A host of students,
But such scanty progress made
In passion’s science
A ONE-HANDED CLAP
The day that arrived after this insane night was like nothing on earth. In defiance of the laws of nature, it did not move from morning to evening at a uniform rate, but in jerks and bounds. The hands of the clock either stuck fast or leapt over several divisions all at once. However, when the mechanism began striking either eleven or twelve, Erast Petrovich seemed to start thinking seriously and continuously for the first time; one mood was displaced by another, several times his thoughts completely reversed their direction, and tiresome old Big Ben carried on chiming ‘bong-bong-bong’ and simply would not shut up.
The vice-consul did not show his face in the consular office – he was afraid he would not be able to maintain a conversation with his colleagues. He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink, and he didn’t lie down or sit down even for a minute, he just strode round and round his room. Sometimes he would start talking to himself in a furious whisper, then he would fall silent again. On several occasions his alarmed valet peeped through the crack of the door and sighed loudly, rattling the tray with his master’s cold breakfast, but Fandorin neither saw nor heard anything.
To go or not to go, that was the question that the young man was simply unable to answer.
Or, to be more precise, the decision was taken repeatedly, and in the most definitive terms, but then time was affected by the aforementioned paradox, the hands of Big Ben froze and the torment began all over again.
When he had moved a little beyond his initial numbness and entered a state not entirely dissimilar to normality, Erast Petrovich naturally told himself that he would not go to any pavilion. This was the only dignified way out of the horrifyingly undignified situation into which the vice-consul of the Russian Empire had been drawn by the inopportune awakening of his heart. He had to amputate this whole shameful business with a firm hand, and wait until the blood stopped flowing and the severed nerves stopped smarting. In time the wound would certainly heal over, and the lesson would have been learned for the rest of his life. Why create melodramatic scenes, with accusations and hands upraised to the heavens? He had played the fool’s part long enough, it was shameful enough to remember, even without that…
He was going to send the key back to the Don immediately.
He didn’t send it.
He was prevented by an upsurge of rage, rage of the most corrosive sort – that is, not fiery but icy rage, which does not set the hands trembling, but clenches them into fists, the sort of rage that sets the pulse beating slowly and loudly and paints the face with a deadly pallor.
How had he, an intelligent and dispassionate individual, who had passed honourably through numerous trials, allowed himself to be treated like this? And even more importantly, by whom? A venal woman, a calculating intriguer! He had behaved like a pitiful young pup, like a character out of some vulgar harlequinade! He gritted his teeth, recalling how his coat-tail had snagged on a nail, how he had pressed on the pedals to escape from the pack of homeless mongrels…
No, he would go, he had to go! Let her see what he, Fandorin, was really like. Not a pitiful, besotted boy, but a firm, calm man who had seen through her satanic game and stepped disdainfully over the trap that had been set for him.
Dress elegantly, but simply: a black frock coat, a white shirt with a turndown collar – no starch, no neckties. A cloak? He thought yes. And a cane, that was indispensable.
He dressed up, stood in front of the mirror, deliberately ruffled his hair so that a casual lock dangled down across his forehead – and suddenly flushed, as if he had seen himself from the outside.
My God! The harlequinade wasn’t over yet, it was still going on!
His fury suddenly receded, his convulsively clenched fingers unfolded. His heart was suddenly desolate and dreary.
Erast Petrovich dropped the cloak on the floor, flung away the cane and leaned wearily against the wall.
What sort of sickness was love? he wondered. Who was it that tortured a man with it, and for what? That is, it was perfectly possible that for other people it was essential and even beneficial, but this potion was clearly counter-indicated for a certain titular counsellor. Love would bring him nothing but grief and disenchantment, or even, as in the present case, humiliation. Such, apparently, was his fate.
He shouldn’t go anywhere. What did he want with this alien woman anyway, why did he need her remorse, or fright or annoyance? Would that really make his heart easier?
Time immediately stopped playing its idiotic tricks, the clock started ticking regularly and calmly. That alone was enough to indicate that the correct decision had been taken.
Erast Petrovich spent the rest of the day reading The Diary of Sea Captain Golovin Concerning His Adventures as a Prisoner of the Japanese in 1811, 1812 and 1813, but shortly before midnight he suddenly put the book down and set out for Don Tsurumaki’s estate without any preparations at all, apart from putting on a peaked cap.
Masa did not try to stop his master and did not ask any questions. He watched as the figure on the tricycle rode away at a leisurely pace, stuck his nunchaku into the waistband of his trousers, hung the little bag containing his wooden geta round his neck and trotted off in the direction of the Bluff.
The huge cast-iron gates opened remarkably easily and almost soundlessly. As he walked towards the pond along the moonlit path, Erast Petrovich squinted in the direction of the house. He saw the telescope pointing up at the sky and a thickset figure in a dressing gown standing with his face glued to the eyepiece. Apparently today Don Tsurumaki was not interested in earthly spectacles, he was admiring the sky. And the stars really were larger and brighter than Fandorin had seen them since his grammar-school days, when he loved to sit in the planetarium and dream of flights to the moon or Mars. How strange to think that that was only four years ago!
The titular counsellor was certain that he would be the first to arrive at the pavilion and would be sitting there alone in the darkness for a long time, since, no doubt, the sordid science of jojutsu required the enamoured fool to suffer the torments of anticipation. However, the moment he opened the door of the pavilion, Erast Petrovich caught the familiar scent of irises, at which his heart first tried to beat faster, but then submitted to the dictates of reason and reverted to its former rhythm.
So O-Yumi had come first. Well, so much the better.
It was quite light in the tiny hallway – the moonlight filtered in through the cracks of the wooden shutters. Fandorin saw paper partitions and two wooden sandals on the floorboards beside the straw mats on the raised platform. Ah yes, the Japanese custom required footwear to be removed before stepping on to the straw mats.
But Erast Petrovich had no intention of removing his footwear. He crossed his arms and deliberately cleared his throat, although, of course, the ‘mistress of the art’ had already heard that the ‘target’ had arrived.
The paper partitions slid apart. Standing behind them, holding the two screens, was O-Yumi – with the wide sleeves of a kimono hanging from her arms, which made the woman look like a butterfly. Dramatic, Fandorin thought to himself with a sneer.
He couldn’t see the courtesan’s face, only her silhouette against a silvery, shimmering background.
‘Come in quickly!’ the low, husky voice called to him. ‘It’s so wonderful in here! Look, I’ve opened the window, there’s the pond and the moon. That bandit Tsurumaki knows a thing or two about beauty.’
But Erast Petrovich didn’t move.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, taking a step towards him. ‘Come!’