The Diamond Chariot (42 page)

It should be said that, owing to the course that Erast Petrovich’s life had taken, he was capable of abandoning himself to such beautiful reveries only when he was alone, and even then only for a very short time – his relentless reason immediately arranged everything in due order. ‘It’s quite possible that contemplating the sunrise over the sea would indeed reduce the incidence of crime during the first half of the day, only to increase it during the second half,’ the titular counsellor told himself. ‘Man is inclined to feel ashamed of his moments of sentimentality and starry-eyed idealism. Of course, for the sake of equilibrium, one could oblige the entire population of the earth to admire the sunset as well – another very fine sight. Only then it’s frightening to think how the overcast days would turn out …’

Fandorin heaved a sigh and turned away from the picture created by God to the landscape created by people. In this pure, dew-drenched hour the latter also looked rather fine, although by no means as perfect: there was an exhausted sailor sleeping under a street lamp with his cheek resting on his open palm, and on the corner an overly diligent yard keeper was scraping away with his broom.

Suddenly he dropped his implement and looked round, and at that very second Fandorin heard a rapidly approaching clatter and a woman screaming. A light two-wheeled gig came tearing wildly round the corner of the promenade. It almost overturned as one wheel lifted off the road, but somehow it righted itself again – the horse swerved just before the parapet, but it slowed its wild career only for a split second. Shaking its head with a despairing whinny and shedding thick flakes of lather, it set off at a crazy gallop along the seafront, rapidly approaching Fandorin.

There was a woman in the gig, holding on to the seat with both hands and screaming piercingly, her tangled hair fluttering in the wind – her hat must have flown off much earlier. Everything was clear – the horse had taken fright at something and bolted, and the lady had not been able to keep hold of the reins.

Erast Petrovich did not analyse the situation, he did not try to guess all the possible consequences in advance, he simply leapt off the pavement and started running in the same direction as the careering gig – as fast as it is possible to run when running backwards all the time.

The horse had a beautiful white coat, but it was craggy and low in the withers. The titular counsellor had already seen horses like this here in Yokohama. Vsevolod Vitalievich had said that it was a native Japanese breed, known for its petulant character, poorly suited to working in harness.

Fandorin had never stopped a bolting horse before but once, during the recent war, he had seen a Cossack manage it very deftly indeed and, with his usual intellectual curiosity, he had asked how it was done. ‘The important thing, squire, is that you keep your hands off the bridle,’ the young soldier had confided. ‘They don’t like that when they’ve got their dander up. You jump on her neck and bend her head down to the ground. And don’t yell and swear at her, shout something sweet and soothing: “There, my little darling, my little sweetheart”. She’ll see sense then. And if it’s a stallion, you can call him “little brother” and “fine fellah”.’

When the crazed animal drew level with him as he ran, Erast Petrovich put theory into practice. He jumped and clung to the sweaty, slippery neck, and immediately realised he did not know whether this was a stallion or a mare – there hadn’t been time to look. So to be on the safe side, he shouted out ‘sweetheart’ and ‘fine fellah’ and ‘little brother’ and ‘darling’.

At first it did no good. Perhaps he needed to do his coaxing in Japanese, or the horse didn’t like the weight on its neck, but the representative of the petulant breed snorted, shook its head and snapped at the titular counsellor’s shoulder with its teeth. When it missed, it started slowing its wild pace a little.

After another two hundred strides or so, the wild gallop finally came to an end. The horse stood there, trembling all over, with clumps of soapy lather slithering down its back and rump. Fandorin released his grip and got to his feet, staggering a little. The first thing he did was clarify the point that had occupied his mind throughout the brief period when he was playing the part of a carriage shaft.

‘Aha, so it’s a d-darling,’ Erast Petrovich muttered, and then he glanced at the lady he had rescued.

