The Diamond Chariot

A ONE-HANDED CLAP




The day that arrived after this insane night was like nothing on earth. In defiance of the laws of nature, it did not move from morning to evening at a uniform rate, but in jerks and bounds. The hands of the clock either stuck fast or leapt over several divisions all at once. However, when the mechanism began striking either eleven or twelve, Erast Petrovich seemed to start thinking seriously and continuously for the first time; one mood was displaced by another, several times his thoughts completely reversed their direction, and tiresome old Big Ben carried on chiming ‘bong-bong-bong’ and simply would not shut up.

The vice-consul did not show his face in the consular office – he was afraid he would not be able to maintain a conversation with his colleagues. He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink, and he didn’t lie down or sit down even for a minute, he just strode round and round his room. Sometimes he would start talking to himself in a furious whisper, then he would fall silent again. On several occasions his alarmed valet peeped through the crack of the door and sighed loudly, rattling the tray with his master’s cold breakfast, but Fandorin neither saw nor heard anything.

To go or not to go, that was the question that the young man was simply unable to answer.

Or, to be more precise, the decision was taken repeatedly, and in the most definitive terms, but then time was affected by the aforementioned paradox, the hands of Big Ben froze and the torment began all over again.

When he had moved a little beyond his initial numbness and entered a state not entirely dissimilar to normality, Erast Petrovich naturally told himself that he would not go to any pavilion. This was the only dignified way out of the horrifyingly undignified situation into which the vice-consul of the Russian Empire had been drawn by the inopportune awakening of his heart. He had to amputate this whole shameful business with a firm hand, and wait until the blood stopped flowing and the severed nerves stopped smarting. In time the wound would certainly heal over, and the lesson would have been learned for the rest of his life. Why create melodramatic scenes, with accusations and hands upraised to the heavens? He had played the fool’s part long enough, it was shameful enough to remember, even without that …

He was going to send the key back to the Don immediately.

He didn’t send it.

He was prevented by an upsurge of rage, rage of the most corrosive sort – that is, not fiery but icy rage, which does not set the hands trembling, but clenches them into fists, the sort of rage that sets the pulse beating slowly and loudly and paints the face with a deadly pallor.

How had he, an intelligent and dispassionate individual, who had passed honourably through numerous trials, allowed himself to be treated like this? And even more importantly, by whom? A venal woman, a calculating intriguer! He had behaved like a pitiful young pup, like a character out of some vulgar harlequinade! He gritted his teeth, recalling how his coat-tail had snagged on a nail, how he had pressed on the pedals to escape from the pack of homeless mongrels …

No, he would go, he had to go! Let her see what he, Fandorin, was really like. Not a pitiful, besotted boy, but a firm, calm man who had seen through her satanic game and stepped disdainfully over the trap that had been set for him.

Dress elegantly, but simply: a black frock coat, a white shirt with a turndown collar – no starch, no neckties. A cloak? He thought yes. And a cane, that was indispensable.

He dressed up, stood in front of the mirror, deliberately ruffled his hair so that a casual lock dangled down across his forehead – and suddenly flushed, as if he had seen himself from the outside.

My God! The harlequinade wasn’t over yet, it was still going on!

His fury suddenly receded, his convulsively clenched fingers unfolded. His heart was suddenly desolate and dreary.

Erast Petrovich dropped the cloak on the floor, flung away the cane and leaned wearily against the wall.

What sort of sickness was love? he wondered. Who was it that tortured a man with it, and for what? That is, it was perfectly possible that for other people it was essential and even beneficial, but this potion was clearly counter-indicated for a certain titular counsellor. Love would bring him nothing but grief and disenchantment, or even, as in the present case, humiliation. Such, apparently, was his fate.

He shouldn’t go anywhere. What did he want with this alien woman anyway, why did he need her remorse, or fright or annoyance? Would that really make his heart easier?

Time immediately stopped playing its idiotic tricks, the clock started ticking regularly and calmly. That alone was enough to indicate that the correct decision had been taken.

Erast Petrovich spent the rest of the day reading The Diary of Sea Captain Golovin Concerning His Adventures as a Prisoner of the Japanese in 1811, 1812 and 1813, but shortly before midnight he suddenly put the book down and set out for Don Tsurumaki’s estate without any preparations at all, apart from putting on a peaked cap.

Masa did not try to stop his master and did not ask any questions. He watched as the figure on the tricycle rode away at a leisurely pace, stuck his nunchaku into the waistband of his trousers, hung the little bag containing his wooden geta round his neck and trotted off in the direction of the Bluff.

