The Death of Achilles (36 page)

“Yes. Money. The freedom that it brings,” Achimas remarked casually as he thought out the details of his subsequent actions.

She gaped at him, astounded.

“How did you know?”

“I am exactly the same,” he replied curtly. “So how much money do you need in order finally to feel that you are free?”

Wanda sighed.

“A hundred thousand. I worked that out a long time ago, when I was still a stupid fool eking out a living from giving music lessons. I’m not going to talk about that. It’s not interesting. I lived in poverty for a long time; I was almost destitute. Until I was twenty years old. And then I decided, that’s enough, no more. I’m going to be rich and free. And that was three years ago.”

“Well, and are you rich and free?”

“In another three years I shall be.”

“Then that means you already have fifty thousand?” Achimas laughed. He liked this songstress very much.

“Yes,” she laughed, this time without bitterness or defiance, but fervently, the way she sang her Parisian chansonettes. He liked that, too — the fact that she didn’t wallow in self-pity.

“I can shorten your term of hard labor by at least six months,” he said, spearing an oyster with a little silver fork. “The association collected ten thousand for our gift.”

Recognizing from the expression on Wanda’s face that she was in no mood to think things over coolly and was on the point of telling him to go to hell and take his ten thousand with him, Achimas added hurriedly: “Don’t refuse, or you will regret it. And, in any case, you don’t yet know what I have in mind. Oh, Mademoiselle Wanda, he is a great man. Many women, even from the very best society, would gladly pay handsomely to spend the night with him.”

He stopped, knowing that now she wouldn’t walk away. The woman had not yet been born whose pride was stronger than her curiosity.

Wanda glared angrily at him. Then she gave way and snorted: “Well, tell me then, don’t torment me like this, you serpent from Ryazan.”

“It is none other than General Sobolev, the incomparable Achilles and Ryazan landowner,” Achimas declared with a solemn air. “That is who I am offering you, not some rough merchant with a belly down to his knees. Later, when you are free, you can write about it in your memoirs. Ten thousand rubles and Achilles into the bargain — that sounds like a good arrangement to me.”

He could see from the young woman’s face that she was of two minds.

“And there’s something else I can offer you,” Achimas added in a very quiet voice, almost a whisper. “I can rid you forever of the society of Herr Knabe. If you would like that, of course.”

Wanda shuddered and asked in a frightened voice: “Who are you, Nikolai Klonov? You’re no merchant, are you?”

“I am a merchant.” He clicked his fingers to get them to bring the bill. “Linen, calico, duck. Don’t be surprised at how well-informed I am. The association has entrusted me with a very important job, and I like to be thorough in my work.”

“That’s why you were staring so hard yesterday, when I was sitting with Knabe,” she said suddenly.

Observant, thought Achimas, not yet sure if that was good or bad. And that intimate tone that had appeared in her voice required some kind of response, too. Which would be more convenient, closeness or distance?

“But how can you rid me of him?” Wanda asked avidly. “You don’t even know who he is.” Then, suddenly seeming to remember something, she interrupted herself. “Anyway, what gives you the idea that I want to get rid of him?”

“It is up to you, mademoiselle,” Achimas said with a shrug, deciding that in the present case distance would be more effective. “Well, then, do you accept the proposal?”

“I do.” She sighed. “Something tells me I won’t be able to shake you off anyway.”

Achimas nodded.

“You are a very intelligent woman. Don’t come here tomorrow. But be at home at about five in the evening. I shall call for you at the Anglia and we will finalize everything. And do try to be alone.”

“I shall be.” She looked at him rather strangely — he didn’t understand the meaning of that look.

“Kolya, you won’t deceive me, will you?”

Not only the words themselves, but the very intonation with which they were spoken, suddenly sounded so familiar that Achimas’s heart skipped a beat.

He remembered. It really was
dejd-vu
. This had happened before.

Evgenia had said the same thing once, twenty years earlier, before they robbed the iron room. And the words about his transparent eyes, they were hers, too, spoken when she was still a little girl in the Skyrovsk orphanage.

Achimas unfastened his starched collar — he had suddenly found it hard to breathe.

He said in a steady voice, “On my honor as a merchant. Well, then, mademoiselle, until tomorrow.”

At the hotel there was a courier waiting for Achimas with a telegram from St. Petersburg:

“He has taken a month’s leave and left for Moscow by train. He will arrive tomorrow at five in the afternoon and stay at the hotel Dusseaux, Theater Lane, suite 47. He is accompanied by seven officers and a valet. Your fee is in a brown briefcase. His first meeting is set for 10 a.m. on Friday with the commander of the Petersburg district Ganetsky. I remind you that this meeting is undesirable. NN.”

From early in the morning on Thursday 24 June Achimas, wearing a striped blazer and straw boater and with his hair neatly parted and bril-liantined, was hard at work in the vestibule of the Dusseaux. He managed to establish sound business relations with the porter, the doorman, and the janitor who serviced the wing destined for the honored guest. Two important factors had greatly facilitated the establishment of these relations: the first was a correspondent’s identity card from the
Moscow Gazette
, thoughtfully provided by Mr. Nemo, and the second was his generous greasing of palms (the porter had received a twenty- five-ruble note, the doorman a tenner, and the janitor three rubles). The three rubles proved to be the most profitable investment, for the janitor sneaked the reporter into suite 47.

