‘These are matters that fall within the competence of the brokers,’ the consul explained to Fandorin. ‘The brokers are local traders who act as intermediaries and answer to me for the quality of deliveries and work performed. Carry on, Shirota.’
‘A note from the municipal police, asking if they should release the assistant engineer from the Boyan.’
‘Reply telling them to keep him until tomorrow. And first let him pay for the broken shop window. What else?’
‘A letter from the spinster Blagolepova,’ said the clerk, holding out an opened envelope to the consul. ‘She informs us that her father has died and asks us to issue a death certificate. She also petitions for the payment of a gratuity.’
Doronin frowned and took the letter.
‘“Passed away suddenly”… “completely alone now”… “do not leave me without support”… “at least something for the funeral”… Hmm, yes. There you are, Erast Petrovich. The routine but nonetheless sad side of a consul’s work. We care not only for the living, but also the dead subjects of the Russian Empire.’
He glanced at Fandorin with an expression that combined enquiry with guilt.
‘I realise perfectly well that this is infamous on my part… You have barely even arrived yet. But you know, it would be a great help to me if you could visit this Blagolepova. I still have to write a speech for the ceremony today, and it is dangerous to put off the inconsolable spinster until tomorrow. She could turn up here at any moment and give us a performance of the lamentations of Andromache… Would you go, eh? Shirota will show you the way. He can draw up everything that’s required and take any necessary action, you’ll only have to sign the death certificate.’
Fandorin, who was still contemplating the portrait of the hero who had been beheaded, was about to say: ‘Why, certainly’, but just at that moment the young man thought he saw the field marshal’s black-ink eyes glint as if they were alive – and not aimlessly, but to convey some kind of warning. Astonished, Erast Petrovich took a step forward and even leaned towards the picture. The miraculous effect instantly disappeared, leaving nothing but mere painted paper.
‘Why, certainly,’ said the titular counsellor, turning towards his superior. ‘This very moment. Only, with your permission, I shall change my outfit. It is entirely unsuitable for such a doleful mission. But who is this young lady?’
‘The daughter of Captain Blagolepov, who would appear to have departed this life.’ Vsevolod Vitalievich crossed himself, but rather perfunctorily, without any particular air of devoutness. ‘May heaven open its gates to him, as they say, although the recently deceased’s chances of gaining entry there are none too great. He was a pitiful individual, totally degenerate.’
‘He took to drinking?’
‘Worse. He took to smoking.’ Seeing his assistant’s bewilderment, the consul explained. ‘An opium addict. A rather common infirmity in the East. In actual fact, there is nothing so very terrible about smoking opium, any more than there is about drinking wine – it’s a matter of knowing where to draw the line. I myself like to smoke a pipe or two sometimes. I’ll teach you – if I see that you are a level-headed individual, unlike Blagolepov. But you know, I can remember him as a quite different man. He came here five years ago, on a contract with the Postal Steamship Company. Served as captain on a large packet boat, going backwards and forwards between here and Osaka. He bought a good house and sent for his wife and daughter from Vladivostok. Only his wife died soon afterwards, and in his grief, the captain took to the noxious weed. Little by little the habit consumed everything: his savings, his job, his house. He moved to the Native Town, and for foreigners that is regarded as the ultimate downfall. The captain’s daughter was really worn out, she was almost starving.’
‘If he lost his position, why do you still call him “captain”?’
‘By force of habit. Recently Blagolepov had been sailing a little steam launch, taking people on cruises round the bay. He didn’t sail any farther than Tokyo. He was his own captain, and able seaman, and stoker. One in three persons. At first the launch was his property, then he sold it. He worked for a salary, and for the tips. The Japanese were happy to hire him, it was a double curiosity for them: to go sailing in a miraculous boat with a chimney, and to have a gaijin dancing attendance on them. Blagolepov squandered everything he earned in the opium den. He was a hopeless case, and now he’s given up the ghost…’
Vsevolod Vitalievich took a few coins out of the safe.
‘Five dollars for her for the funeral, as prescribed by the regulations.’ He sighed a little and took another two silver discs out of his pocket. ‘And give her these, without a receipt. A ship’s chaplain will read the burial service, I’ll arrange for that. And tell Blagolepova that she should go back to Russia as soon as she’s buried him, this is no place for her. God forbid she could end up in a brothel. We’ll give her a third-class ticket to Vladivostok. Well, go on, then. My congratulations on starting your new job at the consulate.’
Before he left the room, Erast Petrovich could not resist glancing round at the portrait of Field Marshal Saigo once again. And once again he thought he glimpsed some kind of message in the hero’s gaze – either a warning or a threat.
Three ancient secrets:
Rising sun and dying moon,
And a hero’s eyes.
THE BLUE DIE DOES NOT LIKE BADGER
Semushi scratched his hump with a rustling sound and raise his hand to indicate that bets were no longer being taken. The players – there were seven of them – swayed back on their heels, all of them trying to appear impassive.
Three for ‘evens’ and four for ‘odds’, Tanuki noticed, and although he had not staked anything himself, he clenched his fists in agitation.
Semushi’s fleshy hand covered the little black cup, the dice clacked against its bamboo walls (that magical sound!) and the two little cubes, red and blue, came flying out on to the table.
The red one halted almost immediately with the 4 upwards, but the blue one clattered on to the very edge of the rice-straw mats.
‘Evens!’ thought Tanuki, and the next moment the dice stopped with the 2 upwards. Just as he thought! But if he’d placed a bet, the detestable little cube would have landed on 1 or 3. It had taken a dislike to Tanuki – that had been proved time and time again.
Three players received their winnings and four reached into their pockets to get out new coins. Not a single word, not a single exclamation. The rules of the ancient noble game prescribed absolute silence.
The hunchbacked host gestured to the waitress to pour sake for the players. The girl squatted down beside each one of them and filled their beakers. She squinted quickly at Semushi, saw that he was not looking, and quickly crawled across on her knees to Tanuki and poured some for him, although she was not supposed to.
Naturally, he did not thank her, and even deliberately turned his back. You had to be strict with women, unapproachable, that roused their spirit. If only the rolling dice could be managed that easily!
At the age of eighteen, Tanuki already knew that not many women could refuse him. That is, of course, you had to be able to sense whether a woman could be yours or not. Tanuki could sense this very clearly, it was a gift he had. If there was no chance, he didn’t even look at a woman. Why waste the time? But if – from a glance or the very slightest movement, or a smell – he could tell that there was a chance, Tanuki acted confidently and without any unnecessary fuss. The main thing was that he knew he was a good-looking man, he was handsome and knew how to inspire love.