The huge cast-iron gates opened remarkably easily and almost soundlessly. As he walked towards the pond along the moonlit path, Erast Petrovich squinted in the direction of the house. He saw the telescope pointing up at the sky and a thickset figure in a dressing gown standing with his face glued to the eyepiece. Apparently today Don Tsurumaki was not interested in earthly spectacles, he was admiring the sky. And the stars really were larger and brighter than Fandorin had seen them since his grammar-school days, when he loved to sit in the planetarium and dream of flights to the moon or Mars. How strange to think that that was only four years ago!

The titular counsellor was certain that he would be the first to arrive at the pavilion and would be sitting there alone in the darkness for a long time, since, no doubt, the sordid science of jojutsu required the enamoured fool to suffer the torments of anticipation. However, the moment he opened the door of the pavilion, Erast Petrovich caught the familiar scent of irises, at which his heart first tried to beat faster, but then submitted to the dictates of reason and reverted to its former rhythm.

So O-Yumi had come first. Well, so much the better.

It was quite light in the tiny hallway – the moonlight filtered in through the cracks of the wooden shutters. Fandorin saw paper partitions and two wooden sandals on the floorboards beside the straw mats on the raised platform. Ah yes, the Japanese custom required footwear to be removed before stepping on to the straw mats.

But Erast Petrovich had no intention of removing his footwear. He crossed his arms and deliberately cleared his throat, although, of course, the ‘mistress of the art’ had already heard that the ‘target’ had arrived.

The paper partitions slid apart. Standing behind them, holding the two screens, was O-Yumi – with the wide sleeves of a kimono hanging from her arms, which made the woman look like a butterfly. Dramatic, Fandorin thought to himself with a sneer.

He couldn’t see the courtesan’s face, only her silhouette against a silvery, shimmering background.

‘Come in quickly!’ the low, husky voice called to him. ‘It’s so wonderful in here! Look, I’ve opened the window, there’s the pond and the moon. That bandit Tsurumaki knows a thing or two about beauty.’

But Erast Petrovich didn’t move.

‘What are you doing?’ she said, taking a step towards him. ‘Come!’

Her fingers reached out for his face, but they were intercepted by a firm hand in a tight-fitting glove.

Now he could see her face – unbearably beautiful, even now, when he knew everything.

No, not everything.

And Fandorin asked the question for which he had come here.

‘Why?’ he demanded in a severe voice. ‘What do you want from me?’

Of course, a true professional would not have done that. He would have realised that he didn’t have a clue about anything, that he was still playing the part of a halfwit and a simpleton, and little by little he would have figured out the secret of this latter-day Circe who transformed men into swine. And at the same time he would have paid her back in the same coin.

Erast Petrovich regarded himself as quite a good professional, but to dissemble with a dissembler was disgusting, and it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway – his rebellious heart was beating faster than it should in any case.

‘I am not as rich and certainly not as influential as your patron. I do not possess any important secrets. Tell me, what did you want from me?’

O-Yumi listened to him in silence, without trying to free herself. He was standing on the wooden floor, she on the straw mats, so that their faces were almost on the same level, separated by only a few inches, but it seemed to Fandorin that he could never understand the expression of those long eyes that glittered so moistly.

‘Who knows the answer to that question?’ she asked in a quiet voice. ‘Why did I need you, and you me? You simply feel that it cannot be otherwise, and nothing else matters.’

It was not so much the words that were spoken, but the tone in which they were spoken, which set Fandorin’s fingers trembling. O-Yumi freed one hand, reached out to his face and stroked his cheek gently.

‘Don’t ask any questions … And don’t try to understand – it can’t be done anyway. Listen to your heart, it will not deceive you …’

It will deceive me! Oh yes it will! – the titular counsellor wanted to cry out the words, but he was incautious enough to catch O-Yumi’s eye, and after that he couldn’t look away again.

‘Is that what your art prescribes?’ Fandorin asked in a trembling voice, when her hand slid lower, slipping behind his collar and sliding gently across his neck.

‘What art? What are you talking about?’

Her voice had become even lower and huskier. She seemed not to be paying any attention to the meaning of what he said, or to understand very well what she was saying herself.

‘Jojutsu!’ – Erast Petrovich shouted out the abhorrent word. ‘I know everything! You pretend to be in love, but all the time you are using jojutsu!’

There, the accusation had been uttered, now her expression would change and the enchantment would be dispelled!

‘Why don’t you say anything. It’s t-true, isn’t it?’

It was incredible, but she didn’t look even slightly disconcerted.

