All the World's a Stage

A HARMONIOUS MAN

Erast Petrovich Fandorin began regarding himself as a harmonious man from the moment when he mounted the first rung on the ladder of wisdom. This event occurred neither too late nor too soon, but at precisely the right moment – at an age when it is already time to draw conclusions, but it is still possible to change one’s plans.

The most substantial conclusion drawn from the years he had already lived resolved itself into a supremely brief maxim that was worth all the philosophical teachings of the world taken together: growing older is good. ‘Growing older’ signified ‘maturing’, that is, not deteriorating, but improving – becoming stronger, wiser, more complete. If, as a man grew older, he had a feeling of impoverishment instead of enrichment, then his ship had wandered off course.

To continue the maritime metaphor, one might say that Fandorin had cruised past the reefs of the fifties, where men so often suffer shipwreck, under full sail and with his standard fluttering aloft in the breeze. The crew had very nearly mutinied, to be sure, but disaster had been avoided.

The attempted mutiny actually took place on his fiftieth birthday, which, of course, was no accident. There is an indisputable magic in the combination of figures that is not felt only by those who are totally devoid of imagination.

Having celebrated his birthday with a walk along the seabed in a diving suit (at that time Erast Petrovich was a passionate enthusiast of deep-sea diving), in the evening he sat on the veranda, watching the public stroll along the esplanade, sipping on his rum punch and mentally repeating to himself: ‘I am fifty, I am fifty’ – as if he were trying to get the taste of an unfamiliar drink. Suddenly his gaze fell on a decrepit little old man in a white panama hat, a desiccated, trembling mummy, who was being pushed along in a wheelchair by a mulatto servant. The gaze of this Methuselah was clouded and there was a thread of saliva dangling from his chin.

I hope I shall not live to that age, Fandorin thought – and suddenly realised that he was frightened. And then he felt even more frightened by the fact that the thought of old age had frightened him.

His mood was ruined. He went back to his hotel room – to tell his jade beads and paint the hieroglyph for ‘old age’ on a sheet of paper. When the sheet had been covered with renderings of the symbol in every possible style, the problem had resolved itself, a concept had been elaborated. The shipboard mutiny had been suppressed. Erast Petrovich had mastered the first stage of wisdom.

Life could not be a descent, only an ascent – right to the very final moment. That was one.

That much-quoted line by Pushkin – ‘Days follow days in flight, each day bearing off particles of being’ – contained an error of logic. The poet had probably been in a melancholic mood, or it was simply a slip of the pen. The verse should have read: ‘Days follow days in flight, each day bringing new particles of being’. If a man lived correctly, the flow of time rendered him richer, not poorer. That was two.

Ageing should be a profitable transaction, a natural exchange of physical and mental strength for spiritual strength, of outward beauty for inner. That was three.

Everything depended on the quality of your wine. If it was cheap, age would sour it. If it was noble, it would only improve. The conclusion from this was: The older a man becomes, the more his quality must improve. That was four.

Oh, and there was a fifth point as well. Erast Petrovich had no intention of renouncing his physical and mental strength. And he devised a special programme to ensure that he wouldn’t.

In each succeeding year of his life he had to conquer a new frontier. Actually two frontiers: a physical, sporting one and an intellectual one. Then growing old would not be frightening, but interesting.

A long-term plan for the prospective territorial expansion was drawn up quite rapidly – a plan so ambitious that the next fifty years might not suffice.

Of his as yet unfulfilled goals in the intellectual line, Fandorin intended to achieve the following: at long last, learn the German language properly, since war with Germany and Austro-Hungary was obviously inevitable; master Chinese (one year was not enough for this, two would be required – it would have been longer, but he already knew the hieroglyphs); fill a shameful lacuna in his knowledge of the world by familiarising himself thoroughly with the Moslem culture, for which he would have to learn Arabic and make a thorough study of the Koran in the original (set aside three years); read his way through classical and modern literature (Erast Petrovich had always found himself chronically short of time for this) – and so on, and so forth.

His sporting goals, for the immediate future, included the following: learning to fly an aeroplane; devoting a year or so to an intriguing Olympic pastime useful for improving motor coordination – pole-vaulting; taking up mountain-climbing; and, quite definitely, mastering skin-diving, using the new type of rebreather, in which the improved oxygen-supply regulator made it possible to dive to a significant depth for long periods. Agh, there was far too much to list everything!

In the five years that had passed since Fandorin had taken fright at his fright, the methodology of correct ageing had already produced quite decent results. Every year he had ascended one step higher – or rather, two steps – so that now he looked down on his former, fifty-year-old self.

By his fifty-first birthday, as an intellectual accomplishment, Erast Petrovich had learned the Spanish language, the lack of which he had felt so badly while cruising in the Caribbean. The ‘step up’ for his body had been trick riding. Of course, he had ridden before, but not brilliantly, and this was a useful ability and in addition highly entertaining – far more enjoyable than the automobile races of which he had grown so weary.

By the age of fifty-two Fandorin had learned to speak Italian and significantly improved his level of skill in kenjutsu – Japanese swordsmanship. He had been taught this splendid science by the Japanese consul, Baron Shigeyama, a holder of the highest dan. By the end of the assigned period Erast Petrovich was winning two out of every three contests with the baron (and conceding one, but only in order not to offend his sensei).

The fifty-third year of Fandorin’s life was devoted, on the one hand, to classical and modern philosophy (unfortunately, his education had been limited to the grammar school); and on the other, to motorcycle riding, which, in terms of thrills, was in every way a match for equestrianism.

During the previous year of 1910, Erast Petrovich’s mind had been occupied with chemistry, the most rapidly developing of modern sciences, and he had occupied his body with juggling (at first sight a trivial matter, mere foolish nonsense, but it fine-hones the synchronisation of movements and precise motor skills).

In the current season it had seemed logical to him to move on from juggling to tightrope walking – an excellent means for consolidating one’s physical and nervous equilibrium.

His intellectual exercises this year were also in part a continuation of the previous year’s enthusiasm for chemistry. Fandorin decided to devote this period of twelve months to an old passion – criminalistic science. The appointed term had already expired, but the research continued, since it had taken an unexpected and highly promising direction, a line that apparently no one apart from Erast Petrovich was pursuing seriously.

This development involved new methods for dealing with witnesses and suspects: how could one induce them to be entirely candid? In barbaric times a means that was both cruel and unreliable had been employed – torture. Now, however, it had emerged that the most complete and veracious results could be achieved by using a combination of three methods – psychological, chemical and hypnotic. If a person who possessed the required information, but did not wish to part with it, was first of all assigned to the correct psychological type and appropriately prepared, and his will to resist was weakened with certain specific compounds, and he was then hypnotised, his candour would be absolute and complete.

The experimental results had appeared impressive. However, serious doubts had arisen concerning their practical value. The problem was not even that Fandorin would never, for anything in the world, have shared his discoveries with the state (it was terrible to think what use could be made of such a weapon by the unscrupulous gentlemen of the Okhrana or the gendarmerie). And in the course of an investigation, Erast Petrovich would scarcely have permitted himself to transform another person, even a bad person, into an object of chemical manipulation. Immanuel Kant, who asserted that human beings must not be treated as a means for the achievement of a goal, would not have approved – and after a year of philosophical studies Fandorin regarded the sage of Königsberg as the supreme moral authority. Therefore Erast Petrovich’s research into the criminalistic ‘problem of candour’ was rather abstractly scientific in nature.

Of course, it remained an open question whether it was ethical to use the new method in investigating especially monstrous atrocities, as well as crimes fraught with serious danger for society and the state.

Fandorin had been pondering intently on precisely this subject for more than three days now – since the moment when news had broken of an attempt on the life of the chairman of the council of ministers, Stolypin. On the evening of 1 September in Kiev a certain young man had fired two shots at the most important figure in the political life of Russia.

Many aspects of this event appeared phantasmagorical. Firstly, the bloody drama had unfolded not just anywhere, but in a theatre, before the eyes of a large audience. Secondly, the show had been an extremely jolly one – an adaptation of Pushkin’s Tale of Tsar Saltan. Thirdly, the audience had included a real tsar, not of the fairytale kind, whom the killer had left untouched. Fourthly, the theatre had been so well guarded that no one could possibly have infiltrated it, not even Pushkin’s hero Gvidon when he transformed himself into a mosquito. Viewers had only been admitted on the basis of individual passes issued by the Department for the Defence of Public Security – the Okhrana. Fifthly, and most fantastically of all, the terrorist had actually been in possession of such a pass, and not a counterfeit, but the genuine article. Sixthly, the killer had not only managed to enter the theatre, but also to carry in a firearm…

To judge from the information that had reached Erast Petrovich (and his sources of information were reliable), the arrested man had not yet given any answers that provided a solution to this riddle. Now this was a case where the new means of interrogation would have been useful!

While the head of the government was dying (the injury, alas, was fatal), while the incompetent investigators simply wasted their time with fatuous nonsense, an immense empire, already overburdened with multitudinous problems, was trembling and swaying – it could topple over at any moment now, like an overloaded cart after the wagoner has tumbled out of it on a steep bend. Pyotr Stolypin had been altogether too important to the stability of the nation.

Fandorin’s feelings about this man, who had governed Russia singlehandedly for five years, were complicated. While respecting Stolypin’s courage and resolute spirit, Erast Petrovich regarded many items on the premier’s policy agenda as mistaken or even dangerous. However, there could be no doubt whatever that Stolypin’s death would strike a terrible blow at the state and threaten to plunge the country into fresh chaos. A very great deal now depended on the speed and efficiency of the investigation.

There could also be no doubt that Fandorin would be invited to take part in this effort as an independent expert. This had happened repeatedly in the past when the investigation of some exceptional case ran into a dead end, and it was impossible to imagine any case more exceptional and important than the assassination attempt in Kiev. Especially since Erast Petrovich had been acquainted in person with the chairman of the council of ministers – on several occasions he had participated, at Stolypin’s request, in investigating puzzling or especially delicate cases of national importance.

The times were long over when a quarrel with the authorities had obliged Fandorin to leave his native country and home city for many long years. Erast Petrovich’s personal foe had once been the most powerful man in the old capital, but now he (or rather, the little that remained of his most illustrious body) had long been reclining in a grandiose sepulchre, mourned but little by his fellow Muscovites. There was nothing to prevent Fandorin from spending as much time as he wished in Moscow. Nothing, that is, except an addiction to adventures and new impressions.

When he was in town, Erast Petrovich lived in a rented wing of a house on Little Assumption Lane, known in popular parlance as Cricket Lane. A very, very long time ago, about two hundred years in fact, a certain merchant by the name of Cricketinov had built his stone mansion here. The merchant had passed on, the palatial dwelling had changed hands many times over, but the cosy name had been retained in the tenacious grip of Moscow’s memory. When resting from his wanderings or investigations, Fandorin lived a steady, quiet life here – like a cricket behind the stove.

The accommodation was comfortable and rather spacious for two: six rooms, a bathroom, plumbing, electricity, a telephone – for 135 roubles a month, including coal for the Dutch stove heating. It was within these walls that the greater part of the intellectual and sporting programme devised by the retired councillor of state was put into effect. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining how, surfeited with travelling and adventures, he would settle down permanently in Cricket Lane, devoting himself completely to the enthralling process of growing old.

Some day. Not just yet. Not soon. Probably after seventy.

Erast Petrovich was very far from surfeited as yet. Beyond the bounds of the cricket world behind the stove, there still remained too many fantastically interesting places, occurrences and phenomena of all kinds. Some were separated from him by thousands of kilometres, some by centuries.

About ten years previously Fandorin had developed a serious fascination with the underwater world. He had even built a submarine according to his own design, which was registered at the distant island of Aruba, and had constantly improved its construction. This had involved immense expenditure, but after he had successfully used his own submarine to raise a precious cargo from the seabed, his hobby had not merely paid for its own costs with plenty to spare, it had freed Erast Petrovich from the need to charge a fee for working as a detective on investigations or as a consultant on criminalistic matters.

Now he could take on only the most interesting cases, or those which, for one reason or another, it was impossible to decline. In any case, the status of an individual acting out of benevolence or kindness was very much more pleasant than the position of a hired functionary, no matter how authoritative.

Fandorin was rarely left in peace for long, because of the reputation that he had acquired in international professional circles over the last twenty years. Since the ill-starred war with Japan, the independent expert’s own state had often turned to him for help. There had been times when Erast Petrovich refused – his concepts of good and evil did not always coincide with those of the government. It was only with extreme reluctance, for instance, that he accepted cases involving internal politics, unless it was a matter of some especially heinous villainy.

This business of the attempt on the prime minister’s life had a whiff of precisely that kind of villainy about it. There were too many strange, unexplained aspects. According to confidential information received, someone in St Petersburg was of the same opinion. Fandorin’s friends in the capital had informed him by telephone that yesterday the minister of justice had set out for Kiev, in order to head up the investigation in person. That meant that he had no confidence in the Department of Police and the Okhrana. If not today, then tomorrow the ‘independent expert’ Fandorin would also be invited to join the investigation. And if he was not invited, it would mean that the rot in the apparatus of state had spread to the very top…

Erast Petrovich already knew what action to take.

Concerning the chemical means of influence, some thought was still required, but the psychological and hypnotic methods could perfectly well be applied to the killer. Fandorin would have to assume that they would prove adequate. The terrorist Bogrov had to reveal the most important thing: whose instrument was he? Exactly who had provided him with the pass and allowed him into the theatre with a revolver?

And it would also be no bad thing to compel the candour of the head of the Kiev Department for the Defence of Public Security, Lieutenant-Colonel Kulyabko, and the deputy director of the Police Department, State Councillor Verigin, who had been responsible for the security measures. There was probably no need to be over-fastidious with these extremely dubious gentlemen, bearing in mind their line of business and general lack of scruples. It was unlikely that they would allow themselves to be hypnotised, but he could sit tête-à-tête for a while with each of them, in an unofficial context, and add a drop or two of his secret formulation to the lieutenant-colonel’s favourite cognac and the teetotaller Verigin’s tea. And they would tell him about the mysterious pass, and why there was not a single bodyguard present beside the prime minister during the interval, despite the fact that Stolypin had been hunted for years by the Social Revolutionaries and the anarchists, as well as by various solitary crusaders against tyranny…

The idea that the organs responsible for the protection of the empire could be implicit in an attempt on the life of the head of the government made Fandorin shudder. This was the fourth day he had spent wandering round his apartment like a man demented, either telling his green beads or tracing out diagrams on paper that only he could understand. He smoked cigars and kept demanding tea, but ate almost nothing.

Masa – his servant and friend, and the only person in the world who was close to him – knew perfectly well that when the master was in this state, it was best to leave him alone. The Japanese remained near by all the time, but he didn’t call any attention to himself, he was as quiet as a mouse. He cancelled two assignations and sent the caretaker’s wife off to the Chinese shop to get tea. Masa’s narrow, oriental eyes glinted fervently – he was anticipating interesting events.

In the previous year the faithful companion had also reached the fifty mark, and he had responded to this milestone date with truly Japanese seriousness, changing his life in an even more radical manner than his master.

Firstly, in accordance with ancient tradition, he had completely shaved his head – as a sign that inwardly he was entering into the condition of a monk and renouncing the vanity of this world as he prepared to withdraw to another. Certainly, Fandorin had not yet noticed that Masa had altered his Céladonesque habits in any way. But then, the rules of Japanese monks do not necessarily prescribe chastity of the flesh.

Secondly, Masa had decided to take a new name, in order to make a complete break with his old self. But here a difficulty arose: it transpired that, according to the laws of the Russian Empire, in order to change one’s given name, it was necessary to undergo baptism. However, this was no obstacle to the Japanese. He happily accepted the Orthodox faith, suspended a substantial crucifix round his neck and started crossing himself fervently at the sight of every church dome, and even at the sound of bells chiming – none of which prevented him from continuing to burn incense in front of his domestic Buddhist altar. According to his documents, his name was no longer Masahiro, but Mikhail Erastovich (the patronymic having been taken from his godfather). Fandorin was also obliged to share his surname with this brand-new servant of God – the Japanese had requested this as the very greatest reward that his sovereign lord could bestow on his devoted vassal for long and zealous service.

A passport is one thing, but Erast Petrovich nonetheless reserved the right to call his servant by the name he had always used – Masa. And he ruthlessly nipped in the bud any attempts by his godson to call his master ‘faza-san’ (father), and especially ‘papa’.

