While doing this he muttered unintelligibly under his breath:
‘Edgar Allan Poe? Nerval? Schopenhauer?’
He was so absorbed by this mysterious activity that he didn’t hear the quiet footsteps behind him.
Suddenly a strident, nervous voice shouted:
‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot!’
Consul Doronin was standing in the doorway of the study, wearing a Japanese dressing gown and holding a revolver in his hand.
‘It is I, Fandorin,’ the titular counsellor said calmly, glancing round for no more than a second before continuing to rustle the pages. ‘Hello, Vsevolod Vitalievich.’
‘You!’ gasped the consul, without lowering his weapon (owing to surprise, one must assume). ‘I saw a light in your windows and the door standing wide open. I thought it was thieves, or something worse… Oh Lord, you’re alive! Where on earth did you get to? You’ve been gone for a whole week! I already… But where’s your Japanese servant?’
‘In Tokyo,’ Fandorin replied briefly, dropping a work by Proudhon and taking up a novel by Disraeli.
‘And… and Miss O-Yumi?’
The titular counsellor froze with the book in his hands, totally overwhelmed by this simple question.
Yes indeed, where was she now? After all, it was impossible for her not to be anywhere at all. Had she migrated to other flesh, in accordance with the Buddhist teachings? Or gone to heaven, where there was a place waiting for all that was truly beautiful? Or gone to hell, which was the right place for sinners?
‘… I don’t know,’ he replied after a long pause, at a loss.
The tone of voice in which this was said was enough to prevent Vsevolod Vitalievich from asking his assistant any more about his lover. If Erast Petrovich had been in his normal condition, he would have noticed that the consul himself looked rather strange: he didn’t have his habitual spectacles, his eyes were blazing excitedly and his hair was dishevelled.
‘What of your expedition to the mountains? Did you discover Tamba’s lair?’ Doronin asked, but without seeming particularly interested.
‘Yes.’
Another book went flying on to the heap.
‘And what then?’
The question was left unanswered, and once again the consul did not persist. He finally lowered his weapon.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘It’s just that I put something away and I c-can’t remember where,’ Fandorin said in annoyance. ‘Perhaps in Bulwer-Lytton?’
‘Do you know what an incredible stunt Bukhartsev pulled while you were away?’ the consul asked with a brief laugh. ‘That brute wrote a complaint about you, and he actually sent it to the Third Section. The day before yesterday a coded telegram arrived, with the signature of the chief of gendarmes himself, Adjutant General Mizinov: “Let Fandorin act as he considers necessary”. Bukhartsev is totally annihilated. You’re the cock of the walk now, as far as the ambassador is concerned. The poor baron was so frightened, he even proposed you for a decoration.’
But this joyful news entirely failed to engage the titular counsellor’s interest; in fact he was beginning to demonstrate increasing signs of impatience.
It was a most singular conversation, with the two men hardly even listening to each other: each was preoccupied with his own thoughts.
‘I’m so very glad that you have come back!’ Vsevolod Vitalievich exclaimed. ‘And today of all days! Now that is a genuine sign of destiny!’
At that point the titular counsellor finally tore himself away from his search, looked at the consul a little more closely and realised that he was obviously not his usual self.
‘What has happened t-to you. Your cheeks are flushed.’
‘Flushed? Really?’ exclaimed Doronin, clutching at one cheek in embarrassment. ‘Ah, Fandorin, a miracle has happened. My Obayasi is expecting a child! The doctor told us today – there’s no doubt about it! I resigned myself long ago to the idea of never being a father, and suddenly…’
‘Congratulations,’ said Erast Petrovich, and wondered what else he might say, but couldn’t think of anything and solemnly shook the consul by the hand. ‘And why is my return a sign of d-destiny?’
