‘The Tsar wasn’t surprised. I think he knows more about you than I do…’
Erast Petrovich remembered his confrontation with Whistle. Everything was clear now. The Tsar had taken an interest in the new playwright, made enquiries about him and learned all sorts of interesting things. Well now, that was most opportune.
‘Where did you meet the Tsar? In his Office?’
‘Yes. They took me somewhere out past Ostankino.’
‘Do you remember the place?’
‘I remember it. But Whistle said they were moving out of there the next day. And that was almost two weeks ago…’
‘Do you know where the Tsar is staying now?’
‘How could I?’
Fandorin thought for a moment and said:
‘Then I tell you what. You go and give Whistle a n-note to deliver to the Tsar. He’s loitering in front of the theatre right now. Write: “Fandorin was asking questions about you. We need to meet.” They’ll take you straight to the Office.’
Shiftsky immediately wrote down everything as dictated, although he pursed his thick lips sceptically.
‘But why would they do that? What’s the big deal if a dramatist is asking a few questions? You don’t know what kind of man the Tsar is. Oho, he’s a big kind of man.’
‘Whistle will take you straight to the Tsar,’ Erast Petrovich repeated. ‘They’ll be nervous. And you’ll tell them that when I talked to you I mentioned my suspicions. Say that Fandorin thinks Emeraldov was killed by the Tsar’s people.’
‘What do you mean, killed? He committed suicide,’ said Kostya, starting to get flustered. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t rub these people up the wrong way. They might take offence.’
‘When I come round to your hotel this evening, you can tell me if they’ve taken offence or not. But the most important thing you have to do is remember exactly where they take you.’
Fandorin watched through the window of the foyer as his prediction came true.
Shiftsky walked out and went over to Mr Whistle. He said something, with his head pulled into his shoulders ingratiatingly, and handed Whistle the folded sheet of paper. Whistle unfolded it and frowned. Then he waved his hand – and after that, everything happened exactly as it had the previous day. Two ‘pinschers’ ran over, the Ford drove up, the second car blocked off the street and the actor was taken away to have a talk with the autocrat of the Moscow scalpers.
Before evening arrived Erast Petrovich took action on another front and had a meeting with Mr Shustrov, after first telephoning the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company. The entrepreneur said that he would receive the dramatist immediately.
‘Well, have you changed your mind?’ Andrei Gordeevich asked as he shook his visitor’s hand. ‘Are you going to write scenarios for me?’
The style of his office was strangely non-Russian. Fine-boned furniture, constructed out of sticks and metal poles; huge windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling, with a view of the River Moscow and the factory chimneys towering up beyond it; strange pictures on the walls – nothing but cubes, squares and zigzag lines. Erast Petrovich did not understand modern art, but he attributed that to his advanced age. Every new era had its own eyes and ears – people wanted to see and hear something different. At one time even the snug, cosy Impressionists had seemed like hooligans, and now this respectable capitalist had an appalling purple woman with three legs hanging above his desk, and that was just fine.
‘The game you are getting involved in is a serious one,’ Fandorin said gravely, letting his eyes linger on posters for the latest films from Europe (Dante’s Inferno, Ancient Roman Orgy, Sherlock Holmes versus Professor Moriarty). ‘And I am a serious man. I have to know the rules and understand them.’
‘Naturally,’ the young millionaire said with a nod. ‘What is it that concerns you? I’ll answer any questions you have. I am extremely interested in collaborating with someone like you. Why do you hide from the reporters? Why have you only put your initials on the posters, and not your full name? That’s not right, it’s a mistake. I’d like to make you a star.’
This was a gentleman who had to be spoken to bluntly, so Fandorin asked his question without beating about the bush.
‘How do you get along with Tsarkov? As far as I can understand, if one is not on good terms with this wheeler-dealer, it is rather d-difficult, if not impossible, to establish a theatrical and cinematographic industry in Moscow.’
Shustrov was not embarrassed by this direct question.
‘I get along excellently with the Tsar.’
‘Oh, indeed? But you are a protagonist of civilised entrepreneurial activity, and he is a gentleman who likes to fish in murky waters, a semi-bandit.’
‘First and foremost, I am a realist. I have to take into account the specific features of Russian business. In this country the success of any large-scale initiative requires support from above and from below. From the clouds up above…’ – Andrei Gordeevich pointed to the towers of the Kremlin, visible through the window at the end of the room – ‘…and from underground…’ – he jabbed his finger down towards the floor. ‘The powers that be permit you to do business. And nothing more than that. But if you want that business to make progress, you have to turn to the unofficial power. In our state, which is so clumsy and inconvenient for business, the unofficial power helps to lubricate the rusty gearwheels and trim the rough edges.’
‘You are t-talking about figures such as Tsarkov?’
‘Of course. Cooperation with this underground magnate is absolutely essential in my field of work. Working without his help would be like trying to get things done with one arm missing. And if he were hostile, our enterprise would be entirely impossible.’
‘What does his help consist of?’
‘Many things. For instance, are you aware that pickpockets don’t ply their trade at Noah’s Ark productions? One newspaper article attributed this phenomenon to the beneficial influence of high art on callous criminal hearts. But in fact the pickpockets have been frightened off by Tsarkov’s people. That was done as a favour to me. He also stirs up the ballyhoo around touring performances – if he regards them as promising. It’s useful for him as concerns speculation in the tickets and for me in that it increases the value of the theatre that I have backed. But the Tsar will be at his most useful to us when we develop the cinematographic side of our activity. Then his underground enterprise will expand to cover the whole of Russia. We shall have to control the distributors, maintain order in the electric theatres, curtail the production of illegal copies. The police will not be able to do this work and will not wish to. And so the Tsar and I have great plans for each other.’
Shustrov explained enthusiastically and at length how the empire of performance and spectacle that he was in the process of creating would function. Everyone in it would do the job that he had the talent for. Brilliant writers like Mr Fandorin thinking up plots and storylines. Brilliant directors like Mr Stern making films and staging inventive theatrical productions, with the former sharing a thematic connection with the latter: that is, if the current emphasis is on orientalism, a play on Japanese life is followed by two or three films on the same subject matter. This develops demand, while at the same time providing a saving on scenery and costumes. The company’s own newspapers and magazines inflate the cult of its own actors and actresses. Its own electric theatres mean that takings do not have to be shared with anyone. The entire system is safe and secure from top to bottom in all its branching ramifications. Good relations with the authorities provide protection against any difficulties with the law, and good relations with the Tsar guarantee protection against criminals and sticky-fingered employees.