After the mockery of the previous day, Fandorin did not feel the slightest sympathy for the Japanese.
‘You shouldn’t have relied so much on your own efforts,’ he remarked vengefully. ‘The Satsumans spotted your men following them. No doubt samurai do value their swords highly, but they value their own skins even more. I’m going to bed.’
Asagawa flinched in pain.
‘But I’ll stay and wait,’ he forced out through clenched teeth, without any more phrases such as ‘with your permission’ or ‘if Mr Vice-Consul will be so kind as to allow me’.
‘As you wish.’
Erast Petrovich said goodbye to Lockston and the doctor and set off home.
The deserted promenade was shrouded in gentle, transparent mist, but the titular counsellor was not looking at the smart façades of the buildings, or the damply gleaming road – his gaze was riveted to that miracle not of human making that is called ‘sunrise over the sea’. As the young man walked along he thought that if everybody started their day by observing God’s world filling up with life, light and beauty, then squalor and villainy would disappear from the world – there would be no place for them in a soul bathed in the light of dawn.
It should be said that, owing to the course that Erast Petrovich’s life had taken, he was capable of abandoning himself to such beautiful reveries only when he was alone, and even then only for a very short time – his relentless reason immediately arranged everything in due order. ‘It’s quite possible that contemplating the sunrise over the sea would indeed reduce the incidence of crime during the first half of the day, only to increase it during the second half,’ the titular counsellor told himself. ‘Man is inclined to feel ashamed of his moments of sentimentality and starry-eyed idealism. Of course, for the sake of equilibrium, one could oblige the entire population of the earth to admire the sunset as well – another very fine sight. Only then it’s frightening to think how the overcast days would turn out…’
Fandorin heaved a sigh and turned away from the picture created by God to the landscape created by people. In this pure, dew-drenched hour the latter also looked rather fine, although by no means as perfect: there was an exhausted sailor sleeping under a street lamp with his cheek resting on his open palm, and on the corner an overly diligent yard keeper was scraping away with his broom.
Suddenly he dropped his implement and looked round, and at that very second Fandorin heard a rapidly approaching clatter and a woman screaming. A light two-wheeled gig came tearing wildly round the corner of the promenade. It almost overturned as one wheel lifted off the road, but somehow it righted itself again – the horse swerved just before the parapet, but it slowed its wild career only for a split second. Shaking its head with a despairing whinny and shedding thick flakes of lather, it set off at a crazy gallop along the seafront, rapidly approaching Fandorin.
There was a woman in the gig, holding on to the seat with both hands and screaming piercingly, her tangled hair fluttering in the wind – her hat must have flown off much earlier. Everything was clear – the horse had taken fright at something and bolted, and the lady had not been able to keep hold of the reins.
Erast Petrovich did not analyse the situation, he did not try to guess all the possible consequences in advance, he simply leapt off the pavement and started running in the same direction as the careering gig – as fast as it is possible to run when running backwards all the time.
The horse had a beautiful white coat, but it was craggy and low in the withers. The titular counsellor had already seen horses like this here in Yokohama. Vsevolod Vitalievich had said that it was a native Japanese breed, known for its petulant character, poorly suited to working in harness.
Fandorin had never stopped a bolting horse before but once, during the recent war, he had seen a Cossack manage it very deftly indeed and, with his usual intellectual curiosity, he had asked how it was done. ‘The important thing, squire, is that you keep your hands off the bridle,’ the young soldier had confided. ‘They don’t like that when they’ve got their dander up. You jump on her neck and bend her head down to the ground. And don’t yell and swear at her, shout something sweet and soothing: “There, my little darling, my little sweetheart”. She’ll see sense then. And if it’s a stallion, you can call him “little brother” and “fine fellah”.’
When the crazed animal drew level with him as he ran, Erast Petrovich put theory into practice. He jumped and clung to the sweaty, slippery neck, and immediately realised he did not know whether this was a stallion or a mare – there hadn’t been time to look. So to be on the safe side, he shouted out ‘sweetheart’ and ‘fine fellah’ and ‘little brother’ and ‘darling’.
At first it did no good. Perhaps he needed to do his coaxing in Japanese, or the horse didn’t like the weight on its neck, but the representative of the petulant breed snorted, shook its head and snapped at the titular counsellor’s shoulder with its teeth. When it missed, it started slowing its wild pace a little.
After another two hundred strides or so, the wild gallop finally came to an end. The horse stood there, trembling all over, with clumps of soapy lather slithering down its back and rump. Fandorin released his grip and got to his feet, staggering a little. The first thing he did was clarify the point that had occupied his mind throughout the brief period when he was playing the part of a carriage shaft.
‘Aha, so it’s a d-darling,’ Erast Petrovich muttered, and then he glanced at the lady he had rescued.
It was the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox’s kept woman, she of the magical radiance, O-Yumi. Her hairstyle was destroyed and there was a long strand hanging down over her forehead, her dress was torn and he could see her white shoulder with a scarlet scratch on it. But even in this condition the owner of the unforgettable silver slipper was so lovely that the titular counsellor froze on the spot and fluttered his long eyelashes in bewilderment. It isn’t any kind of radiance, he thought. It’s blinding beauty. That’s why they call it that, because it’s as if it blinds you…
The thought also occurred to him that dishevelment was almost certainly not as becoming to him as it was to her. One sleeve of the titular counsellor’s frock coat had been completely torn off and was dangling at his elbow, the other sleeve had been chewed on by the mare, his trousers and shoes were black with grime and, most horrible of all, of course, was the acrid smell of horse sweat with which Erast Petrovich was impregnated from head to foot.
‘Are you unhurt, madam?’ he asked in English, backing away a little in order not to insult her sense of smell. ‘There is b-blood on your shoulder…’
She glanced at the scrape and lowered the edge of the dress even further, revealing the hollow under her collarbone, and Fandorin swallowed the end of his phrase.
‘Ah, I did that myself. I caught myself with the handle of the whip,’ the Japanese woman replied, and brushed away the bright coral-coloured drop carelessly with her finger.
The courtesan’s voice was surprisingly low and husky – unattractive by European standards – but there was something in its timbre that made Fandorin lower his eyes for a moment.
Taking a grip on himself, he looked into her face again and saw that she was smiling – she seemed to find his embarrassment amusing.
‘I see you were not very badly frightened,’ Erast Petrovich said slowly.
‘I was, very. But I have had time to calm down. You embraced my Naomi so ardently.’ Sparks of cunning glinted in her eyes. ‘Ah, you are a real hero! And if I, for my part, were a real Japanese woman, I should spend the rest of my days repaying my debt of gratitude. But I have learned many useful things from you foreigners. For instance, that it is possible simply to say “thank you, sir” and the debt is paid. Thank you, sir. I am most grateful to you.’