So Erast Petrovich and Mikhail Erastovich had been stuck in the house for four days, all the while glancing impatiently at the telephone, anticipating a summons. But the lacquered box had remained stubbornly silent. Fandorin was not often disturbed on trifling matters, since not many people knew his number.

On Monday, 5 September, at three in the afternoon, at last there was a call.

Masa grabbed the receiver – he just happened to be polishing the instrument with a little velvet cloth, as if he were trying to propitiate a capricious deity.

Fandorin walked out into the other room and stood at the window, preparing himself inwardly for the important clarification of the situation. Insist on the maximum authority and absolute freedom of action, immediately, he thought. Otherwise do not accept. That is one…

Masa glanced in through the door. His expression was intent.

‘I don’t know whose call you have been expecting for so many days, master, but I think this is the one. The lady’s voice is trembling. She says it is a very urgent matter, of ex-cep-tion-ar im-port-ance.’ Masa pronounced the last three words in Russian.

‘A l-lady?’ Erast Petrovich queried in surprise.

‘She says “Origa”.’

Masa considered Russian patronymics an inessential decorative element, remembered them poorly and often omitted them.

Fandorin’s bewilderment was resolved. Olga… Why, naturally. He should have been expecting this. In a case as tangled and fraught with unpredictable complications as this one, the authorities would not wish to approach a private individual directly in order to ask for help. It was more appropriate to act through the family. Fandorin was acquainted with Olga Borisovna Stolypina, wife of the wounded prime minister and great-granddaughter of the great general Suvorov. A woman of firm will and intelligence, not the kind of individual to be bowed or broken by any blows of fate.

Of course, she was aware that she would be a widow very soon. It was also quite possible that she was telephoning on her own initiative, having sensed something strange in the way the official investigation was being conducted.

Erast Petrovich heaved a deep sigh and took the receiver.

‘Fandorin at your s-service.’

OH, HOW VERY AWKWARD!

‘Erast Petrovich, for my sake, for the sake of our friendship, in the name of mercy. For the sake of my late husband, do not refuse me!’ a woman’s voice declared rapidly in resounding tones. A familiar voice, certainly, but distorted by agitation. ‘You are a noble and compassionate man, I know that you cannot refuse me!’

‘So he has died…’ Fandorin hung his head, even though the widow could not see it, and spoke with sincere feeling. ‘Please accept my p-profoundest condolences. This is not only your personal grief, it is an immense loss for the whole of Russia. You are a strong person. I know your presence of mind will not desert you. And for my part, of course, I will do everything that I possibly can.’

Following a pause, the lady continued in a tone of voice that conveyed a certain perplexity:

‘Thank you, but I have come to terms with it one way or another. Time heals all wounds…’

‘Time?’

Erast Petrovich stared at the telephone in stupefaction.

‘Well, yes. After all, it is seven years since Anton Pavlovich died… This is Olga Leonardovna Knipper-Chekhov here. I suppose I must have woken you up?’

Oh, how very awkward! Hurling a furious glance at the entirely innocent Masa, Fandorin blushed. It was not surprising that the voice had seemed familiar to him. He had long-standing ties of friendship with the writer’s widow – they had both been members of the commission on Chekhov’s legacy.

‘F-for God’s sake f-forgive me!’ he exclaimed, stammering more than usual. ‘I thought you were… It d-doesn’t matter…’

The consequence of an essentially comic misunderstanding was that from the very beginning of the conversation Fandorin found himself in the position of a man apologising and feeling guilty. If it were not for that, his response to the actress’s request would most probably have been a polite refusal, and his entire subsequent life would have turned out quite differently.

But Erast Petrovich was embarrassed, and the word of a noble man is not a sparrow.

‘You really will do everything you can for me? I’m taking you at your word, now,’ Olga Leonardovna said in a less agitated voice. ‘Knowing you as a true knight and a man of honour, I have no doubt that the story I am about to tell you will not leave you unmoved.’

In fact, even without the awkward start to the conversation, it would not have been easy to refuse a request from this woman.

In society Chekhov’s widow was regarded with disapproval. It was considered good form to denounce her for preferring to flaunt her brilliance on stage and spend her time in the jolly company of friends from the Art Theatre, instead of nursing the fatally ill writer in his dreary solitude in Yalta. She didn’t love him! She didn’t love him! She had married the dying man out of cold calculation, in order to acquire Chekhov’s fame, while clinging on to her own, in order to secure a name that would be a genuine trump-card in her subsequent theatrical career – such was the generally voiced opinion.

Erast Petrovich was outraged by this injustice. The late Chekhov had been a mature and intelligent man. He knew that he was not simply marrying a woman, but an illustrious actress. Olga Leonardovna had been prepared to give up the stage in order to remain beside him constantly, but it would be a fine husband who agreed to accept such a sacrifice. To love meant to wish happiness for the loved one. Without selflessness, love was not worth a brass farthing. And the wife had been right to let her husband win this battle of magnanimities. The important thing was that she had been with him before he died and eased his passing. She had told Fandorin that on the very last evening he joked a lot and they laughed heartily. What more could one wish for? A good death. No one had any right to condemn this woman.

All these thoughts flashed through Erast Petrovich’s mind, not for the first time, as he listened to the actress’s rambling, incoherent story. It concerned a certain Eliza, a friend of Olga Leonardovna’s and apparently also an actress. Something or other had happened to this Eliza that had ‘left the poor thing in a constant state of mortal fear’.

‘Pardon me,’ Erast Petrovich interposed, when the other party broke off in order to sob. ‘I d-didn’t quite understand; Altairsky and Lointaine – are they one individual or two?’

‘One! Her full name is Eliza Altairsky-Lointaine. She used to go by the stage name of “Lointaine”, but then she married and became “Altairsky” as well, after her husband. They soon separated, it’s true, but you must agree that it would be stupid for an actress to renounce such a beautiful surname.’

‘But even so, I don’t quite…’ Fandorin wrinkled up his forehead. ‘This lady is afraid of something, you have described her nervous state most eloquently. But what exactly is frightening her?’

And, most importantly, what is it that you want from me? he added to himself.

‘She won’t tell me what the problem is! Eliza is a very secretive, she never complains about anything. That’s such a rare thing for an artiste! But she came to visit me yesterday, we had a good talk, and something came over her. She burst into tears, fell on my breast and started babbling about her life being a nightmare and saying she couldn’t bear it any longer, she was hounded and tormented to death. But when I started badgering her with questions, Eliza suddenly turned terribly pale and bit her lip, and I couldn’t drag another word out of her. Eventually she babbled something unintelligible, asked me to forgive her momentary weakness and ran off. I didn’t sleep last night and I’ve had the jitters all day long! Ah, Erast Petrovich, I’ve known Eliza for a long time. She’s not a hysterical girl who imagines things. I’m sure she’s in some kind of danger and, what’s more, danger of a kind that she can’t even tell a friend about. I implore you, in the name of all the bonds between us, find out what the matter is. It’s a mere trifle for you, after all, you’re a master at solving mysteries. How brilliantly you tracked down that missing manuscript of Anton Pavlovich’s!’ she said, reminding Fandorin of the story that had marked the beginning of their acquaintance. ‘I shall help you gain entry to her circle of acquaintances. Eliza is the heroine now at Noah’s Ark.’

‘Who? W-where?’ Erast Petrovich asked in surprise.

‘She’s the leading lady in that new-fangled company which is attempting to rival the Art Theatre,’ Olga Leonardovna explained in a tone that carried a hint of condescension – either for Fandorin’s theatrical ignorance, or for the madmen who had dared to compete with the great Moscow Art Theatre. ‘Noah’s Ark has arrived on tour from St Petersburg, to astound and conquer the public of Moscow. It’s quite impossible to get a ticket, but I have arranged everything. You will be allowed in and given the very finest seat, so that you can get a good look at all of them. And afterwards you can pay a visit backstage. I shall telephone Noah Noaevich (that’s their manager, Noah Noaevich Stern). And I shall tell him to render you every possible assistance. He’s positively dancing reels round me, hoping to lure me into joining him, so he will do as I ask without any unnecessary questions.’

Erast Petrovich loosed an angry kick at a chair, and it cracked in half. An absolutely worthless, laughable case – the hypochondriacal caprices of some prima donna with a quite incredible name – but it was absolutely impossible to refuse. And this at a moment when he was expecting an invitation to assist with the investigation of a crime of historical, one might even say epochal, significance!

Clucking his tongue, Masa took the mutilated item of furniture and tried to sit on it – the chair sagged crookedly.

‘Do you have nothing to say? Surely you will not refuse this little request of mine? I shan’t survive it if you too abandon me!’ the great writer’s widow said with the intonations of Arkadina appealing to Trigorin in The Seagull.

‘How could I p-possibly dare,’ Erast Petrovich said dismally. ‘When do I need to be at the theatre?’

‘You are an absolute dear! I knew that I could count on you! The performance today is at eight. Now let me explain everything to you…’

Never mind, Fandorin consoled himself. When all is said and done, this outstanding woman deserves to have me spend one evening on her foolish whim. And if a call about the Stolypin case comes before then, I’ll explain to her that it’s a matter of national importance.

But no one called before the evening, either from St Petersburg or from Kiev. Erast Petrovich put on a white tie and set off for the performance, struggling in vain to master his annoyance. Masa was ordered to stay beside the telephone and if necessary to come rushing to the theatre on the motorcycle.

ELIZAVETA’S DAY OF REMEMBRANCE

Fandorin himself went by horse cab, knowing that when there were performances taking place simultaneously in the Bolshoi, Maly and Noveishy theatres, there would be nowhere to park an automobile on Theatre Square. The last time, when he went to see Wagner’s Valkyrie, he had been incautious enough to leave his Isotta Fraschini between two cabs, and a frisky trotter had fractured his chrome-plated radiator – afterwards it had taken two months for a new one to be delivered from Milan.

In the few hours since the actress’s telephone call, Erast Petrovich had gathered a little bit of information about the theatre company with which he was about to spend the evening.

He had discovered that this company, which had appeared in St Petersburg the previous season, had created a genuine furore here in the old capital, enchanting the public and dividing the critics into two irreconcilable factions, one of which lauded the genius of the director Stern to the skies, while the other called him an ‘artistic charlatan’. They had also written a lot about Eliza Altairsky-Lointaine, but here the range of opinions was somewhat different: from ecstatically adoring among the benevolently disposed reviewers, to condescendingly sympathetic among the malicious – they regretted the waste of talent involved when such an excellent artiste was obliged to squander her gift in the pretentious productions of Mr Stern.

In general, a great deal had been written about Noah’s Ark, and written with passion; it was simply that Fandorin never read through the newspapers as far as the pages which discussed the theatrical news. Unfortunately, Erast Petrovich was no lover of the dramatic art and took absolutely no interest in it; if he ever did happen to be in a theatre, it was always, without exception, for an opera or a ballet. He preferred to read good plays with his eyes, so that his impressions would not be spoiled by directorial ambition and poor acting (after all, even in the most absolutely wonderful production there was certain to be one actor or actress who would strike a false note and spoil everything). It seemed to Fandorin that the theatre was an art form doomed to extinction. When the cinematograph came into its own, acquiring both sound and colour – who then would spend a substantial amount of money in order to contemplate cardboard scenery, while pretending that they couldn’t hear the prompter’s whispering and didn’t notice the swaying of the curtain and the excessive maturity of the prima donnas?

For its Moscow tour Noah’s Ark had rented the building of the former Noveishy Theatre, which now belonged to a certain ‘Theatrical and Cinematographic Company’.

On arriving at the famous square, Erast Petrovich found himself obliged to get out beside the fountain – the congestion created by the carriages and the public made it impossible to drive up to the actual entrance. Moreover, it was strikingly obvious that the crush in front of the Noveishy Theatre was much denser than in front of the Maly Theatre located opposite it, with its perennial production of Ostrovsky’s Storm, or even in front of the Bolshoi Theatre, where the season was currently opening with Twilight of the Gods.

As he had intended, Fandorin first made his way to the playbill, in order to acquaint himself with the membership of the company. It was most likely, since it seemed to be quite customary in the close little world of actors, that the harrowing torments of the leading lady were the result of scheming by one of her colleagues. In order to solve the appalling mystery and be done with this idiotic business as quickly as possible, he had to make a note of the names of individuals relevant to the case.

The title of the show finally ruined the reluctant theatregoer’s mood completely. He gazed with a gloomy eye at the foppish poster with its ornamental flourishes, thinking that this evening would prove to be even more distressing than had been expected.

Erast Petrovich very much disliked Karamzin’s novella Poor Liza, which was regarded as a masterpiece of literary sentimentalism, and for this he had extremely serious, personal grounds of his own, which had nothing at all to do with literature. It was even more painful to read that the production was dedicated ‘to St Elizaveta’s Remembrance Day’.

It will be precisely thirty-five years ago this month, Fandorin thought. He closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered, driving away the appalling memory.

In an attempt to rouse himself to action, he gave free rein to his irritation.

‘What an idiotic fantasy – staging old-fashioned trash in the t-twentieth century!’ he muttered. ‘And where have they found a plot for an entire “tragedy in three acts”, even if there is no interval? And the seat prices have been increased!’

‘Interested in a seat, sir?’ asked a little man with a cap pulled down over his eyes, who had popped up under Fandorin’s elbow. ‘I’ve got a ticket for the orchestra stalls. I was dreaming of attending the performance myself, but have been obliged to abandon the idea, owing to family circumstances. I can let you have it. I bought it from a third party, so I’m afraid it’s a bit pricey.’ He ran a quick glance over the London dinner jacket, the geometrically perfect lapels, the black pearl in the tie. ‘Twenty-five roubles, sir…’

The sheer gall of it! Twenty-five roubles for a seat, and not even in a box, but simply in the stalls! One of the newspaper stories about the Noah’s Ark tour, a highly venomous one, entitled ‘Prices Increased’, had been devoted to the incredibly high cost of tickets for a performance by the company from out of town. Its manager, Mr Stern, was a remarkably gifted entrepreneur and he had invented a highly effective way of selling tickets. The prices of seats in the boxes, orchestra stalls and dress circle were twice or even three times the usual cost; but tickets for the tiered stalls and the gallery never even reached the box office, they were allocated for purchase by students – through the medium of a cheap lottery. The lottery tickets were distributed among the young men and women for fifty kopecks each and one out of every ten won a ticket for the theatre. Any lucky winner could either attend the production that everyone was writing and talking about, or sell the ticket just before the performance, thereby obtaining a rather handsome return on his fifty kopecks.

This device, which had outraged the author of the newspaper article so profoundly, had seemed ingenious to Fandorin. Firstly, it meant that Stern sold even the very cheapest seats for five roubles each (as much as the price of a good seat in the orchestra stalls in the Bolshoi Theatre). Secondly, the entire student community of Moscow was all agog over Noah’s Ark. Thirdly, a lot of young people came to see the show, and it is their enthusiasm that contributes most to ensuring a theatre’s success.

Without even condescending to answer the ticket tout, sullen Erast Petrovich made his way over to a door with a plaque that said ‘House Manager’. If Fandorin had needed to collect his pass inside, he would have turned round and walked away. Nothing could have induced him to squeeze his way through between so many backs and shoulders. But Olga Leonardovna had told him: ‘Five paces to the right of the door there will be a man with a green briefcase, standing on the steps…’

And indeed, standing precisely five paces away from the crowd that was storming the door, lounging back against the wall, was a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing a striped American suit that contrasted rather noticeably with his coarse face, which seemed to be moulded out of reddish-brown clay. The man was simply standing there quite impassively, without even glancing at the clamouring votaries of Melpomene, and whistling; he had a flirtatious little green briefcase pressed against his side with his elbow.

Fandorin was not able to approach the striped gentleman immediately – someone was constantly pushing through to the front. In some elusive way these people resembled the rogue who had tried to fleece Erast Petrovich of twenty-five roubles for a ticket; equally shifty and shadowlike, with rapid, muted speech.

The owner of the green briefcase disposed of them quickly, without saying a single word – he just whistled: briefly and mockingly to some, after which the individuals concerned immediately disappeared; menacingly to some, who backed away; and approvingly to others.

The touts’ and hucksters’ handler, Fandorin decided. Finally wearying of listening to the artistic whistling and observing the incessant flickering of shadowy figures, he set one foot on the first step, holding back by the shoulder yet another shadow that had bobbed up out of nowhere, and said what he had been instructed to say.

‘From Madam Knipper.’

