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.