The consul gave his assistant a searching look and whistled.
‘You are an impetuous man, Fandorin. Barely even ashore yet, and you have already got mixed up in some nasty business, found a servant for yourself and taken care of your comforts of the heart. Apparently you will not be requiring an indigenous concubine.’
‘That’s not it at all!’ the titular counsellor protested indignantly. ‘It is simply that Sophia Diogenovna has nowhere to go. She has been left without any means of subsistence, after all… and an operator really would b-be of use to me.’
‘So much so that you are prepared to support that operator yourself? Are you so very rich, then?’
Erast Petrovich replied with dignity:
‘I won a considerable sum at dice today.’
‘What an interesting colleague I do have,’ the consul murmured, slipping the glittering sword blade back into the scabbard with a rakish whistle.
Like life’s white hoarfrost
on death’s winter windowpane,
the glints on the blade.
THE ERMINE’S GLASSY STARE
The dinner jacket had been ironed painstakingly but clumsily and it was somewhat puckered. However, the new servant had polished up the patent leather shoes until they glittered like crystal and the black top hat also gleamed brightly. And Doronin presented his assistant with a white carnation for a buttonhole. In short, when Erast Petrovich took a look at himself in the mirror, he was satisfied.
They set out in the following order: Vsevolod Doronin and Miss Obayasi at the front in a kuruma, followed by Fandorin on his tricycle.
Despite the late hour, the Bund promenade was still lively, and the eyes of people out for a stroll were drawn to the impressive sight of the cyclist riding by – the men gazed hostilely, the ladies with interest.
‘You are creating a furore!’ Doronin shouted jovially.
But Fandorin was thinking that Obayasi in her elegant grey and white kimono looked far more exquisite than the fashionable European ladies in their impossible hats and frilly dresses with bustles at the waist.
They rode across a bridge and up a low hill, and then Fandorin’s eyes were greeted by a truly amazing sight, a picture illuminated by the moon: prim-looking villas, cast-iron railings with monograms, hedges – in short, an absolutely British town, that had been miraculously transported ten thousand miles from the Greenwich meridian.
‘That is Bluff,’ said the consul, pointing proudly. ‘All the best society lives here. A genuine piece of Europe! Can you believe that ten years ago this was a wasteland? Just look at those lawns! And they say they have to be mown for three hundred years.’
Taking advantage of the fact that the road had widened, Erast Petrovich drew level with the kuruma and said in a low voice:
‘You said this was a bachelor ball…’
‘You mean Obasi? “Bachelor” has never meant “without women”, merely “without wives”. The European wives are too haughty and boring, they’ll spoil any celebration. Concubines are a different matter. That’s where Don Tsurumaki is so clever, he knows how to take the best from the East and the West. From the former, an aversion to hypocrisy; from the latter, the achievements of progress. You’ll see for yourself soon. Don is a Japanese of the new generation: that is what they call them, “the new Japanese”. They are today’s masters of life. Some come from the samurai, some from the merchants, but there are some like our own Russian self-made men of common origin, who have suddenly become millionaires. The man we are going to visit was once known by the plebeian name of Jiro, which means simply “second son”, and he had no surname at all, because in the old Japan commoners were not expected to have one. He took his surname recently, from the name of his native village. And to make it sound more impressive, he added the hieroglyph “don”, meaning “cloud”,’ and became Donjiro, but after a while somehow the ending was forgotten and only Don-san was left, that is “Mr Cloud”. And he really is like a cloud. Tumultuous, expansive, thunderous. The most un-Japanese of all Japanese. A kind of jolly bandit. You know, the kind who make good friends and dangerous enemies. Fortunately, he and I are friends.’
The two rikshas pulling the carriage stopped at a pair of tall open-work gates, beyond which the new arrivals could see a lawn illuminated by torches and, a little farther away, a large two-storey house with its windows glowing cheerfully, hung with coloured lanterns. A slowly moving procession of carriages and local kurumas stretched along the avenue leading to the house – the guests were getting out at the steps of the front porch.
‘Tsurumaki is a village to the west of Yokohama,’ Doronin continued, keeping one hand on the handlebars of Fandorin’s tricycle, because Erast Petrovich was scribbling in a notepad and occasionally pressing his foot down on the pedal. ‘Our former Jiro grew rich from construction contracts under the previous regime of the Shogun. Construction contracts have always been a shady and risky business, at all times and in all countries. The workers are a wild bunch. Keeping them under control requires strength and cunning. Don set up his own brigade of overseers, excellently trained and well armed, all the work was done on schedule and the clients were not concerned about the means used to achieve this result. When civil war broke out between the supporters of the Shogun and the supporters of the Mikado, he immediately realised which way the wind was blowing and joined the revolutionaries. He organised his supervisors and workers into fighting units – they were called “Black Jackets”, from the colour of their work clothes. He fought a war for a couple of weeks, and he has been reaping the rewards ever since. Now he is a politician, and an entrepreneur, and a philanthropist. Mr Cloud has opened the country’s first English school and a technical college, and even built a model prison – clearly in memory of his own past, which is itself enveloped in thick clouds. Without Don, our settlement would simply wither away. Half of the clubs and drinking establishments belong to him, the useful contacts with government officials, the profitable supply contracts – everything passes through him. The governors of the four surrounding prefectures come to him for advice, and even some ministers do the same…’ At this point Doronin stop in mid-phrase and jerked his chin cautiously to one side. ‘Incidentally, there is an individual far more influential than Don. The senior foreign adviser of an imperial government, and the main enemy of Russian interests. The Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox in person.’
As Bullcox and his companion came closer, he cast a casual glance at the waiting guests and led his companion up to the steps. He was a most colourful gentleman: exuberant, fiery-red hair, sideburns covering half his face, a keen (indeed, predatory) glance and a white sabre scar on his cheek.
‘What is so honourable about him, this Bullcox?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.
Doronin chuckled.
‘Nothing. I was referring to his title. Bullcox is a “Right Honourable”, the youngest son of the Duke of Bradfordshire. One of those young, ambitious climbers that they call “the hope of the empire”. He had a brilliant career in India. Now he is trying to conquer the Far East. And I am afraid that he will conquer it.’ Doronin sighed. ‘There is simply no comparison between our strength and the strength of the British – in both naval and diplomatic terms…’
Catching the eye of the Right Honourable, the consul bowed coolly. The Briton inclined his head slightly and turned away.
‘We still greet each other, as yet,’ Doronin remarked. ‘But if, God forbid, war should break out, we can expect anything at all from him. He is one of that breed who do not play by the rules and never accept that any goal is unachievable…’