The whistler had no chance to respond. Yet another third party pushed in between him and Fandorin. Erast Petrovich did not grab this one by the shoulder, or any other part of his body, out of respect for his uniform: he was an officer, a cornet of hussars and a guardsman to boot.

‘Sila Yegorovich, I implore you!’ the young man exclaimed, gazing at the striped gentleman with absolutely wild, staring eyes. ‘For the orchestra stalls! No farther than the sixth row! Your men have gone totally insane, they’re asking twenty roubles a time. All right, then, but on credit. I spent everything I had on a basket of flowers. You know that Vladimir Limbach always pays up. So help me, I swear I’ll shoot myself!’

The scalper gave the desperate cornet an indolent glance and whistled indifferently.

‘There aren’t any tickets. They’ve run out. I can give you a complimentary pass without a seat, seeing as I’m so well disposed.’

‘Ah, but you know an officer can’t watch a performance without a seat.’

‘Well, take it or leave it… Just one moment, sir.’

The last few words were addressed to Erast Petrovich, together with a polite smile, which required a serious effort from that physiognomy of clay.

‘There, if you please. A pass for box number four. My respects to Olga Leonardovna. Always glad to be of service.’

Fandorin set off towards the main entrance, to the accompaniment of benign whistling from the tout and an envious glance from the hussar.

‘All right, give me the complimentary pass at least!’ a voice behind him exclaimed.

A STRANGE WORLD

Box number four turned out to be the finest of them all. If this had been an imperial theatre, and not a private one, it would probably have been called ‘the royal box’. The seven armchairs with gilded backs – three in the first row and four in the second – were all entirely at the disposal of a single spectator. All the more impressive, therefore, was the contrast with the rest of the auditorium, which was literally too cramped for an apple to fall to the floor. There were still five minutes left until the beginning of the performance, but the audience were all in their seats already, as if every one of them feared that another claimant to the same place might show up. And not without reason: in two or three places ushers were trying to calm down agitated people who were brandishing tickets. One scene was played out immediately below Fandorin’s box. A well-fleshed lady in an ermine boa almost wept as she exclaimed:

‘What do you mean, counterfeit? Where did you buy these tickets, Jacquot?’

Red-faced Jacquot babbled that he got them from an extremely presentable gentleman, for fifteen roubles. The attendants, accustomed to such occurrences, were already carrying over two additional chairs.

In the tiered stalls they were sitting even more tightly packed, with some people even standing in the aisles. The area was dominated by the young faces of male students in pea jackets and female students in white blouses.

At precisely eight o’clock, immediately after the third bell, the lights in the auditorium went out and the doors were firmly closed. The rule of starting a performance on time and not admitting anyone who came late had been introduced by the Art Theatre, but even there it was not observed with such meticulous strictness.

Erast Petrovich heard a creak behind him.

Turning round on the central armchair of the front row, where he was perched like a Padishah, he was rather surprised to see the hussar who had recently promised to shoot himself.

Cornet Limbach – Fandorin thought that was his name – whispered:

‘Are you alone? Excellent! Don’t object if I take a seat, do you? Why would you need so many places?’

Fandorin shrugged as if to say: By all means, I can spare one. He moved one seat to the right, so that they would not be crowded together. However, the officer preferred to seat himself behind Fandorin’s back.

‘It’s all right, I’ll sit here,’ the cornet said, taking a pair of field glasses out of their case.

The door of the box creaked again.

‘Damn him, what’s he doing here? Don’t give me away, I’m with you!’ the cornet whispered under his breath into Fandorin’s ear.

A middle-aged man in tails and a starched shirt walked in, wearing a tie exactly like Erast Petrovich’s, only the pearl in it was not black, but grey. A banker or successful barrister, Fandorin speculated, casting a brief glance at the pampered beard and the triumphantly gleaming bald cranium.

The man who had walked in bowed urbanely.

‘Tsarkov. And you are the incomparable Olga Leonardovna’s acquaintance. Always glad to be of service…’

From these words it was possible to conclude that Mr Tsarkov was the owner of the miraculous box and he had been asked to provide a seat by the actress. It was not entirely clear what part in all this was played by the whistler with the green briefcase, but Erast Petrovich had no intention of racking his brains over that.

‘Is the young man with you?’ the amiable owner enquired, squinting sideways at the cornet (who was studying the decorative moulding on the ceiling through his field glasses).

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, he’s welcome…’

During the few minutes that remained until the beginning of the show – while the spectators rustled, creaked and blew their noses – Fandorin’s new companion told him about Noah’s Ark, and with such expert knowledge that Erast Petrovich was obliged to revise his original opinion; Not a banker, not a barrister, but probably some important theatrical figure or influential reviewer.

‘Opinions differ regarding Stern’s talent as a director, but when it comes to business he is quite definitely a genius,’ Mr Tsarkov began loquaciously, addressing only Fandorin, as if the two of them were alone together in the box. Cornet Limbach, however, seemed glad that no one was taking any notice of him.

‘He began staging his performances a week before the opening of the season and he has exploited his monopoly right up to the hilt, to coin a phrase. The public has come pouring in, firstly because there is nowhere else for it to go, and secondly, because he has fired off in rapid succession three productions that the whole of St Petersburg spent all last season arguing about. First he put on Hamlet, then The Three Sisters, and now it’s Poor Liza. And what’s more, he announced in advance that each production is being performed just once, without any repetitions. Look at what’s happening now, on the third evening.’ The theatrical connoisseur gestured round the auditorium, which was crowded to overflowing. ‘And this also strikes an astutely cunning blow against his main competitor – the Art Theatre. This very year they were intending to astound the public with new productions of The Three Sisters and Hamlet. I assure you that after Stern any innovative interpretation will seem stale and insipid. And Poor Liza is perfectly outrageous. Neither Stanislavsky nor Yuzhin would have dared to present dramaturgical material of that nature on the modern stage. But I saw the show in St Petersburg. And I assure you, it really is something! Lointaine in the role of Liza is divine!’ The bald gentleman kissed his fingertips fruitily and an imposing diamond on one finger sparkled brightly.

He can hardly be a reviewer, Erast Petrovich thought. Where would a reviewer get a solitaire diamond weighing a dozen carats?

‘But the most interesting part is yet to come. I’m expecting a great deal from the Ark this season. After this volley of three superb absolute sell-outs, they’re taking a break from performing for a month. The cunning Stern is giving the Art Theatre, Maly Theatre and Korsh a chance to display their novelties to the public – stepping aside, as it were. After that, in October, he promises to give his own premiere, and, of course, he will lure the whole of Moscow here.’

Although Fandorin had little real understanding of theatrical practices, this seemed strange to him.

‘I b-beg your pardon, but surely the building is rented, is it not? How can a theatre exist for an entire month without any takings?’

Tsarkov winked at him cunningly.

‘The Ark can afford such a luxury. The Theatrical and Cinematographic Company has granted them fully serviced rental at a rate of one rouble a month. Oh, Stern knows how to find himself a cosy spot! In a month or six weeks they’ll prepare a completely new production, starting from scratch. No one knows what the play will be, but people are already giving fifty roubles for a good ticket for the first performance!’

‘But what do you mean, no one knows?’

‘Precisely that! A deliberately calculated effect. Tomorrow there is a meeting of the company, at which Stern will announce to the actors what play they are putting on. The day after tomorrow all the newspapers will write about it. Et voilà: the public will start waiting impatiently for the premiere. No matter what they put on. Oh, trust my intuition, dear sir. Thanks to Noah’s Ark, there is a singularly fruitful season in store for Moscow!’

This was said with sincere feeling, and Erast Petrovich glanced at the other man respectfully. Such sincere, selfless love of art could not help but inspire respect.

‘But shhhh! It’s starting. Now this will really be something – everyone will gasp,’ the theatre enthusiast chuckled. ‘Stern didn’t show them this trick in St Petersburg…’

The curtain rose. The entire stage set was concealed behind taut white fabric. It was a screen! A carriage appeared on it, drawn by four horses hurtling along at full gallop.

A combination of the cinematograph and the theatre? Intriguing, thought Erast Petrovich.

The aficionado proved to be right – a rapturous gasp ran through the orchestra stalls and tiered stalls.

‘He knows how to capture the audience from the very first moment, the cunning devil,’ Tsarkov whispered, leaning forward – and then he smacked himself on the lips, as if to say: Pardon me, I’ll keep quiet.

Pastoral music began to play and words appeared on the screen.

‘One day, towards the end of the reign of Catherine the Great, a young and brilliant guardsman was returning to his estate from his regiment…’

The production proved to be innovative in the extreme, with a host of original ideas; it made playful and at the same time philosophical use of stage scenery and costumes created by a fashionable artist, a member of the World of Art group. The brief parable about a young ingénue, who drowned herself because of her beloved’s infidelity, was fleshed out with twists and turns of the plot. Additional characters appeared, some entirely new and others hinted at in passing by Karamzin, the author of the original story. The play dealt with a passionate love that violated all the prohibitions – after all, poor Liza surrenders to her Erast without any concern for rumour or consequences. The play told the story of a woman’s self-sacrificing courage and a man’s cowardice in the face of public opinion; a story of the weakness of Good and the power of Evil. The latter was personified in a most vivid and lively manner by the rich widow (played by the actress Vulpinova) and the card sharp (played by the actor Mephistov), who is hired by her to ruin the impressionable Erast and force him into marrying for money.

Extensive use was made of the cinema screen in order to recreate historical Moscow and natural phenomena. There was a superlatively conceived scene with the ghost of Liza’s father (the actor Sensiblin), who was lit up by a blue beam of light from the projector. Also impressive were the monologue and dance performed by Death as he lured the young woman into the pond (this part was played by Mr Stern himself).

But what the audience found most astounding of all was a trick with a piece of sculpture. Almost the entire second act unfolded beside a statue of Pan, symbolising the pastoral sensuality of the love theme. After a minute or so, of course, the audience stopped paying any attention to the statue, having accepted it as an element of the stage decor. Imagine their delight when, at the end of the act, the classical deity suddenly came to life and started playing his reed-pipe!

It was the first time Erast Petrovich had seen a theatre company in which he was forced to admit that no unevenness could be detected in the quality of the acting. All the actors, even those playing the minor parts, were immaculate, and every entrance by each and every one of them was a genuine firecracker.

However, the numerous merits of the production went almost unnoticed by Fandorin. From the moment when Altairsky-Lointaine first appeared on the stage, for him the play was divided into two parts of unequal value: the scenes in which she played and the scenes in which she was not present.

The moment that delicate voice started singing its simple little song about the wild flowers of the fields, remorseless fingers seemed to squeeze the hitherto indifferent spectator’s heart. He recognised that voice! He thought he had forgotten it, but now it appeared that he had remembered it for all these years!

The figure, the walk, the turn of the head – everything was exactly the same!

‘Pardon me…’

Fandorin turned round and almost tore the field glasses out of the cornet’s hand by force.

The face… No, the face was different, but that expression of the eyes, that trusting smile, that anticipation of happiness and open acceptance of destiny! How could all of that be reproduced so authentically, so relentlessly? He even squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t protest when the hussar took his field glasses back, whispering angrily:

‘Give them back, give them back, I want to adore her too!’

To watch poor Liza fall in love with the happy-go-lucky Erast and watch him betray her love for other infatuations, allowing her life to be destroyed, was painful and yet at the same time… revivifying – yes, that was the strange but absolutely precise word for it. As if Time with its sharp claws had stripped away the horny, calloused skin covering his soul and now it was oozing blood as it recovered its sensitivity and vulnerability.

Fandorin closed his eyes once again; he couldn’t bear to watch the scene of Liza’s lapse from virtue, which was presented by the director in an extremely bold, almost naturalistic manner. The maiden’s naked arm, with the fingers outstretched, was first picked out by a bright beam of light, then it started drooping, sinking downwards like a wilting flower stem.

‘Oh, well done, Lointaine!’ Tsarkov exclaimed when everyone started applauding. ‘Her acting is miraculous! As good as the late Komissarzhevskaya!’

Fandorin cast an angry glance at him. What he had said seemed like blasphemy to Erast Petrovich, who was finding the owner of the box more and more irritating. Several times some person or other came in to whisper with him – although that didn’t really matter all that much when Liza, that is, Eliza Lointaine, wasn’t on stage. During the musical interludes Fandorin’s talkative neighbour leaned across his armchair and began sharing his impressions or telling Erast Petrovich something about the theatre or the performers. For instance, concerning the romantic lead, Emeraldov, Tsarkov said disdainfully that he was ‘not a partner up to her level’. This seemed wrong to Erast Petrovich. He was wholeheartedly on the side of this character, he didn’t feel jealous when the theatrical Erast embraced Liza and, in defiance of all logic, he hoped that the young nobleman would see reason and return to his beloved.

Fandorin only began listening to the experienced theatre enthusiast’s tittle-tattle when Tsarkov said something about the prima donna. Thus, during a long scene that Erast Petrovich found uninteresting – set in a gambling club, with the hero’s officer friend trying to persuade him to stop, while the card sharp egged him on to try to recover his losses, Tsarkov communicated something about Altairsky-Lointaine that brought a frown to Fandorin’s face

‘Ah, yes, Lointaine is definitely a pearl of great price. Thank God that a man has turned up who will not begrudge the funds to provide a worthy setting. I am thinking of Mr Shustrov of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company.’

‘Is he her b-benefactor?’ Erast Petrovich asked, suddenly aware of an unpleasant, chilly sensation in his chest and feeling angry with himself because of it. ‘Who is he?’

‘A very capable young entrepreneur, who inherited a gingerbread and cracknel bakery from his father. He studied in America and manages his business in the tough American style too. He crushed all his competitors and then sold his cracknel kingdom for a very good price. Now he’s creating an entertainment empire – a new venture, with great prospects. I don’t think he has any romantic interest in Altairsky. Shustrov is an unromantic man. It is really more of an investment, with a view to her potential as an artiste.’

He carried on, saying something else about the Napoleonic plans of the former cracknel manufacturer, but Fandorin, having calmed down now, was no longer listening and he even interrupted the babbler with a rather uncivil gesture when Liza appeared on the stage again.

Although Erast Petrovich’s other companion did not importune him with conversation, Fandorin found him just as irksome as Tsarkov. Every time Altairsky-Lointaine made an entrance, he responded with howls of ‘Bravo!’ and his resounding voice left Fandorin’s ears deafened.

‘Stop that! You’re distracting me,’ Fandorin repeatedly told him angrily.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Cornet Limbach muttered, without tearing himself away from his field glasses, but only a second later he yelled again. ‘Divine! Divine!’

The actress had a multitude of ecstatic admirers in the auditorium. In fact it was rather strange that all their howling didn’t prevent her from playing her part – it was as if she didn’t hear them. Which was not the case with her partner, Mr Emeraldov – when he made his first entrance and women’s voices started squealing and shrieking in the hall, he pressed his hand to his heart and bowed.

Under other circumstances the emotional response of the audience would have irritated Fandorin, but today he was almost a different person. He seemed to have a lump in his own throat and did not find the audience’s reactions excessive at all.

Despite his own agitation, which was probably provoked less by the actors’ performance than by his own memories, Fandorin did note that the reaction of the auditorium was in fact determined by the psychological patterning of the production, in which comic scenes alternated with sentimental ones. By the time the finale came, the audience was sitting there, sobbing in hushed silence, and the curtain fell to thunderous applause and cheers.

A minute before the ending, the striped whistler entered the box and stood respectfully behind its owner. He was pressing his green briefcase against his side with his elbow and holding a little notebook and pencil in his hands.

‘Well then,’ Tsarkov said to him. ‘I’ll thank her and Stern in person. Arrange something or other absolutely top class. Emeraldov can make do with you. Give him my card. Well, and some wine, I suppose. Which does he like?’

‘Bordeaux, Chateau Latour, twenty-five roubles a bottle,’ the striped man said, glancing into the little book. He whistled quietly. ‘He certainly has good taste.’

‘Half a dozen… Hey, you, be quiet!’ The final remark was to the hussar, who had started shouting: ‘Loi-oin-taine! Loi-oin-taine!’ the moment the curtain came down.

Erast Petrovich offended the cornet too.

‘Let me have those,’ he said, confiscating the boy’s field glasses again. He wanted very badly to take a look at what the astounding actress’s face was like when she was no longer acting.

‘But I have to see her accept my basket!’

The young officer tried to tear the field glasses out of Fandorin’s hand, but he might as well have tried to tear the sword out of the hands of the bronze figures of Minin and Pozharsky on Red Square.

