‘So the Japanese language is not so very alien to the Russian ear?’ Erast Petrovich asked hopefully. ‘I should very much like to learn it as soon as possible.’
‘It is both alien and difficult,’ said Vsevolod Vitalievich, dashing his hopes. ‘The discoverer of Japan, St Franciscus Xaverius, said: “This speech was invented by a concourse of devils in order to torment the devotees of the faith”. And such coincidences can sometimes play mean tricks. For instance, my surname, which in Russian is perfectly euphonious, causes me no end of bother in Japan.’
‘Why?’
‘Because “doro” means “dirt” and “nin” means “man”. “Dirty man” – what sort of name is that for the consul of a great power?’
‘And what is the meaning of “Russia” in Japanese?’ asked the titular counsellor, alarmed for the reputation of his homeland.
‘Nothing good. It is written with two hieroglyphs: Ro-koku, “Stupid country”. Our embassy has been waging a complicated diplomatic struggle for years now, to have a different hieroglyph for “ro” used in the documents, one that signifies “dew”. So far, unfortunately, with no success.’
The clerk Shirota took no part in the linguistic discussion, but simply stood there with a polite smile on his face.
‘Is everything ready for the vice-consul to be accommodated?’ Doronin asked him.
‘Yes, sir. The official apartment has been prepared. Tomorrow morning the candidates for the position of valet will come. They all have very good references, I have checked them. Where would you like to take your meals, Mr Fandorin? If you prefer to dine in your rooms, I will find a cook for you.’
The Japanese spoke Russian correctly, with almost no accent, except that he occasionally confused ‘r’ and ‘l’ in some words.
‘That is really all the same to me. I follow a very simple d-diet, so there is no need for a cook,’ the titular counsellor explained. ‘Putting on the samovar and going to the shop for provisions are tasks that a servant can deal with.’
‘Very well, sir,’ Shirota said with a bow. ‘And are we anticipating the arrival of a Mrs Vice-Consul?’
The question was formulated rather affectedly, and Erast Petrovich did not instantly grasp its meaning.
‘No, no. I am not married.’
The clerk nodded, as if he had been prepared for this answer.
‘In that case, I can offer you two candidates to choose from in order to fill the position of a wife. One for three hundred yen a month, fifteen years old, never previously married, knows one hundred English words. The second is older, twenty-one, and has been married twice. She has excellent references from the previous husbands, knows a thousand English words and is less expensive – two hundred and fifty yen. Here are the photographs.’
Erast Petrovich blinked his long eyelashes and looked at the consul in consternation.
‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, there’s something I don’t quite…’
‘Shirota is offering you a choice of concubines,’ Doronin explained, examining the photos with the air of a connoisseur. They showed doll-like young ladies with tall, complicated hairstyles. ‘A wife by contract.’
The titular counsellor wrinkled up his brow, but still did not understand.
‘Everyone does it. It is most convenient for officials, seamen and traders who are far from home. Not many bring their family here. Almost all the officers of our Pacific fleet have Japanese concubines, here or in Nagasaki. The contract is concluded for a year or two years, with the option to extend it. For a small sum of money you obtain domestic comfort, care and attention and the pleasures of the flesh into the bargain. If I understand correctly, you are no lover of brothels? Hmm, these are fine girls. Shirota is a good judge in this matter,’ said Doronin, and tapped his finger on one of the photos. ‘My advice to you is: take this one, who is slightly older. She has already been married to foreigners twice, you won’t have to re-educate her. Before me, my Obayasi lived with a French sea captain and an American speculator in silver. And on the subject of silver…’ Vsevolod Vitalievich turned to Shirota. ‘I asked for the vice-consul’s salary for the first month and relocation allowance for settling in to be made ready – six hundred Mexican dollars in all.’
The clerk inclined his head respectfully and started opening the safe.
‘Why Mexican?’ Fandorin asked as he signed the account book.
‘The most tradable currency in the Far East. Not too convenient, certainly,’ the consul remarked, watching Shirota drag a jangling sack out of the safe. ‘Don’t rupture yourself. There must be about a pood of silver here.’
But Erast Petrovich lifted the load with no effort, using just his finger and thumb – evidently he made good use of those cast-iron weights that he carried about in his luggage. He was about to put the bag on a chair, but he became distracted and started studying the portraits hanging above Shirota’s desk.
There were two of them. Gazing out at Fandorin on the left was Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, and on the right was a plump-cheeked Oriental with his thick eyebrows knitted in a menacing lour. The titular counsellor was already very familiar with the engraving from the portrait by Kiprensky, and it held no great interest for him, but he was intrigued by the second portrait. It was a garishly coloured wood-block print that could not have been expensive, but it had been done so expertly that the irascible fat man seemed to be glaring straight into the vice-consul’s eyes. A fat neck with naturalistic folds of flesh could be seen under the open, gold-embroidered collar, and the forehead of the Japanese was tightly bound in a white bandana with a scarlet circle at its centre.
‘Is he some kind of poet?’ Fandorin enquired.
‘Not at all. That is the great hero Field Marshal Saigo Takamori,’ Shirota replied reverently.
‘The one who rebelled against the government and committed suicide?’ Erast Petrovich asked in surprise. ‘Surely he is regarded as a traitor to the state?’
‘He is. But he is still a great hero. Field Marshal Saigo was a sincere man. And he died a beautiful death.’ A wistful note appeared in the clerk’s voice. ‘He ensconced himself on a mountain with samurai from his native Satsuma. The government soldiers surrounded him on all sides and started shouting: “Surrender, Your Excellency! We will deliver you to the capital with honour!” But the field marshal did not capitulate. He fought until he was hit in the stomach by a bullet, and then told his adjutant: “Chop my head from my shoulders”.’
Fandorin gazed at the heroic field marshal without speaking. How expressive those eyes were! The rendition of the portrait was truly masterful.
‘But why do you have Pushkin here?’
‘A great Russian poet,’ Shirota explained, then thought for a moment and added, ‘Also a sincere man. He died a beautiful death.’
‘There is nothing the Japanese like better than someone who died a beautiful death,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said with a smile. ‘But it’s too soon for us to die, gentlemen, there is a slew of work to be done. What’s our most urgent business?’
‘The corvette Horseman has ordered a hundred poods of salt beef and a hundred and fifty poods of rice,’ said Shirota, taking several sheets of paper out of a file as he started his report. ‘The first mate of the Cossack has requested a repair dock to be arranged in Yokosuka as soon as possible.’