‘I was served a bad turn by my perpetual kind-heartedness. When I heard shouting, I got out of bed and looked out into the corridor, in case someone needed help.

  ‘A young man came dashing towards me. I didn’t recognise him immediately as your admirer, Limbach. But he told me he who he was and clasped his hands together imploringly on his chest.

  ‘“Hide me, madam! They’re chasing me! If I end up with the police, I’ll get at least a month in the guardhouse!”

  ‘You know, I’m always on the side of anyone who’s being pursued by the police. So I let him in and bolted the door shut, like a stupid fool!

  ‘And what do you think? That ingrate started molesting me! I tried to make him see reason, I lit the lamp, so he could see that I’m old enough to be his mother. But he was like a madman! He tried to tear off my shirt and chased me round the room, and when I started screaming and calling for help, he bared his sword! I don’t know how I’m still alive. In my place anyone else would take the brute to court, and instead of the guardhouse, he’d end up serving hard labour – for attempted rape and murder!’

  Of course, there was even less truth in this than in what Vasilisa Prokofievna had said. There was no doubt that Limbach had spent several minutes in Vulpinova’s room. It is also possible that he entered the room of his own accord, hoping to sit out the commotion. But as for molestation – that seemed rather doubtful. Most likely Vulpinova herself had tried to solicit his attention, but committed the blunder of lighting the lamp, and the poor cornet was horror-struck at the appearance of his rescuer. It was also entirely possible that he lacked the tact to conceal his revulsion, and Xanthippe Petrovna would most certainly have been insulted by that. Offended and infuriated, she was capable of reducing anyone to fear and trembling. It was easy to imagine that Volodya, already badly frightened, had been obliged to snatch out his sabre – just as D’Artagnan bared his sword when he fled from Her insulted Ladyship.

  He had definitely darted out into the corridor with his blade bared. A bevy of agitated actors had already congregated there: Anton Ivanovich Mephistov, Kostya Shiftsky, Sima Aphrodisina and Nonarikin. At the sight of an armed villain, everyone except the bold Georges hid in their rooms.

  By that time these incredible reversals of fortune had rendered Volodya half berserk.

  He dashed at the deputy director, brandishing his sabre.

  ‘Where is she? Where is Eliza? Where have you hidden her?’

  Georges – a bold heart, but not the brightest of intellects – backed away towards the door of room number three, blocking it off.

  ‘Only over my dead body!’

  But it was all one to Limbach at this stage – so be it, over a dead body. He knocked Nonarikin to the floor with a blow of his sword hilt to the forehead and found himself facing the room that had previously been occupied by Zoya.

  Subsequent events required no reconstruction, because Eliza had observed them herself and been directly involved.

  Exhausted by her chronic lack of sleep, the previous evening she had drunk a tincture of laudanum and slept through the entire ruckus. She was only woken by the loud toing and froing right outside her room. Eliza lit a candle, opened the door – and found herself face to face with Limbach, anguished and crimson-faced from all his running about.

  He flung himself at her with tears in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve found you! My God, all the torments I’ve suffered!’

  Still drowsy and not thinking clearly, she moved out of the way and the cornet evidently took this as an invitation.

  ‘This whole place is full of erotomaniacs!’ he complained (these words explain Eliza’s subsequent assumptions concerning Reginina and Vulpinova). ‘But I love you! Only you!’

  The explanation in the doorwa
y of her room was interrupted when Vasya Gullibin came running out from round the corner. He was a heavy sleeper and the last inhabitant of ‘Madrid’ to wake up.

  ‘Limbach, what are you doing here?’ he shouted. ‘Leave Eliza alone! Why is Georges on the floor? Did you strike him? I’m going to call Noah Noaevich!’

  Then the cornet nimbly darted inside, locking the door behind him. Eliza and he were left alone together. One couldn’t exactly say that she was frightened by this. In her time she had seen all sorts of hotheads. Some of them, especially officers and students, had committed worse antics than this. And in any case, Volodya behaved rather meekly. He went down on his knees, dropped his sword on the floor, grasped the hem of her negligee and pressed it reverently to his breast.

  ‘Let me be killed for your sake … Let them even throw me out of the regiment … My aged parents will never survive it, but even so, there is no life for me without you,’ he declaimed rather inarticulately but with true feeling. ‘If you spurn me, I shall slit my stomach open, as the Japanese did during the war!’

  At the same time his fingers seemingly inadvertently crumpled up the fine silk fabric, so that it gathered into folds, rising higher and higher. The hussar broke off his tearful lament in order to lean down and kiss Eliza on her bare knee – and there he stayed, his kisses creeping higher and higher.

  A chilly shudder suddenly ran through her. Not from the shamelessness of his touches, but from a terrible thought that had occurred to her.

  What if fate has sent him to me? He is desperate, he is in love. If I tell him about my nightmare, he will simply challenge Genghis Khan to a duel and kill him. And I shall be free!

  But immediately she felt ashamed. To risk the boy’s life for egotistical considerations of her own was a shameful idea.

  ‘Stop,’ she said in a weak voice, putting her hands on his shoulders (Limbach’s head was already completely hidden under the negligee). ‘Get up. I need to talk to you …’