The bow of the boat sliced through the black, oily water. Masa pushed the pole against the spongy bottom, repeating to himself:
‘Ii-ja-nai-ka! Ii-ja-nai-ka!’
Fandorin’s valet was in a very cheerful mood. His master’s head was pure gold. He should join the Yakuza – he could make a great career.
Ah, how funny the policemen had looked, floundering in the tar!
The rain came to an end and the stars emerged, scattered across the sky like diamonds, growing brighter and brighter with every minute.
Erast Petrovich walked home slowly, because he was not looking down at his feet, but up, admiring the heavenly illuminations. One particular star right over by the horizon, at the very edge of the sky, was shining especially beautifully. It had a bluish, sad kind of light. The titular counsellor’s knowledge concerning the heavenly bodies and constellations was scant: he could recognise only the two bears, Great and Small, and so the name of the spark of blue light was a mystery to him. Fandorin decided it could be called Sirius.
The vice-consul was in an equable and tranquil mood. What was done was done, he could not change anything now. The head of the inquiry had quite unceremoniously, with deliberate intent, affronted the Law: he had impeded the police in the performance of their duty and conspired in the escape of a man suspected of a serious crime against the state. If Semushi got away from Masa and Shirota, the only thing left for him to do would be to confess, and that would be followed by resignation in disgrace and, probably, a trial.
Once inside his deserted apartment, Erast Petrovich took off his frock coat and trousers and sat down in the drawing room in just his shirt. He didn’t turn the light on. After a little while he suddenly snapped his fingers, as if a good idea had just occurred to him, but the result of this enlightenment was strange: Fandorin simply put on his hairnet and hid his upper lip under a moustache cover, after first curling up the sides of his moustache with little tongs. God only knows why the young man did all this – he was clearly not preparing to go to bed, he didn’t even go into the bedroom.
For about half an hour the titular counsellor sat in the armchair without a single thought in his head, twirling an unlit cigar in his fingers. Then someone rang the doorbell.
Erast Petrovich nodded, as if that was exactly what he had been expecting. But he didn’t pull on his trousers; on the contrary, he took off his shirt.
The bell trilled again, louder this time. Without hurrying, the vice-consul slipped his arms into the sleeves of a silk dressing gown and tied the tasselled belt. He stood in front of the mirror and imitated a yawn. And only after that did he light the kerosene lamp and walk towards the hallway.
‘Asagawa, is that you?’ he asked in a sleepy voice when he saw the inspector outside the door. ‘What’s happened? I gave my servant leave, so I… Why are you j-just standing there?’
But the Japanese did not come in. He bowed abruptly and said in an unsteady voice:
‘There can be no forgiveness for me… My men have let Semushi get away. I… I have nothing to say to excuse myself.’
The light of the lamp fell on Asagawa’s miserable face. A lost face, thought Erast Petrovich, and he felt sorry for the inspector, for whom losing face before a foreigner must have been double torment. However, the situation required severity, otherwise Fandorin would have to launch into explanations and be forced to lie.
The vice-consul counted to twenty in his head and then, without saying a word, he slammed the door in the Japanese policeman’s face.
Now he could go into the bedroom. There wouldn’t be any news from Masa and Shirota before morning. It would be good to get a little sleep at least – tomorrow would probably be a hard day.
But his agitation had not completely subsided. Sensing that he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep straight away, Fandorin took the second volume of Goncharov’s The Frigate Pallada from the drawing room: it was the best possible bedtime reading.
The gas burner in the bedroom hissed, but did not ignite. Erast Petrovich was not surprised – gas lighting had reached Yokohama only recently, and the way it functioned was far from ideal. For occasions like this there was a candlestick beside the bed.
The young man found his way through the pitch darkness to the little table and felt for the matches.
The room was illuminated by a gentle, flickering light.
Fandorin dropped his dressing gown on the floor, turned round and cried out.
Lying there in the bed, with her elbow propped on the pillow, watching him with a still, shimmering gaze, was O-Yumi. Her dress, bodice and silk stockings were hanging over the footboard of the bed. The blanket had slipped down to expose her blindingly white shoulder.
The vision sat up, so that the blanket slipped down to her waist, a supple hand reached out for the candelabra and carried it to her lips – and once again it was dark.
Erast Petrovich almost groaned – he felt such piercing pain at the disappearance of the lovely apparition.
He cautiously reached out with one hand, afraid of discovering nothing but emptiness in the darkness. But what his fingers touched was hot, smooth, alive.
A husky voice said:
‘I thought you were never going to come in…’
The sheet rustled and gentle but surprisingly strong hands embraced Fandorin round the neck and pulled him forward…
The scent of skin and hair set the pulse pounding in Fandorin’s temples.
‘Where did you…’ he whispered breathlessly, but didn’t finish – hot lips covered his mouth.
Not another word was spoken in the bedroom. In the world into which the titular counsellor had been drawn by those gentle hands and fragrant lips, there were no words, there could not be any, they would only have confused and disrupted the enchantment.
After his recent adventure in Calcutta, which had led to his missing the steamship, Erast Petrovich regarded himself as an experienced man of the world, but in O-Yumi’s embrace he did not feel like a man, but some incredible musical instrument – sometimes a seductive flute, sometimes a divine violin or a sweet reed pipe, and the virtuoso magical musician played on all of them, mingling heavenly harmony with earthly algebra.
In the brief intermissions the intoxicated vice-consul attempted to babble something, but the only reply was kisses, the touch of tender fingertips and quiet laughter.
When grey streaks of dawn started filtering in through the window, Fandorin made an incredible effort of will and surfaced from the hypnotic haze. He had enough strength for only a single question – the most important one of all, nothing else had any meaning. He put his hands on her temples and held her so that those huge eyes filled with mysterious light were very close.
‘Will you stay with me?’
She shook her head.
‘But… but you will come again?’
O-Yumi also put her hands on his temples, made a light circular movement and pressed gently, and Fandorin instantly fell asleep without realising it. He simply fell into a deep sleep and didn’t even feel her hands gently supporting his head as they laid it on the pillow.
At that moment Erast Petrovich was already dreaming. In his dream he was rushing straight up to the sky in a blue chariot that glittered with an icy sheen, rushing higher and higher. His road led to a star that was drawing the diamond chariot towards it with its transparent rays. Little gold stars went rushing past, wafting fresh, icy breezes into his face. Erast Petrovich felt very good, and the only thing he remembered was that he mustn’t look back, no matter what – or he would fall and be dashed to pieces.
But he didn’t look back. He rushed onwards and upwards, towards the star. The star called Sirius.