‘There,’ Shirota translated. ‘Now you no longer look like the snowy peak of Mount Fuji.’
Commissar Iwaoka smeared the foul-smelling, yellow-brown muck across Erast Petrovich’s stomach.
Fandorin grimaced, but he endured it.
The true noble man
Is so pure that even dung
Cannot besmirch him
TIGER ON THE LOOSE
It turned out to be possible to get used to a foul smell. The stench of the dung stopped tormenting the titular counsellor’s nose quite soon. The flies were far worse. Attracted by the appetising aroma, they flew to congregate on poor Fandorin from all over the Japanese archipelago or, at the very least, from all over the prefecture of Kanagawa. At first he tried to drive them away, then he gave up, because a peasant flapping his hands about might attract attention. He gritted his teeth and endured the nauseating tickling of the multitude of little green brutes busily crawling over his back and chest and face.
The doubled-over diplomat moved along slowly, up to his knees in water, pulling up some kind of vegetation. No one had bothered to explain to him what the weeds looked like, so he was very probably disposing of shoots of rice, but that was the last thing the sweat-drenched vice-consul was worried about. He hated rice, and flooded-field farming, and his own stubbornness, which had secured him a place in an assault group.
The other member of his group was the instigator of the anointment with dung, Iwaoka of the grey moustache. Although, in fact, the commissar no longer had his dashingly curled moustache – he had shaved it off before the operation began, in order to look more like a peasant. Erast Petrovich had managed to save his own moustache, but he had moistened it and let it dangle at the corners of his mouth like two small icicles. This was the only consolation now left to the titular counsellor – in every other respect Iwaoka had come off far more comfortably.
First, the flies took absolutely no interest in him at all – smelly Erast Petrovich was quite enough for them. Secondly, the commissar moved through the champing mud without any visible effort, and the weeding seemed to be no problem to him – every now and then he stopped and rested, waiting for his lagging partner. But Fandorin’s envy was provoked most powerfully of all by the large white fan with which the prudent Japanese had armed himself. The titular counsellor would have paid any price now, simply to be able to waft the air on to his face and blow off the accursed flies.
His straw hat, lowered almost all the way down to his chin, had two holes in it so that he could observe the shrine without raising his head. The two ‘peasants’ had covered the two hundred paces separating the hill from the edge of the field in about an hour and a half. Now they were trampling mud about thirty feet from dry land, but they mustn’t go any closer, in order not to alarm the lookout. He already had his eyes fixed on them as it was. They turned this way and that to let him see that they were men of peace, harmless, there was nowhere they could be hiding any weapons.
The support group, consisting of six policemen minus uniforms, was keeping its distance. There was another support group at work on the other side; it couldn’t be seen from here.
The vice-intendant was still nowhere to be seen, and Fandorin started feeling concerned about whether he would be able to straighten up when the time for action finally arrived. He cautiously kneaded his waist with one hand, and it responded with an intense ache.
Suddenly, without raising his head, Iwaoka hissed quietly.
It had started!
Two people were walking along the path to the shrine: striding along solemnly in front was the Shinto priest or kannusi, in black robes and a hood, and trotting behind him came the female servant of the shrine, or miko, in a white kimono and loose scarlet trousers, with long straight hair hanging down at both sides of her face. She stumbled, dropping some kind of bowl, and squatted down gracefully. Then she ran to catch up with the priest, wiggling her hips awkwardly like a young girl. Fandorin couldn’t help smiling. Well done, Asagawa, what fine acting!
In front of the steps, the kannusi halted, lowered a small twig broom into the bowl and started waving it in all directions, singing something at the same time – Suga had begun the ritual of purification. The vice-intendant’s moustache was now dangling downwards, like Fandorin’s, and a long, thin grey beard had been glued to His Excellency’s chin.
The commissar whispered:
‘Go!’
The sentry was surely watching the unexpected visitors, he wouldn’t be interested in the peasants now.
Erast Petrovich started moving towards the hill, trying not to splash through the water. Fifteen seconds later they were both in the bamboo thickets. There was liquid mud flowing down over the titular counsellor’s ankles.
Iwaoka went up the slope first. He took a few silent steps, stopped to listen, then waved to his partner to say: Come on, it’s all right.
And so Fandorin climbed to the top of the hill, staring at the commissar’s broad, muscular back.
They lay down under a bush and started looking around.
Iwaoka had picked the ideal spot. From here they could see the shrine, and the stone steps with the two figures – one black, one red and white – slowly climbing up them. On every step Suga stopped and waved his twig broom about. His nasal chant was slowly getting closer.
Up at the top, Semushi was waiting in the sacred gateway. He was wearing just a loincloth – in order to demonstrate his deformity, one must assume – and bowing abjectly right down to the ground.
He’s pretending to be a cripple who has found refuge in the abandoned shrine, Fandorin guessed. He wants to make the priest feel sorry for him.
But what about the others?
There they were, the cunning devils.
The Satsumans had hidden behind the shrine – Suga and Asagawa couldn’t see that, but from here in the bushes they had a very good view.
Three men in light kimonos were standing, pressing themselves up against the wall, about a dozen paces away from the commissar and the titular counsellor. One, with his withered left arm strapped to his side, was peeping cautiously round the corner, the two others kept their eyes fixed on him.
All three of them had swords, Fandorin noted. They had obtained new ones from somewhere, but he couldn’t see any firearms.
The man with the withered arm looked as if he was well past forty – there were traces of grey in the plait glued to the crown of his head. The other two were young, mere youths.
Then the ‘priest’ noticed the tramp. He stopped chanting his incantations, shouted something angrily and started walking quickly up the steps. The miko hurried after him.
The hunchback flopped down on to his knees and pressed his forehead against the ground. Excellent – it would be easier to grab him.
The commissar seemed to think the same. He touched Fandorin on the shoulder: Time to go!
Erast Petrovich stuck his hand into his loincloth and pulled out a thin rope from round his waist. He rapidly wound it round his hand and his elbow, leaving a large loop dangling.
Iwaoka nodded sagely and demonstrated with his fingers: the one with the withered arm is yours, the other two are mine. That was rational. If they were going to take someone alive, of course it ought to be the leader.
‘But where’s your weapon?’ Fandorin asked, also in gestures.
The commissar didn’t understand at first. Then he smiled briefly and held out the fan, which turned out not to be made of paper or cardboard, but steel, with sharply honed edges.
‘Wait, I go first,’ Iwaoka ordered.
He moved soundlessly along the bushes, circling round behind the Satsumans.
Now he was right behind them: an intent expression on his face, his knees slightly bent, his feet stepping silently across the ground.