Murder on the Leviathan

The fifth day of the fourth month In sight of the Eritrean coast

This trivial pentastich is the fruit my one-hour-and-a half-long efforts to attain a state of inner harmony that confounded harmony that has stubbornly refused

to be restored.

I have been sitting alone on the stern, watching the dreary coastline of Africa and feeling my infinite isolation more acutely than ever. I can at least be thankful that the noble habit of keeping a diary was instilled in me from childhood. Seven years ago as I set out to study in the remote country of Furansu, I dreamed in secret that one day the diary of my travels would be published as a book and bring fame to me and the entire clan of Aono. But alas, my intellect is too imperfect and my feelings are far too ordinary for these pitiful pages ever to rival the great diaristic literature of former times.

And yet if not for these daily entries I should certainly have gone insane long ago.

Even here, on board a ship travelling to east Asia, there are only two representatives of the yellow race - myself and a Chinese eunuch, a court official of the eleventh rank who has travelled to Paris to obtain the latest perfumes and cosmetic products for the Empress Dowager Tz’u Hsi. For the sake of economy he is travelling second class, of which he is greatly ashamed, and our conversation was broken off the moment it emerged that I am travelling first class. What a disgrace for China! In the court official’s place I should certainly have died of humiliation, for on this European vessel each of us is the representative of a great Asian power. I understand Courtier Chan’s state of mind, but it is nonetheless a pity that he feels too ashamed even to leave his cramped cabin - there are things that we could have talked about. That is, although we could not talk about them, we could communicate with the aid of ink, brush and paper, for while we speak different languages, we use the same hieroglyphs.

Never mind, I tell myself, hold on. The difficulties remaining are mere trifles. In a month or so you will see the lights of Nagasaki, and from there it is a mere stone’s throw to your home town of Kagoshima.

And what do I care that my return promises me only humiliation and disgrace, that I shall be a laughing stock to all my friends! For I shall be home once again and, after all, no one will dare to express his contempt for me openly, since everyone knows that I was carrying out my father’s will, and that orders are not a matter for discussion. I have done what I had to do, what my duty obliged me to do. My life may be ruined, but if that is what the welfare of Japan requires … Enough, no more of that!

And yet who could have imagined that the return to my homeland, the final stage of my seven year ordeal, would prove so hard? In France at least I could take my food alone, I could delight in taking solitary walks and communing with nature. But here on the ship I feel like a grain of rice that has fallen by accident into a bowl of noodles. Seven years of life among the red-haired barbarians have failed to inure me to some of their disgusting habits. When I see the fastidious Kleber-san cut a bloody beefsteak with her knife and then lick her red-stained lips with her pink tongue it turns my stomach. And these English washbasins in which you have to plug the drain and wash your face in contaminated water! And those appalling clothes, the invention of some perverted mind! They make you feel like a carp wrapped in greased paper that is being roasted over hot coals.

Most of all, I hate the starched collars that leave a red rash on your chin and the leather shoes, a genuine instrument of torture. Exploiting my position as an ‘oriental savage’ I take the liberty of strolling around the deck in a light yukata, while my unfortunate dining companions stew in their clothes from morning till night. My sensitive nostrils suffer greatly from the smell of European sweat, so harsh, greasy and fleshy. Equally terrible is the round-eyes’ habit of blowing their noses into handkerchiefs and then putting them back into their pockets, together with the mucus, then taking them out and blowing their noses into them again. They will simply not believe it at home, they will think I have made it all up. But then seven years is a long time. Perhaps by now our ladies are also wearing those ridiculous bustles on their hindquarters and tottering along on high heels.

It would be interesting to see how Kyoko-san looks in a costume like that. After all, she is quite grown up 13 years old already. In another year or two now they will marry us. Or perhaps it will happen even sooner. Oh to be home soon!

Today I found it especially difficult to attain inner harmony because:

1. I discovered that my finest instrument, capable of easily cutting through the very thickest muscle, has been stolen from my travelling bag. What does this strange theft mean?

2. At lunch I once again found myself in a position of humiliation - far worse than the incident with Charles the Bold (see my entry for yesterday).

