The flashlight proved far more useful below. It revealed trees that had sprouted up suddenly (they had not been there an hour ago), roots snaking along the paths, as well as boulders the tireless Vorontsov had scattered here and there. Zoya’s flashlight accentuated a bronze plaque on one of the boulders, drawing it out of the dark. The boulder was a memorial stone for Vorontsov’s dog. A minute later they saw its ghost. An indeterminate four-legged creature stood about ten meters away, where the flashlight just barely reached. Its infernal gaze reflected the remnants of Zoya’s light. Judging from its height, the animal might even have been a cat.
Solovyov had figured out long ago where they were going. Maybe he had already figured it out when Zoya first mentioned continuing the search. In reality, there was not much need for imagination here since they had examined everything thoroughly in Taras’s room. If there was anything more to search for, to add to what they had found (where, other than at home, might this kind of person store something?), then only his workplace remained. Lighted by the moon that had risen, Taras’s workplace revealed itself in all its oriental majesty. It was the Vorontsov Palace, seen from below.
The seekers of the manuscript climbed over a fence and ascended toward the centaur-like palace. They turned a corner and found themselves in the English part of the grounds, which Solovyov particularly liked. He had never been here, ever, but even at night he found his bearings with ease on this small street leading toward the main entrance. A good half of Soviet historical films had been shot on this narrow expanse. Solovyov felt a little like d’Artagnan. As a person with a European way of thinking, he would have preferred to come into the palace from this side.
Zoya saw matters differently. After showing Solovyov the palace from all sides (as the museum employee saw things, there should be a tour even if there would be a break-in), she led him to a Moorish façade that looked out on the sea. A wire stretched along a wall to the left of a mosaic arch that gleamed in the moonlight. Zoya took a penknife from her pocket and cut it.
‘Alarm system?’ Solovyov whispered.
Zoya nodded silently. They walked several meters along the western wing and stopped by a glass door, where Zoya asked Solovyov to take off the bag. Solovyov suddenly felt completely calm; his initial fear had subsided. These goings-on had obviously stepped outside the bounds of reality. Using the flashlight, Zoya took out two objects, only one of which Solovyov recognized: a glass cutter. Zoya did not begin with that, though. She took the second object (three rubber circles, arranged in a triangle), placed it against the glass, pulled some sort of lever, and the contraption remained, hanging on the window. It had suction cups.
Then came the glass cutter’s turn. Zoya used it to trace an oval around the suction cups stuck to the glass. As Solovyov observed the Chekhov specialist’s dexterousness in wielding the glass cutter, it occurred to him that in the event of their capture, the clause about break-ins with previous concert would not apply to them: there was no previous concert between him and Zoya. She had not uttered a word about her plans. And he had not asked her anything.
Zoya used the handle of the glass cutter to knock lightly on the glass a few times. Then, grabbing the suction cups, she noiselessly removed the oval traced on the glass and handed it to Solovyov. Thrusting her hand into the opening that had formed, she flicked a latch from inside. The door opened.
Zoya took the suction cup device from Solovyov’s hands, placed it on the ground, and unstuck it from the glass oval. The suction cups were returned to the bag with a clang. Of everything that had happened, what struck Solovyov most was probably Zoya’s composure. She was first to enter Vorontsov’s kingdom.
Zoya found her bearings flawlessly in the deceased count’s palace, even with the flashlight switched off. She took Solovyov’s hand and led him through several rooms where all he could see (this was a strange tour) were several gleaming vases and the fire alarm system’s lifeless flashing. Darkness intensified the sound: the creak of a floor, the squeak of door hinges, and even—this was right by Solovyov’s ear—the bag chafing on his shoulder.
They ended up in the staff area. Solovyov figured that out from the size of the rooms and, most importantly, the windows. They stopped in one of the rooms. Zoya squeezed Solovyov’s hand and froze. The light came on suddenly. After his eyes adjusted to the light, Solovyov saw they were standing by a wall. Zoya’s free hand was lying on the switch. She was smiling.
‘This is Taras’s room.’
The space was tiny. A window covered in metal shutters. Shelf hanging on the wall, heaped with some sort of electronic odds and ends. Chair. Desk. Zoya’s photograph on the desk.
‘I’m sure he’s in love with you.’
A steamship’s whistle sounded from somewhere far away, as if from another world.
‘He loves me.’ Zoya turned the photograph upside down.
‘Is it really possible not to love me?’
She turned the chair and sat, straddling it, then pulled out the desk’s side drawers, one after another. They were all empty. They were all noisily sent back. The desk’s middle drawer turned out to be filled with papers. Zoya pulled out an armload, carelessly dumping them on the floor. Taras’s papers slid into a formless mass, surrounding a chair leg. Solovyov crouched beside it. Zoya plucked a plastic folder out of the papers before he’d managed to examine what was lying there.
‘That’s it!’
Zoya’s mother’s hand, familiar to Solovyov, was visible through the transparent folder. Zoya offered her cheek and tapped it with her finger.
‘Clever girl,’ said Solovyov, kissing Zoya.
They crammed the other papers into the drawer. At first it would not close, so Solovyov had to pull the papers back out and stack them in a compact bundle on the table. Zoya seemed to ponder something before turning out the light.
‘Want to make love in Vorontsov’s bedroom?’
The light went out. Depth and resonance had been restored to the silence. Solovyov felt Zoya’s hand on his belt.
‘Are you sure you want that?’
The hand pulled lightly at his belt. It was a gesture of disappointment. The selfless female accomplice’s terse oh, you. And Solovyov understood that. But he truly did not feel like it. A sense of danger suppressed other instincts in him. Unlike in Zoya. She was constructed the exact opposite way.
They walked through several rooms without turning on the flashlight (Solovyov thought they were not walking the same way as when they arrived), then stopped in one of the rooms. Solovyov’s knee bumped into something soft. A bed. A canopy hung over it like a formless blot.
‘Are you planning to screw me here or not?’
The echo of Zoya’s question resounded through all the palace’s chambers and returned to the bedroom, where it flung Solovyov on the bed with a quick push to the shoulder. He froze as he sank into Vorontsov’s feather bed. Zoya descended upon him the next second. Despite his light shock, Solovyov noted that she had managed to undress. She was so worked up that she had not managed to pull off his clothes (come on, why are you acting like a corpse!?) All that remained for Solovyov was to give in. His jeans were lowered. Zoya was convinced that the corpse comparison was unjustified.
Solovyov had never experienced anything like this before. Even yesterday night, which had seemed so absolutely stupendous, faded. He felt the silk of the palace bedspread with his buttocks as he saw Zoya’s profile dancing against the background of the enormous canopy. Maybe it was actually the canopy, not Zoya, that lent his senses a keenness he had not known before. Such intimate relations with the past aroused him as a researcher. At that instant, he did not feel like history’s guest. He was a small but integral part of it. His merging with Zoya seemed to him like a merging with the past. Which had become accessible and discernible and had undressed before him. This was the orgasm of a true historian.