All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  She herself did not know how it would all have ended: whether she would have had the courage or, on the contrary, the cowardice to embroil the boy in a deadly intrigue.

  Things never reached the stage of an explanation.

  The door was torn off its hinges by a mighty blow. The hotel doorman, Gullibin and Nonarikin – with a crimson lump on his forehead and his eyes blazing – jostled in the doorway. They were moved aside by Noah Noaevich, who ran an outraged gaze over the indecent scene. Eliza smacked Limbach in the teeth with her knee.

  ‘Get out from under there!’

  The cornet got up, tucked his cold weapon under his arm, ducked under the outstretched arms of the doorman and darted out into the corridor, howling: ‘I love you! I love you!’

  ‘Leave us,’ Stern ordered.

  His eyes hurled lightning bolts.

  ‘Eliza, I was mistaken in you. I regarded you as a woman of the highest order, but you take the liberty …’ And so on and so forth.

  She didn’t listen, but just looked down at the toes of her slippers.

  Terrible? Yes. Shameful? Yes. But it is more forgivable to risk the life of a stupid little officer than the life of a great dramatist. Even if the duel were to end with Limbach being killed, Genghis Khan would still disappear from my life. He would go to prison, or flee to his khanate, or to Europe – it doesn’t matter where. I would be free. We would be free! This happiness can be paid for with a crime … Or can it?

  Five 1s

  UNTIL THE BENEFIT PERFORMANCE

  FISHING WITH LIVE BAIT

  Some wise man, Erast Petrovich thought it was La Rochefoucauld, had said that very few people know how to be old. Fandorin had assumed that he belonged to that happy minority – and he had turned out to be mistaken.

  Where has the rational, dignified equilibrium disappeared to? Where are you, calm and liberty, detachment and harmony?

  Fandorin’s own heart had played him a trick that he had never expected. Life had been turned upside down, and all the immutable values had been reduced to dust. He felt twice as young as before and three times as stupid. The latter assertion was perhaps not entirely true. His intellect seemed to have deviated from its established course and lost its singleness of purpose, but it had retained its perpetual acuity, relentlessly noting all the stages and twists and turns of his illness.

  At the same time, Fandorin was not certain that what was happening to him should be considered an illness. Perhaps, on the contrary, he had recovered his health.

  It was a philosophical question, and he was helped in finding the answer to it by the very best of philosophers – Kant. The philosopher had been sickly from the day he was born, he was constantly unwell and this distressed him very badly, until one fine day the sage was struck by the excellent idea of regarding his sickly condition as good health. Being unwell was normal, there was nothing here to be sad about, das ist Leben. And if it suddenly happened that nothing was hurting in the morning – that was a gift of fate. And life was immediately filled with the light of joy.

  Fandorin acted in similar fashion. He stopped obstinately setting his reason and his heart at odds. If this was love, so be it, let it be considered a normal state of soul.

  He immediately felt slightly better. At least an end had been put to his inner discord. Erast Petrovich had enough reasons for torment without self-flagellation.

  Falling in love with an actress was a truly heavy cross to bear – a thought to which Fandorin’s mind returned a hundred times a day.

  With her he could never be sure of anything. Apart from the fact that in the next moment she would be different from the way she was in the previous one. Now cold, now passionate, now false, now sincere, now sweetly clinging, now spurning! The first phase of their relationship, which had lasted only a few days, had made him think that Eliza, despite her actress’s affectation, was nonetheless a normal, real, live woman. But how could he explain what had happened at Cricket Lane? Had it really happened, that explosion of devastating passion, or had he imagined it? Did it really happen that a woman flung herself into a man’s arms and then ran away – and ran in terror, even revulsion? What had he done wrong? Oh, Erast Petrovich would have paid dearly to receive an answer to the question that was tormenting him. Pride did not permit him to ask. Present himself in the pitiful role of a petitioner, a quibbler over feelings? Never!