Fandorin-san, who continues as before to be very curious concerning Japan, began questioning me about bushido and samurai traditions. The conversation moved on to my family and my ancestors. Since I had introduced myself as an officer, the Russian began to question me about the weapons, uniforms and service regulations of the Imperial Army. It was terrible! When it emerged that I had never even heard of the Berdan rifle, Fandorin-san looked at me very strangely. He must have thought the Japanese army is staffed with absolute ignoramuses. In my shame I completely forgot my manners and ran out of the saloon, which of course only rendered the incident even more embarrassing.

It was a long time before I was able to settle my nerves. First I went up onto the boat deck, which is deserted because the sun is at its fiercest there. I stripped to my loincloth and for half an hour practised the kicking technique of mawashi-geri. When I had reached the right condition and the sun began to look pink, I seated myself in the zazen pose and attempted to meditate for 40 minutes. And only after that did I dress myself and go to the stern to compose a tanka.

All of these exercises were helpful. Now I know how to save face. At dinner I shall tell Fandorin-san that we are forbidden to talk to strangers about the Imperial Army and that I ran out of the saloon in such haste because I am suffering from terrible diarrhoea.

I think that will sound convincing and in the eyes of my neighbours at table I shall not appear to be an ill-mannered savage.

So much for harmony! Something quite catastrophic has happened. My hands are trembling in shame, but I must immediately note down all the details. It will help me to concentrate and take the correct decision.

To begin with only the facts, conclusions later.

And so.

Dinner in the Windsor saloon began as usual at eight o’clock. Although during the afternoon I had ordered red beet salad, the waiter brought me bloody, half-raw beef. Apparently he thought I had said ‘red beef. I prodded the slaughtered animal’s flesh, still oozing blood, and observed with secret envy the captain’s first mate, who was eating a most appetizing vegetable stew with lean chicken.

What else happened?

Nothing out of the ordinary. Kleber-san, as always, was complaining of a migraine but eating with a voracious appetite. She looks the very picture of health, a classic example of an easy pregnancy. I am sure that when her time comes the child will pop out of her like a cork from sparkling French wine.

There was talk of the heat, of tomorrow’s arrival in Aden, of precious stones. Fandorin-san and I discussed the relative advantages of Japanese and English gymnastics. I found myself in a position to be condescending, since in this sphere the superiority of the East over the West is self-evident. The difference, of course, is that for them physical exercise is sport, a game, but for us it is the path to spiritual self improvement. It is spiritual improvement that is important. Physical perfection is of no importance; it is automatically dragged along behind, as the carriages follow a steam locomotive. I should mention that the Russian is very interested in sport and has even heard something of the martial arts schools of Japan and China. This morning I was meditating on the boat deck earlier than usual and I saw Fandorin-san there. We merely bowed to each other and did not enter into conversation, because each of us was occupied with his own business: I was bathing my soul in the light of the new day, while he, dressed in gymnast’s tights, was performing squats and press ups on each arm in turn and lifting weights which appeared to be very heavy.

Our common interest in gymnastics rendered our evening conversation unforced and I felt more relaxed than usual. I told the Russian about ju-jitsu.

He listened with unflagging interest.

At about half past eight (I did not notice the precise time) Kleber-san, having drunk her tea and eaten two cakes, complained of feeling dizzy. I told her that this happens to pregnant women when they eat too much. For some reason she evidently took offence at my words and I realized that my comment was out of place. How many times have I sworn not to speak out of turn. After all, I was taught by wise teachers: when you find yourself in strange company, sit, listen, smile pleasantly and from time to time nod your head - you will acquire the reputation of a well-bred individual and at the very least you will not say anything stupid. It is not the place of an ‘officer’ to be giving medical advice!

Renier-san immediately leapt to his feet and volunteered to accompany the lady to her cabin. He is in general a most considerate man, and especially with Kleber-san. He is the only one who is not yet sick of her interminable caprices. He stands up for the honour of his uniform, and I applaud him for it.

