‘But I’ve read that Vladivostok is an appalling dump, a mere village!’
‘What of it? St Petersburg wasn’t even a village when Peter stretched out his hand and said: “It is nature’s command that we break a window through to Europe here”. And in this case even the name suits: Vladivostok – Rule the East!’
Since conversation had touched on such a serious topic, Fandorin stopped gazing idly out of the window and turned towards the consul.
‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, why should I rule other people’s lands if I can’t even set my own to rights?’
Doronin smiled ironically.
‘You’re right, a thousand times right. No conquest can be secure if our own home is tottering. But that doesn’t apply only to Russia. Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria’s house also stands on shaky foundations. The Earth will not belong to either us or the Britons. Because we set about conquering it in the wrong way – by force. And force, Fandorin, is the weakest and least permanent of instruments. Those defeated by it will submit, of course, but they will simply wait for the moment to come when they can free themselves. None of the European conquests in Africa and Asia will last long. In fifty or a hundred years, at most, there will be no colonies left. And the Japanese tiger won’t come to anything either – they’re learning from the wrong teachers.’
‘And from whom should they learn?’
‘The Chinese. No, not the empress Tzu Hsi, of course, but the Chinese people’s thorough and deliberate approach. The inhabitants of the Celestial Empire will not budge until they have put their own house in order, and that’s a long job, about two hundred years. But then afterwards, when the Chinese started feeling cramped, they’ll show the world what genuine conquest is. They won’t rattle their weapons and send expeditionary forces abroad. Oh no! They’ll show the other countries that living the Chinese way is better and more rational. And gradually everyone will become Chinese, although it may take several generations.’
‘But I think the Americans will conquer the whole world,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And it will happen within the next hundred years. What makes the Americans strong? The fact that they accept everyone into their country. Anyone who wants to b-be American can be, even if he used to be an Irishman, a Jew or a Russian. There’ll be a United States of the Earth, you’ll see.’
‘Unlikely. The Americans, of course, behave more intelligently than the European monarchies, but they lack patience. Their roots are Western too, and in the West they place too much importance on time. But in fact, time does not even exist, there is no “tomorrow”, only an eternal “now”. The unification of the world is a slow business, but then, what’s all the hurry? There won’t be any United States of the Earth, there’ll be one Celestial Empire, and then the hour of universal harmony will arrive. Thank God that you and I shall never see that heaven on earth.’
And on that melancholy note the conversation about the future of mankind broke off – the carriage had stopped at the station.
The following morning Vice-Consul Fandorin took up his routine work: compiling a register of Russian ships due to arrive in the port of Yokohama in June and July 1878.
Erast Petrovich scribbled the heading of this boring document in slapdash style (the spinster Blagolepova would type it out again later anyway), but that was as far as the work got. The window of the small office located on the first floor presented a glorious view of the consulate garden, the lively Bund and the harbour roadstead. The titular counsellor was in a sour mood, and his thoughts drifted aimlessly. Propping one cheek on his fist, he started watching the people walking by and the carriages driving along the promenade.
And he saw a sight worth seeing.
Algernon Bullcox’s lacquered carriage drove past, moving in the direction of the Bluff. Russia’s perfidious enemy and his concubine were perched beside each other on the leather seat like two turtle doves. And, moreover, O-Yumi was holding the Englishman’s arm and whispering something in his ear and the Right Honourable was smiling unctuously.
The immoral kept woman did not even glance in the direction of the Russian consulate.
Despite the distance, with his sharp eyes Erast Petrovich could make out a small lock of hair fluttering behind her ear, and then the wind brought the scent of irises from the garden…
The pencil crunched in his strong hand, snapped in half.
What was she whispering to him, why were they laughing? And at whom? Could it be at him?
Life is cruel, essentially meaningless and infinitely humiliating, Erast Petrovich thought morosely, glancing at the sheet of paper waiting for the register of shipping. All of life’s charms, delights and enticements existed only in order to melt a man’s heart, to get him to roll over on to his back, waving all four paws trustingly in the air and exposing his defenceless underbelly. And life wouldn’t miss her chance – she’d strike a blow that would send you scuttling away howling, with your tail tucked between your legs.
So what was the conclusion?
It was this: never give way to tender feelings, always remain on your guard, with all weapons at the ready. If you see the finger of fate beckoning, then bite the damn thing off, and the entire hand too, if you can manage it.
With a serious effort of will, the vice-consul forced himself to concentrate on tonnages, itineraries and captains’ names.
The empty columns gradually filled up. The Big Ben grandfather clock ticked quietly in the corner.
And at six o’clock in the evening, at the end of the office day, Erast Fandorin, feeling weary and gloomy, went downstairs to his apartment to eat the dinner that Masa had prepared.
None of it ever happened, Erast Petrovich told himself, chewing in disgust on the gooey rice that stuck to his teeth. There never was any lasso clutched in his hand, or any hot pulsing of blood, or any scent of irises. Especially the scent of irises. It was all a monstrous delusion that had nothing at all to do with real life. What did exist was clear, simple, necessary work. And there was also breakfast, lunch and dinner. There was sunrise and sunset. Rule, routine and procedure – and no chaos. Chaos had disappeared, it would not come back again. And thank God for that.
At that point the door creaked behind the titular counsellor’s back and he heard someone clear their throat delicately. Without turning round, without even knowing who it was, simply from what he could feel inside, Fandorin guessed that it was chaos – it had come back again.
Chaos took the form of Inspector Asagawa. He was standing in the doorway of the dining room, holding his hat in his hand, and his face was firmly set in an expression of determination.
‘Hello, Inspector. Is there something…’
The Japanese suddenly toppled to the floor. He pressed the palms of his hands against the carpet and started beating his head against it.
Erast Petrovich snatched off his napkin and jumped to his feet.
‘What is all this?’
‘You were right not to trust me,’ Asagawa blurted out without raising his head. ‘I am to blame for everything. It is my fault that the minister was killed.’
Despite the contrite pose, the words were spoken clearly and precisely, without the ponderous formulae of politeness typical of the inspector’s usual conversation.
‘What’s that? Drop all this Japanese c-ceremonial, will you! Get up!’
Asagawa did not get to his feet, but he did at least straighten his back and put his hands on his knees. His eyes – Fandorin could see them very clearly now – were glowing with a steady, furious light.
‘At first I was insulted. I thought: How dare he suspect the Japanese police! The leak must have happened on their side, on the side of the foreigners, because we have order, and they do not. But today, when the catastrophe occurred, my eyes were suddenly opened. I told myself: Sergeant Lockston and the Russian vice-consul could have let something slip to the wrong person, about the witness to the murder, about the ambush at the godaun, about the fingerprints, but how could they have known when exactly the guards were dismissed and where the minister would go in the morning?’