The Death of Achilles

THREE

To see what the iron room looked like proved easier than Achimas had expected.

He went to Medvedev’s house, dressed in a gray morning coat and matching gray top hat. While still in his hotel he had sent on his card, which was printed with words in gold lettering:

Chasan Radaev’ Trading House.

AFANASY PETROVICH WELDE

Partner Medvedev had replied with a note saying that he had heard of the trading house of the respected Chasan Radaev and requested an immediate visit. And so Achimas had set out for the beautiful new house on the outskirts of the town, which stood at the top of a steep cliff and was surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall. It was a fortress, not a house. A place where you could sit out a siege.

When Achimas entered the oak gates, this impression became even stronger: There were two sentries with carbines strolling about in the yard, and the sentries were wearing military uniforms, only without shoulder straps.

His host was bald, with a bulging forehead, a firm potbelly, and shrewd black eyes. He sat the young man down at the table and offered him coffee and a cigar. After ten minutes of polite, leisurely conversation about politics and the price of wool, he asked how he could be of assistance to the estimable Mr. Radaev.

Achimas then expounded the business proposal that he had invented as an excuse for his visit. “An exchange of mineral waters between Solen-ovodsk and Semigorsk ought to be arranged,” he said. “Your springs heal the stomach and our springs heal the kidneys. Many visitors come here to take a cure for both. So that these people will not have to travel a hundred versts over bumpy mountain roads, why should the firm of Medvedev not set up a shop in Solenovodsk, and the firm of Radaev set up a shop in Semigorsk? It would be profitable for both of us.”

“A good idea,” the baptized Jew said approvingly. “Very good. Only there are many bandits on the road. How shall I transport my earnings here from Solenovodsk?”

“Why bring them here at all?” Achimas asked in surprise. “You can put them in the bank.” Medvedev stroked the thin wreath of curly hair surrounding his bald patch and smiled: “I don’t trust the banks, Afanasy Petrovich. I prefer to keep my money at home.”

“But it is dangerous to keep it at home; you could be robbed,” said Achimas, shaking his head in disapproval. “They won’t rob me,” said Medvedev, with a cunning wink. “In the first place, I have retired soldiers, lifelong professionals, living here in the house; they guard the yard day and night in shifts. But I have even more confidence in my armor- plated room. No one except me can get into it.” Achimas was about to ask what this room was like, but before he had a chance his host himself made a suggestion: “Perhaps you would like to take a look?”

While they were walking down into the basement (it had a separate entrance from the yard), Medvedev told the story of how an engineer from Stuttgart had built him a repository for his money with a steel door eight inches thick. The door had a numerical lock with an eight-digit combination that he changed every day.

When they entered the underground premises, in which a kerosene lamp was burning, Achimas saw a steel wall and a forged metal door with round rivets. “A door like that can’t be forced or blown open,” his host boasted. “The governor of the town himself keeps his savings with me, and the chief of police, and the local merchants. I charge them well for the security, but it is still worth people’s while. This is safer than any bank.” Achimas nodded respectfully, interested to hear that it was not only Medvedev’s own money that was kept in the iron room.

At this point, however, the baptized Jew said something unexpected: “So please tell your respected uncle, may God grant him health and prosperity in his business affairs, that he need not trouble himself anymore. I am a new man in the Caucasus, but I know about those people who I need to know about. Convey my humble greetings to Chasan Mu-radovich and my gratitude for his taking an interest in me. But that idea about the water is a good one. Was it yours?” He slapped the young man on the shoulder patronizingly and asked him to pay another visit — on Thursdays the cream of Semigorsk society gathered at the house.

The fact that the baptized Jew had proved to be clever and well-informed was not in itself a difficulty. The difficulty arose on Thursday, when Achimas, having accepted the invitation, arrived at the house at the top of the cliff in order to study the disposition of the rooms.

So far the plan had been conceived as follows: Overpower the guards at night, hold a knife to the householder’s throat, and see which he loved more — the iron room or his own life. It was a simple plan, but Achimas didn’t really like it. First, it could not be managed without additional helpers. And second, there were people who loved their money more than their lives, and the young man’s intuition told him that Lazar Medvedev was one of them.

At that Thursday’s gathering there was a large number of guests, and Achimas was hoping that later, when they took their seats at table and drank their fill, he would be able to slip away unnoticed and look around the house. But matters never reached that point, because the aforementioned difficulty manifested itself at the very beginning of the evening.

When the host introduced his guest to his wife, Achimas merely noted that old Abylgazi had not lied when he said she was young and attractive: ash-blond hair with a golden tinge and beautifully shaped eyes. She was called Evgenia Alexeevna. But Madame Medvedev’s charms had no connection with his business and therefore, having pressed his lips to the slim white hand, Achimas walked through into the drawing room and took up a position in the farthest corner, by the door curtain, from where he had a good view of the entire company and the door that led into the inner rooms.

It was there that the hostess sought him out. She walked up to him and asked quietly: “Is that you, Lia?” Then she answered herself. “It is you. No one else has eyes like that.”

Achimas said nothing, overcome by a strange stupefaction that he had never experienced before, and Evgenia Alexeevna continued in a rapid, fitful half whisper: “What are you doing here? My husband says you are a bandit and a murderer, that you wish to rob him. Is it true? Don’t answer, it is all the same to me. How I waited for you. And now, when I have stopped waiting and married, you suddenly turn up here. Will you take me away from here? You don’t mind that I didn’t wait until you came, do you, you’re not angry? You remember me, don’t you? I’m little Evgenia from the orphanage at Skyrovsk.”

Suddenly Achimas had a vivid recollection of a scene that he had not remembered even once in all those years: Chasan carrying him away from the orphanage, and a thin little girl running silently after the horse. He thought that at the end he had heard her shout: “Lia, I’ll wait for you!”

This difficulty could not be resolved by the usual means. Achimas did not know how to explain the strange behavior of Medvedev’s wife. Perhaps this really was the love that they wrote about in novels? But he did not believe in novels and had not touched a single one since grammar school. This was alarming and uncomfortable.

Achimas left the soiree without giving Evgenia Alexeevna any answer. He mounted his horse and rode back to Solenovodsk. He told his uncle about the iron room and the difficulty that had arisen. Chasan thought for a moment and said: “For a wife to betray her husband is a bad thing. But it is not for us to untangle the artful designs of fate, we should simply follow its wishes. And it is fate’s wish for us to enter the iron room with the help of Medvedev’s wife — this much is clear.”