Choking on his assistant’s impudence, Stern really blew his top when he heard about the benefit performance.
‘Aha, so it was you!’ he howled in a terrible voice, and flew up onto the stage. ‘It was you who scribbled nonsense all over the sacred book. Why you, I’ll…’
The assistant director struck his idol and teacher a deft, resounding smack across the face. Everybody froze and Noah Noaevich grabbed at his cheek and cringed, with his eyes goggling out of his head.
‘Sit down in your place,’ Georges ordered him. ‘You are no longer the director! I am the director now.’
The poor man had lost his reason. It was obvious.
He strode over to the centre of the stage, where the scenery had been installed, and climbed up into the geisha’s room. He stopped at the low table and lifted up the lid of the casket – the one connected to the wires that ignited the flight of the two comets in the finale.
The original stupefaction passed off.
‘Hey, brother, you’ve lost it…’ Shiftsky got to his feet, twirling one finger at his temple. ‘You need calming down.’
Sensiblin got up.
‘Georges, my dear man, what are you doing up there on the stage? Come here and we’ll have a talk.’
‘Nonarikin-san, you mustn’t hit your sensei!’ Swardilin said angrily. ‘It’s the worst thing you can do!’
But Stern, still clutching his cheek, whined:
‘There’s no point in talking to him, he should be tied up and sent off to a lunatic asylum.’
Suddenly everyone fell silent again. A pistol had appeared in Nonarikin’s hand – the Bayard that Eliza knew so well, the witness to her shameful flop.
‘Sit down! Everyone sit in the front row!’ the assistant director commanded. ‘Be quiet. Listen. Time is short!’
Sima started shrieking. Vasilisa Prokofievna gasped.
‘Mother of God. He’ll kill us, the raving lunatic! Sit down, don’t provoke him!’
Kostya, Lev Spiridonovich and Stern backed away and sat down in chairs, while in his fright Sensiblin even sat on his former spouse’s knees and she didn’t utter a peep, although at any other time a liberty like that would have cost the philosopher dear.
The Japanese was the only one who wasn’t frightened.
‘Give me the pistor, you rittur foor,’ he said affectionately, still walking forward. ‘Ret’s sort this thing out the friendry way.’
The acoustics in the hall were miraculously good. The shot thundered out so loudly that Eliza was deafened. In the basement, when they were practising shooting, the Bayard had fired more quietly. Masa was just stepping off the hanamichi onto the stage. He flung his arms up and went flying down into the seats of the front row. He was wounded in the head. There was blood pouring out of his torn ear and a red ribbon of it lay across his temple. Aphrodisina squealed despairingly, splattered with red drops.
Then it began! The actors went dashing in all directions, screaming as they ran. Only Swardilin lay there, stunned, on the floor, and Fandorin didn’t stir from his seat.
Eliza grabbed him by the arm.
‘He’s gone insane! He’ll shoot everybody! Let’s run for it!’
‘There’s nowhere to run,’ said Erast Petrovich, keeping his eyes fixed on the stage. ‘And it’s too late.’
All three doors of the hall turned out to be locked, and no one dared to run backstage – there was a madman sitting cross-legged on the stage and waving a pistol about. Then he threw up his hand, aimed upwards and there was another shot. Crystal crumbs sprinkled down from the chandelier.
‘Everybody in you places!’ Nonarikin shouted. ‘Two minutes have been wasted for nothing. Or do you want to die like stupid animals without understanding a thing? I never miss when I shoot. If anyone is not in their place in five seconds, I’ll kill them.’
Everyone came dashing back as promptly as they scattered. They sat down, breathing heavily. Eliza had stayed right beside Erast Petrovich, who lifted up Masa, seated him beside himself and wiped the bleeding wound with a handkerchief.
‘Nan jya?’ Swardilin hissed through his teeth.
‘A concussion. I’ve forgotten the Japanese word.’
The Japanese nodded briefly.
‘I didn’t mean the scratch! What is that? That?’ he asked, jabbing his finger in Nonarikin’s direction.
Fandorin’s answer was incomprehensible.
‘Eleven 1s and one figure 9. I am very badly at fault. I realised t-too late. And I don’t have a gun with me…’
Another shot thundered out. Splinters went flying from the back of the empty seat beside Erast Petrovich.
‘Silence in the hall! I’m the director now! And this is my benefit performance! The fine for chattering is a bullet. There are eight minutes left!’
Nonarikin was holding his left hand on the casket with the buttons that switched on the electricity.
‘If you make any sudden movements, I’ll press it.’ The assistant director was addressing Fandorin. ‘I won’t take my eyes off you. I know how nippy you are.’
‘That’s not just light switches, is it?’ Erast Petrovich paused and gritted his teeth (Eliza heard the sound quite clearly). ‘The hall is m-mined, isn’t it? You’re a sapper, after all… And I’m a damned stupid idiot…’
The final words were spoken very quietly.
‘What do you m-mean by “m-mined”?’ Noah Noaevich hissed. His voice was breaking. ‘With b-bombs?’
‘Now look, Erast Petrovich, you’ve ruined the entire effect!’ Nonarikin complained, as if he were offended. ‘I was going to tell them that right at the very end. Supremely fine electrical engineering work! The charges have been calculated so that the shock wave will destroy everything inside the hall without damaging the building. That’s called “implosion”. What lies beyond the boundaries of the world we share is of no interest to me. Let it remain. Quiet, gentlemen and artistes!’ he shouted at his noisy audience. ‘What are you all cackling about? Why, are you, my teacher, clutching at your heart? You said yourself that all the world’s a stage and the stage is the whole world. Noah’s Ark is the best theatre company in the world. All of us together, pure and impure, are an ideal model of humanity! How many times have you repeated that to us, my teacher?’
‘That’s true. But why blow us all up?’
‘There are two supreme artistic acts: creation and destruction. So there must be two types of artists: the artist of Good and the artist of Evil, alias the artist of Life and the artist of Death. It is an open question whose art is the higher! I have served you faithfully, I have studied with you, I have waited for you to appreciate my boundless devotion, my zeal! I was willing to make do with the role of an artist of Life, a theatre director. But you mocked me. You gave my role to that mediocre Emeraldov. You said that I was just a mere jack of all trades, a make-weight, like a number nine in a deck of cards. But I have invented my own benefit productio. There are eleven of you here, all established artistes, all wanting to claim good roles and be number ones, aces. Now appreciate the beauty of my play. I have sought out the point at which eleven 1s will coincide with one figure 9. Precisely at eleven minutes past eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1911…’ – Nonarikin laughed loudly – ‘…our theatre will go flying to kingdom come. When the time 11:11 appears on the electrical clock, there will be thunder and lightning. And if you get it into your heads to turn rebellious, I shall press the button myself – look, I’m holding my finger on it. The roof and walls of this ark will become our sarcophagus! You must admit, my teacher, that there has not been a performance as beautiful as this since the times of Herostratus! You must admit that – and admit that the pupil has outdone his teacher!’