‘Yes, I suppose it is time…’ she replied in a voice trembling with passion, and took his hand between the palms of her own hands. ‘Lesson one. I am the bowstring, you are the shaft of the bow, our love is an arrow that we must shoot straight into the centre of the moon… Look at the moon, not at me. When we fire, it will fall and shatter into a thousand fragments…’
And Fandorin started looking up into the sky, where the lamp of night was shining serenely – the poor wretch was quite unaware of the fate in store for it.
Throughout the next week Erast Petrovich seemed to exist in two worlds with no connection between them – the world of the sun and the world of the moon. The former was hot, but insipid, almost spectral, since the titular counsellor constantly felt that he wanted to sleep. It was only as evening advanced and the shadows first lengthened and then disappeared altogether that Fandorin started to wake up: first the body, reaching out achingly for the night, and then the mind. The enervated, dreamy state seemed to disappear without trace and somewhere inside him a sweet chiming began, gradually growing stronger, and by the moment when the moon finally rolled out onto the sky, the lovesick titular counsellor was completely ready to immerse himself in the real world of the night.
In this world everything was beautiful from the very beginning: the whispering flight of the tricycle along the deserted promenade, the metallic grating of the key in the lock of the gates and the rustling of the gravel on the path leading to the pavilion. And then came the most painful and most poignant part of all – would she come or not? Twice O-Yumi did not appear – she had warned him that this was possible, she might not be able to slip out of the house. He sat on the terrace, smoking a cigar, watching the water and listening to the silence. And then the sun peeped out from behind the tops of the trees, and it was time to go back. The titular counsellor walked back to the gates with his head lowered, but the bitterness of the tryst that never happened held a charm all of its own – it meant that the next meeting would be doubly sweet.
But if Fandorin’s sharp hearing caught the squeak of the garden gate, and the sound of light footsteps, the world changed instantly. The stars blazed more brightly, but the moon shrank, already aware that it was to fall to earth again and again, shattering into sparkling dust.
There were no words for what happened in those night hours, there could not be any – at least not in any of the languages known to Erast Petrovich. And it was not simply that European speech either falls silent or lapses into crudity when it has to talk of the merging of two bodies. No, this was something different.
When they made love to each other – either greedily and simply, or subtly and unhurriedly – Fandorin’s entire being was possessed by the acute awareness, quite inexpressible in words, that death exists. From his early childhood he had always known that the life of the body was impossible without the life of the soul – this was what faith taught, it was written in a multitude of beautiful books. But now, in the twenty-third year of his life, under a moon that was falling from the sky, it was suddenly revealed to him that the opposite is also true – the soul will not live on without the body. There will not be any resurrection, or angels, or long-awaited encounter with God – there will be something quite different, or perhaps there will not be anything at all, because the soul does not exist without the body, just as light does not exist without darkness, just as the clapping of one hand does not exist. If the body dies, the soul will die too, and death is absolute and final. He felt this with every particle of his flesh, and it made him terribly afraid, but at the same time somehow very calm.
That was how they loved each other, and there was nothing to add to this.
Heat that knows no cold,
Happiness that knows no grief -
A one-handed clap
A SPRAY OF ACACIA
On one occasion O-Yumi left earlier than usual, when there was no moon any longer, but there was still a long time left until dawn. She didn’t give any explanations – she never explained anything anyway: she just said ‘It’s time for me to go’, dressed quickly, ran her finger down his neck in farewell and slipped out into the night.
Erast Petrovich walked towards the gates along the white path that glowed faintly in the gloom, along the edge of the pond and then across the lawn. As he was walking past the house, he looked up, as he usually did, to see whether his host was on the terrace. Yes, there was the stargazer’s corpulent figure rising up above the balustrade. The Don politely doffed his fez, Fandorin bowed equally politely and went on his way. In the last few days this silent exchange of greetings had become something like a ritual. The jovial man with the beard had proved more tactful than could have been expected after that first conversation. The Japanese must have delicacy in their blood, thought the titular counsellor, who was in that state of relaxed bliss when one wants to love the entire world and see only the good in people.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something strange, an odd, momentary glimmer that should not have been there in a moonless world. Intrigued, Fandorin glanced round at the dark windows of the house and quite clearly saw a spot of light flash across one of the windowpanes, between the curtains, which were not fully closed, and then disappear.
Erast Petrovich stopped. That stealthy ray was very much like the light of a dark lantern, the kind used by window men, housebreakers and other professionals of a similar ilk. There were housebreakers in Russia and in Europe, why should there not be housebreakers in Japan?
Or was it simply one of the servants who didn’t want to switch on the electricity, in order not to disturb his master’s nocturnal solitude?
The servants at the estate were trained to such a supreme level of competence that they were not even visible, and everything needful seemed to do itself. When Fandorin arrived at his beloved pavilion, everything had always been tidied, there were hors d’oeuvres and fresh candles on the low table, and a vase with an intricately arranged bouquet – different every time – standing in the shadowy niche. When he walked back to the gates at dawn, the titular counsellor saw that the pathways had been thoroughly swept, and the grass of the English lawn was freshly trimmed, although he had not heard a single sound from a broom or garden shears. Only once did he actually see one of the servants. On his way out, he realised that he had dropped his key somewhere. He stood there at the locked gates, rifling through his pockets, and was about to go back to the pavilion, when suddenly a figure in a black jacket and black trousers emerged silently from the pink-coloured mist, bowed, handed him the lost key and immediately dissolved into the haze – Fandorin didn’t even have time to thank him.
Well, if it’s a servant, I’ll just go on my way, the titular counsellor reasoned. But what if it is a thief after all or, even worse, a killer? To save his host from a fiendish criminal plot would be the best possible way to repay him for his hospitality.
He looked all around – naturally, there was not a soul in sight.
He walked over quickly to the window and reviewed the situation. The wall was faced with slabs of undressed, rough-textured granite. Erast Petrovich braced the toe of his shoe in a small hollow, grasped the protruding windowsill with one hand, pulled himself up nimbly and pressed his face to the glass – at the point where the curtains were not drawn close together.
At first he saw absolutely nothing at all – the room was pitch dark. But after about half a minute a trembling circle of light appeared in the far corner and started creeping slowly along the wall, first picking out a shelf with the golden spines of books, then the frame of a portrait, then a map. This was obviously a study or a library.