‘What is true?’ O-Yumi murmured in the same sleepy voice, still stroking his skin. ‘No, it’s not true, I’m not pretending … Yes, it is true – I love you according to the laws of jojutsu.’

The vice-consul recoiled.

‘Aha! You admit it!’

‘What is bad about that? Do I take money or presents from you? Do I want something from you? I love as I know how to love. I love as I have been taught. And you can be sure that I have been taught well. Jojutsu is the best of all the arts of love. I know, because I have studied the Indian school, and the Chinese school. I will not even speak of the European school – that barbarous nonsense. But even the Chinese and the Indians understand almost nothing about love, they pay too much attention to the flesh …’

As she spoke, her rapid, light fingers did their work – unbuttoning, stroking, sometimes sinking their nails into the body of the enchanted titular counsellor.

‘More jojutsu, is it?’ he murmured, hardly even resisting any more. ‘What do you call it when the victim has rebelled and you have to subdue him once again? Something picturesque – “Plum Blossom Rain”, “Rampant Tiger”?’

O-Yumi laughed quietly.

‘No, it’s called “Fight Fire with Fire”. The best way to extinguish a powerful flame is with a conflagration. You’ll see, you’ll like it.’

Erast Petrovich at least had no doubt that she was right about that.

A long time later, after both fires had fused together and consumed each other, they lay on the terrace, watching the shimmering surface of the pool. The conversation sprang up and then broke off again, because it was equally good to speak and to remain silent.

‘There’s one thing I forgot to ask Don,’ said Erast Petrovich, lighting up a cigar. ‘How does a course of jojutsu end? In Europe the lovers live happily ever after. It’s not the same here, I suppose?’

‘It isn’t.’ She rose slightly, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘A correctly constructed love does not end with death, but with a subtle finale, so that both parties are left with beautiful memories. We do not allow the feeling to die, we cut it, like a flower. This is slightly painful, but afterwards there is no resentment or bitterness left behind. I like you so much! For you I will think up something especially beautiful, you’ll see.’

‘Thank you with all my heart, but please don’t. What’s the hurry?’ said Erast Petrovich, pulling her towards him. ‘The wise old Don told me something very interesting about the stage that is called “The Bow String”.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is time …’ she replied in a voice trembling with passion, and took his hand between the palms of her own hands. ‘Lesson one. I am the bowstring, you are the shaft of the bow, our love is an arrow that we must shoot straight into the centre of the moon … Look at the moon, not at me. When we fire, it will fall and shatter into a thousand fragments …’

And Fandorin started looking up into the sky, where the lamp of night was shining serenely – the poor wretch was quite unaware of the fate in store for it.

Throughout the next week Erast Petrovich seemed to exist in two worlds with no connection between them – the world of the sun and the world of the moon. The former was hot, but insipid, almost spectral, since the titular counsellor constantly felt that he wanted to sleep. It was only as evening advanced and the shadows first lengthened and then disappeared altogether that Fandorin started to wake up: first the body, reaching out achingly for the night, and then the mind. The enervated, dreamy state seemed to disappear without trace and somewhere inside him a sweet chiming began, gradually growing stronger, and by the moment when the moon finally rolled out onto the sky, the lovesick titular counsellor was completely ready to immerse himself in the real world of the night.

In this world everything was beautiful from the very beginning: the whispering flight of the tricycle along the deserted promenade, the metallic grating of the key in the lock of the gates and the rustling of the gravel on the path leading to the pavilion. And then came the most painful and most poignant part of all – would she come or not? Twice O-Yumi did not appear – she had warned him that this was possible, she might not be able to slip out of the house. He sat on the terrace, smoking a cigar, watching the water and listening to the silence. And then the sun peeped out from behind the tops of the trees, and it was time to go back. The titular counsellor walked back to the gates with his head lowered, but the bitterness of the tryst that never happened held a charm all of its own – it meant that the next meeting would be doubly sweet.

But if Fandorin’s sharp hearing caught the squeak of the garden gate, and the sound of light footsteps, the world changed instantly. The stars blazed more brightly, but the moon shrank, already aware that it was to fall to earth again and again, shattering into sparkling dust.

There were no words for what happened in those night hours, there could not be any – at least not in any of the languages known to Erast Petrovich. And it was not simply that European speech either falls silent or lapses into crudity when it has to talk of the merging of two bodies. No, this was something different.

