Of course, Erast Petrovich was no longer angry with his comrade. He was actually grateful to him.
But even so, to watch the way Eliza smiled affectionately at the Japanese and the way he took her by the elbow and whispered something in her ear was beyond all enduring.
Without an assistant Erast Petrovich could not carry out the operation he had planned. But he felt that he could not take Masa with him; he did not wish to. The very idea seemed intolerable to him, and Fandorin immediately found logical grounds for his feeling. A surgical incision, although it was made for a virtuous purpose, always stung and bled. Time was required for the scar to heal over.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ the assistant director appealed loudly to the assembled company. ‘Do not let yourselves be distracted! You know that Noah Noaevich demands absolute concentration before a rehearsal! Let us begin the first scene. And when Noah Noaevich arrives, we’ll go through it again.’
‘Now look what he wants,’ Sensiblin growled. ‘A rehearsal of a rehearsal – that’s something new.’
The others took no notice of Nonarikin’s appeals either. In his anguish, the assistant director pressed his hands against his breast – the edge of a false cuff protruded from the sleeve of his skimpy little jacket.
‘None of you genuinely love art!’ he exclaimed. ‘You only pretend to believe in Noah Noaevich’s theory! Ladies and gentlemen, that isn’t right! You have to devote yourself wholeheartedly to your calling! Remember: “All the world’s a stage!” Let us try to begin! I shall read the Storyteller’s part myself!’
No one apart from Fandorin was listening to him. But Erast Petrovich was struck by an unexpected idea.
Why not take Georges Nonarikin with him on the job?
He had his eccentricities, of course, but he was very brave – one only had to recall the poisoned rapier. That was one.
A former officer. That was two.
And also – a point of particular importance – not indiscreet. He wouldn’t let anything slip to anyone about Fandorin’s investigation into Emeraldov’s death. And, what was more, not once since that incident had he made any attempts to talk about it, although Erast Petrovich had caught his curious, enquiring glance. Truly exceptional restraint for an actor!
Yes, really. The plan of the operation could be adjusted to reduce the role of the assistant to a minimum.
Basically, Masa’s talents – his fighting skills, initiative and lightning-fast reactions – would not be required here. A sense of duty and firm resolution would be enough. And Georges certainly had no lack of those qualities. It was no accident that Stern had chosen him as his assistant…
The conversation with the assistant director confirmed the correctness of the spontaneous decision.
Erast Petrovich led the distressed Nonarikin into the side apron of the stage.
‘You once offered t-to help me. The hour has come. Are you ready? But I must tell you that the job entails a certain risk.’ He corrected himself: ‘I would even say, a significant risk.’
Nonarikin didn’t think about it for even a moment.
‘I am entirely at your disposal.’
‘Are you not even going to ask what it is that I want from you?’
‘There is no need.’ Georges looked at Fandorin unflinchingly with his big, round eyes. ‘Firstly, you are a man who has seen the world. I saw how respectfully the police officer listened to you.’
‘And secondly?’ Fandorin asked curiously.
‘Secondly, you could not suggest anything unworthy to me. You are a man of noble spirit. That is clear from your play and from your manner. I especially appreciate the fact that since our conversation on that occasion your conduct with regard to a certain individual has been beyond reproach. And neither have you told anyone about my own unfortunate weakness (I mean Mademoiselle Comedina). In short, whatever idea you may have come up with, I am prepared to follow you. And all the more so if the business that lies ahead is dangerous.’ The assistant director jerked up his chin in a dignified manner. ‘If I refused, I should lose all respect for myself.’
Of course, he was slightly comical with that high-flown manner of speaking that he had, but moving at the same time. Erast Petrovich, who was accustomed to playing close attention to his own attire, could not help noticing that Nonarikin was dressed poorly; a jacket that was neat, but had seen better days; a shirtfront instead of a shirt; shoes that were well polished, but had patched heels. Noah Noaevich did not reward the efforts of his assistant very generously – in fact, he paid him as a ‘third-level’ actor, in accordance with the significance of the roles that he played.
And all because, Fandorin mused, the model of humanity created by Stern lacks one important set of parts. It is somewhat exotic, but without it the palette of dramatic roles is incomplete and life is insipid. Moreover, this type is encountered more often in literature than in everyday life. Georges would suit the role of a ‘noble eccentric’ quite excellently – Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Griboedov’s Chatsky, Dostoevsky’s Prince Mishkin.
Certainly, Nonarikin’s awkwardness could result in unexpected problems. Erast Petrovich promised himself to reduce his assistant’s role to the absolutely simplest possible. Never mind, it was better to go on serious business with a man who might be slightly inept, but was noble, than with some self-seeking police careerist, who at the crucial moment would decide that his own interests were more important. Someone who possessed a highly developed sense of his own dignity could let you down through an inadvertent blunder, but never out of base villainy or cowardice.
How much easier it would be to live in this world, if only everybody regarded himself with respect, Fandorin thought after his conversation with the assistant director.
There was a class of human individuals that Erast Petrovich had always regarded with disgust. There were people who said quite calmly, without the slightest embarrassment: ‘I know that I’m shit’. They even saw a certain virtue in this, a distinctive kind of honesty. Of course, the immediate continuation of this remorseless confession was this: ‘And everyone around me is shit too, only they hide behind beautiful words’. In every noble action a person like this immediately searched for a base motive and he was furious if he could not guess it immediately. But in the end, of course, he figured something out and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, come on!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t fool me. We’re all cut from the same cloth.’ The philanthropist was generous, because he felt flattered by the awareness of his own superiority. The humanist was kind only in words, but in actual fact he was false through and through and only wanted to show off. Anyone who went to serve hard labour for his beliefs was a stupid ass, pure and simple. The martyr offered himself up for slaughter because individuals of that kind derived perverted sexual pleasure from feeling victimised. And so on. People who were willing to consider themselves shit could not live without rationalisations – that would have shattered their entire picture of existence.