They sat there for about a quarter of an hour, and when they left they forgot the book, leaving it on the bench. It was lying there with the front cover facing upwards. Standing up on tiptoe, Masa was able to make out the cover – it showed a gaijin with frizzy hair and curly hair on his cheeks at both sides, exactly like the orang-utan Masa had seen in the Asakusa park last week. There were lots of curiosities on show there: a performance by a master of passing wind, and a woman who smoked with her navel, and a spider-man with an old man’s head and the body of a five-year-old child.
He started fiddling with the mirror again, turned it this way and that, and eventually, after about half an hour, he was successful. Natsuko started showing interest in the ray of light that kept getting in her eyes. She turned her head right and left, glanced out of the window and saw the vice-consul’s servant. By that time, of course, Masa had already set the mirror on the windowsill and was making wild eyes as he waved a sharp razor about in front of his face.
The girl froze with her mouth open – he saw that very clearly out of the corner of his eye. He knitted his eyebrows together, because women appreciate sternness in a man; he pushed his cheek out with his tongue, as his master had done earlier, and turned sideways on to Natsuko, so she wouldn’t feel shy about examining her new neighbour more closely.
In about an hour’s time he should go out into the garden. As if he needed to clean his master’s sword (the narrow one in a beautiful scabbard with a gilded hilt). He could be sure Natsuko would also find herself something to do out there.
The maid stared at him for about a minute and then disappeared.
Masa stuck his head out of the window: it was important to understand why she had gone away – whether her mistress had called her or he had failed to make a strong enough impression.
There was a faint rustling sound behind him.
Erast Petrovich’s valet tried to turn round, but he was suddenly overcome by an irresistible urge to sleep. Masa yawned, stretched and slid down on to the floor. He started snoring.
Roused from sleep by a deafening sound of uncertain origin, Erast Petrovich jerked upright on the bed and for a brief moment felt frightened: there was an outlandish Oriental sitting on the floor, dressed in check trousers, a white shirt-front and a black bowler hat. The Oriental was watching the titular counsellor intently, and when he saw that Erast Petrovich had woken up, he swayed forward, like a bobbling Chinese doll.
And then Fandorin recognised his new servant. What was his name? Ah, yes, Masa.
The breakfast prepared by this native Sancho Panza was a nightmare. How could they eat that slimy, smelly, cold stuff? And raw fish! And gooey rice that stuck to the roof of your mouth! And it was better not even to think about what that sticky diarrhoea-coloured glue was made of. Not wishing to offend the Japanese, Fandorin quickly swallowed all this poison and washed it down with tea, but the tea seemed to have been brewed out of fish scales.
The attempt to compose a verbal portrait of the suspicious old man from the Rakuen ended in failure – it couldn’t be done without an interpreter, and the titular counsellor had not yet decided whether it was appropriate to let Shirota know all the details of the investigation.
But on the other hand, the introductory lesson on Japanese pugilism was a tremendous success. English boxing proved to be quite powerless against it. Masa moved with incredible speed and he struck with strength and precision. How right it was to fight with the legs instead of the arms! The lower limbs were so much stronger and longer! This was a skill well worth learning.
Then Erast Petrovich put on his uniform with the red cuffs and went to the consular premises to present himself to his superior with all due ceremony – for after all, this was his first day in his new position.
Doronin was sitting in his office, dressed in a frivolous shantung two-piece suit, and he gestured at the uniform as if it were a piece of silly nonsense.
‘Tell me, quickly!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know you got back early in the morning, and I’ve been waiting impatiently for you to wake up. Naturally, I understand that you came back empty-handed, otherwise you would have come to report straight away, but I want to know all the details.’
Fandorin briefly expounded the meagre results of the investigation’s first operation and announced that he was ready to perform his routine duties, since he had nothing else to deal with for the time being – until information was received from the Japanese agents who were following the hunchback.
The consul pondered that for a moment.
‘So, what do we have? The instigators didn’t show up, thereby only deepening our suspicions. The Japanese police are searching for three men who speak the Satsuma dialect and have swords. And the hilt of one man’s sword, the one who has a withered arm, is covered with glasspaper (if the captain didn’t imagine it). At the same time your group has focused its attention on the owner of the Rakuen and the mysterious old man whom your servant saw near Blagolepov. We’ll get a verbal portrait – I’ll have a word with Masa myself. I tell you what, Fandorin. Forget your vice-consular duties for the present, Shirota will manage on his own. You need to study the Settlement and its surroundings as soon as possible. It will make your detective work easier. Let’s take a pedestrian excursion around Yokohama. Only get changed first.’
‘With great pleasure,’ Erast Petrovich said, and bowed. ‘But first, if you will p-permit me, I shall take a quarter of an hour to show Miss Blagolepova the principles of the typewriter.’
‘Very well. I shall call for you at your quarters in half an hour.’
In the corridor he met Sophia Diogenovna – she seemed to have been waiting for the young man. When she saw him, she blushed and pressed the book she was holding tight against her chest.
‘There, I left it behind in the garden,’ she whispered, as if she were making excuses for something. ‘Kanji Mitsuovich, Mr Shirota, gave me it to read…’
‘Do you like Pushkin?’ asked Fandorin, glancing at the cover and wondering whether he ought to offer the young spinster his condolences on the occasion of her father’s demise once again, or whether enough had been said already. He decided it would be better not to – she might burst into floods of tears again.
‘He writes quite well, but it’s very long-winded,’ Sophia Diogenovna replied. ‘We were reading Tatyana’s letter to the object of her passion. Some girls are really so daring. I would never have dared… but I really love poetry. Before Papa took to smoking, sailor gentlemen often used to visit us, they wrote things in my album. One conductor from the St Pafnutii composed very soulful poems.’
‘And what did you like best?’ Erast Petrovich asked absentmindedly.
The young lady lowered her eyes and whispered:
‘I can’t recite it… I’m too embarrassed. I’ll write it out for you and send it later, all right?’
At this point ‘Kanjii Mitsuovich’ glanced out of the door leading to the office. He gave the vice-consul a strange look, bowed politely and announced that the writing machine had been unpacked and installed.
The titular counsellor led the new operator off to introduce her to this great achievement of progress.
Half an hour later, exhausted by his pupil’s inept diligence, Erast Petrovich went to get changed for the proposed excursion. He took his boots off in the entrance hall and unbuttoned his short undercoat and shirt, in order not to delay Vsevolod Vitalievich, who was due to appear at any minute.
‘Masa!’ the titular counsellor called as he walked into the bedroom. He spotted his servant immediately. He was sleeping peacefully on the floor under the open window, and hovering over him was a little old Japanese man in worker’s clothes: grey jacket, narrow cotton trousers, straw sandals over black stockings.