‘Consider it the price of your seat,’ Erast Petrovich hissed, adjusting the little wheel.

No, not the least bit like her, he told himself. About ten years older. The face isn’t oval, but more angular. And the eyes aren’t youthful at all, they’re weary. Ah, such eyes…

He put down the field glasses, because he suddenly felt unaccountably dizzy. Well, well, what next?

The actors did not come out for their bows by turns, in the way it was usually done in the theatre, but all at once: the male and female leads at the front, with the others in the second row. The one who had played Death, that is, Noah Stern himself, did not appear at all – he remained brilliantly absent, so to speak.

The applause continued unabated as attendants carried flowers out onto the stage from both sides, first the bouquets, and then the baskets – the smaller ones first, followed by the larger ones. About half of the tributes went to Emeraldov and half to Altairsky. Other players received perhaps one or two bouquets, but not everyone got something.

‘Now they’ll bring mine out. Give me those back! There it is! I spent a month’s pay on it!’

The hussar clung on to Fandorin’s arm and the field glasses had to be relinquished.

The basket was genuinely sumptuous – an entire cloud of white roses.

‘She’s going to take mine, mine!’ the cornet repeated, seeming not to notice that in his excitement he was tugging on the other man’s sleeve.

‘Here, if you please. I can see that you are interested.’

Mr Tsarkov politely held out his mother-of-pearl lorgnette on a handle. Erast Petrovich grabbed the trinket, raised it to his eyes and was surprised to discover that the lenses were every bit as effective as those in the officer’s field glasses.

Once again the smiling face of Eliza Altairsky-Lointaine appeared close, very close, in front of his eyes. She was glancing downwards and off to one side, and the wings of her delicately chiselled nose were trembling slightly. What could have upset her? Surely not the fact that the final basket presented to Emeraldov (lemon-yellow orchids) was more sumptuous than her white roses? Hardly. This woman could not be infected with such petty vanity!

And then yet another basket, a genuine palace of flowers, was carried out onto the stage. Who was it intended for – the prima donna or the leading man?

For her! This miracle of the florist’s art was set down in front of Altairsky to the sound of ecstatic shouting from the entire hall. She curtsied, lowering her face to the buds and embracing the flowers in her slim, white arms.

‘Oh, damn it, damn it…’ Limbach groaned pitifully, seeing that his high card had been trumped.

Erast Petrovich shifted his lenses to Emeraldov for a second. The picturesquely handsome features of Karamzin’s Erast were distorted in spiteful malice. Well, well, such passions because of mere flowers!

He looked at Eliza again, expecting to see her triumphant. But the actress’s lovely face was a frozen mask of horror: the eyes were gaping wide and the lips were set in a soundless scream. What was wrong? What had frightened her?

Suddenly Fandorin saw that one of the flower buds, still dark and unopened, was swaying to and fro and seemed to be reaching upwards.

Good Lord! It wasn’t a bud! Fandorin distinctly made out the diamond form of a snake’s head framed in the double circle of his vision. It was a viper, and it was reaching directly towards the petrified leading lady’s bosom.

‘A snake! There’s a snake in the basket!’ Limbach howled, and he vaulted over the parapet, down into the gangway.

Everything happened in a few brief instants.

People in the front rows of the orchestra stalls were screaming and waving their arms about. The rest of the audience, not understanding what was happening, launched into a new storm of applause.

The swashbuckling hussar jumped to his feet, snatched his sword out of its scabbard and dashed towards the stage. But the white figure of Pan, made up to resemble marble, came to Altairsky’s rescue even sooner. Since he was standing behind the actress’s back, the horned god had spotted the fearsome denizen of the flower basket before anyone else. He ran up, fearlessly grabbed the reptile by the neck and snatched it out into the open.

Now the entire audience could see what was happening. The ladies started squealing. Madam Altairsky swayed on her feet and fell over onto her back. Then valiant Pan cried out – the reptile had bitten him on the hand. He swung it hard and smashed it against the floor, then started trampling it with his feet.

The theatre was filled with screams, the clattering of chairs and screeching.

‘A doctor! Call a doctor!’ voices shouted from the stage.

Someone fanned Eliza with a shawl and someone else led the bitten hero away.

And a tall, very thin man with his head completely shaved appeared right at the back of the stage.

He stood there with his arms folded, contemplating all this babel and smiling.

‘Who is that? Back there, behind all the others?’ Fandorin asked his omniscient companion.

‘One moment,’ said the companion, concluding a quiet conversation with his striped minion. ‘Find out who was responsible and punish them!’

‘It shall be done.’

The whistler walked rapidly out of the box and Mr Tsarkov turned towards Erast Petrovich with a polite smile, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

‘Where? Ah, that is Noah Noaevich Stern in person. He has taken off his Mask of Death. Just look how he’s glowing! And he has good reason to be delighted. What a stroke of luck! Now the Muscovites will go absolutely mad about the Ark.’

What a strange world, thought Fandorin. Incredibly strange!

INITIAL ACQUAINTANCE

The prime minister died at the very time when Erast Petrovich was in the theatre. The next day flags with black ribbons attached to them were hung everywhere and the newspapers appeared with huge headlines of mourning. In the liberal papers they wrote that, although the deceased was a proponent of reactionary views, the last chance for a renewal of the country without turmoil and revolution had died together with him. In the patriotic papers they cursed the Hebraic tribe to which the killer belonged and saw a special meaning in the fact that Stolypin had passed away on the anniversary of the ascension of the Most Orthodox Prince Gleb, thereby augmenting the host of the martyrs of the Russian land. Publications of the melodramatic, gutter-press disposition vehemently quoted Pyotr Arkadievich Stolypin’s will, in which he had apparently requested to be buried ‘where I am killed’.

This tragic news (they telephoned Erast Petrovich when he got back from the theatre) failed to make any special impression on him. The man who made the call, a high-ranking bureaucrat, also said that the council of the Ministry of Internal Affairs had discussed whether Fandorin should be involved in the investigation, but the commander of the Corps of Gendarmes had categorically objected to this and the minister had made no comment.

It was remarkable that Erast Petrovich did not feel mortified in the least; on the contrary, he actually felt relieved, and if he did not sleep a wink the whole night long, it was not out of resentment, or even out of fearful concern for the fate of the state.

He paced to and fro in his study, looking down at the bright glimmers reflected from the parquet; he lay on the divan with a cigar, looking up at the white ceiling; he sat on the windowsill and gazed hard into the blackness – but all the while he saw the same thing: a slim arm, languid eyes, a snake’s head among flower buds.

Fandorin was accustomed to subjecting facts to analysis, but not his own emotions. And even now he did not stray from the path of rational inference, sensing that the slightest sideways step would send him tumbling into a quagmire, and he did not know how to scramble out of it.

Setting out a line of logic created the illusion that nothing special had happened. Just another investigation, the world had not been turned on its head.

Madam Altairsky’s fear had been justified. The danger really did exist. That was one, thought Erast Petrovich, bending down one finger – and he caught himself smiling. She isn’t a hysterical girl who imagines things, she isn’t a psychopath!

She obviously had some kind of ferocious enemy with a perverse imagination. Or enemies. That was two. How could anyone possibly hate her?

Judging from the theatricality of the attack on her life, the culprit or culprits should be sought first of all within the theatre company or on its immediate periphery. It was unlikely that someone who did not have backstage access could have placed the reptile in the basket. However, that would have to be checked. That was three. But what if the snake had bitten her? Oh, God!

He had to go to the theatre, take a close look at everything and, most important of all, try to get Madam Altairsky-Lointaine herself to speak frankly. That was four. I shall see her again! I shall talk to her!

The inner dialogue continued in this way right through until the morning, with feverishly agitated emotions constantly hindering the work of thought.

Eventually, after dawn, Fandorin said to himself: What the blazes is this? I think I must be unwell. He lay down and with an effort of will forced himself to relax and fall asleep.

Three hours later Fandorin got up well rested, performed his usual physical exercises, took an ice bath and walked on a tightrope stretched across the courtyard for ten minutes. Control over his interior world was re-established. Erast Petrovich ate a hearty breakfast and looked through the Moscow newspapers that had been delivered; a brief glance at the sad headlines – and then rapidly on to the current events pages. Even the publications that lacked a theatre review section had published reports about the play at Noah’s Ark and the snake. Some reporters were appalled, some joked about it, but all of them, without exception, wrote about it. The reporters’ theories (envy among actors, a spurned admirer, a malicious joke) were of no real interest because they were so obvious. The only useful information that Fandorin gleaned from this reading was the fact that the actor who was bitten (Mr Nonarikin) had been given an injection of antivenom and the state of his health was no longer any cause for concern.

Olga Leonardovna called several times in an agitated state, but Masa had been instructed to tell her that his master was not at home. Erast Petrovich did not feel like wasting time and mental energy on sentimental conversations. Those resources could be put to far better use.

The manager of Noah’s Ark met his visitor at the service entrance, shook his hand in both of his own and led him to his office – all in all, he was hospitality itself. During their telephone conversation Fandorin had thought that Stern seemed a little wary, but the theatre director had agreed immediately to meet.

‘Madam Chekhov’s wish is sacred to me,’ Stern said, offering Erast Petrovich a seat in an armchair. His narrow, intent eyes slid over the visitor’s impervious face and elegant cream suit and halted on the pointy-toed shoes of crocodile leather. ‘She called yesterday and asked for a complimentary ticket for you, but it was too late, there wasn’t a single good seat left. Olga Leonardovna said she would arrange things somehow without my help, but she wanted me to set aside some time for you after the performance. She called again this morning to ask if the meeting had taken place…’

‘I didn’t bother you yesterday, in view of the circumstances.’

‘Yes, indeed, an absolutely macabre incident. All that screaming backstage! And the audience was so very excited!’ The director’s thin lips extended into a sweet smile. ‘But what is the reason for your visit? Olga Leonardovna didn’t explain. “Mr Fandorin will explain that,” she said… Pardon me, but what line of business is it that you are in?’

Erast Petrovich limited himself to answering the first question.

‘Madam Chekhova considers that your leading actress…’ – he hesitated briefly. He had been about to pronounce the name, but for some reason he didn’t – ‘…is in danger. Yesterday’s incident d-demonstrates that Olga Leonardovna is right. I promised to get to the bottom of things.’

The theatrical innovator’s sharp eyes glinted with curiosity.

‘But who are you? Could you really be some kind of psychic? I’ve heard that fortune-tellers and clairvoyants are all the fashion in Moscow. I find that very, very interesting!’

‘Yes, I have made a study of clairvoyance. In Japan,’ Erast Petrovich said with a serious expression. It had occurred to him that this story could be very convenient for the forthcoming investigation. And then again, clairvoyance (i.e. ‘clear vision’) and deduction (that is, clear thinking) did have quite a lot in common.

‘Phenomenal!’ Stern exclaimed, so enthused that he jumped up out of his chair. ‘Perhaps you could demonstrate your art? Well, if only on me, for instance. I ask you please, glance into my future! No, better, into my past, so that I can appreciate your skill.’

What a mercurial gentleman, thought Fandorin. A veritable bead of mercury. (The comparison arose in response to the way the theatre director’s bald head glinted in a ray of sunlight – the September day had turned out fine.)

The newspaper-reading and telephone calls on which Erast Petrovich had spent half of the present day had thrown very little light on Noah Stern’s biography. He had a reputation as a reticent individual who did not like to talk about his past. The only thing known about him was that he had grown up in the Jewish Pale, in extreme poverty, and lived a vagabond life during the days of his youth. He had started as a clown in a circus and then acted in provincial theatres for a long time until eventually he became well known. He had acquired his own theatre company only a year ago, when he won the patronage of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company, which had taken a gamble on his talent. Stern told the newspaper correspondents cock-and-bull stories about himself, always different ones – and he quite obviously did it deliberately. Everything added up to just one conclusion: here was a man obsessed by a single, solitary passion – the theatre. He had no family and did not seem to have a home either. Noah Noaevich was not even known to have had any casual affairs with actresses.

‘Glance into your p-past?’

The director’s high-strung face started quivering in its craving for an immediate miracle.

‘Yes, something from out of my childhood.’

Stern was certain that no one knew anything about that period of his life, Erast Petrovich realised.

Well then, if clairvoyance was to be the thing…

‘Tell me. Is Noah Noaevich your real name?’

‘The absolutely genuine article. As stated on my birth certificate.’

‘I see…’ Fandorin drew his black eyebrows in towards the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes up towards his forehead, across which a greyish lock of hair dangled down (this was exactly the way he imagined that a clairvoyant would have behaved). ‘The beginning of your life is a sad one, my d-dear sir. Your father never even saw you. He departed to the next world while you still dwelt in your mother’s womb. His death was sudden – an unexpected blow of Fate.’

The chances of being mistaken were not very great. Among Jews there was an old custom of naming children in honour of some relative who had died, but almost never in honour of the living. That was precisely why it was so rare for a son to be given his father’s name, except in cases when the father had died. The assumption that the death had been sudden was not so very risky either. Men who had been seriously ill for a long time did not produce such vigorous progeny.

This simple little deduction absolutely bowled the impressionable showman over.

‘Phenomenal!’ he exclaimed, clutching at his heart. ‘I’ve never told anybody that! Not a single soul! There is no one around me who could know anything about my life! My God, how I adore everything that is inexplicable! Erast Petrovich, you are a unique individual! A miracle worker! From the very first moment I laid eyes on you, I realised that I saw before me an exceptional man. If I were a woman or a disciple of Oscar Wilde, I would absolutely fall in love with you!’

This joke was accompanied by an extremely charming smile. The wide-open brown eyes gazed at Fandorin with an expression of such sincere liking that it was impossible not to respond in kind.

He’s overwhelming me, thought Erast Petrovich, turning on his charm – and with superb skill. This man is an excellent actor and a born manipulator. He was frightened by my little trick and now he wants to know just what sort of creature I am, get my measure and crack open my shell. Well then, bite away, do. Only be careful not to break your teeth.

‘You possess the inner strength of magnanimity,’ said Noah Noaevich, continuing with his fawning. ‘Oh, I understand about such things. There are not many people with whom I feel a desire to be frank, but you inspire the desire to be defenceless… I am terribly glad that Olga Leonardovna has sent you to us. There really is some strange process of fermentation taking place in the company. It would be excellent if you could take a close look at my actors and were able to perceive the villain who hid the snake in the flowers. And at the same time it would be good to find out who poured glue into my galoshes the day before yesterday. An idiotic prank! I had to have a completely new pair of boots resoled and throw the galoshes out!’

Erast Petrovich promised to ‘perceive’ the destroyer of the galoshes as well, when he was given a chance to meet the company.

‘Then we’ll see to that straight away!’ Stern declared. ‘No point in putting it off! We have a meeting scheduled right now. In half an hour. I’m going to announce the new play for production and give out the parts. The actors display their genuine egos most clearly of all when the squabbling over parts begins. You’ll see them as if they were naked.’

‘What play is it?’ Erast Petrovich asked, recalling what his companion in the box had said. ‘Or is that still a secret?’

‘Oh, come now.’ Noah Noaevich laughed. ‘What secrets can there be from a clairvoyant? And in any case tomorrow all the newspapers will write about it. I’ve chosen The Cherry Orchard for my new production. Excellent material for routing Stanislavsky with his own weapon and on his own territory! The public can compare my Cherry Orchard with their anaemic exercises! I won’t deny that the Art Theatre used to be pretty good once, but it has lost its fizz. Any mention of the Maly is simple laughable! And Korsh’s theatre is low farce for merchants’ wives! I’ll show them all what real directing and genuine work with actors look like! Would you like me to tell you, my dear Erast Petrovich, what the ideal theatre should be like? I can see that you would make an intelligent and appreciative listener.’

It would have been impolite to decline the offer, and in any case Fandorin wished to get to grips with the bizarre workings of this world that was so new to him.

‘Do t-tell me. I’m interested.’

Noah Noaevich stood over his visitor in the pose of an Old Testament prophet, with his eyes glittering.

‘Do you know why my theatre is called “Noah’s Ark”? Firstly, because only art will save the world from the flood, and the highest form of art is the theatre. Secondly, because in my theatre company I have a full set of human types. And thirdly because I have two of every kind of beast.’

Noticing the puzzlement on his visitor’s face, Stern smiled contentedly.

‘Oh, yes. I have a hero and a heroine; a high-minded, no-nonsense father and a grande dame, otherwise known as a matron; a male servant-cum-prankster-cum-buffoon and a pert maidservant-cum-prankster-cum-ingénue-cum-coquette; a male villain and a female villain; a simpleton and a principal boy (not a pair – for these two types, singleness is the prescribed arrangement); and then finally, for performing all the other possible roles, there is myself and my assistant director – I play the secondary roles and he plays the tertiary ones. According to my theory of acting, one should not rely on artistes of the so-called versatile type, who are capable of playing absolutely any part. I, for instance, I am an all-round actor. I can play anyone at all to equally good effect – whether it be Lear or Shylock or Falstaff. But one very rarely come across geniuses like that,’ Noah Noaevich said regretfully. ‘It is not possible to assemble an entire company of them. However, there are any number of actors who are very good in their one and only type. I take a person like that and help him develop his strong but narrow talent to perfection. The type should become inseparable from the individual, that is the very best way. Moreover, artistes are susceptible to that kind of mimicry, and I am very good at guiding them. When I take actors into the company, I even require them to adopt a stage-name that matches the genre of their roles. You know, give a thing a name and that’s the way it will be. Only the prima donna and the male lead have kept their former pseudonyms – they both had names that are a draw for the public. My no-nonsense philosopher became Sensiblin, my villain became Mephistov, my coquette became Aphrodisina, and so on. When you take a look now, you’ll see immediately that each of them has literally grown into the skin of his or her type. Even offstage they’re still working on their characters!’

Erast Petrovich, who had already learned the membership of the company off by heart, asked:

‘And what is the type of the god Pan, who demonstrated such bravery yesterday? Nonarikin is not a name that arouses associations with anything in particular, except perhaps the number nine, from the Latin nonus.’

‘Well he is indeed a number nine in the deck of cards, so to speak, not an ace or any kind of face card. But he’s the secondary director, my irreplaceable assistant, one in nine persons and a jack of all trades. And also, by the way, the only one apart from myself who performs under his own natural name. I picked him up in an appalling provincial company, where he was playing heroes quite appallingly under the name of “Lermont”, although he is actually more like Lieutenant Solyony in The Three Sisters. Now he’s in the right place and he’s absolutely indispensable; without him I’m all thumbs and no fingers. The basic ploy involved here is that in my theatre absolutely everyone is in the right place. Apart from Emeraldov, I suppose.’ The skin on the director’s forehead gathered into tragic folds. ‘I regret to say that I was beguiled by a striking appearance and a long train of female admirers. A hero should be played by a hero, and our Hippolyte is merely a peacock with bright feathers…’

The genius did not grieve for long, however. His face soon recovered its triumphant radiance.

‘My theatre is ideal! Do you know what an ideal theatre is?’

Fandorin said no, he didn’t know that.

‘Well then, I’ll explain to you. It’s a theatre which has everything that is necessary and nothing superfluous, since a deficit or superfluity of anything is equally injurious to the company. The problem is that there are very few ideal plays in the world. Do you know what an ideal play is?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a play in which all the types are represented vividly. Griboedov’s Woe from Wit is considered the classic example. However, no one writes like that any more, and you can’t exist on a diet of nothing but the classics all the time. The audience gets fed up. It would be good to have something new, something exotic, with a whiff of a different culture. You say you have lived in Japan? You ought to translate something about geishas and samurais. After the war the public became very keen on everything Japanese.’ He laughed. ‘I’m joking. The Cherry Orchard is almost an ideal play. Just the right number of parts that I need. Set a few things right here and there, state some things a bit more distinctly, and there you have an excellent comedy of masks, built entirely on characters, without Chekhov’s usual half-tones. We’ll see whose orchard has more blossom when the time comes, Konstantin Sergeevich!’

‘My name is Erast Petrovich,’ Fandorin reminded him, and didn’t understand why Stern gave him such a commiserating look.

THE DWELLERS IN THE ARK

At the meeting of the theatre company, which took place in the green room, the director, as agreed, casually introduced Fandorin as a contender for the post of repertoire manager or ‘play-picker’, that is, head of the literary section. Stern had told him that in the theatre this position was generally regarded as unimportant, and the artistes wouldn’t show off for such an insignificant figure. And so it turned out. For a moment at the beginning, everyone stared curiously at the elegant gentleman with the picturesque appearance (grey hair streaked slightly with black, parted on a slant, and a well-groomed black moustache), but when they heard who he was, they soon stopped paying any attention to him. This situation suited Erast Petrovich. He seated himself modestly in the farthest corner and started examining them – everyone except Altairsky. Fandorin could feel her presence very keenly (she was sitting opposite him at a slight angle), as if there were a scintillating radiance streaming out of that section of the room, but he did not dare to gaze into it, fearing that the rest of the room would be submerged in twilight, and then he would not be able to work. Erast Petrovich promised himself that he would gaze at her to his heart’s content later, after he had studied the others thoroughly.

To begin with, Noah Noaevich delivered an energetic speech, congratulating the company on the colossal success of Poor Liza and bemoaning the fact that ‘owing to a certain incident’ it had not been possible to follow usual practice and review the performance immediately after its conclusion.

‘Let me remind you of yesterday’s agreement: we are not going to discuss that vile business. An investigation will be carried out, and the guilty party will be unmasked, you have Noah Stern’s word…’ – a brief, suggestive glance in the direction of Fandorin – ‘…But there will be no more of the screaming and oriental ruckus that we had yesterday. Is that clear?’

From out of the zone where the opalescent light was shimmering there came the gentle voice that Erast Petrovich had been yearning to hear again.

‘Just one thing, if you will permit me, Noah Noaevich. Yesterday I was in no condition to thank dear Georgy Ivanovich properly for being so brave. He came dashing to help me, at the risk of his own life! I… I don’t know what would have happened to me… If that hideous thing had simply touched me, let alone bitten me…’ There was a sound of muffled sobbing, which wrung Fandorin’s heart. ‘Georgy Ivanovich, you are the last true knight of our time! Permit me to kiss you!’

Everyone applauded and for the first time Fandorin allowed himself to glance, but only briefly, at the prima donna. Altairsky was wearing a light-coloured dress, caught in at the waist with a broad, maroon scarf, and a light, wide-brimmed hat with feathers. Her face could not be seen, because she was sitting half-turned away from Fandorin to face a short, pale-faced man with his arm in a sling. The hair at his temples was sleeked down in the style of Lermontov, his high forehead was glistening with sweat and his brown eyes were gazing adoringly at Eliza.

‘Thank you… That is, I mean to say, don’t mention it,’ Nonarikin babbled when she took off her hat and touched her lips to his cheek. And then he suddenly blushed bright red.

‘Bravo!’ a small young lady cried out energetically, jumping to her feet while continuing to applaud. She had an amusing little freckly face with a snub nose, and in his own mind Fandorin immediately dubbed her Halfpint. ‘My dear Georges, you are like St George, who defeated the dragon! I want to kiss you too. And shake your poor hand!’

She dashed across to the embarrassed hero, went up on tiptoe and embraced him, but the assistant director received Halfpint’s kiss with rather less enthusiasm.

‘Don’t squeeze so hard, Zoya, it hurts! You’ve got bony fingers.’

‘So this is where my fate was lurking, the threat of death lay in this bone.’ The sardonic quotation from Pushkin’s poem came from a breathtaking gentleman in a white suit, with a red carnation in the buttonhole. This, of course, was the leading man Emeraldov, who was even more handsome from close up than onstage.

Erast Petrovich glanced cautiously at Eliza, to see what she was like without the hat. But the prima donna was tidying up her hairstyle, and all he could see was her hair raised up and drawn tight in a knot that was either very simple or, on the contrary, incredibly intricate, and lent a certain Egyptian hint to her profile.

‘I am obliged to interrupt this touching scene. Enough of all this rapturous admiration and spooning, it’s already one minute to four,’ said the director, brandishing the watch he had taken out of his pocket. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very important event today. Before we proceed to an analysis of the new play, our benefactor and good angel, Andrei Gordeevich Shustrov, has expressed a desire to meet with us.’

Everyone started and some of the women even shrieked.

Stern was smiling.

‘Yes, yes. He wants to get to know everyone. So far only Eliza and I have enjoyed the company of this remarkable patron of the arts, without whom our Ark would never have been launched on its voyage. But we are in Moscow, and Mr Shustrov has set aside the time to greet you all in person. He promised to be here at four, and this man is never late.’

‘You villain, couldn’t you have warned us? I’d have put on my shot-silk dress and pearls,’ a plump lady with a regal appearance, who had undoubtedly once been very beautiful, complained in a rich contralto voice.

‘Shustrov is too young for you, dear-heart Vasilisa Prokofievna,’ an imposing man with wonderful bluish-grey hair told her. ‘I don’t suppose he’s thirty yet. You won’t snare him with pearls and shot silk.’

The lady countered without even turning her head:

‘You old buffoon!’

There was a discreet knock at the door.

‘What did I tell you: quite remarkable punctuality!’ Noah Noaevich brandished his watch again and dashed to open the door.

Fandorin had been warned about the entrepreneur’s forthcoming visit. The director had said it was an excellent way for Erast Petrovich to get to know the members of the company – Stern would be introducing all the actors to their patron.

The owner of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company did not look much like an industrialist, at least not a Russian one. Young, lean, discreetly dressed and sparing with words. At a first impression it seemed to Fandorin that the most interesting feature of this rather unremarkable individual was a special kind of intensity in the glance of his eyes and a general air of exceptional seriousness. It seemed as if this man never joked or smiled and he never, ever made small talk. Erast Petrovich was usually impressed by people like this, but he took a dislike to Shustrov.

While Stern delivered his welcoming speech – a bombastic oration, with the customary actor’s exaggerations (‘most esteemed benefactor’, ‘enlightened patron of the muses’, ‘custodian of the arts and spiritual values’, ‘paragon of impeccable taste’ and so forth) the capitalist remained silent, calmly surveying the members of the company. He fixed his gaze on Altairsky-Lointaine and from that moment his attention was not distracted by anyone else.

And from that very moment Fandorin began to feel a positive hostility for the ‘paragon of impeccable taste’. He squinted at the prima donna – what was her reaction? She was smiling, and tenderly. Her eyes were glued to Shustrov too. And although this was seemingly quite natural – all the members of the company were smiling radiantly as they looked at the young man – Erast Petrovich’s mood darkened.

He might at least protest about the compliments, put on a show of modesty, Fandorin thought angrily.

But the truth of the matter was that the actors of Noah’s Ark had something to thank Andrei Gordeevich for. Not only had he paid for the move from St Petersburg to Moscow, he had provided a splendidly equipped theatre for their performances here. As Stern’s speech made clear, the company had at their disposal a full complement of musicians and attendants, make-up artists and wardrobe mistresses, lighting technicians and labourers, and also all the necessary stage props, with ateliers and workshops, in which experienced costumiers and craftsmen could quickly manufacture any costume or stage set. Probably no other theatre company, including the imperial ones, had ever existed in such pampered conditions.

‘The life you have provided us with here is like being in a magical castle!’ Noah Noaevich exclaimed. ‘It is enough to express a wish and simply clap one’s hands – and one’s dream comes true. Only in such ideal conditions is it possible to create art without being distracted by degrading and tedious fuss and bother over how to make ends meet. Let us welcome our guardian angel, my friends.’

In response to the applause and ardent exclamations from everyone present, with the sole exception of Fandorin, Mr Shustrov bowed slightly – and that was all.

After that the introductions of the actors began.

First of all Stern led their honoured guest over to the prima donna.

I can do it now, Fandorin thought, and finally allowed himself to focus entirely on the woman responsible for the agitated state in which he had been since the previous day. He knew a lot more about her today than he had known yesterday.

She was almost thirty years of age and came from a theatre family. She had graduated from the ballet department of a theatre college, but had followed a career in drama, thanks to a stage voice of astonishing depth and extremely delicate timbre. She had performed in theatres in both of Russia’s capital cities, displaying her brilliance several seasons earlier at the Art Theatre. Malicious gossips asserted that she had left because she did not wish to be on an equal footing with other strong actresses, of whom that theatre had too many. Before becoming the leading actress at Noah’s Ark, Altairsky-Lointaine had enjoyed immense success in St Petersburg with performances in the fashionable genre of recitation to musical accompaniment.

That name of hers no longer seemed excessively pretentious to Erast Petrovich. It suited her: as distant as the star Altair… At the very beginning of her career she had given a vivid performance as Princess Daydream in the play of the same name by Rostand – hence ‘Lointaine’ (in the French original the heroine is call Princess Lointaine – the Distant Princess, or Princess Faraway). The other part of her pseudonym, which emphasised her inapproachable remoteness, had appeared more recently, following her brief marriage. The newspapers had been rather vague in what they wrote about that. Her husband was an oriental prince, almost a semi-sovereign khan, and some of the articles had referred to Eliza as ‘khatun’, i.e. a khan’s wife.

Well, as he looked at her, Fandorin was willing to believe absolutely anything. A woman like that could easily be a princess and a khatun.

Although he had spent a long time preparing himself before he studied her properly at close quarters, it really didn’t do very much to soften the blow. Through the field glasses Erast Petrovich had seen her in stage make-up and, moreover, playing the part of a naive village girl. But in life, in her own natural state, Eliza was quite different – not just from her stage image, but simply different, unlike other women, unique… Fandorin would have found it hard to explain exactly how to interpret this thought that made him take a tight grip on the armrests of his chair – because he felt an irresistible urge to stand up and move closer, in order to gaze at her point blank, avidly and continuously.

What is it that’s so special about her? he asked himself, trying as usual to rationalise the irrational. Where does this feeling of unparalleled, magnetic beauty come from?

He tried to judge impartially.

After all, strictly speaking, she is no great beauty. Her features are rather too small, if anything. The proportions are not classical. A thin-lipped mouth that is too broad. A slight hump in the nose. But instead of weakening the impression of a miracle, all these irregularities merely reinforced it.

It seems to be something to do with the eyes, Erast Petrovich decided. A certain strange elusiveness that makes you to want to catch her glance, in order to resolve its mystery. It seems to be directed at you, but tangentially somehow, as if she doesn’t see you. Or as if she sees something quite different from what is being shown to her.

Fandorin was certainly not lacking in powers of observation. Even in his present, distinctly abnormal condition, he quickly solved the riddle. Madam Altairsky had a slight squint, that was all there was to the elusiveness. But then another riddle immediately popped up – her smile. Or rather, the half-smile, or incomplete smile that played almost constantly on her lips. That, apparently, is where the enchantment lies, thought Erast Petrovich, advancing a different theory. It is as if this woman is in a constant state of anticipation of happiness – she looks at you as if she were asking: ‘Are you the one I’m waiting for? Are you really my happiness?’ And a certain bashfulness could also be read in that marvellous smile. As if Liza were making a gift of herself to the world and was slightly embarrassed by her own generosity.

All in all, it must be admitted that Fandorin failed to resolve the secret of the prima donna’s attractiveness completely. He would have carried on examining her for much longer, but Shustrov had already been led on to the person beside her, and Erast Petrovich reluctantly transferred his gaze to Hippolyte Emeraldov.

Now this was a kind of beauty that Fandorin didn’t need to rack his brains over. The actor was tall and well set up, with broad shoulders, an ideal parting in his hair, a clear gaze, a blinding smile and an absolutely splendid baritone voice. A sight for sore eyes, a genuine Antinous. The newspapers wrote that he had been followed from St Petersburg to Moscow by almost fifty lovesick female theatregoers, who never missed a single performance that their idol gave and lavished flowers on him extravagantly. Stern had lured him from the Alexandrinsky Theatre for a quite incredible salary of almost a thousand roubles a month.

‘You played Hamlet and Vershinin excellently. And you have made a success of Karamzin’s Erast too,’ the patron of the arts said, shaking Emeraldov by the hand. ‘But most important of all, you a have a highly advantageous appearance that can be examined from close up. That’s important.’

The millionaire had a peculiar way of speaking. You could tell that he wouldn’t squander compliments on anyone. He said what he really thought, without taking too much trouble to make his train of thought clear to the other party.

The leading man replied with a charming smile.

‘I could have said: “Look as much as you like, there’s no charge for a peek”, but with you it’s a sin not to ask. So in that connection, I’d like to enquire whether it might not be possible after all to have a benefit performance at the end of the season.’

‘Out of the question!’ Noah Noaevich snapped. ‘The company articles of Noah’s Ark state that no one shall have any benefit performances.’

‘Not even your favourite?’ the handsome devil asked, tossing his head in the direction of Eliza, while still addressing Shustrov.

‘What an insolent individual, Fandorin thought, and frowned. Surely someone will put him in his place? And what did he mean by saying that about a favourite?

‘Shut up, Hippolyte. Everyone’s sick of you,’ the lady who had recently been concerned about her shot-silk dress said in a loud voice.

‘And this is Vasilisa Prokofievna Reginina, our “grande dame”,’ the man with the bluish-grey hair put in.

To the sound of muffled giggling, the monumental Vasilisa Prokofievna hurled a withering glance at the joker.

‘A voice from the next world,’ she hissed. ‘Dead men are supposed to hold their tongues.’

The giggling grew louder.

Relationships within the company are strained, Erast Petrovich noted.

‘There is no greater calamity for an actress than to cling on for too long to playing the heroine. A woman should know how to move from one age to the next at the right time. I shall be eternally grateful to Noah Noaevich for persuading me to have done with the Desdemonas, Cordelias and Juliets. Good Lord, what a liberation it is not having to act younger than my age, not having a fit of hysterics over every new wrinkle! Now at least I can calmly play the Catherine the Greats and the Kabanyayas until the day I die. I eat cakes, I’ve put on forty pounds and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest!’

This proclamation was made with genuine majesty.

‘My queen! Truly a regina!’ Stern exclaimed. ‘Eat your heart out, dear fellow, for letting your happiness slip away,’ he said reproachfully to the grey-haired man. ‘This is our “philosopher”, Lev Spiridonovich Sensiblin, an extremely wise man, although he can be a bit prickly. He used to be a romantic lead. And not only on the stage, I think, eh, Lev Spiridonovich? Will you finally reveal to us the secret of why you and Vasilisa Prokofievna got divorced? Why does she call you a corpse and a dead man?’

Seeing the sudden animation among the actors, Fandorin guessed that this subject was a popular one in the theatre and felt surprised: surely it was strange to keep a former married couple together in a small company, especially if they had not managed to remain on good terms?

‘Vasilisa calls me that because for her I am dead,’ the ‘philosopher’ replied in a meek, sorrowful voice. ‘I really did do something absolutely monstrous. Something that is impossible to forgive. Not that I have exactly begged her, by the way… But let the details remain our secret.’

‘A corpse. A living corpse,’ Reginina said, pulling a wry mouth as she spoke the title of the play that everyone in Russia was talking about this season.

Shustrov suddenly livened up.

‘That’s the idea!’ he said. ‘A Living Corpse is an excellent example of how the theatre and the cinematograph support and advertise each other. Count Tolstoy leaves an unpublished play, in some mysterious manner the text finds its way into the hands of my rival Persky, and he has already begun making a film, without waiting for the stage production to appear! No one knows what the play is about, typed copies leak out and are sold on for three hundred roubles! The family of the deceased is taking legal action! I can imagine how the public will go rushing to the cinematograph halls and theatres! An excellent arrangement! We shall talk about that later on.’

His excitement passed off as suddenly as it had arisen. Everyone looked at the entrepreneur in respectful bewilderment.

‘My assistant, Nonarikin,’ said Noah Noaevich, indicating the man who had been bitten. ‘And also an actor without any character type. Monstrously bad, but with a classical repertoire. Our lieutenant is smitten, lovesick, bewitched! He leaves the army and treads the boards under a romantic pseudonym, acting appallingly in appalling productions. And then a new miracle occurs. When he is passing through St Petersburg, he watches my show and finally understands what real theatre is. He comes to me and begs to be taken on in any capacity at all. I have a good understanding of people – it’s my profession. I took him on as my assistant and I have never once regretted it. And yesterday Nonarikin showed that he is a hero. But of course, you know about that, Andrei Gordeevich.’

‘Yes I do.’ Shustrov gave the assistant’s unbandaged left hand a firm shake. ‘Well done. You saved us all some serious losses.’

Erast Petrovich’s left eyebrow rose slightly and his mood suddenly improved. If Eliza’s health was merely a matter of potential ‘losses’ for this patron of the arts, then… That was quite a different matter.

‘I didn’t do it to save your losses,’ Nonarikin muttered, but the visitor was already being introduced to the next artiste.

‘Kostya Shiftsky. As the pseudonym indicates, an actor who plays shifty customers and rogues,’ said Stern, introducing a young man with incredibly lively features. ‘He has played Goldoni’s Truffaldino, de Molina’s Lepporello and Molière’s Scapin.’

The actor ran one hand through his exuberant, curly hair, bared his teeth in a thick-lipped grin and bowed buffoonishly.

‘At Your Excellency’s service.’

‘A funny face,’ Shustrov observed approvingly. ‘I have ordered an investigation to be undertaken. The public loves comics almost as much as femmes fatales.’

‘We’re here to serve. We’ll play whoever you tell us to play. You desire a femme fatale? My pleasure!’ Shiftsky saluted like a solder and immediately gave a very recognisable imitation of Altairsky: he bleared his eyes, intertwined his hands elegantly and even reproduced the half-smile.

All the actors laughed, even Lointaine herself. Only two individuals were not amused: Shustrov, who nodded with a serious air, and Fandorin, who found this clowning disagreeable.

‘And here is our “coquette”, little Serafima Aphrodisina. I saw her as Susanna in The Marriage of Figaro and immediately invited her to join the company.’

The pretty, plump little blonde bobbed down in a rapid curtsy.

‘Is it true what they say, that you’re a bachelor?’ she asked, and her eyes started twinkling mischievously.

‘Yes, but I intend to marry soon,’ Shustrov replied equably, without reacting to the flirtatious provocation. ‘It’s time. My age.’

A gangly woman with a bony face twisted her immense mouth into a wry grin and spoke in a loud stage whisper.

‘Sound the retreat, Sima. The fish is too big for the bait.’

‘Xanthippe Petrovna Vulpinova – our “villainess”,’ said the director, extending his open hand in her direction. ‘A foxy schemer, so to speak. She used to act comic characters, not very successfully. But I revealed her true calling. I’ve had an excellent Lady Macbeth from her and she is very fine in The Three Sisters; her Natalya had the audience really seething with hatred.’

‘The genre of the children’s story is very promising too,’ Shustrov remarked to that, following some internal logic of his own. However, he did explain. ‘You could make a good Snow Queen. A frightening one, the little toddlers will cry.’

‘Merci beaucoup,’ the villainess replied, and starchily ran one hand through her hair, which seemed to have been deliberately combed back so tightly in order to display her disproportionately large ears. ‘Oh, do you hear that?’

She pointed to the window

A chorus of female voices was chanting loudly outside.

‘Em-er-ald-ov! Em-er-ald-ov!’ Erast Petrovich made out.

It must be his admirers, hoping that their idol will glance out of the window.

‘What’s that they’re shouting?’ Vulpinova asked, pretending to be listening closely. ‘“Me-phi-stov”, so help me, “Me-phi-stov”!’ And she turned to the man beside her in joyful excitement. ‘Anton Ivanovich, the Moscow public has recognised your talent! Ah, you played the part of a swindler fantastically well!’

Fandorin was surprised – it was quite impossible to mishear the name.

The person whom the foxy schemer had addressed, a man with dark hair, a large nose and kinked, bushy eyebrows, grinned sardonically.

‘If popularity was determined by talent and not appearance,’ he said, darting a baleful glance at Emeraldov, ‘they would be lying in wait to ambush me at the entrance. But no matter how brilliantly you play Iago or Claudius, they’ll never shower you with flowers for it. Pleasures like that are for talentless trash with pretty-pretty faces.’

Listening to the shouts with a smile on his face, the leading man drawled lazily:

‘Anton Ivanich, I know you start working your way into the role of a fiendish villain first thing in the morning, but there is no show today, so come back to the world of decent people. Or is that impossible already?’

‘I implore you, please don’t argue!’ Vulpinova exclaimed in exaggerated consternation. ‘It’s my fault! I misheard, and then Anton took offence…’

‘You misheard? With your ears?’ Emeraldov quipped derisively.

The villainess blushed. So she does suffer because she is so plain, Erast Petrovich noted.

‘Comrades! Friends!’ said a round-faced man in a short, tight jacket, getting up off his chair. ‘Come on, really, stop it! We’re constantly quarrelling, lashing at each other with barbed remarks, but what for? After all, the theatre is such a fine, great-hearted, beautiful thing. If we don’t love each other, if we all keep trying to hog the blanket, we’ll rip it to pieces!’

‘There we have the judgement of a man who should never direct actors,’ Stern responded, putting his hand on the round-faced man’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, Vasya. And all of you settle down. You see what a madhouse I work in, Andrei Gordeevich? Right, who do we have left? Well this, as you have already guessed, is our villain, Anton Ivanovich Mephistov,’ he said, with a rather casual gesture in the direction of the dark-haired man. He jabbed his finger at the man with the round face. ‘This is Vasenka, our simpleton, that’s why his pseudonym is Gullibin. His particular range includes the roles of devoted brothers-in-arms and likeable birdbrains. In The Three Sisters he was Tuzenbach, in Hamlet he was Horatio… So that’s the entire company.’

‘What about Zoya?’ Altairsky’s voice asked reproachfully. It was only a few minutes since Erast Petrovich had heard that voice, but he was already missing it.

‘Everyone always forgets about me. Like some insignificant detail.’

The freckle-faced young lady who had kissed the hero Nonarikin and squeezed his injured hand in the intensity of her feelings pronounced these words in a theatrically cheerful voice. She was very short – her legs were dangling in the air because they didn’t reach the floor.

‘Sorry, Zoya. Mea culpa!’ said Stern, striking himself on the chest with his fist. ‘This is our wonderful Zoya Comedina. Her character is the fool, that is, a female jester. A magnificent talent for the grotesque, parody and general tomfoolery,’ he said, really laying himself out, evidently in an effort to make up for his oversight. ‘And she’s a quite incomparable principal boy as well – she can play boys or girls. And believe it or not, I abducted her from a midgets’ circus, where she was playing a monkey most comically.’

Shustrov glanced listlessly at the little woman and started looking at Fandorin.

‘The midgets thought I was overgrown, but here they think I’m stunted.’ Comedina took hold of the millionaire’s sleeve, to make him turn back towards her. ‘That’s my fate – there’s always either too much of me or too little.’ She twisted her face into a pitiful grimace. ‘But I can do something that no one else can. I’m exceptionally gifted where tears are concerned. I can cry, not only with both eyes, but with just one, whichever I choose. Of course, for my character tears are nothing more than a way of making people laugh.’ She suddenly started coughing with surprising hoarseness. ‘Pardon me, I smoke too much… It helps with playing juveniles.’

‘So that’s the entire company,’ Noah Noaevich repeated, gesturing round at his assembled troops. ‘The “dwellers in the ark”, so to speak. You can ignore Mr Fandorin. He’s a contender for the position of repertoire manager, but hasn’t been enlisted into the company as yet. For the present we’re still taking stock of each other.’

But for his part, Erast Petrovich had already taken stock. His initial hypotheses had already taken shape and he thought that the circle of suspects had been defined.

He had already clarified everything about the deadly basket of flowers. It had been ordered from the ‘Flora’ shop, paid for by fifty roubles attached to a note. The note had not survived, but in any case it had not contained anything unusual, merely the instruction to attach to the basket a card that read ‘To the divine E. A.-L.’. The basket had been delivered to the theatre by an errand-boy, and there it had stood backstage, in the ushers’ room. In principle, anybody could have gained access to the room, even someone from outside. However, Erast Petrovich was almost certain that the previous day’s vile trick had been perpetrated by one of the people presently in the room In any case, he considered it expeditious at this stage not to squander his efforts on any other theories.

The climate in the company was sultry, with an abundance of all sorts of antagonisms, but not everyone fitted the role of the ‘snake catcher’.

It was hard, for instance, to imagine the regal Vasilisa Prokofievna engaging in that kind of activity. And despite his sardonic manner, the ‘philosopher’ would hardly be likely to soil his hands – he was altogether too dignified for that. Fandorin could exclude Gullibin without any qualms. The flirtatious coquette Aphrodisina would never have picked up the reptile with her pink fingers. And Truffaldino-Shiftsky? Pouring glue into the director’s galoshes – that kind of hooliganism might, perhaps, be his style, but the dastardly trick with a poisonous snake required an especially malicious nature. There was a feeling of rabid, pathological hatred here. Or of equally incandescent jealousy.

Now Madam Vulpinova, with her crooked mouth and bat’s ears, could easily be pictured as a snake charmer. Or Mr Mephistov, with his animus towards ‘pretty-pretty’ faces…

Suddenly Fandorin realised that he had unwittingly been caught on the cunning Noah Noaevich’s hook: he had confused real, live people with the character types that they acted. So it was no wonder that the prime suspects had turned out to be the ‘villain’ and the ‘villainess’.

No, he must not allow himself to be guided by first impressions. In general, at this stage it was best to wait a while before drawing conclusions. Not everything was as it seemed in this world. It was all make-believe and pretence.

He had to take a closer look than this. Actors were not like ordinary people. That is, they certainly looked like them, but it was quite possible that they were, in fact, some special sub-species of Homo sapiens, with specific behaviours of its own.

The opportunity to continue observing was provided then and there, as Andrei Gordeevich Shustrov began making a speech.

THE DESECRATION OF THE TABLETS

Shustrov’s speech matched his appearance very closely. Dry and precise, completely devoid of extravagance, as if the entrepreneur were reading out a memorandum or an official communiqué. This feeling was reinforced by his manner of enunciating his considerations in the form of numbered points. Erast Petrovich himself often had recourse to a similar method for the sake of greater clarity in his reasoning, but on the lips of this patron of the arts the enumeration sounded rather odd.

‘Point one,’ Andrei Gordeevich began, speaking to the ceiling, as if he could perceive a clear vision of the future up there. ‘In the twentieth century public entertainment will cease to be the domain of entrepreneurs, impresarios and other isolated individuals, and will expand into an immense, highly profitable industry. Those industrialists who realise this sooner than others and deploy their efforts more intelligently will occupy the dominant positions.

‘Point two. It was precisely with this purpose in mind that one year ago I and my associate M. Simon created the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company, in which I have assumed responsibility for the theatrical side of things, and he has taken on the field of cinematography. At the present stage M. Simon is looking for film-makers and agreeing terms with distribution agents, buying equipment, building a film factory and renting electric theatres. He has studied all of this in Paris at the Gaumont Studio. Meanwhile, I am helping to make your theatre famous throughout the whole of Russia.

‘Point three. I decided to back Mr Stern because I see his immense potential, which is perfectly suited to my project. Noah Noaevich’s theory of combining art with sensationalism seems to me to be absolutely correct.

‘Point four. I shall tell you how my associate and I intend to combine our two spheres of activity at our next meeting. Some things will undoubtedly seem unusual, even alarming, to you. Therefore, I would like first of all to earn your trust. You should realise that my interests and yours coincide completely, and that brings us to the final point, number five.

‘And so, point five. I state with all due seriousness that my support for Noah’s Ark is no whim or passing caprice. It might possibly have appeared strange to some of you that I have provided the theatre with everything it needs, while making no claim to your proceeds – which I believe to be extremely substantial…’

‘You are our benefactor!’ Noah Noaevich declared. ‘Nowhere in Europe do actors receive such salaries as in our, that is, your, theatre!’

The others started clamouring too. Shustrov waited patiently for the grateful babbling to subside before continuing his phrase from the precise point at which it had been interrupted.

‘…extremely substantial and, I fancy, have not yet reached their maximum limit. I promise all of you, ladies and gentlemen, that, having cast in your lot with the Theatrical and Cinematographical Company, you will forget for ever about the financial difficulties with which actors usually have to contend…’ – more lively hubbub, heartfelt exclamations and even applause – ‘and artistes of the first rank will become very seriously wealthy.’

‘Lead us into the battle, father and commander!’ exclaimed leading man Emeraldov. ‘And we will follow you through hell and high water!’

‘And to prove the seriousness of my intentions – this, in effect, is point five – I wish to take a step that will secure the financial independence of Noah’s Ark for ever. Today I deposited in the bank the sum of three hundred thousand roubles, the interest on which will be credited to you. It is impossible for me or my heirs to take this money back again. If you decide to part ways with me, the capital will still remain the collective property of the theatre. If I die, your independence will be guaranteed in any case. That is all I have to say. Thank you…’

They gave their generous benefactor a standing ovation, with whooping, tears and kisses, which Shustrov bore imperturbably, politely thanking each kisser in turn.

‘Quiet, quiet!’ Stern shouted, straining himself hoarse. ‘I have a suggestion! Listen!’

The actors turned towards him.

In a voice breaking with emotion the director announced:

‘I suggest that we make an entry in the Tablets! This is a historic day, ladies and gentlemen! Let us record it thus: Today Noah’s Ark has acquired true independence.’

‘And we shall celebrate every sixth of September as Independence Day!’ Altairsky added.

‘Hoorah! Bravo!’ they all shouted.

But Shustrov asked the question that had occurred to Fandorin.

‘What are the “Tablets”?’

‘That is what we call our holy book, the prayer book of the theatrical art,’ Stern explained. ‘Genuine theatre is unthinkable without traditions and ritual. For instance, after a performance we always drink a glass of champagne each and I conduct a critique of each artiste. On the day we made our debut, we decided that we would record all important events, achievements, triumphs and discoveries in a special album entitled “The Tablets”. Each of the artistes has the right to record in the Tablets his or her own epiphanies and exalted thoughts concerning our craft. Oh, it contains many items of very great value! Some day our Tablets will be published as a book that will be translated into many languages! Vasya, hand them to me.’

Gullibin went over to a marble plinth with a large, luxurious, velvet-bound tome lying on it. Erast Petrovich had presumed that it was a stage prop from some production, but in reality it was the prayer book of the art of theatre.

‘There,’ said Stern, starting to leaf through the pages covered in various styles of handwriting. ‘For the most part, of course, I’m the one who does the writing. I expound my brief observations on the theory of theatre and record my impressions of the performance that has just been given. But the others write quite a lot of valuable material too. Listen, now. This is Hippolyte Emeraldov: “A performance is like an act of passionate love, in which you are the man and the audience is the woman, who must be roused to ecstasy. If you have failed, she will remain unsatisfied and will run off to a more ardent lover. But if you have succeeded, she will follow you to the ends of the earth.” There you have the words of a true hero and lover! That is why his admirers are howling outside the windows.’

The handsome Hippolyte bowed ostentatiously.

‘There are witty observations here too,’ said Stern, turning another page. ‘Look, Kostya Shiftsky drew this. And the caption above it reads: “And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood. Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing that creepeth upon the earth, there went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female.” And we are all represented with very fine likenesses. Here I am with my progeny, Eliza and Hippolyte, here are our grande dame and Sensiblin as noble beasts, here are the cattle – Kostya himself and Serafima Aphrodisina – here are our villain and villainess creeping upon the face of the earth, here are the fowls – Vasya as an eagle owl and Zoya as a humming-bird – and Nonarikin is shown as the anchor!’

Shustrov examined the caricature with a serious air.

‘There is another promising genre in cinematography – the animated drawing,’ he said. ‘It is little pictures, but they move. We shall have to take that on as well.’

‘Hey, someone give me a pen and an inkwell!’ Noah Noaevich ordered, and he started solemnly tracing out characters on an empty page. Everyone clustered together, looking over his shoulder. Fandorin walked across too.

Printed out in capital letters at the top of the page were the words: 6 (19) SEPTEMBER 1911, MONDAY.

‘Independence Day, made possible by the phenomenal generosity of A. G. Shustrov: to be celebrated every year!’ Stern wrote, and everyone shouted out ‘Vivat!’ three times.

They were about to throw themselves on their benefactor to kiss and hug him again, but he beat a nimble and hasty retreat to the door.

‘I have to be at a meeting of the municipal council at five o’clock. An important matter – whether grammar school pupils should be allowed into the evening session at electric theatres. They are almost a third of the potential audience. I bid you farewell.’

After his departure the actors carried on exclaiming rapturously for some time, until Stern told them to take their seats. Everyone immediately fell silent.

Something important was about to take place: the announcement of the new play and – most importantly of all – the allocation of the roles. Faces assumed identical, tense expressions, in which suspicion and hope mingled together. The artistes all looked at their manager. Emeraldov and Altairsky-Lointaine watched him more calmly than the others – they had no need to fear disadvantageous roles. But they seemed to be agitated nonetheless.

Having returned to his observation post, Fandorin also made ready, remembering what Noah Noaevich had said about this being the very moment when players, who were in the habit of dissimulating their feelings, laid bare their genuine egos. The picture might possibly be clarified.

The news that the new production in store for the company was The Cherry Orchard failed to arouse any enthusiasm or lighten the atmosphere.

‘Couldn’t you find anything newer?’ Emeraldov asked, and several of the others nodded. ‘What’s the good of a repertoire manager…’ – the leading man indicated Fandorin – ‘…if we’re choosing Chekhov again? We need something a bit livelier. With more spectacle to it.’

‘Where can I find you a new play with good characters for every one of you?’ Noah Noaevich asked angrily. ‘The Orchard resolves itself neatly into twelve parts. The public already knows the plot, that’s true. But we’ll capture them with the revolutionary impulse of our interpretation. What do you think the play is about?’

Everyone started pondering.

‘About the victory of crude materialism over the futility of love?’ Altairsky suggested.

Erast Petrovich thought: She is intelligent, that is wonderful.

But Stern disagreed.

‘No, Eliza. It’s a play about the comicality and impotence of cultural refinement and also about the inevitability of death. It’s a very frightening play with a hopeless ending, and at the same time very spiteful. But it’s called a comedy because fate mocks human beings pitilessly and makes fun of them. As usual with Chekhov, everything is in hints and half-tones. But we shall make everything that has been left unspoken completely clear. It will be an anti-Chekhovian production of Chekhov!’ The director grew more and more animated. ‘In this drama of Chekhov’s there is no conflict, because when he wrote it, the author was seriously ill. He had no strength left to fight against Evil, or against Death. You and I shall recreate the Evil, fully armed. It will be the main motor of the action. With Chekhov’s multilevel characters, such an interpretation is perfectly permissible. We shall render the fuzzy psychology of Chekhov’s characters clear and distinct, bringing them into focus, as it were, sharpening their edges, dividing them into the traditional character types. That will be the innovative principle of our production!’

‘Brilliant!’ Mephistov exclaimed. ‘Bravo, teacher! And who is the main agent of Evil? Lopakhin, the cherry orchard’s destroyer?’

‘Well, aren’t you setting your sights high!’ Emeraldov chuckled. ‘Lopakhin he wants!’

‘The agent of Evil is the clerk Yepikhodov,’ the director replied to his ‘villain’, and Mephistov’s face fell. ‘This pitiful little man is the embodiment of the banal, petty evil that every member of our audience encounters in real life far more often than Evil on a demonic scale. But that’s not all. Yepikhodov is also a walking Token of Disaster – and with a revolver in his pocket. His nickname is “22 misfortunes”. It’s a terrifying thing when there are so many misfortunes. Yepikhodov is a harbinger of destruction and death, senseless and pitiless death. It’s no accident that the characters keep repeating that ominous refrain: “Yepikhodov’s coming! Yepikhodov’s coming!” And there he is wandering about somewhere offstage, plucking at the strings of his “mandolin”. I shall make it play a funeral march.’

‘And which of the women is an agent of Evil?’ Vulpinova asked.

‘You would never guess. Varya, Ranevskaya’s adopted daughter.’

‘How is that possible? She’s such a sweetheart!’ Gullibin exclaimed in amazement.

‘You haven’t read the play properly, Vasya. Varya is a hypocrite. She is planning to go away on a pilgrimage or enter a convent, but she feeds God’s wandering pilgrims on nothing but peas. She is usually played as modest, self-effacing and hard working. But what damned hard work has she ever done? A household manager who has reduced an estate with a luxurious cherry orchard to ruin and destruction. The only bright note in the play is the timid attempt by Petya and Anya to become more intimately involved, but Varya doesn’t give this fresh, young shoot a chance to blossom, she is always on guard. Because in the kingdom of Evil and Death there is no place for real, live Love.’

‘That’s very profound. Very,’ Vulpinova said pensively. A rapid sequence of grimaces ran across her face: false piety, saccharine sweetness, envy, spite.

‘And who will be the embodiment of Good? Petya Trofimov?’ asked Gullibin, apparently trying to prompt the director.

‘I thought about that. Garrulous, starry-eyed Good facing up to all-conquering Evil? Too hopeless. Trofimov will be yours, of course, Vasya. Play him in the classic manner, a “lovable simpleton”. And the mission of battling against Evil will be taken on by the victorious Lopakhin.’ Noah Noaevich gestured in the direction of the company’s leading man, who astounded Erast Petrovich by sticking out his tongue at the devastated Mephistov. ‘In order to lead Russia out of the beggarly, wretched state that she is in, we have to cut down the cherry orchards that no longer produce a harvest. We have to work on the earth and populate it with energetic, modern people. I advise you, Hippolyte, to play our benefactor, Andrei Gordeevich Shustrov, photographically. But – and this is a very important nuance – Good, by virtue of its magnanimity, is blind. And therefore at the end Lopakhin hires Yepikhodov to work for him. When the audience hears this news, it must shudder in sinister foreboding. Sinister foreboding is the key to the production’s interpretation in general. Everything will come to an end soon, and the ending will be wretched and ugly – that is the mood of the play, and also of our epoch.’

‘Of course, I’m Ranevskaya?’ the grande dame Reginina asked in a sweet voice.

‘Who else? An ageing but still beautiful woman, who lives for love.’

‘What about me?’ asked Eliza, unable to restrain herself. ‘Surely not Anya? She’s still a girl.’

Stern leaned down over her and cooed:

‘Come now, you mean you can’t play a girl? Anya is Light and Joy. And so are you.’

‘Have pity, the reviewers will laugh! They’ll say Altairsky has started putting on youthful airs!’

‘You will enchant them. I order you to have a dress made, covered in glitter, so that it scatters dots of sunlight everywhere. Every entrance you make will be a celebration!’

Eliza stopped arguing, but she sighed.

‘Who do we have left?’ asked the director, glancing into a little notebook. ‘Mr Sensiblin will play Gaev. An old-style thinker, fine and decent values, but obsolete, everything’s clear here.’

‘What’s clear? Why is it clear?’ asked the ‘philosopher’, flying off the handle. ‘Give me a sketch! The development of the character.’

‘What development? A global conflagration is about to flare up, and our Gaev will be consumed by it, along with his most venerable cupboard. You’re always complicating things, Lev Spiridonovich… Right, let’s move on.’ Stern jabbed his finger at little Comedina. ‘We’ll age Zoya a bit – and you’ll play the conjuror, Charlotta. Shiftsky gets the servant Yasha. Aphrodisina is the maid Dunyasha. I’ll take Feers. And you, Nonarikin, will play Simeonov-Pishchik and all sorts of bits and pieces like Passer-By or Station Master…’

‘Simeonov-Pishchik?’ Stern’s assistant echoed in a tragic whisper. ‘Pardon me, Noah Noaevich, but you promised me a big part! You liked the way I played Solyony in The Three Sisters! I was counting on Lopakhin!’

‘Most venerable cupboard yourself,’ Sensiblin muttered rather loudly, also obviously dissatisfied with his role.

‘Ho-ho, Lopakhin!’ said Emeraldov, twirling his finger beside his temple as he mocked the director’s assistant.

The half-pint ‘principal boy’ intervened on Nonarikin’s behalf.

‘And why not! It would be really interesting! What sort of Lopakhin will you make, Hippolyte Arkadievich? You don’t look like a peasant’s son.’

The handsome devil simply brushed her aside, like a gnat.

‘When you gave me Solyony to play, I thought you’d started believing in me,’ Nonarikin carried on in a whisper, clutching at the director’s sleeve. ‘How can I play Pishchik after Solyony?’

‘Let go of me, will you!’ Stern exclaimed angrily. ‘You didn’t play Solyony, you simply “represented” him. Because I let you play yourself. A poor man’s Lermontov!’

‘Don’t you dare say that!’ The assistant’s pale face came out in crimson blotches. ‘You know, that’s just the last straw. After all, I’m not asking for much, I’m not fishing for the director’s job.’

‘Ha-ha,’ said Noah Noaevich, emphasising the syllables separately. ‘That’s all we need. So you have ambitions to direct, do you? Some day you’ll astound everyone. You’ll put on a show that will make everyone gasp.’

He said this in a frankly mocking tone, as if he were trying to provoke his assistant into a fracas.

Fandorin screwed up his face in anticipation of screams or hysterics or some other kind of outrageous behaviour. But Stern demonstrated that he was a superlative psychologist. In response to the direct affront, Nonarikin collapsed, shrivelling up and letting his head droop.

‘What am I?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’m nothing. Let it be as you wish, teacher…’

‘Right, that’s the way now. Colleagues, collect your copies of the text. My remarks, as usual, are in red pencil.’

Dissatisfied silences. Everyone took a copy out of the pile lying on the table, and Erast Petrovich noticed that the folders were different colours. Obviously, each colour signified a particular persona – yet another tradition, perhaps? The leading man unhesitatingly took the red folder. The prima donna took the pink one and handed a light blue one to Reginina, saying: ‘Here’s yours, Vasilisa Prokofievna.’ The ‘philosopher’ gloomily tugged out the dark-blue folder, Mephistov took the black one, and so on.

Just then an attendant looked in and said that ‘Mr Director’ was wanted on the phone. Stern had obviously been expecting this call.

‘Half an hour’s break,’ he said. ‘Then we get down to work. In the meantime, I ask each of you to glance through your role and refresh your memory of it.’

No sooner had the manager gone out than the taboo on the subject that everyone was excited about ceased to operate. Everyone started talking about what had happened the day before, and nothing could have suited Fandorin better. He sat there, trying not to attract any attention to himself, watching and listening, hoping that the guilty party would give himself or herself away somehow.

To begin with, emotions predominated: sympathy for ‘dear Eliza’, admiration for Nonarikin’s courageous feat. At the men’s request, he unwound the bandages on his hand and showed them the bite.

‘It’s nothing,’ the director’s assistant said courageously. ‘It doesn’t even hurt any more.’

But the peaceful phase of the general discussion did not last for long.

The fuse was lit by the female intriguer.

‘How deftly you managed to pull your own hand away, Eliza,’ Vulpinova remarked with an unpleasant smile. ‘I would have just frozen in fright and been bitten. But it was as if you knew there was a snake hidden in the flowers.’

Altairsky swayed back on her feet, as if she had been slapped across the cheek.

‘What are you insinuating?’ Gullibin protested. ‘Surely you’re not trying to say that Eliza set the whole thing up herself?’

‘The idea never entered my head!’ said the schemer, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘But now that you bring the subject up… A yearning for sensational fame drives some people to take even more desperate steps than that.’

‘Don’t listen to her, Eliza!’ said Gullibin, taking the stunned Altairsky by the hand. ‘And you, Xanthippe Petrovna, you’re doing this deliberately. Because you know that everybody suspects you.’

Vulpinova gave a loud laugh.

‘Why of course, who else? But I happen to have noticed a certain curious little detail. As a true knight, during the bows you usually snatch the most beautiful basket and personally hand it to the lady of your heart. But this time you didn’t. Why?’

Gullibin couldn’t think of any answer to that and merely shook his head indignantly.

Mr Mephistov smacked his lips and declared sombrely:

‘I wouldn’t be surprised at anything. That is, at anyone.’ And he ran his glance over each of them in turn.

Everyone reacted differently when the villain directed his suspicious gaze at them. Some protested, some cursed and swore. Comedina stuck out her tongue. Reginina laughed derisively and went out into the corridor. Sensiblin yawned.

‘Oh, to hell with all of you. I think I’ll just go out for a smoke and study my part…’

However, a genuine fracas failed to materialise. A couple of minutes later everyone had drifted away, leaving the two ‘villains’ rather disappointed.

‘Anton, dear, you could pull a trick like that just to throw the cat among the pigeons,’ Vulpinova said to her stage partner, apparently out of sheer inertia. ‘Confess, did you do it?’

‘Drop that now,’ Mephistov responded listlessly. ‘Why should we bait each other? I’ll go and sit in the theatre and try on Yepikhodov for size. What sort of role is that…’

The scheming woman appeared to be still unsatisfied. Since there was no one left in the green room apart from Fandorin, she tried her claws on the newcomer.

‘Mysterious stranger,’ she began insinuatingly. ‘You appeared so suddenly. Just like that basket yesterday, and no one knows who sent it.’

‘I beg your pardon, I have no time,’ Erast Petrovich replied coolly, and got up.

