An interesting specimen, thought Erast Petrovich, looking around. A genuine dynamo electric machine.
An orchestra was playing in the hall, compensating for the dubious quality of its performance with bravura crashing and rumbling.
‘Our volunteer fire brigade,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich remarked. ‘They’re rather poor musicians, but there aren’t any others in the city.’
The guests chattered cheerfully, standing in little groups, strolling about on the open terrace, helping themselves to refreshments from the long tables. Fandorin was surprised by the number of meat dishes – all sorts of ham, gammon, sausage, roast beef and quails.
Doronin explained.
‘Until recent times the Japanese were vegetarians. They regard eating meat as a sign of enlightenment and progress, in the same way as our aristocrats regard drinking koumiss and chewing on sprouted grain.’
Most of the male guests were Europeans and Americans, but the majority of the women were Japanese. Some, like Obayasi, were wearing kimonos and others, like O-Yumi, had dressed up in the Western style.
An entire flower garden of beauties had gathered round a thin, fidgety gentleman who was showing them some pictures. He was Japanese, but dressed more meticulously than any dandy on London’s Bond Street: a sparkling waistcoat, a gleaming brilliantined parting, a violet in his buttonhole.
‘Prince Onokoji,’ the consul whispered to Fandorin. ‘The local arbiter of fashion. Also a product of progress, in a sense. There were no princes like that in Japan before.’
‘And this, ladies, is a Madras cap from Bonnard,’ Fandorin heard the prince say in an effeminate voice, burring his r’s in the Parisian fashion, even though he was speaking English. ‘The very latest collection. Note the frills and especially the bow. Seemingly so simple, but what elegance!’
Vsevolod Vitalievich shook his head.
‘And he is descended from the daimyo, the ruling princes! The next province belonged entirely to his father. But now the appanage principalities have been abolished and the former daimyo have become state pensioners. Some, like this fop, have taken to their new status eagerly. No cares, no need to support a pack of samurai, live to please yourself, pluck the blossoms of pleasure and delight. Onokoji, of course, ruined himself instantly, but he is fed and kept by our generous Mr Cloud – in gratitude for the patronage that the prince’s daddy extended to the bandit.’
Erast Petrovich moved off to one side to jot down in his notepad this useful information about progressive meat-eating and the daimyo receiving pensions. At the same time he tried to dash off a quick sketch of O-Yumi’s profile: the curve of the neck, the nose with the smooth crook, the quick glance from under lowered eyelids. But it didn’t look like her – there was something missing.
‘Ah, there’s the man we need,’ said the consul, beckoning Fandorin.
Two men were talking in the corner, beside a column: the Right Honourable Bullcox, whom Fandorin already knew, and another gentleman, whose monocle and gaunt physique suggested that he might also be English. The conversation did not appear to be a friendly one; Bullcox was laughing hostilely and the other man was curling his thin lips angrily. The ‘Dame aux Camelias’ was not with them.
‘That is Captain Bukhartsev,’ said Lieutenant Vsevolod Vitalievich, leading his assistant across the hall. ‘He’s sparring with our British foe.’
Erast Petrovich looked more closely at the maritime agent, but still could not discover any indications of Russianness in this gentleman. The representatives of two rival empires were as alike as brothers. If one had to choose, then Bullcox could more easily be taken for a Slav, with his exuberant locks and open, energetic features.
No four-way conversation ensued, however. With a curt nod to Fandorin, who had been introduced to him by the consul, the Englishman announced that a lady was waiting for him and walked away, leaving the Russians to each other. Fandorin did not like the lieutenant captain’s handshake – what strange sort of manner was that, to offer just the tips of the fingers? Mstislav Nikolaevich (the maritime agent’s first name and patronymic) clearly wished to distance himself immediately and demonstrate that he was the most important one there.
‘Abominable little Englishman,’ Bukhartsev hissed through his teeth, watching Bullcox walk away through narrowed eyes. ‘How dare he! “You should not forget that Russia ceased to be a great power twenty years ago!” How do you like that? I told him: “We have just defeated the Ottoman Empire, and you can’t even deal with the pitiful Afghans!”’
‘A fine riposte,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said approvingly. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘He tried to preach at me. “You are a civilised man. Surely it is clear that the world will only gain if it learns to live the British way?”.’
This assertion set Fandorin thinking. What if the Englishman was right? If one had to choose how the world should live – the British way or the Russian way… But at that point Erast Petrovich pulled himself up short. Firstly, for being unpatriotic, and, secondly, for posing the question incorrectly. First one had to decide whether it would be a good thing for the whole world to live according to a single model, no matter how absolutely wonderful it might be.
He pondered this complex question, at the same time listening to Doronin telling the agent in a low voice abut Captain Blagolepov’s sinister passengers.
‘Nonsense,’ said Bukhartsev with a frown, but after a moment’s thought, he said brightly, ‘Although, go ahead. At least we’ll demonstrate to the minister how greatly Russia is concerned for his safety. Let him remember we are his real friends, not the English.’
Just then their host, visible from a distance owing to his remarkable fez, went dashing towards the doors, where some kind of commotion was developing: some guests moved forward and others respectfully backed away, and a Japanese in a modest grey frock coat walked slowly into the hall. He halted in the doorway and greeted the assembled company with an elegant bow. His intelligent, narrow face, adorned with a drooping moustache, lit up in a pleasant smile.
‘Ah, and here is our Bonaparte, speak of the devil,’ the consul said to Fandorin. ‘Let’s move a bit closer.’
The minister’s retinue jostled behind him. In contrast with the great man himself, they were decked out in sumptuous uniforms. It occurred to Erast Petrovich that perhaps Okubo really was imitating the Corsican: he had also liked to surround himself with gold-feathered peacocks, while he went about in a grey frock coat and frayed three-cornered hat. This was the grand chic of genuine, self-assured power.
‘Well hello, you old bandit. Hello, you slanty-eyed Danton,’ said the minister, shaking his host’s hand with a jolly laugh.
‘And hello to you, Your Equally Slanty-Eyed Excellency,’ Tsurumaki responded in the same tone.
Erast Petrovich was rather shaken, both by the epithet and the familiarity. He glanced involuntarily at the consul, who whispered out of the corner of his mouth:
‘They’re old comrades-in-arms, from before the revolution. And that “slanty-eyed” business is just play-acting for the Europeans – it’s no accident that they’re speaking English.’
‘Why “Danton”, though?’ Fandorin asked.
But Doronin did not need to answer – Tsurumaki did that for him.
‘Take care, Your Excellency, if you cling to power so tightly, Dantons and Robespierres will be lining up against you. All the civilised countries have a constitution and a parliament, but what do we have in Japan? An absolute monarchy is a brake on progress, and you can’t understand that!’
Although Don smiled, it was clear that the only jocular thing about his words was the tone in which they were spoken.