‘Why, because I’m resigning! I’ve already written my letter. My child can’t be born illegitimate. I’m getting married. But I won’t go back to Russia. People would look askance at a Japanese woman there. Better let them look askance at me instead. I’ll register as a Japanese subject and take my wife’s family name. I can’t have my child called “Dirty Man”. A letter of resignation is all very fine of course, but there was no one for me to hand the job over to. You disappeared, Shirota resigned. I was prepared for a lengthy wait. But here you are! What a happy day! You’re alive, so now I have someone I can pass things on to.’
Happiness is hard of hearing, and it never even occurred to Vsevolod Vitalievich that his final phrase might sound rather insulting to his assistant, but, in any case, Fandorin did not take offence – unhappiness is not distinguished by keenness of hearing either.
‘I remember. Epicurus!’ the vice-consul exclaimed, pulling down a book with gilt on the edges of its pages. ‘Yes! There it is!’
‘What is?’ asked the future father.
But the titular counsellor only muttered: ‘Later, later, no time just now,’ and blundered towards the door.
He never reached the agreed meeting place. On Yatobasi Bridge, beyond which the Bluff proper began, the tricyclist was hailed by a young Japanese man dressed in European style.
Politely raising his straw hat, he said:
‘Mr Fandorin, would you care to take some tea?’ And he pointed to a sign: ‘English and Japanese Tea Parlour’.
Drinking tea had not entered into Erast Petrovich’s plans, but being addressed by name like this produced the right impression on the vice-consul.
After surveying the young Japanese youth’s short but well-proportioned figure and taking especial note of his calm, exceptionally serious gaze – of a kind not very commonly found among young people – Fandorin asked:
‘Are you Dan? The medical student?’
‘At your service.’
The ‘tea parlour’ proved to be one of the hybrid establishments that were quite common in Yokohama: tables and chairs in one section, straw mats and pillows in the other.
At this early hour the English half was almost empty; there was no one but a pastor with his wife and five daughters taking tea with milk at one of the tables.
The titular counsellor’s guide led him farther on, slid open a paper partition, and Erast Petrovich saw that there were even fewer customers in the Japanese half – only one, in fact: a lean little old man in a faded kimono.
‘Why here? Why not on the hill?’ Erast Petrovich asked as he sat down. ‘The Black Jackets are up there, are they?’
The jonin’s eyes rested inquisitively on the titular counsellor’s stony face.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Not having received a report, the Don realised that his second brigade had also been destroyed. He is expecting vengeance, he has prepared for a siege. And Shirota told him about the hill that has a c-clear view of the whole house. But why don’t you tell me how you guessed that I would ride into the Bluff from this side?’
‘I didn’t. Your servant is waiting on the road that leads from the racecourse. He would have brought you here too.’
‘So there’s no way to g-get into the house.’
‘I sat in a tree for a long time, looking through a gaijin spyglass. It is very bad. Tsurumaki does not come outside. There are sentries right along the fence. Vengeance will have to be postponed. Possibly for a week, or months, or even years. Never mind, vengeance is a dish that will not go stale.’ Tamba lit his little pipe slowly and deliberately. ‘I shall tell you how my great-grandfather, Tamba the Eighth, took his revenge on someone who did him wrong. A certain client, a powerful daimyo, decided not to pay for work that had been carried out and killed the shinobi who came to him to collect the money. It was a great deal of money, and the daimyo was greedy. He decided never to leave the confines of his castle again – indeed he never left his own chambers, nor did he allow anyone else into them. Then Tamba the Eighth ordered his son, a boy of nine, to get a job in the kitchen of the castle. The boy was diligent and he was gradually promoted. First he swept the yard, then the back rooms. Then he became the servants’ scullion. Then an apprentice to the prince’s chef. He spent a long time learning how to grate paste from a shark’s bladder – that requires especial skill. Finally, by the time he was nineteen, he had attained such a degree of perfection that he was allowed to prepare a difficult meal for the prince. That was the last day of the daimyo’s life. Retribution had taken ten years.’