When they left, the men moved to the armchairs and began smoking. The Italian ship’s doctor and his English wife went to visit a patient and I attempted to din it into the waiter’s head that they should not put either bacon or ham in my omelette for breakfast.

After so many days they should have grown used to the idea by now.

Perhaps about two minutes later we suddenly heard a woman’s high-pitched scream.

Firstly, I did not immediately realize that it was Kleber-san screaming. Secondly, I did not understand that her blood-curdling scream of ‘Oscure! Oscure!’ meant ‘Au secours! Au secours!’ But that does not excuse my behaviour. I behaved disgracefully, quite disgracefully. I am unworthy of the title of samurai!

But everything in order.

The first to reach the door was Fandorin-san, followed by the commissioner of police, then Milford-Stokes-san and Sweetchild-san, and I was still glued to the spot. They have all decided, of course, that the Japanese army is staffed by pitiful cowards. In actual fact, I simply did not understand immediately what was happening.

When I did understand it was too late - I was the last to come running up to the scene of the incident, even behind Stamp-san.

Kleber-san’s cabin is very close to the saloon, the fifth door on the right along the corridor. Peering over the shoulders of those who had reached the spot before me I saw a quite incredible sight. The door of the cabin was wide open. Kleber-san was lying on the floor and moaning pitifully, with some immense, heavy, shiny black mass slumped across her. I did not immediately realize that it was a negro of immense stature. He was wearing white canvas trousers. The handle of a sailor’s dirk was protruding from the back of his neck. From the position of his body I knew immediately that the negro was dead.

A blow like that, struck to the base of the skull, requires great strength and precision, but it kills instantly and surely.

Kleber-san was floundering in a vain effort to wriggle out from under the heavy carcass that had pinned her down. Lieutenant Renier was bustling about beside her. His face was whiter than the collar of his shirt. The dirk scabbard hanging at his side was empty. The lieutenant was completely flustered, torn between dragging this unsavoury deadweight off the pregnant woman, and turning to us and launching into an incoherent explanation to the commissioner of what had happened.

Fandorin-san was the only one who remained calm and composed. Without any visible effort he lifted up the heavy corpse and dragged it off to one side (I remembered his exercises with the weights), helped Kleber-san into an armchair and gave her some water. Then I came to my senses and checked swiftly to make sure that she had no wounds or bruises. There did not seem to be any. Whether there is any internal damage will become clear later. Everyone was so agitated that they were not surprised when I examined her. White people are convinced that all Orientals are part-shaman and know the art of healing. Kleber-san’s pulse was 95, which is perfectly understandable.

Interrupting each other as they spoke, Renier-san and Kleber-san told us the following story.

The lieutenant:

He saw Kleber-san to her cabin, wished her a pleasant evening and took his leave. However, he had scarcely taken two steps away from her door when he heard her desperate scream.

Kleber-san:

She went into her cabin, switched on the electric light and saw a gigantic black man standing by her dressing table with her coral beads in his hands (I actually saw these beads on the floor afterwards).

The negro threw himself on her without speaking, tossed her to the floor and grabbed hold of her throat with his massive hands. She screamed.

The lieutenant:

He burst into the cabin, saw the appalling (he said ‘fantastic’) scene and for a moment was at a loss. He grabbed the negro by the shoulders, but was unable to shift the giant by even an inch. Then he kicked him in the head, but again without the slightest effect. It was only then, fearing for the life of Kleber-san and her child, that he grabbed his dirk out of its sheath and struck a single blow.

It occurred to me that the lieutenant must have spent a turbulent youth in taverns and bordellos, where skill in handling a knife determines who will sober up the following morning and who will be carried off to the cemetery.

Captain Cliff and Dr Truffo came running up. The cabin became crowded. No one could understand how the African had come to be on board the Leviathan. Fandorin-san carefully inspected a tattoo covering the dead man’s chest and said that he had come across one like it before. Apparently, during the recent Balkan conflict he was held prisoner by the Turks, and there he saw black slaves with precisely the same zigzag lines surrounding the nipples in concentric circles. They are the ritual markings of the Ndanga tribe, recently discovered by Arab slave traders in the very heart of Equatorial Africa. Ndanga men are in great demand at markets throughout the East.