When they made love to each other – either greedily and simply, or subtly and unhurriedly – Fandorin’s entire being was possessed by the acute awareness, quite inexpressible in words, that death exists. From his early childhood he had always known that the life of the body was impossible without the life of the soul – this was what faith taught, it was written in a multitude of beautiful books. But now, in the twenty-third year of his life, under a moon that was falling from the sky, it was suddenly revealed to him that the opposite is also true – the soul will not live on without the body. There will not be any resurrection, or angels, or long-awaited encounter with God – there will be something quite different, or perhaps there will not be anything at all, because the soul does not exist without the body, just as light does not exist without darkness, just as the clapping of one hand does not exist. If the body dies, the soul will die too, and death is absolute and final. He felt this with every particle of his flesh, and it made him terribly afraid, but at the same time somehow very calm.

That was how they loved each other, and there was nothing to add to this.

Heat that knows no cold,

Happiness that knows no grief –

A one-handed clap





A SPRAY OF ACACIA




On one occasion O-Yumi left earlier than usual, when there was no moon any longer, but there was still a long time left until dawn. She didn’t give any explanations – she never explained anything anyway: she just said ‘It’s time for me to go’, dressed quickly, ran her finger down his neck in farewell and slipped out into the night.

Erast Petrovich walked towards the gates along the white path that glowed faintly in the gloom, along the edge of the pond and then across the lawn. As he was walking past the house, he looked up, as he usually did, to see whether his host was on the terrace. Yes, there was the stargazer’s corpulent figure rising up above the balustrade. The Don politely doffed his fez, Fandorin bowed equally politely and went on his way. In the last few days this silent exchange of greetings had become something like a ritual. The jovial man with the beard had proved more tactful than could have been expected after that first conversation. The Japanese must have delicacy in their blood, thought the titular counsellor, who was in that state of relaxed bliss when one wants to love the entire world and see only the good in people.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something strange, an odd, momentary glimmer that should not have been there in a moonless world. Intrigued, Fandorin glanced round at the dark windows of the house and quite clearly saw a spot of light flash across one of the windowpanes, between the curtains, which were not fully closed, and then disappear.

Erast Petrovich stopped. That stealthy ray was very much like the light of a dark lantern, the kind used by window men, housebreakers and other professionals of a similar ilk. There were housebreakers in Russia and in Europe, why should there not be housebreakers in Japan?

Or was it simply one of the servants who didn’t want to switch on the electricity, in order not to disturb his master’s nocturnal solitude?

The servants at the estate were trained to such a supreme level of competence that they were not even visible, and everything needful seemed to do itself. When Fandorin arrived at his beloved pavilion, everything had always been tidied, there were hors d’oeuvres and fresh candles on the low table, and a vase with an intricately arranged bouquet – different every time – standing in the shadowy niche. When he walked back to the gates at dawn, the titular counsellor saw that the pathways had been thoroughly swept, and the grass of the English lawn was freshly trimmed, although he had not heard a single sound from a broom or garden shears. Only once did he actually see one of the servants. On his way out, he realised that he had dropped his key somewhere. He stood there at the locked gates, rifling through his pockets, and was about to go back to the pavilion, when suddenly a figure in a black jacket and black trousers emerged silently from the pink-coloured mist, bowed, handed him the lost key and immediately dissolved into the haze – Fandorin didn’t even have time to thank him.

Well, if it’s a servant, I’ll just go on my way, the titular counsellor reasoned. But what if it is a thief after all or, even worse, a killer? To save his host from a fiendish criminal plot would be the best possible way to repay him for his hospitality.

He looked all around – naturally, there was not a soul in sight.

He walked over quickly to the window and reviewed the situation. The wall was faced with slabs of undressed, rough-textured granite. Erast Petrovich braced the toe of his shoe in a small hollow, grasped the protruding windowsill with one hand, pulled himself up nimbly and pressed his face to the glass – at the point where the curtains were not drawn close together.

At first he saw absolutely nothing at all – the room was pitch dark. But after about half a minute a trembling circle of light appeared in the far corner and started creeping slowly along the wall, first picking out a shelf with the golden spines of books, then the frame of a portrait, then a map. This was obviously a study or a library.

Erast Petrovich could not make out the person holding the lantern, but since it was obvious that no servant would behave in such a suspicious manner, the vice-consul readied himself for more decisive action. He pressed cautiously on the left frame of the window – it was locked. But when he pressed the right frame, it yielded slightly. Excellent! Possibly this was the very route the uninvited visitor had used to gain access, or perhaps the window had been left half open to air the room, but that was not important now. The important thing was that this nightbird could be nabbed.

If only the window frame didn’t creak.

Fandorin started opening the frame slowly, a quarter of an inch at a time, keeping his eyes fixed on the wandering beam of light.

It suddenly stopped, pointing at one of the shelves, which did not look remarkable in any way. There was a gentle thud and the beam stopped trembling.