Achimas gasped and sighed at the luxurious appointments, noted which way the windows faced (out into the yard, in the direction of Rozhdestvenka Street, very good), and also took note of the safe built into the wall of the bedroom. That was helpful, too — he wouldn’t need to turn everything upside down searching for the money. The briefcase would naturally be lying in the safe, and the lock was a perfectly ordinary Van Lippen, five minutes’ fiddling at the most. In gratitude for services rendered, the correspondent of the
Moscow Gazette
handed the janitor another fifty kopecks, but so clumsily that the coin fell out of his hand and rolled under the divan. While the janitor was crawling around on all fours, Achimas adjusted the latch on the frame of one half of the window, positioning it so that it was just barely held in place and the window would open at the slightest push from the outside.

At half past five Achimas was standing in the crowd of correspondents and idlers at the entrance of the hotel, waiting with a reporter’s notebook in his hand to observe the great man’s arrival. When Sobolev emerged from his carriage in his white uniform, some people in the crowd made an attempt to shout ‘hurrah,’ but the hero gave the waiting Muscovites such an angry glance and his adjutants began gesturing so frantically that the cheering petered out before it had really begun.

Achimas’s first thought was that the White General bore a remarkable resemblance to a catfish: protruding forehead, slightly bulging eyes, drooping mustache, and flaring sideburns so broad that they reminded him of gills. But no, a catfish was lazy and good-natured, whereas the general looked around him with such a steely gaze that Achimas immediately reclassified him among the large marine predators. A hammerhead shark at the very least.

Swimming along ahead of him was his pilot fish, a bold Cossack captain, cleaving ferociously through the crowd with broad sweeps of his white gloves. Three officers walked on either side of the general. Bringing up the rear was a valet, who walked as far as the door and then turned back to the carriage and began supervising the unloading of the luggage.

Achimas noticed that Sobolev was carrying a large and apparently rather heavy calfskin briefcase. A comical touch: The mark had brought along the fee for his own elimination.

The correspondents dashed into the lobby after the hero, hoping for at least some small pickings — the chance to ask a quick question or spot some telling detail. But Achimas behaved differently. He slowly approached the valet and cleared his throat respectfully to draw attention to his presence. Then he waited to be noticed before bothering the man with any questions.

The valet, a bloated old man with bushy, cross-looking gray eyebrows (Achimas knew his entire life story, with all his habits and weaknesses, including a fatal predisposition for taking an early-morning hair of the dog for his hangover) squinted in annoyance at the fop in the straw hat, but, appreciating his tact, graciously condescended to turn halfway around toward him.

“I’m a correspondent with the
Moscow Gazette
” Achimas said quickly, eager to exploit his opportunity. “I wouldn’t dare to bother His Excellency with tiresome questions, but on behalf of the people of Moscow I would like to inquire as to the White General’s intentions concerning his visit to the old capital. And who should know that if not yourself, Anton Lukich?”

“We know right enough, only we don’t tell just anyone,” the valet replied pedantically, but it was clear that he felt flattered.

Achimas opened his notebook and assumed the pose of someone ready to jot down every precious word. Lukich drew himself erect and began speaking pompously: “The schedule for today is relaxation. His Excellency is tired after the maneuvers and his railway journey. No visits, no formal banquets, and instructions are: God forbid that any of your colleagues should get anywhere near him. And no speeches or deputations, either, oh, no. Instructions are to book dinner in the hotel restaurant for half past eight. If you want to gawk at him, book a table before it’s too late. But you have to keep your distance and not bother him with any questions.”

Achimas pressed his hand to his heart prayerfully and inquired in a sugary voice: “And what plans does His Excellency have for the evening? ”

The valet frowned.

“That’s none of my business and even less of yours.”

Excellent, thought Achimas. The target’s business meetings start tomorrow, but it seems that this evening is indeed reserved for relaxation. On that point our interests coincide.

Now he had to make sure that Wanda was ready.

Just as she had promised, the young woman was waiting for him in her suite — and she was alone. She glanced at Achimas rather strangely, as if she were expecting something from him, but when her guest began talking about business, Wanda’s eyes glazed over with boredom.

“We agreed on everything, didn’t we?” she remarked carelessly. “What’s the point in wading through all the details? I know my trade, Kolya.”

Achimas glanced around the room that served simultaneously as salon and boudoir. Everything was just as it should be: flowers, candles, fruit. The songstress had laid in some champagne for herself, but she had not forgotten the bottle of Chateau d’Yquem that she been told to get the day before.

In her claret-colored dress with its plunging neckline, tight-fitting waist, and provocative bustle, Wanda looked stunningly seductive. That was all very well, but would the fish bite?

In Achimas’s estimation, he was bound to: