All the World's a Stage

ELEVEN 1S AND THE FIGURE 9

Surprisingly enough, dandified Georges took it upon himself to address the assembled company without Noah Noaevich’s permission and spouted drivel from the stage.

‘It is now precisely eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1911. That is nine 1s. In eleven minutes’ time the number of 1s will reach eleven and the moment will be become perfect. Then I shall halt it! And my benefit performance will commence, ladies and gentlemen.’

Eliza wasn’t exactly listening closely to this balderdash, she was preoccupied with her own sufferings. She cursed herself for falling to pieces and blurting out too much. Thank God, Erast had not taken her hysterical muttering seriously. He was acting rather strangely today. Was it just that kind of day, everyone as mad as march hares?

Choking on his assistant’s impudence, Stern really blew his top when he heard about the benefit performance.

‘Aha, so it was you!’ he howled in a terrible voice, and flew up onto the stage. ‘It was you who scribbled nonsense all over the sacred book. Why you, I’ll…’

The assistant director struck his idol and teacher a deft, resounding smack across the face. Everybody froze and Noah Noaevich grabbed at his cheek and cringed, with his eyes goggling out of his head.

‘Sit down in your place,’ Georges ordered him. ‘You are no longer the director! I am the director now.’

The poor man had lost his reason. It was obvious.

He strode over to the centre of the stage, where the scenery had been installed, and climbed up into the geisha’s room. He stopped at the low table and lifted up the lid of the casket – the one connected to the wires that ignited the flight of the two comets in the finale.

The original stupefaction passed off.

‘Hey, brother, you’ve lost it…’ Shiftsky got to his feet, twirling one finger at his temple. ‘You need calming down.’

Sensiblin got up.

‘Georges, my dear man, what are you doing up there on the stage? Come here and we’ll have a talk.’

‘Nonarikin-san, you mustn’t hit your sensei!’ Swardilin said angrily. ‘It’s the worst thing you can do!’

But Stern, still clutching his cheek, whined:

‘There’s no point in talking to him, he should be tied up and sent off to a lunatic asylum.’

Suddenly everyone fell silent again. A pistol had appeared in Nonarikin’s hand – the Bayard that Eliza knew so well, the witness to her shameful flop.

‘Sit down! Everyone sit in the front row!’ the assistant director commanded. ‘Be quiet. Listen. Time is short!’

Sima started shrieking. Vasilisa Prokofievna gasped.

‘Mother of God. He’ll kill us, the raving lunatic! Sit down, don’t provoke him!’

Kostya, Lev Spiridonovich and Stern backed away and sat down in chairs, while in his fright Sensiblin even sat on his former spouse’s knees and she didn’t utter a peep, although at any other time a liberty like that would have cost the philosopher dear.

The Japanese was the only one who wasn’t frightened.

‘Give me the pistor, you rittur foor,’ he said affectionately, still walking forward. ‘Ret’s sort this thing out the friendry way.’

The acoustics in the hall were miraculously good. The shot thundered out so loudly that Eliza was deafened. In the basement, when they were practising shooting, the Bayard had fired more quietly. Masa was just stepping off the hanamichi onto the stage. He flung his arms up and went flying down into the seats of the front row. He was wounded in the head. There was blood pouring out of his torn ear and a red ribbon of it lay across his temple. Aphrodisina squealed despairingly, splattered with red drops.

Then it began! The actors went dashing in all directions, screaming as they ran. Only Swardilin lay there, stunned, on the floor, and Fandorin didn’t stir from his seat.

Eliza grabbed him by the arm.

‘He’s gone insane! He’ll shoot everybody! Let’s run for it!’

‘There’s nowhere to run,’ said Erast Petrovich, keeping his eyes fixed on the stage. ‘And it’s too late.’

All three doors of the hall turned out to be locked, and no one dared to run backstage – there was a madman sitting cross-legged on the stage and waving a pistol about. Then he threw up his hand, aimed upwards and there was another shot. Crystal crumbs sprinkled down from the chandelier.

‘Everybody in you places!’ Nonarikin shouted. ‘Two minutes have been wasted for nothing. Or do you want to die like stupid animals without understanding a thing? I never miss when I shoot. If anyone is not in their place in five seconds, I’ll kill them.’

Everyone came dashing back as promptly as they scattered. They sat down, breathing heavily. Eliza had stayed right beside Erast Petrovich, who lifted up Masa, seated him beside himself and wiped the bleeding wound with a handkerchief.

‘Nan jya?’ Swardilin hissed through his teeth.

‘A concussion. I’ve forgotten the Japanese word.’

The Japanese nodded briefly.

‘I didn’t mean the scratch! What is that? That?’ he asked, jabbing his finger in Nonarikin’s direction.

Fandorin’s answer was incomprehensible.

‘Eleven 1s and one figure 9. I am very badly at fault. I realised t-too late. And I don’t have a gun with me…’

Another shot thundered out. Splinters went flying from the back of the empty seat beside Erast Petrovich.

‘Silence in the hall! I’m the director now! And this is my benefit performance! The fine for chattering is a bullet. There are eight minutes left!’

Nonarikin was holding his left hand on the casket with the buttons that switched on the electricity.

‘If you make any sudden movements, I’ll press it.’ The assistant director was addressing Fandorin. ‘I won’t take my eyes off you. I know how nippy you are.’

‘That’s not just light switches, is it?’ Erast Petrovich paused and gritted his teeth (Eliza heard the sound quite clearly). ‘The hall is m-mined, isn’t it? You’re a sapper, after all… And I’m a damned stupid idiot…’

The final words were spoken very quietly.

‘What do you m-mean by “m-mined”?’ Noah Noaevich hissed. His voice was breaking. ‘With b-bombs?’

‘Now look, Erast Petrovich, you’ve ruined the entire effect!’ Nonarikin complained, as if he were offended. ‘I was going to tell them that right at the very end. Supremely fine electrical engineering work! The charges have been calculated so that the shock wave will destroy everything inside the hall without damaging the building. That’s called “implosion”. What lies beyond the boundaries of the world we share is of no interest to me. Let it remain. Quiet, gentlemen and artistes!’ he shouted at his noisy audience. ‘What are you all cackling about? Why, are you, my teacher, clutching at your heart? You said yourself that all the world’s a stage and the stage is the whole world. Noah’s Ark is the best theatre company in the world. All of us together, pure and impure, are an ideal model of humanity! How many times have you repeated that to us, my teacher?’

‘That’s true. But why blow us all up?’

‘There are two supreme artistic acts: creation and destruction. So there must be two types of artists: the artist of Good and the artist of Evil, alias the artist of Life and the artist of Death. It is an open question whose art is the higher! I have served you faithfully, I have studied with you, I have waited for you to appreciate my boundless devotion, my zeal! I was willing to make do with the role of an artist of Life, a theatre director. But you mocked me. You gave my role to that mediocre Emeraldov. You said that I was just a mere jack of all trades, a make-weight, like a number nine in a deck of cards. But I have invented my own benefit productio. There are eleven of you here, all established artistes, all wanting to claim good roles and be number ones, aces. Now appreciate the beauty of my play. I have sought out the point at which eleven 1s will coincide with one figure 9. Precisely at eleven minutes past eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1911…’ – Nonarikin laughed loudly – ‘…our theatre will go flying to kingdom come. When the time 11:11 appears on the electrical clock, there will be thunder and lightning. And if you get it into your heads to turn rebellious, I shall press the button myself – look, I’m holding my finger on it. The roof and walls of this ark will become our sarcophagus! You must admit, my teacher, that there has not been a performance as beautiful as this since the times of Herostratus! You must admit that – and admit that the pupil has outdone his teacher!’

‘I’ll admit anything you like, just don’t press that button! Turn off the clock!’ Noah Noaevich implored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the madman’s left hand, which remained glued to the casket. ‘Your concept with the figures is outstanding, phenomenal, brilliant, we all appreciate the beauty of it, we are all enraptured, but…’

‘Shut up!’ The assistant waved his pistol towards the director and Stern bit his tongue. ‘There is nothing in the world apart from art. It is the only thing that is worth living and dying for. You have told me that a thousand times. We are all people of art. My benefit performance is a supreme act of art. So rejoice together with me!’

Suddenly the little ‘leading boy’ jumped up off her seat.

‘And love?’ she cried out piercingly. ‘What about love? All the world is not a stage, all the world is love! Lord, how much I love you, and you don’t understand! You have brain fever, you’re ill. Georges, I’ll do anything for you. I don’t need anyone but you! Don’t destroy these people, what are they to you? They don’t appreciate your great soul, then to hell with them! I’ll adore you for all of them! We can get out of here and go away!’

She reached her arms out to him. Despite her panic and terror, Eliza was moved, although she thought the monologue was delivered too fiercely. Eliza would have pronounced all those words differently – with no shouting, in half-tones.

‘Ah yes, love!’ Nonarikin squinted downwards at the electrical chronometer mounted in the little casket. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. Have I not fought for my love? Have I not laid low the insolent who have come between me and my Fair Lady? But she spurned me. She did not wish to be united with me on the bed of Life, so we shall be united on the bed of Death! Today is not only my benefit performance, but also my wedding! Sit down, half-woman!’ he shouted at Comedina. ‘The sight of you is an insult to the final minutes of my existence. And you, cold goddess, come here! Quickly, quickly! There are only four minutes left!’

Staring into the barrel of the Bayard that was aimed at her, Eliza got to her feet. She looked round helplessly at Fandorin.

‘Quickly,’ he whispered, ‘or else the psychopath will fire.’

She didn’t know how she walked up onto the stage and sat down beside Nonarikin. Below her eyes, directly in front of her, the figures on the counter glowed brightly: 11.08 – and the rapidly changing seconds.

‘At the final moment I shall take hold of your hand,’ the assistant director said in a quiet voice. He smelled very strongly of floral eau de cologne. ‘Don’t be afraid, the genuine comets are you and I.’

At that Eliza started shuddering in earnest.

‘L-listen, artist of Evil,’ Fandorin said in a loud voice, after whispering something to the Japanese. ‘Your arithmetic is faulty. The beauty of the benefit performance is marred. There are not eleven of us here before you, but twelve. One too many. Let me out of here.’

Nonarikin frowned.

‘I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, you are the twelfth. A playwright is entirely out of place here. I myself am the author of this play entitled The Apocalypse. Leave. Via the wings. And tell everyone about my benefit performance!’ He menaced Fandorin with the pistol as the playwright ran up onto the stage. ‘Only no tricks, now. If you hurry, you’ll be in time.’

‘Th-thank you.’

And the man whom Eliza loved so passionately, so awkwardly, ran away as fast his legs would carry him. Who could have imagined that he would behave in such a pitiful and unworthy manner! The world around her seemed to have gone completely mad. Her absurd and senseless life was ending in the same way: absurdly and senselessly.

TWICE ELEVEN

The tenth minute of the twelfth hour began.

The director of The Apocalypse sat there with a blissful smile on his face, keeping one hand on the button. The other was clutching the pistol.

‘How fine this is, such great happiness,’ the madman kept repeating. ‘And you are with me. Just a little bit longer, only a minute and a half…’

They were sitting beside each other on mats, Japanese-style.

Noah Noaevich’s mouth gaped open, but no sounds came out. In the final moments of his life his perennial loquaciousness had deserted him.

The ‘villain’ and the ‘villainess’ were weeping, with their arms round each other.

Poor Comedina was huddled up limply, like a rag doll that has been flung aside.

Sensiblin tried to take Vasilisa Prokofievna by the hand and seemed to beg her forgiveness, but Reginina shoved him away – she wouldn’t forgive him.

Aphrodisina tried to smile flirtatiously.