He had put the lantern down on the floor, the titular counsellor guessed.

Someone standing on all fours appeared or, rather, crept into the circle of light. Narrow shoulders, gleaming black hair, the white stripe of a starched collar. A European?

The titular counsellor pulled himself up higher, so that he could put one knee on the windowsill. Just a little more, and the crack would be wide enough to get through.

But then the damned window frame did creak after all.

The light instantly went out. Abandoning caution, Fandorin pushed the window open and jumped down on to the floor, but could not move any farther than that, since he couldn’t see a thing. He held out his hand with the Herstal in it and strained his ears, listening in case his adversary was creeping up on him.

The man might be invisible now, but he was a mystery no longer. In the brief moment before the lantern went out, the hunched-over individual had looked round, and Erast Petrovich had clearly made out a brilliantined parting, a thin face with a hooked nose, and even a white flower in a buttonhole.

His Excellency Prince Onokoji, the high society spy, in person.

The titular counsellor’s precautions were apparently unnecessary. The Japanese dandy had no intention of attacking him. In fact, to judge from the absolute silence that filled the study, the prince’s trail was already cold. But that was not important now.

Fandorin put his revolver back in its holster and went to find the stairway to the first floor.

Tsurumaki listened to what the vice-consul told him and scratched the bridge of his nose. The grimace that he made suggested that the news was perplexing rather than surprising. He cursed in Japanese and started complaining:

‘Oh, these aristocrats … he lives under my roof, occupies an entire wing, I pay him a pension of five thousand a month, and it’s still not enough. And I know, I know that he deals in secrets and rumours on the side. I use him myself sometimes, for a separate fee. But this is just too much. Our little prince must be completely mired in debt. Ah!’ The fat man sighed mournfully. ‘If his late father were not my onjin, I’d tell him to go to hell. He’s trying to get to my safe.’

Erast Petrovich was astounded by such a phlegmatic response.

‘I truly admire the Japanese attitude to a debt of gratitude, but it seems to m-me that everything has its limits.’

‘Never mind,’ said the Don, with a flourish of his briar pipe. ‘He can’t open the safe in any case. He needs the key for that, and the key is here, I always keep it with me.’

He pulled a little chain up from behind his shirt collar. There was a little gold rose with a thorny stem hanging on it.

‘A beautiful trinket, eh? You hold the bud, put it in, the thorns slip into the slots … There you have it, the “Open sesame” to my magical Aladdin’s cave.’

Tsurumaki kissed the little key and put it away again.

‘Don’t they scratch?’ asked Fandorin. ‘I mean the thorns.’

‘Of course they scratch, and quite painfully too. But it’s the kind of pain that only makes life seem sweeter,’ the millionaire said with a wink. ‘It reminds me of the glittering little stones and the gold ingots. I can bear it.’

‘You keep gold and precious stones at home? But why? There are b-bank vaults for that.’

‘I know. I have a bank of my own. With strong, armour-plated vaults. But we blood-sucking spiders prefer to keep our booty in our own web. All the best to you, Fandorin-san. Thank you for the curious information.’

The titular counsellor took his leave, feeling rather piqued: he had wanted to be a rescuer, and instead he had ended up as an informer. But he went outside, looked in the direction of the pavilion hovering over the smooth black surface of the pond, and felt such a keen, overwhelming rush of happiness that his paltry disappointment was instantly forgotten.

However, the ‘taut bowstring’ reverberated not only in bliss, and not all the arrows that it fired went darting up into the starry sky. A certain poignantly distressful note, some kind of poisoned needle, blighted Erast Petrovich’s happiness. At night he had no time for suffering, because love lives only in the here and now, but when he was far from O-Yumi, in his solitude, Fandorin thought of only one thing.

At their first lover’s tryst, as he kissed O-Yumi on her delightfully protruding little ear, he had suddenly caught a very faint whiff of tobacco smoke – English pipe tobacco. He had pulled away, about to ask the question – but he didn’t ask it. What for? So that she would lie? So that she would answer: ‘No, no, it’s all over between him and me’? Or so that she would tell the truth and make it impossible for them to carry on meeting?

Afterwards he had been tormented by his own cowardice. During the day he prepared an entire speech, made ready to tell her that things couldn’t go on like this, that it was stupid, cruel, unnatural and, in the final analysis, humiliating! She had to leave Bullcox once and for all. He tried a couple of times to start this conversation, but she simply repeated: ‘You don’t understand. Don’t ask me about anything. I can’t tell you the truth, and I don’t want to lie.’ And then she set her hands and lips to work, and he surrendered, and forgot everything else in the world, only to suffer the same resentment and jealousy the next day.