It seemed to me that Fandorin-san said all of this with a rather strange expression on his face, as though he were perplexed by something. However, I could be mistaken, since the facial expressions of Europeans are freakish and do not correspond at all to ours.

Commissioner Gauche listened to the diplomat carefully. He said that there were two questions that interested him as a representative of the law: how the negro had managed to get on board and why he had attacked Mme Kleber.

Then it emerged that things had begun disappearing in a mysterious fashion from the cabins of several of the people present. I remembered the item that had disappeared from my cabin, but naturally I said nothing. It was also established that people had seen a massive black shadow (Miss Stamp) or a black face peeping in at their windows (Mrs Truffo). It is clear now that these were not hallucinations and not the fruit of morbid imaginings.

Everyone threw themselves on the captain. Apparently, the passengers had been in mortal danger all the time they had been on board and the ship’s command had not even been aware of it. Cliff-san was scarlet with shame. And it must be admitted that a terrible blow has been struck at his prestige. I tactfully turned away so that he would suffer less from his loss of face.

Then the captain asked all the witnesses to the incident to move into the Windsor saloon and addressed us with a speech of great power and dignity. Above all he apologized for what had happened.

He asked us not to tell anyone about this ‘regrettable occurrence’, since it might cause mass psychosis on board the ship. He promised that his sailors would immediately comb all the holds, the ‘tween-decks space, the wine cellar, the store rooms and even the coal holes. He gave us his guarantee that there would not be any more black burglars on board his ship.

The captain is a good man, a genuine old sea dog.

He speaks awkwardly, in short, clipped phrases, but it is clear that he is strong in spirit and he takes his job with serious enthusiasm. I once heard Truffosensei telling the commissioner that Captain Cliff is a widower and he dotes on his only daughter, who is being educated in a boarding school somewhere. I find that very touching.

I seem to be recovering my composure gradually.

The lines of writing are more even now and my

hand is no longer shaking. I can go on to the most unpalatable moment in all of this.

During my superficial examination of Kleber-san I noticed that she had no bruising. There were also several other observations which ought to be shared with the captain and the commissioner. But I wished above all to reassure a pregnant woman who was struggling to recover her wits after a shock, who seemed intent, in fact, on plunging into hysterics.

I said to her in a most soothing tone of voice:

‘Perhaps this black man had no intention of killing you, madam. You entered so unexpectedly and switched on the light and he was simply frightened. After all, he …’

Kleber-san interrupted before I could finish.

‘He was frightened?’ she hissed with sudden venom. ‘Or perhaps it was you who was frightened, my dear Oriental monsieur? Do you think I didn’t notice your nasty little yellow face peeping out from behind other people’s backs?’

No one has ever insulted me so outrageously. The worst thing of all was that I could not pretend these were the foolish words of a silly hysterical woman and shield myself from them with a smile of disdain.

Kleber-san’s thrust had found my most vulnerable spot!

There was nothing I could say in reply, I was badly hurt, and the grimace on her tear-stained face when she looked at me was humiliating. If at that moment I could have fallen through the floor into the famous Christian hell, I would certainly have pressed the lever of the trapdoor myself. Worst of all, my sight was veiled by the red mist of rage, and that is the condition which I fear most. It is in this state of frenzy that a samurai commits those deeds that are disastrous for his karma. Then afterwards he must spend the rest of his life seeking to expiate the guilt of that single moment of lost self-control. He can do things for which even seppuku will not be sufficient atonement.

I left the saloon, afraid that I would not be able to restrain myself and would do something terrible to a pregnant woman. I am not sure that I could have controlled myself if a man had said something like that to me.

I locked myself in my cabin and took out the sack of Egyptian gourds that I had bought at the bazaar in Port Said. They are small, about the size of a human head, and very hard. I bought 50 of them.

In order to disperse the scarlet mist in front of my eyes, I set about improving my straight chop with the edge of the hand. Because of my extreme agitation I delivered the blow poorly: instead of two equal halves, the gourds split into seven or eight pieces.

It is hard.