‘Georges, you’re just joking, aren’t you? There aren’t any bombs, are there? You just want to give us a fright?’

The poor coquette! Women of that type are so full of life that they simply can’t imagine their own death!

Shiftsky got up. His mobile features wrinkled up tearfully.

‘Georges, let me go! I never aimed to be one of the leaders. If you’re a number 9, then I’m no better than a number 6!’

‘You’re trying to be funny,’ Nonarikin replied. ‘Without artful dodgers the world is incomplete. Sit down!’

Eliza was astounded that with only a minute left, the only one to pray was Vasya Gullibin. He closed his eyes, folded his hands together and worked his lips.

‘It’s not good,’ Masa said suddenly, pressing a red, blood-soaked handkerchief to his wound. ‘If you want to die, it must be beautifur. But you have two zeros.’

‘What two zeros?’ Nonarikin asked with a frown.

‘The seconds. They should orso be ereven.’

Georges looked at his electric clock.

‘But then it won’t be eleven digits,’ he objected. ‘Although, of course, two zeros… It’s not really… I agree.’

‘It wirr be thirteen digits. That’s even better. The most beautifur number. And thirteen prus nine is twenty-two. Twice ereven – that’s twice as good!’

‘Why, that’s right!’ said Georges, brightening up. ‘The Japanese know all about beauty! Eleven seconds won’t change anything. I’ll reset the chronometer this moment!’

And now I have time to pray too, thought Eliza. Our Father, Who art in heaven…

She raised her eyes. Of course, she was not expecting to see the sky. Up there the velvet top mask of the curtain was swaying slightly, there were dark girders and the black gangway with its dangling cables. What else should an actress look at as she prepared to take her leave of this life?

Oh God, what was that?

Right above Nonarikin’s head, Fandorin was slipping down one of the cables used to secure the scenery to its fly-bars, moving rapidly hand over hand. In two minutes he had managed to run up onto the gangway, creep out to the very centre and start climbing down. But what for? He could have been somewhere safe now, and instead of that he would be killed together with everyone else! He wouldn’t have time to climb down in the few remaining seconds in any case. And even if he did, Nonarikin would simply press the button – he was on his guard!

Her prayer was left unspoken.

The author of the benefit performance took his finger off the button and started turning a little wheel on the clock face, setting the number 11 in the second frame. He pushed a little lever, obviously changing the time of the detonation. At that very instant Fandorin jumped from more than twenty feet up in the air and landed directly on top of Nonarikin. Something crunched, Eliza was thrown aside, and when she got up, there were two motionless bodies lying beside her, one on top of the other. In the little middle window of the clock two single digits popped up, but the seconds were still blinking.

11:11:01, 11:11:02, 11:11:03, 11:11:04…

Swardilin flew up onto the stage with a guttural croak. He swayed, unable to stay on his feet, and fell.

‘The wires!’ he shouted. ‘Eriza-san, the wires!’

‘What?’ she asked in confusion, staring spellbound at the blinking figures.

11:11:05, 11:11:06, 11:11:07…

Crawling sideways like a crab, the Japanese tumbled in over the threshold of the geisha’s little house and jerked the casket towards him with all his might. The wires snapped, the display went blank and for some reason sparks showered down from the ceiling above the hall.

‘That’s orr,’ said Swardilin, and he lay down on his back and squeezed his eyes shut. His head must have been spinning very badly. ‘A beautifur death can wait. First a beautifur rife.’

There won’t be any explosion. We’re saved, Eliza thought. And she burst into tears. What good was that if he, he had been killed? It would have been better for them to die together. Enveloped in thunder and flame!

‘Erast Petrovich… He saved us all and he’s been killed, he’s been killed,’ she moaned.

Masa opened his eyes and sat up. He looked at his master, lying there face down, and protested resentfully.

‘I saved orr of us. My master herped me. He onry tord me: “Masa, jyuichibyo!” – “Masa, ereven seconds!” and ran off. And I had to puzzur out what he meant. My head was broken anyway, it hurt. It was hard to think. But I understood!’