Consul Doronin could undoubtedly see that something out of the ordinary was happening to his assistant, but he didn’t ask any questions. Poor Vsevolod Vitalievich was certain that Fandorin was conducting the investigation at night, and he kept his word, he didn’t interfere. Sometimes the titular counsellor’s conscience bothered him because of this, but it bothered him far less than the smell of English tobacco.

On the sixth night (which was also the second one spent in the pavilion without his beloved) the vice-consul’s suffering reached its highest point. Strictly forbidding himself to think about the reason why O-Yumi had not been able to come this time, Erast Petrovich called on logic to help: if there is a difficult problem, a solution has to be found – what could possibly be easier for a devotee of analytical theory?

And what was the result? A solution was found immediately, and it was so simple, so obvious, that Fandorin was amazed at his own blindness.

He waited for the evening, arrived at the pavilion earlier than usual and, as soon as he heard O-Yumi’s footsteps approaching, he ran out to meet her.

‘What a b-blockhead I am!’ Erast Petrovich declared, taking hold of her hand. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of Bullcox. We’ll get married. You’ll be the wife of a Russian subject, and that man won’t be able to do anything to you!’

The offer of his heart and his hand was greeted in a most surprising fashion.

O-Yumi burst into laughter, as if she had heard a not very clever but terribly funny joke. She kissed the titular counsellor on the nose.

‘Don’t be silly. We can’t be husband and wife.’

‘But why n-not? Because I’m a diplomat? Then I’ll resign! Because you’re afraid of Bullcox? I’ll challenge him to a duel and kill him! Or, if … if you feel sorry for him, we’ll just go away from here!’

‘That’s not the problem,’ she said patiently, as if she were talking to a child. ‘That’s not it at all.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Look at that left eyebrow of yours. It runs in a semicircle, like that … And higher up, right here, there’s the start of a little wrinkle. You can’t see it yet, but it will show through in five years or so.’

‘What has a wrinkle got to do with anything?’ asked Erast Petrovich, melting at her touch.

‘It tells me that you will be loved by very many women, and I probably wouldn’t like that … And then this slightly lowered corner of the mouth, it testifies that you will not get married again before the age of sixty.’

‘Don’t make fun of me, I’m really serious! We’ll get married and go away. Would you like to go to America? Or New Zealand? Lockston has been there, he says it’s the most beautiful place on earth.’

‘I’m serious too,’ said O-Yumi, taking his hand and running it over her temple. ‘Can you feel where the vein is? A soon and a quarter from the edge of the eye. That means I shall never marry. And then I have a mole, here …’

She parted the edges of her kimono to expose her breasts.

‘Yes, I know. And what does that signify, according to the science of ninso?’ Fandorin asked and, unable to resist, he leaned down and kissed the mole under her collarbone.

‘I can’t tell you that. But please, don’t talk to me again about marriage, or about Algie.’

There was no smile in her eyes any more – a stark, sad shadow flitted though them.

Erast Petrovich could not tell what hurt the most: that name ‘Algie’, the firmness of the refusal, or the absolutely ludicrous nature of the reasons cited.

‘She has turned me into a halfwitted infant …’ – the thought flashed briefly through Fandorin’s mind. He remembered how Doronin had recently said to him: ‘What’s happening to you, my dear boy? You grow fresher and younger before my very eyes. When you arrived, you looked about thirty, but now you look your real age of twenty-two, even with those grey temples. The Japanese climate and dangerous adventures clearly agree with you.’

Speaking quickly, almost babbling in order not to give himself time to come to his senses, he blurted out:

‘If that is how things are, we shan’t meet any more. Not until you leave him.’

He said it – and bit his lip, so that he couldn’t take back what he had said straight away.

She looked into his eyes without speaking. Realising that he wouldn’t hear anything else, she dropped her head. She pulled the lowered kimono back up on to her shoulders and slowly walked out of the pavilion.

Fandorin did not stop her, he did not call out, he did not even watch her go.

He was brought round by a pain in the palms of his hands. He raised his hands to his eyes and stared in bewilderment at the drops of blood, not realising straight away that the marks were made by his fingernails.

‘So that’s all,’ the titular counsellor told himself. ‘Better this than become a complete nobody. Farewell, my golden dreams.’

He jinxed himself: there really were no more dreams, because there was no sleep. On arriving home, Erast Petrovich undressed and got into bed, but he couldn’t fall asleep. He lay on his side, looking at the wall. He could hardly even see it at first – just a vague greyness in the gloom; and then, as dawn approached, the wall started turning white and faint blotches appeared on it; and then they condensed into rosebuds; and then, after everything else, the sun glanced in at the window, kindling the gilded lines of the painted roses into life.

He had to get up.

Erast Petrovich decided to live as if everything in the world was arranged serenely and meaningfully – it was the only way he could counter the chaos swirling in his soul. He performed his daily weights exercises and respiratory gymnastics, then learned from Masa how to kick a spool of thread off the pillar of the bed, bruising his foot quite painfully in the process.

The physical exercise and the pain were both helpful, they made it easier to focus his will. Fandorin felt that he was on the right path.

He changed into a stripy tricot and set off on his usual morning run – to the park, then twenty circuits along the alley around the cricket field.

His neighbours on the Bund, mostly Anglo-Saxons and Americans, were already accustomed to the Russian vice-consul’s whims, and on seeing the striped figure swinging its elbows rhythmically, they merely raised their hats in greeting. Erast Petrovich nodded and ran on, focusing on counting his out-breaths. Today he found it harder to run than usual, his breathing simply refused to settle into an even rhythm. Clenching his teeth stubbornly, the titular counsellor speeded up.

… Eight, nine, three hundred and twenty; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, three hundred and thirty; one, two, three, four …

Despite the early hour, there was already activity on the cricket pitch: the Athletics Club team was preparing for the Japan Cup competition – the sportsmen were taking turns to throw the ball at the stumps and then dash as quickly as they could to the other end of the wicket.

Fandorin did not get round the pitch. Halfway through his first circuit someone called his name.

There in the thick bushes was Inspector Asagawa, looking pale and drawn, with his eyes blazing feverishly – looking, in fact, very much like Erast Petrovich.

The vice-consul glanced around to see whether anyone was watching.

Apparently not. The players were engrossed in their training, and there was no one else in the park. The titular counsellor ducked into the acacia thickets.

‘Well?’ the inspector asked, pouncing on Fandorin without so much as a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’. ‘I’ve been waiting for a week already. I can’t bear it any longer. Do you know that yesterday Suga was appointed the intendant of police? The old intendant was dismissed for failing to protect the minister … I am burning up inside. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. Have you thought of anything?’

Erast Petrovich felt ashamed. He could not eat or sleep either, but for a completely different reason. He had not remembered Asagawa even once during the last few days.

‘No, n-not yet …’

The inspector’s shoulders slumped dejectedly, as if he had been deprived of his last hope.

‘Yes, of course …’ he said morosely. ‘In your European terms there is nothing to be done here. No clues, no evidence, no witnesses.’ He turned even paler and shook his head decisively. ‘Well, so be it. If we cannot do it in the European away, I shall act in the Japanese way.’

‘What is “the Japanese way”?’

‘I shall write a letter to His Majesty the Emperor, expounding all my suspicions concerning Intendant Suga. And I shall kill myself to prove my sincerity.’

‘Kill yourself? Not Suga?’ exclaimed Fandorin, dumbfounded.

‘To kill Suga would not be to punish a criminal, but to commit a new crime. We have an ancient, noble tradition. If you wish to attract the attention of the authorities and the public to some villainy – commit seppuku. A deceitful man will not cut his stomach open.’ Asagawa’s eyes were inflamed and melancholy. ‘But if only you knew, Fandorin-san, how terrible it is to commit seppuku without a second, without someone who will put an end to your suffering with a merciful sword-stroke! Unfortunately, I have no one to turn to with this request, my colleagues will never agree. I am entirely alone …’ Suddenly he started and seized the vice-consul’s arm. ‘Perhaps you? Only one stroke! I have a long neck, it will not be hard to hit it!’

Fandorin recoiled and exclaimed:

‘G-good Lord Almighty! I have never even held a sword!’

‘Only one stroke! I will teach you. If you practise for an hour with a bamboo pole, you will manage it perfectly. I implore you. Do me this invaluable service!’

Seeing the expression on the other man’s face, the inspector broke off and took himself in hand with an effort.

‘All right,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘I am sorry for asking you. It was weakness. I am very ashamed.’

But Erast Petrovich was feeling even more ashamed. There were so many things in the world that were more important than wounded vanity, jealousy or an unhappy love! For instance, the aspiration to truth and justice. Moral integrity. Self-sacrifice in the name of justice.

‘Listen,’ the titular counsellor began agitatedly, squeezing the inspector’s slack arm. ‘You are an intelligent, modern, educated individual. What sort of barbarity is this – slicing your own stomach open! It’s a throwback to the Middle Ages! But the end of the nineteenth century is already in sight! I swear to you that we will think of something!’

But Asagawa would not listen to him.

‘I cannot live like this. As a European, you cannot understand this. Let there be no second! I shall not feel the pain. On the contrary, I shall free the pain that is burning me up inside. This villain has betrayed a great man who trusted him! He has kicked me aside with his boot, like a lump of mud! And now he is revelling in his victory. I cannot stand by and see villainy triumph. The criminal Suga is the head of the police! He is admiring himself in the mirror in his new uniform, he is moving into his new estate at Takarazaka! He is certain that the entire world is at his feet! This is intolerable!’

Erast Petrovich wrinkled up his forehead. Takarazaka? He had heard that name before somewhere.

‘What estate is th-that?’

‘A truly fine estate close to the capital. Suga won it at cards a few days ago. Oh, he is so lucky, his karma is strong!’

And then Fandorin remembered the conversation he had overheard in Bullcox’s study. ‘Well now, Onokoji, that is very Japanese,’ the Englishman had said. ‘To reprimand someone, and then reward him with promotion a week later.’ And the prince had replied: ‘This, my dear Algernon, is not a reward, he is merely occupying a position that has fallen vacant. But he will receive a reward, for doing the job so neatly. He will be given the suburban estate of Takarazaka. Ah, what plum trees there are there! What ponds!’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ the inspector asked, gazing at Fandorin in surprise.

The vice-consul replied slowly:

‘I think I know what to do. You and I have no evidence, but perhaps we will have a witness. Or at least an informer. There is someone who knows the true background to the murder.’

And Fandorin told Asagawa about the wily dandy who traded in others’ secrets. Asagawa listened avidly, like a condemned man listening to the announcement of his own reprieve.

‘Onokoji said that Suga had “done the job neatly”? Then the prince really does know a lot!’

‘More than you and I know, in any case. But the most interesting question is who rewarded the new intendant with such a generous gift. Is it possible to find out who the estate belonged to before?’

‘One of the deposed Shogun’s relatives. But Takarazaka was put up for bidding a long time ago. Anyone at all could have bought it and lost it straight away at cards. We shall find out, it is not difficult.’

‘But what can we do with the prince? It’s stupid to hope that he will testify voluntarily.’

‘Yes, he will,’ the inspector declared confidently. ‘Voluntarily and frankly.’ A bloom had appeared on Asagawa’s cheeks, his voice had become brisk and energetic. It was hard to believe that only ten minutes earlier this man had looked like a living corpse. ‘Onokoji is pampered and weak. And even more importantly, he is addicted to every possible kind of vice, including the forbidden kind. I have not touched him before, assuming that he was a good-for-nothing idler, basically harmless. And in addition, he has numerous protectors in high places. But now I shall arrest him.’

‘For what?’

Asagawa thought for no more than two seconds.

‘He goes down to the “Number Nine” almost every day. It’s the most famous brothel in Yokohama. Do you know it?’

Fandorin shook his head.

‘Ah yes, you haven’t been here for long … They have merchandise to suit all tastes there. For instance, the owner has a so-called “boarding school”, for lovers of little girls. You can find thirteen-year-olds, twelve-year-olds, sometimes even eleven-year-olds. It’s illegal, but since only foreign girls work at the “Number Nine”, we do not interfere, it is outside our jurisdiction. Onokoji is a great lover of “little ones”. I shall order the owner (he is in my debt) to tell me as soon as the prince secludes himself with a young girl. That is when he has to be arrested. I cannot do it myself, unfortunately – the arrest must be carried out by the municipal police.’

‘So we’ll be working with Sergeant Lockston again,’ Erast Petrovich said with a nod. ‘And tell me, are there any Russian subjects among the young prostitutes? That would justify my involvement in the matter.’

‘I think there is one Polish girl,’ Asagawa recalled. ‘I do not know what passport she has, though. Probably none at all, since she is a minor.’

‘The Kingdom of Poland is part of the Russian Empire, so the unfortunate victim of depravity could be a compatriot of mine. In any case, it is the vice-consul’s duty to check. Well now, Inspector, have you changed you mind about slicing open your stomach?’

The titular counsellor smiled, but Asagawa was serious.

‘You are right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Seppuku is a throwback to the Middle Ages.’

Something round and hard struck Fandorin in the back. He looked round – it was a cricket ball. One of the sportsmen had thrown very wide of the target.

Erast Petrovich picked up the small, taut leather sphere and flung it to the far end of the pitch. When he turned back again, the inspector was gone – there were only white sprays of acacia swaying on the bushes.

Intoxicating,

Astounding the mind, a white

Spray of acacia