It was the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox’s kept woman, she of the magical radiance, O-Yumi. Her hairstyle was destroyed and there was a long strand hanging down over her forehead, her dress was torn and he could see her white shoulder with a scarlet scratch on it. But even in this condition the owner of the unforgettable silver slipper was so lovely that the titular counsellor froze on the spot and fluttered his long eyelashes in bewilderment. It isn’t any kind of radiance, he thought. It’s
blinding beauty
. That’s why they call it that, because it’s as if it blinds you …

The thought also occurred to him that dishevelment was almost certainly not as becoming to him as it was to her. One sleeve of the titular counsellor’s frock coat had been completely torn off and was dangling at his elbow, the other sleeve had been chewed on by the mare, his trousers and shoes were black with grime and, most horrible of all, of course, was the acrid smell of horse sweat with which Erast Petrovich was impregnated from head to foot.

‘Are you unhurt, madam?’ he asked in English, backing away a little in order not to insult her sense of smell. ‘There is b-blood on your shoulder …’

She glanced at the scrape and lowered the edge of the dress even further, revealing the hollow under her collarbone, and Fandorin swallowed the end of his phrase.

‘Ah, I did that myself. I caught myself with the handle of the whip,’ the Japanese woman replied, and brushed away the bright coral-coloured drop carelessly with her finger.

The courtesan’s voice was surprisingly low and husky – unattractive by European standards – but there was something in its timbre that made Fandorin lower his eyes for a moment.

Taking a grip on himself, he looked into her face again and saw that she was smiling – she seemed to find his embarrassment amusing.

‘I see you were not very badly frightened,’ Erast Petrovich said slowly.

‘I was, very. But I have had time to calm down. You embraced my Naomi so ardently.’ Sparks of cunning glinted in her eyes. ‘Ah, you are a real hero! And if I, for my part, were a real Japanese woman, I should spend the rest of my days repaying my debt of gratitude. But I have learned many useful things from you foreigners. For instance, that it is possible simply to say “thank you, sir” and the debt is paid. Thank you, sir. I am most grateful to you.’

She half-rose off her seat and performed a graceful curtsy.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Fandorin. As he inclined his head, he saw that damned dangling sleeve and pulled it right off quickly. He wanted very much to hear the sound of her voice again and asked: ‘Did you go out for a drive this early in the day? It is not five o’clock yet.’

‘I drive to the headland every morning to watch the sun rising over the sea. It is the finest sight in all the world,’ O-Yumi replied, pushing a lock of hair behind her little protruding ear, which was bright pink from the light shining through it.

Erast Petrovich looked at her in amazement – it was as if she had read his recent thoughts.

‘And do you always rise so early?’

‘No, I go to bed so late,’ the amazing woman said, laughing. Unlike her voice, her laughter was not husky at all, but clear and vibrant.

And now Fandorin wanted her to laugh some more. But he didn’t know how to make it happen. Perhaps say something humorous about the horse?

The titular counsellor absentmindedly patted the mare on the rump. It gave him a sideways glance from an inflamed eye and whinnied pitifully.

‘I’m terribly upset about my hat.’ O-Yumi sighed as she carried on tidying up her hair. ‘It was so beautiful! It blew off, and now I’ll never find it. That’s the price of patriotism for you. My friend warned me that a Japanese horse would never walk well in harness, but I decided to prove he was wrong.’

She meant Bullcox, Erast Petrovich guessed.

‘She won’t bolt now. She just needs to be led by the reins for a while … If you will p-permit me …’

He took the mare by the bridle and led her slowly along the promenade. Fandorin wanted very badly to glance back, but he kept himself in hand. After all, he was no young boy, to go gaping at beautiful women.

The silence dragged on. Erast Petrovich, we know, was being firm with himself, but why did she not say anything? Did women who have just been rescued from mortal danger really remain silent, especially in the presence of their rescuer?

A minute went by, then a second, and a third. The silence ceased to be a pause in the conversation and began acquiring some special meaning of its own. It is a well-known fact, at least in belles-lettres, that when a woman and a man who barely know each other do not speak for a long time, it brings them closer than any conversation.

Eventually the titular counsellor gave way and pulled the bridle very slightly towards himself, and when the mare shook its head in his direction, he half-turned, squinting at the Japanese woman out of the corner of his eye.

Apparently the thought of staring at his back had never even entered her head! She had turned away and opened a little mirror, and was busy with her face – she had even brushed her hair and pinned it up already, and powdered her little nose. So much for a significant silence!