  In fact, everything was clear enough anyway. The question was rhetorical.

  Eliza was firstly an actress, and secondly a woman. A professional enchantress, who needed powerful effects, emotional rupture, morbid passions. The sudden shift in her behaviour was dual in nature; firstly, she had taken fright at a serious relationship and didn’t wish to lose her freedom, and secondly, of course, she wanted to get him more securely fastened on the hook. Such paradoxical motivation was typical for women of the theatrical caste.

  He was a wise old bird and he had seen all sorts of things, including the eternal female game of cat-and-mouse. And he had seen it performed with greater skill. In the art of binding a man to herself, a European actress was no match for an experienced Japanese courtesan with a command of jyojutsu, the ‘skill of passion’.

  But although he understood this uncomplicated game perfectly well, he succumbed to it nonetheless and suffered, and his suffering was genuine. Self-reproach and logic were no help.

  And then Erast Petrovich started trying to convince himself that he was very lucky. There was a stupid saying: ‘If you want to fall in love, then love a queen’. But a queen was some kind of nonsense, she wasn’t even a woman at all, but a walking set of ceremonial conventions. If you wanted to fall in love, then love a great actress.

  She embodied the eternally elusive beauty of yugen. She was not one woman, but ten, even twenty: Juliet and the Distant Princess, Ophelia and the Maid of Orleans and Marguerite Gauthier. To conquer the heart of a great actress was very difficult, almost impossible, but if you succeeded, it was like conquering the love of all the heroines at once. And if you failed to conquer, nonetheless you loved the very best women in the world all at once. You would have to devote your entire life to the struggle for requited feelings. For even if you did win the victory, it would never be final. There would be no relaxation and peace – but who had ever said that that was a bad thing? Genuine life was this eternal trepidation, and not at all the walls that he had built round himself when he decided to grow old correctly.

  Following the break-up, after having denied himself any possibility of seeing Eliza, he frequently recalled one conversation with her. Ah, how well they had spoken together during that brief, happy period! He remembered that he had asked her what it meant to be an actress. And she had answered.

  ‘I’ll tell you what it is to be an actress. It is to experience perpetual hunger – hopeless, insatiable hunger! A hunger so immense that no one can assuage it, no matter how greatly they love me. The love of one man will never be enough for me. I need the love of the whole world – all the young men, and all the old men, and all the children, and all the horses and cats and dogs and, most difficult of all, the love of all the women too, or at least most of them. I look at a waiter in a restaurant and I smile at him in a way that will make him love me. I stroke a dog and I tell it: love me. I walk into a hall full of people and I think: “Here I am, love me!” I am the unhappiest and the happiest person in the world. The unhappiest, because it is impossible to be loved by everyone. The happiest, because I live in constant anticipation, like someone in love before a tryst. This sweet ache, this torment is my happiness …’

  At that moment she had been straining her ability to be sincere to its very limit.

  Or had it been a monologue from some play?

  But feelings were one thing, and work was another. The vicissitudes of love must not interfere with the investigation. That is, they quite definitely did interfere, periodically stirring up his line of deduction and obfuscating its clarity, but they did not distract Fandorin from his investigative activiti
es. The viper in the basket of flowers was more like some piece of villainy out of an operetta, but a premeditated murder was no joke. Concern for the woman he loved and, when it came down to it, his civic duty, required that he expose the treacherous criminal. The Moscow Police were free to come to any conclusions at all (Erast Petrovich’s opinion of their professional abilities was not very high), but he personally had no doubt at all that Emeraldov had been poisoned.

  That had become clear on the very first evening, in the course of his nocturnal visit to the theatre. Not that Fandorin had suspected from the very first that something was amiss with the suicide of the leading man – not in the least. But since another event that was both ominous and hard to explain had occurred in Eliza’s immediate vicinity, he had to get to the bottom of it.

  What had become clear?

  The actor had remained behind in the theatre because he had an appointment to meet someone or other. That was one.

  He was in a wonderful mood, which is strange for someone intending to commit suicide. That was two.

  Thirdly. The goblet from which, according to the police report, Emeraldov had voluntarily drunk poison had, naturally, been taken away by the investigator. However, the polished surface of the table bore marks from two goblets. So the actor had received his unknown visitor after all, and they had drunk wine.

  Fourthly. Judging from the marks, one of the goblets was intact, but the other had a slight leak. The first had left behind rings of water, the second had left rings of wine. Obviously, before the stage-prop goblets were used, they had been rinsed under the tap and not wiped dry. And then a little wine had seeped out of the second one.

  Erast Petrovich had taken away dried-out particles of the red liquid for analysis. There had not been any poison in the wine. So the presumptive murderer had drunk out of the goblet that had disappeared. That was five.

  The next day the picture had become even clearer. The following morning, once again employing the useful method known as ‘greasing the palm’, Fandorin had gained entrance to the properties room with the help of an usher. Or rather, the usher had simply shown him where the room was located and Erast Petrovich had opened the door himself, with the help of an elementary picklock.

  And what had he found? The second tin goblet was standing on the shelf perfectly calmly, beside the crowns, jugs, dishes and other properties from Hamlet. Fandorin immediately recognised the item he was looking for from its description: it was the only one there like it, with an eagle and a snake on its hinged lid. Judging from the dust, some little time ago two goblets had stood here. On the evening of the murder, Emeraldov had taken them directly from the stage, and then someone (presumably the murderer) had returned only one to its place. Examination through a powerful magnifying glass had revealed the microscopic crack through which the wine had seeped out. And in addition, it was clear that the goblet had been well washed, and as a result, unfortunately, no fingerprints were left.

  Nonetheless, half the job had been done. The list of suspects had been drawn up. All that remained was to infiltrate that circle, in order to identify the murderer.

  Another day went by and everything had arranged itself in ideal fashion. There would be no more need to act by stealth or bribe attendants. The play about the two comets had been accepted for production and Fandorin had become an acknowledged member of the company. A genuinely fortunate coincidence of civic duty and personal interest.

  During the rehearsal, after asking various different people a few apparently casual questions, he had discovered the most important thing: who in the company had unlimited access to the properties room at any time of the day or night. The list of suspects had immediately shrunk to a minimum. The stores of stage properties, accessories and costumes were managed by the director’s assistant, Nonarikin. He took his responsibilities very seriously, never gave the keys to anyone and always accompanied everyone who needed to take anything out of storage. It was easiest of all for him to have returned the goblet to its place.

  But there was one man in the company who would not have needed Nonarikin’s sanction – the manager of the theatre. In order to discover whether Stern had taken the key from his assistant, Fandorin would have had to ask questions, and that was not a good idea, so he decided to keep them both under suspicion.

  The third subject had been added almost accidentally. In the Japanese play the ‘rogue’ Shiftsky had been given the part of Kinjo, a pickpocket, or rather, putting it more correctly, a ‘pick-sleeve’, since Japanese clothes were not equipped with any pockets and valuable items were usually kept in the sleeves. Kostya had played a pickpocket in a play based on Oliver Twist, and at the time he had studied that difficult craft assiduously in order to appear convincing on stage. And now, recalling the old days, the young man had yielded to the imp of mischief and decided to demonstrate his skill. During the break he rubbed up against one, two, three people and later chuckled as he returned Reginina’s purse, Nonarikin’s handkerchief and Mephistov’s bottle of some kind of medicine. Vasilisa Prokofievna good-naturedly called the artful dodger a ‘scallywag’, Nonarikin simply blinked, but Anton Ivanovich created an uproar, shouting that a decent man would never go rummaging through other people’s pockets even as a joke.

  After this comical incident Fandorin added Shiftsky to his mental list too. Shiftsky had taken Nonarikin’s handkerchief, so he could have taken the key.

  A day later a rather simple operation in the old detective genre of ‘fishing with live bait’ had been conceived and put into action.

  During the afternoon Erast Petrovich had paid a stealthy visit to the properties room, once again resorting to the picklock. He placed his Bure chronometer beside the goblet. Turning round on hearing a rustling sound, he saw a large rat sitting on the shelf to his left and observing him with contemptuous equanimity.

  ‘We’ll m-meet again soon,’ Fandorin told the rat, and walked out.

  Later, when at five o’clock everybody was drinking tea from the samovar (yet another tradition), the conversation turned to Emeraldov again and the actors started guessing what misfortune had made him decide to depart this life.

  As if he were thinking out loud, but nonetheless speaking loudly, Erast Petrovich had drawled:

  ‘Suicide? I rather think not …’

  Everyone had turned towards him.

  ‘But what was it, if not suicide?’ Gullibin asked in amazement.

  ‘I’ll answer that question for you soon,’ Fandorin had said confidently. ‘I have a few conjectures. Actually, not even conjectures, but facts. Don’t ask me about anything yet. I shall know for certain tomorrow.’

  Eliza (this was still the very beginning of their relationship) rebuked him.

  ‘Stop talking in riddles! What have you found out?’

  ‘Is it from the realm of clairvoyance?’ Stern asked entirely seriously, without even the slightest irony. (His cheek twitched in a nervous tick. Or had Fandorin imagined that?)

  Mephistov stood with his back to Fandorin and didn’t look round. That was strange – had his interest really not been piqued by such a tantalising subject?

  Two cups of tea were standing in front of Erast Petrovich. He picked them up in his hands, looked at one, then at the other, and pensively repeated Claudius’s line as Gertrude drinks poison in front of him:

  ‘“It is the poisoned. cup. It is too late …” Yes, that is exactly what happened, two goblets, and in one of them d-death …’

  He deliberately pronounced these words in a barely audible voice, almost a whisper. In order to make them out, the murderer would have to move close or crane his neck. An excellent method, invented by the Prince of Denmark in the ‘mousetrap’ scene. Once the suspects have been ascertained, it is not hard to follow their reactions.

  Stern hadn’t heard anything – he had started talking to Sensiblin about something else. Mephistov still hadn’t turned round. But the director’s assistant had leaned bodily towards Fandorin and his strange smile had suddenly s
eemed more like a grimace.

  That’s the entire investigation, Erast Petrovich thought, with a slight twinge of regret. We’ve had to deal with trickier charades than that.

  He could, of course, have taken the criminal to task there and then, there was enough circumstantial evidence. A possible motive could also be postulated. But to anyone unacquainted with the theatrical milieu, the theory would seem fantastic. The justice system would hardly believe in it either, especially since the evidence was circumstantial through and through.

  So the criminal would have to be caught dead to rights, so that he couldn’t squirm out of it.

  Well then, let us proceed to the third act.

  Erast Petrovich reached into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Oh, what’s this! Where’s my c-chronometer. Ladies and gentlemen, has anyone seen it? A gold “Pavel Bure”? And it has a special fob, a magnifying glass.’

  Naturally, no one had seen the watch, but most of the actors, wishing to help the dramatist, immediately started looking for it. They glanced under chairs and asked Erast Petrovich to remember whether he could have left the chronometer in the buffet or, begging his pardon, in the water closet.

  ‘Ah yes, in the propert …’ – then he suddenly checked himself and started coughing.

  An extremely primitive little interlude, played out for a fool. But in all honesty, it must be said that Erast Petrovich was not inclined to overestimate the intellectual abilities of his opponent.

  ‘Never mind, don’t c-concern yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve remembered where I left it,’ he announced. ‘I’ll collect it later. It’s safe enough where it is.’

  Nonarikin behaved so much like the caricature villain in some provincial production, it was almost grotesque. He came out in red blotches, chewed on his lips and kept throwing furious glances at Erast Petrovich.

  Fandorin did not have to wait long.