‘What difference does it make, who saved everybody… He has been killed! He fell from such a great height!’

She crept across to her beloved on her knees, fell against his back and started crying.

Swardilin touched her on the shoulder.

‘Ret me see, prease, Eriza-san.’

He gently moved Eliza aside, then felt his motionless master for a short while and nodded in satisfaction. He turned Fandorin over onto his back. Erast Petrovich’s face was pale and motionless, quite unbearably handsome. Eliza bit herself on the wrist to stop herself howling with grief.

The Japanese, however, treated the fallen hero disrespectfully. He pressed on his neck with one finger, leaned down and started blowing into his nose.

Fandorin’s eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened. The blue eyes gazed at Masa – first indifferently and then in astonishment. Erast Petrovich pushed the Japanese away from him.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ he exclaimed, and started staring around.

It’s a miracle!

He’s alive, alive!

Swardilin shook his head and said something reproachfully. Fandorin’s face took on an embarrassed expression.

‘Masa says that I have completely forgotten how to jump from a height. I haven’t p-practised it for a long time. He’s right. There are no bones broken, but the impact knocked me unconscious. I’m ashamed. Well now, how is our artist of Evil doing?’

He and Masa started massaging and probing at Nonarikin. The assistant director cried out. He was alive too.

‘A quite exceptionally hardy constitution. He got off with a broken collarbone,’ Erast Petrovich summed up, and turned towards the hall. ‘It’s all over, calm down! Those who can get up may do so. Those who are too agitated had better remain in their seats. Gentlemen of the company, bring the ladies some water! And sal volatile.’

Cautiously, still not fully believing that they had been saved, several of the actors got up. The first to jump to her feet was Comedina.

‘Don’t touch him! You’re hurting him!’ she shouted at Masa, who was tying the assistant director’s wrists together with a leather belt.

‘He should be sent off to serve hard labour! He almost did for the lot of us!’ Mephistov brandished his bony fist at Nonarikin. ‘I’ll testify at the trial. Oh, I’ll testify, won’t I just!’

Noah Noaevich mopped the top of his head with a handkerchief.

‘Forget it, Anton Ivanovich, what trial are you talking about? He’s a violent lunatic.’

The leader of the Ark was recovering before their very eyes. His expression grew firm again, and his eyes started glittering. Clambering up onto the stage, the director assumed a majestic pose, standing over the groaning Nonarikin.

‘Congratulations on a phenomenal flop, my talentless pupil. An artist with this specific gift belongs in the aforementioned lunatic asylum. They employ progressive means of treatment there, and I think there is even a drama circle. When you have recovered a bit, you can lead it.’

Suddenly Stern was almost sent flying as Comedina jumped up and crashed into him from behind.

‘Don’t you dare make fun of him! That’s mean and base! Georgy Ivanovich is unwell!’ She went down on her knees and started rubbing the dust and dirt off Nonarikin’s face. ‘Georges, I still love you anyway! I’ll always love you! I’ll come to visit you in the hospital every day! And when you get well, I’ll take you away. The only problem is that you imagined you were a titan. But there’s no need to be a titan. Titans are always huffing and puffing, so they’re unhappy. It’s better to be a little person, believe me. See how little I am? And you’ll be the same. We were made for each other. You’ll come to understand that. Not now, but later.’

Stunned and in pain, Nonarikin couldn’t speak. He merely tried to move away from the stage fool. If his grimace was anything to go by, he didn’t wish to be a little person.

‘Well now, colleagues,’ Noah Noaevich exclaimed. ‘The benefit performance turned out rather impressive, as a matter of fact. It was only a shame that there was no audience. And if we tell anyone, no one will believe us. They’ll think that we acted out the whole thing ourselves and stuck dynamite all over the place for the sake of the publicity… By the way,’ he added anxiously, switching to a whisper, ‘dynamite can’t simply go and detonate for some reason or other, can it? Quiet, I implore you! Konstantina Petrovna, don’t shout like that, please!’