Furious at his own stupidity, Fandorin handed the reins to O-Yumi and said firmly:

‘There, my lady. The horse is completely calm now. You can drive on, only take it gently and don’t let go of the reins.’

He raised the hat that had somehow miraculously remained on his head and was about to bow, but hesitated, wondering whether it was polite to leave without introducing himself. On the other hand, would that not be too much – to pay this dissolute woman the same courtesy as a society lady?

Courtesy won the day

‘P-pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself. I …’

She stopped him with a wave of her hand.

‘Don’t bother. The name will tell me very little. And I shall see what is important without any name.’

She gave him a long, intent stare and her tender lips started moving soundlessly.

‘And what do you see?’ Fandorin asked, unable to repress a smile.

‘Not very much as yet. You are loved by luck and by things, but not by destiny. You have lived twenty-two years in the world, but in fact you are older than that. And that is not surprising. You have often been within an inch of death and you have lost half of your heart, and that ages people rapidly … Well, then. Once again, thank you, sir. And goodbye.’

When he heard her mention half of his heart, Erast Petrovich shuddered. But the lady shook the reins with a piercing yell of ‘
Yoshi, ikoo!
’ and set the mare off at a spanking trot, despite his warning.

The horse called Naomi ran obediently, twitching its white pointed ears in a regular rhythm. Its hoofs beat out a jolly, silvery tattoo on the road.

And at journey’s end
You remember a white horse
Dashing through the mist

THE FINAL SMILE

That day he saw her again. Nothing surprising in that – Yokohama was a small town.

Erast Petrovich was making his way back to the consulate along Main Street in the evening, after a meeting with the sergeant and the inspector, and he saw the flame-haired Bullcox and his concubine drive by in a brougham. The Englishman was dressed in something crimson (Fandorin hardly even glanced at him); his companion was wearing a black, figure-hugging dress and a hat with an ostrich feather and a gauzy veil that did not conceal her face, but seemed merely to envelop her features in a light haze.

The titular counsellor bowed slightly, trying to make the movement express nothing but quite ordinary courtesy. O-Yumi did not respond to the bow, but she gave him a long, strange look, and Erast Fandorin tried to penetrate its meaning for a long time afterwards. Seeking something, slightly uneasy? Yes, that was probably it: she seemed to be trying to make out something concealed in his face, simultaneously hoping and fearing to find it.

With some effort, he forced himself to put this nonsense out of his mind and redirect his thoughts to important matters.

They next time they met was the next day, in the afternoon. Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev had come from Tokyo to find out how the investigation was progressing. Unlike in the first meeting, the maritime agent behaved like a perfect angel. His attitude to the titular counsellor had changed completely – his manner was polite, he spoke little and listened attentively.

They learned nothing new from him, only that Minister Okubo was being guarded night and day, he hardly ever left his residence, and was in a terrible rage as a result. He might not hold out for the promised week.

Erast Petrovich briefly outlined the state of affairs to his compatriot. The Satsumans had disappeared without trace. The watch being kept on the hunchback had been intensified, since it had now been established for certain that he was in league with the conspirators, but so far the secret surveillance had not yielded anything useful. The owner of the Rakuen spent all his time at his gambling den; in the early morning he went home to sleep, then came back to the den. And there were no leads.

Fandorin also showed Bukhartsev the items of evidence they had collected – they were displayed on the sergeant’s desk especially for the occasion: the three swords, the celluloid collar and the mirror.

The lieutenant captain examined the last two items though a magnifying glass, then examined the fleshy pad of his own thumb for a long time through the same magnifying glass, shrugged and said: ‘Twaddle.’

As the vice-consul was showing the maritime agent to his carriage, he held forth on the importance of the job Fandorin had been given.

‘… We can either increase the effectiveness of our influence to unprecedented heights – that is, if you manage to catch the killers – or undermine our reputation and provoke the displeasure of the all-powerful minister, who will not forgive us for putting him in a cage,’ Mstislav Nikolaevich pontificated confidentially in a hushed voice.