First he looked into the auditorium. Several of the actors were sitting in there, looking into their various-coloured folders, each of them alone and widely separated from the others. Eliza was not among them. He went into the corridor, where he walked past Shiftsky, who had ensconced himself on the windowsill, past Sensiblin, who was puffing on his pipe, and past gloomy Nonarikin, who was staring at his one and only page of text.

He found Altairsky-Lointaine on the stairs. She was standing at the window with her back to Erast Petrovich and hugging her own shoulders. The text in the pink cover was lying on the banisters.

Enough of this playing the fool, Fandorin told himself. I like this woman. At any rate, I find her interesting, she intrigues me. So I have to start talking to her.

He looked at himself in the mirror that happened to be conveniently located close by and felt happy with his appearance. There had never been an occasion when the ladies remained indifferent to the way he looked – especially if he wished to please.

Erast Petrovich walked up to her and cleared his throat delicately. When she looked round, he said gently:

‘You shouldn’t have got upset. You only gave that wicked-tongued lady more satisfaction.’

‘But how could she dare?’ Eliza exclaimed piteously. ‘To suggest that I…’

She shuddered in revulsion.

Keenly aware of how close she was standing – a mere arm’s length away – Fandorin continued with a subtle smile.

‘Women of the mentality of Madam Vulpinova simply cannot exist without an atmosphere of scandal. You must not allow her to draw you into her games. This psychological personality type is called a “scorpion”. Essentially they are unhappy, very lonely people…’

The beginning of the conversation had gone well. Firstly, he had managed not to stammer even once. Secondly, Elizaveta was bound to ask about psychological types, and then Fandorin would have a chance to encourage her interest in him.

‘Ah, I do believe that is right!’ Altairsky-Lointaine said in surprise. ‘Xanthippe does seem to be broken inside somehow. She plays mean tricks, but there is something pitiful and supplicating in her eyes. You are an observant individual, Mr…’ She hesitated.

‘Fandorin,’ he reminded her,

‘Yes, yes, Mr Fandorin. Stern said that you are a connoisseur of modern literature, but you are not simply a repertoire manager, are you? One can sense a certain… specialness about you.’ It took her a moment to find the word, but it caught Erast Petrovich’s fancy. And what he liked even more was the enchanting smile that appeared on her face. ‘You have such a good understanding of people. You must write theatre reviews, do you not? Who are you?’

After thinking for a moment, he replied:

‘I… am a traveller. But unfortunately, I don’t write reviews.’

The smile faded away, together with the interest that he had read in her magically elusive gaze.

‘They say it is fascinating to travel. But I have never understood the pleasure in constantly moving from one place to another.’

The eloquent glance that she cast at the pink folder could mean only one thing: leave me in peace, this conversation is over.

But Erast Petrovich did not want to leave. He had to tell her something to make her realise that their meeting was not accidental, that this was some incomprehensible but incontrovertible scheme of destiny.

‘Eliza… Pardon me, I don’t know your patronymic.’

‘I don’t acknowledge patronymics.’ She picked up the text. ‘They exude an odour of stagnation and barbarity. As if you were your procreator’s property. But I belong only to myself. You may call me simply Eliza. Or, if you wish, Elizaveta.’

Her tone of voice was indifferent, even rather cold, but Fandorin became even more agitated.

‘Precisely, you are Elizaveta, Liza. And I am Erast! D-do you understand?’ he exclaimed with an impulsiveness that he had never suspected in himself, and also, stammering quite excessively. ‘I saw the finger of fate in that… that g-gesture of yours with your arm outstretched… And in S-September too…’

He hesitated, seeing that she didn’t understand a thing. No reciprocal stirring of the soul, no reaction at all apart from slight puzzlement. But there was nothing surprising in that. What meaning did Erast have for her, or September, or a white arm?

He clenched his teeth. The last thing he needed was for Liza, that is, Eliza, to take him for a madman or an overexcited admirer. She was already surrounded by more than enough of both of those, without Fandorin.

‘I meant to say that I was astounded by your performance yesterday,’ he said in a more composed manner, trying all the time to catch her elusive glance and hold it. ‘I have never experienced anything like it before. And of course, the coincidence of the names shook me. I am called Erast, you see. Petrovich…’

‘Ah, yes indeed. Erast and Liza.’ She smiled again, but distractedly, without even a trace of warmth. ‘What’s all that howling? They’re squabbling again…’

He looked round in annoyance. Someone really was shouting upstairs. Fandorin recognised the director’s voice: ‘Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Who did this?’ – the voice was coming from the direction of the green room.

‘I have to go. Noah Noaevich has come back and he seems to be angry about something.’

Erast Petrovich followed Eliza with his head bowed, cursing himself for flunking the first conversation. Never once since the days of his early youth had he behaved so idiotically with a woman.

‘I want to know who did this!’

Noah Noaevich, looking enraged, was standing at the door of the sitting room (sometimes the green room was referred to in that way) holding the ‘Tablets’ open in his hands.

‘Who dared to do this?’

Fandorin glanced into the open book. Immediately below the solemn entry about Independence Day, someone had scribbled in large, crooked letters, using a purple indelible pencil: ‘EIGHT 1S UNTIL THE BENEFIT PERFORMANCE. TAKE THOUGHT!’

Everyone came up to look and was left puzzled.

‘The theatre is a temple! The actor’s ministry is an exalted mission! We cannot survive without reverence and our sacred objects!’ Stern exclaimed, almost in tears. ‘Whoever did this wished to insult me, all of us and our art! What sort of scribble is this? What does it mean? How many times do I have to repeat that in my theatre there are no benefit performances and there never will be? That’s the first point. And the second point is that desecrating our sacred object is the same as defiling a church! Only a vandal could do such a thing!’

Some of them listened to him with sympathy, some shared his indignation, but snickering could also be heard.

‘Go away, all of you,’ the director said in a weak voice. ‘I don’t want to see anyone… It’s impossible to work today. Tomorrow, tomorrow…’

Fandorin took advantage of the fact that everyone was looking at the suffering martyr to keep his own eyes fixed on Eliza. She seemed to him unattainably distant, truly the star Altair, and that thought was painful.

He realised that something would have to be done about this pain, it would not pass off on its own.

THERE ARE NO PROBLEMS THAT CANNOT BE SOLVED

For the second night in a row Erast Petrovich was unable to get to sleep. And, moreover, his thoughts were by no means occupied with deductive reasoning concerning the snake in the flower basket. The internal condition of the harmonious man had skipped through several consecutive stages at once.

At the first stage a simple truth had been revealed to Fandorin, one that a less intelligent and complex individual would have grasped much sooner. (However, we must make allowances for the fact that Erast Petrovich had considered this page of his life to have been read and closed for ever a long time ago.)

I’m in love, he suddenly told himself, this fifty-five-year-old man who had seen and experienced so many things of every possible kind in the course of his life. He was incredibly surprised and even burst into laughter in the silence of the empty room. There can be no doubt, unfortunately – so I’m in love, then? In love, like a boy, filled with youthful passion? Ah, what nonsense! How shamefully absurd, how positively vulgar! To burn one’s heart out by the age of twenty-two, then live for a third of a century with the feebly glowing ashes, dauntlessly enduring the crushing blows of fate and maintaining one’s cold reasoning even in situations of deadly danger; to attain spiritual peace and clarity at an age that is not yet old – and then lapse back into puerility, to find oneself in the laughable position of someone in love!

And worst of all, with whom? An actress, that is, a creature who is bound to be unnatural, spoilt, false, accustomed to turning heads and breaking hearts!

But that was only half the problem. The second half was even more humiliating. This feeling of amorous infatuation was not mutual, it was unrequited, there was not even the slightest sign of interest from the other party.

In past years so many women – beautiful and intelligent, brilliant and profound, infernal and angelic – had bestowed their adoration and passion on him, but the most he had ever done was allow them to love him, almost never losing his own cool composure. But this one had declared: ‘I belong only to myself!’ And she had looked at him as if he were a bothersome fly!

In this way Erast Petrovich moved on, without even noticing it, to the next stage – of resentment.

Why, belong to whomever you wish, madam, what business is that of mine? I have fallen in love? How could I ever get such nonsense into my head! He laughed once again (this time not in surprise, but anger). He ordered himself to put this prima donna with the jarring pseudonym out of his mind immediately. Let them work out for themselves in that little theatre of theirs who was playing these vile tricks with vipers on whom. Merely being in that madhouse of theirs was dangerous for the psyche of a rational individual.

Erast Petrovich’s will was steely. He had decided, and that was the end of it. He did his evening gymnastics and even ate dinner. Before going to sleep he read some Marcus Aurelius and turned out the light. And in the darkness the apparition descended on him with renewed force. Suddenly her face appeared, with those eyes that looked straight through him, and he heard that gentle, deep voice. And he had neither the strength nor – even worse – the desire to drive away this Distant Princess.

Fandorin tossed and turned until dawn, attempting every now and then to rid himself of the enticing vision. But he was obliged to admit that the dose of venom was too strong and his organism had been poisoned irrevocably.

He got dressed, took his jade beads and set about the problem properly, in real earnest. And so began the third stage – the stage of comprehension.

I am in love, to deny it is absurd. That is one. (He clicked a little green sphere.)

Evidently, without this woman my life will be miserable. That is two. (Another click.)

Which means that I have to do whatever will make her mine – it is that simple. That is three.

Such was the entire chain of logic.

He felt better immediately. For a man of action such as Fandorin, a clearly defined goal stimulates a burst of positive energy.

First of all he had to amend the current constitution, which made absolutely no provision for such a sudden somersault on the harmonious path to old age.

A man walks through that field, the crossing of which is the living of one’s life, calmly contemplating the smooth line of the horizon, which appears to be gradually brightening and moving closer. The path he treads is pleasant, his stride is steady. The clouds eddy calmly in the sky above his head – no sun and no rain. And suddenly there is a peal of thunder, a flash of lightning, and a furious lance of electricity transpierces his entire being, darkness swoops down onto the ground, he can see neither the path nor the horizon, he cannot tell which way to walk and – even worse than that – whether he should walk in any direction at all. Man proposes and God disposes.

The electrical vibration swept through Fandorin’s body and soul. He felt like a tortoise that has suddenly lost its shell. It was terrifying and shameful, but the sensation was beyond expression in words, as if… as if his entire skin was breathing. And also as if he had been dozing and had suddenly woken up. To put it in more melodramatic terms: he had risen from the dead. I seem to have read my own funeral rites too soon, thought Erast Petrovich, telling his beads faster and faster. For as long as life goes on, it can throw up any kind of surprise – either happy or catastrophic. And moreover, the most significant among these surprises are combinations of both the former and the latter.

Fandorin sat in an armchair, watching the window frame slowly filling up with light and focusing his bewildered mind on the changes that were taking place within him.

That was how Masa found him when he glanced cautiously in at the door after seven o’clock in the morning.

‘What has happened, master? Since yesterday you haven’t been yourself at all. I haven’t pestered you about it, but this worries me. I’ve never seen you like this.’

After a moment’s thought, the Japanese corrected himself.

‘I haven’t seen you like this for a long time. Your face has become so young. Like thirty-three years ago. I think you must have fallen in love!’

Fandorin gaped at his clairvoyant servant in absolute amazement and Masa slapped himself on his gleaming pate.

‘Just as I thought! Oh, this is very alarming! Something must be done about it.’

This is my only friend, who knows me better than I know myself, thought Erast Petrovich. It is pointless trying to conceal anything from him, and in addition, Masa has an excellent understanding of female psychology. Here is a person who can help!

‘Tell me, how does one win the love of an actress?’ Fandorin asked, not beating about the bush, but going straight to the point, and speaking in Russian.

‘Genuine rove or make-berieve?’ his servant enquired in a businesslike tone.

‘How’s that? What does “make-believe love” mean?’

Masa preferred to speak of these delicate matters in his native language, which he regarded as more refined.

‘An actress is the same as a geisha or a courtesan of the highest rank,’ he began explaining with an expert air. ‘For a woman like that, love can be of two kinds. It is easier to win her acted love – she knows how to act it out superbly. A normal man does not need anything more than that. In the name of such a love a beautiful woman may make certain sacrifices. For instance, crop her hair in proof of her passion. Sometimes even cut off a piece of her little finger. But no more than that. But sometimes, although quite rarely, the heart of such a woman is transfixed by genuine feeling – the kind for which she might consent to a double suicide.’

‘Oh, go to hell with your exotic Japanese ideas!’ Erast Petrovich exclaimed furiously. ‘I’m not asking you about a geisha, but an actress, a normal European actress.’

Masa pondered.

‘I have had actresses. Three. No, four – I forgot the mulatto from New Orleans, who danced on the table… I believe you are right, master. They are different from geishas. Winning their love is much easier. Only it is difficult to tell if it is acted or genuine.’

‘Never mind that, I’ll puzzle it out somehow,’ Fandorin said impatiently. ‘Easier, you say? Much easier in fact?’

‘It would be really easy if you were a director or an author of plays or if you wrote articles about the theatre in the newspapers. Actresses acknowledge only these three types of men as superior beings.’

Remembering the smile that had lit up Eliza’s face when she took him for a theatre critic, Fandorin fixed his consultant with an intent gaze.

‘Well? Go on, go on!’

Masa continued judiciously.

‘You cannot be a director, for that you need to have your own theatre. Writing reviews is not difficult, of course, but much time will pass by before you make a name for yourself. Write a good play, in which the actress will have a beautiful part. That is the simplest way of all. I have engaged in literary composition. It is not a difficult business, and even enjoyable. That is my advice to you, master.’

‘Are you making fun of me? I don’t know how to write plays!’

‘In order to prove one’s love to a woman, it is necessary to perform feats of heroism. For such a man as you, overcoming a hundred obstacles or defeating a hundred wrongdoers is no great feat. But to compose a wonderful play for the sake of your beloved – that would be a genuine proof of love.’

Erast Petrovich sent his specialist adviser to the devil and was left alone again.

But the idea that had seemed idiotic at first kept running round Fandorin’s head and eventually beguiled him.

The gift given to the woman one loves should be the thing that brings her the greatest joy. Eliza is an actress. The theatre is her life. Her greatest joy is a good role. Ah, if only it really were possible to present Eliza with a play in which she would wish to act! Then she would stop looking at me with polite indifference. Masa has given me a very intelligent piece of advice. It is only a shame that it is quite impracticable…

Impracticable?

Erast Petrovich reminded himself of the many times in his life when he had encountered challenges that appeared insuperable at first. However, a solution had always been found. Will, intellect and knowledge were capable of overcoming any obstacle.

He had ample will and intellect. But knowledge was more of a problem. Fandorin’s familiarity with the business of playwriting was minimal. The task facing him was comparable to the heroic feats of Hercules. But he could at least try – for the sake of a goal such as this.

One thing was clear. It was unbearable not to see Eliza, but he must not appear before her as merely one more member of the grey crowd. He had already received one fillip to the nose, that was enough. If there was to be another encounter, he must present himself for it fully prepared.

And so the harmonious man moved on to the concluding stage – unswerving determination.

Erast Petrovich set about realising his purpose with comprehensive thoroughness. First he surrounded himself with books: collections of plays, monographs on dramatic art, treatises on stylistics and poetics. Fandorin’s skills of rapid reading and concentration, coupled with his feverish excitement, allowed the future dramatist to plough through several thousand pages in four days.

Fandorin spent the fifth day doing absolutely nothing, devoting himself entirely to meditating and creating an inner Void, which would give rise to the animating Impulse that people of the West call Inspiration and people of the East call Samadhi.

Erast Petrovich already knew exactly what kind of play he was going to write – the correct line to take had been prompted by the conversation with Stern about an ‘ideal play’. All that remained was to wait for the moment when the words would start flowing of their accord.

As evening was coming on, the inspiration-seeking Fandorin started swaying in a distinct rhythm and his half-closed eyelids opened wide.

He dipped a steel pen into an inkwell and traced out the long title. His hand moved slowly at first, then faster and faster, barely able to keep pace with the torrent of words that came bursting out. Time enveloped the study in a glimmering, undulating cloud. In the dead of night, with the regal full moon shining majestically in the sky, Erast Petrovich suddenly froze, sensing that the flow of magical energy had run dry. He dropped the pen, leaving a blot on the paper, leaned back in his armchair and finally fell asleep for the first time in days. The lamp carried on burning.

Masa entered the room soundlessly and put a warm rug over his master. He started reading what had been written and sceptically shook his large head, as round as the moon.