Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk (14 page)

There were only two words: “Midnight. Sinai.”

What was the meaning?

His sweetly melting heart immediately gave the police chief his answer: it was the time and place of a rendezvous. Well, the time was clear enough—zero hundred hours precisely. But what was Sinai? Apparently some kind of allegorical term.

Think, Lagrange told himself—after all, hadn't His Excellency the governor told him: “I am amazed, Colonel, at the speed with which your mind works”? But the most important thing was that there was only three-quarters of an hour left until midnight.

“Sinai, Sinai, where should I try …” Felix Stanislavovich sang pensively to himself, to the tune of the popular chansonette “The Bouquet of Love.”

The attendant, still digesting the impression made by the police chief's fist, inquired solicitously, “Is sir interested in seeing Sinai? There's no point, I'm afraid. There's no one there at this hour. Saint Nicholas's Chapel is closed, and you won't be able to get in before tomorrow.”

It turned out that Sinai was not the holy mountain where Moses conversed with the Lord, or rather, not only that mountain, but also one of the well-known sights of New Ararat, a steep cliff overlooking the lake, where people prayed to Saint Nicholas the Blessed.

The regal terseness of the note was impressive. No words like “I will wait” or “come,” or even an explanation of what Sinai was. Just an absolutely unshakable certainty that he would understand everything and immediately come running to the summons. And she had only looked at him for a moment. Oh, the goddess!

Having ascertained how to get to Sinai (it lay a little more than a mile to the west of the monastery), Felix Stanislavovich set out for his midnight tryst.

The colonel's heart was fluttering in sweet anticipation, and if his rapture was clouded by anything at all, it was only shame for the wretched cheapness of the Refuge. On the way he thought up the idea of saying that he was traveling incognito, on a secret mission, but not going into the details. It would be even better without any details, more mysterious.

The streets of New Ararat were totally deserted by night. All the way to the monastery, the only living creature that Lagrange met was a cat, and that was a black one.

The colonel walked past the white walls of the monastery, past the church set above its gates, and came to the edge of the forest. For about a quarter of an hour he strode up a slight incline along a broad, welltrampled path, and then the trees parted to reveal a hill with a small, sharp-pointed tower standing on it, beyond which there was nothing but the black sky sprinkled with stars. Felix Stanislavovich scampered up the hill with a brisk stride and stopped: immediately beyond the chapel the ground fell away in a steep cliff. At its bottom, far below, the water splashed against round boulders that gleamed wetly, and beyond that lay the boundless expanse of the Blue Lake, its immense surface shimmering and heaving.

Not a bad view, thought Lagrange, and he took off his cap—not out of reverence for the grandeur of nature, but so that his English headgear would not be blown off by the wind.

But where was she? Could she have played a joke on him after all?

No! A slim figure detached itself from the wooden beams of the wall and slowly came toward him, the ostrich feathers above the crown of its hat swaying and the veil in front of its face floating in the air like a delicate cobweb. An arm in a long glove (not gray like the last time, but white) was raised to hold the brim of the hat. Those white, floating arms were the only things he could see clearly, for the mysterious lady's black dress merged into the darkness.

“You are strong. I realized that immediately from your face,” the young woman said without any preliminaries, speaking in a low, chesty voice that set Felix Stanislavovich trembling strangely. “There are so many weak men nowadays, your sex is degenerating. Soon, in a hundred or two hundred years, men will be indistinguishable from women. But you are not like that. Or am I mistaken?”

“No!” the chief of police exclaimed vehemently. “You are not mistaken in the least! However—”

“Did you say ‘however’?” the mysterious stranger interrupted him. “Did I hear aright? That word is only used by weak men.”

Felix Stanislavovich felt terribly afraid that now she would turn around and disappear into the darkness.

“I meant to say ‘wherever’; it was a mere slip of the tongue in my excitement,” he replied quickly. “Wherever my guiding star leads, I follow, and it has led me to this island and told my heart that here it would finally meet the one it has been dreaming of all these long—”

“I have no time now for such meaningless pleasantries,” the beautiful creature interrupted him again, and the weak light of the stars reflected in her eyes was intensified many times over, setting them glimmering and sparkling. “I am in a state of despair, and that is the only reason why I am appealing for help to a complete stranger. It is just that back there, on the quayside, I thought that … that …”

Her magical voice trembled, and all the gallant tirades that Lagrange had prepared in advance were driven clean out of his head.

“What?” he whispered. “Tell me, what did you think? In God's name!”

“That you could save me,” she said in a barely audible voice, waving her hand smoothly through the air. The circle that her white arm traced through the blackness reminded Felix Stanislavovich of a wounded bird flapping its wing.

Greatly agitated, he exclaimed, “I do not know what misfortune has befallen you, but—on the word of an officer—I will do anything! Anything! Tell me about it.”

“And you will not be afraid?” she asked with a searching glance into his face. “No, I see. You are brave.”

Then she suddenly turned away, and there was her delicate white neck, right in front of the colonel's eyes. Lagrange longed to press his lips against it, but he did not dare. So much for being brave.

“There is a certain man … a terrible man, a genuine monster. He is the curse of my entire life.” The young woman spoke slowly, as if every word cost her an effort. “I will not tell you his name yet—I do not know you well enough. Just tell me if I can count on you.”

“No doubt about it,” the police chief replied, immediately feeling calmer. The villain, tormenting a poor girl—what an outrage! Just let Colonel Lagrange get his hands on him, and he'd turn meek as a lamb soon enough. “Is he here, this man of yours? On the island?”

She glanced around at him, allowing Felix Stanislavovich to admire her sculpted profile. She nodded.

“Excellent, my lady. Tomorrow I have to see a local doctor, a certain Korovin, and one of his patients. But from the day after tomorrow I shall be entirely at your disposal.”

At that the young woman turned back toward Lagrange and shook her head, as if there were something she doubted or did not believe. There was a long pause (exactly how long it lasted is hard to say because, caught in that glittering gaze, Felix Stanislavovich froze rigid and lost all sense of time), then those tender lips moved and murmured, “Well, then, so much the better.”

She abruptly removed one glove and held out her hand to be kissed, as if she were granting him a great gift.

The colonel pressed his lips against the fragrant, surprisingly hot skin. The physical contact set his head spinning as giddily as if he had drunk five gallons of hot punch.

“Enough,” said the lady, and once again Lagrange did not dare disobey. He even took a step back. Would you believe it!

“What … What is your name?” he asked, gasping for breath.

“Lidia Evgenievna,” she replied distractedly, taking a step toward the colonel and looking at something over his shoulder.

Felix Stanislavovich swung around and realized that they were standing on the very edge of the sheer drop. One more step backward, and he would have gone tumbling over the cliff.

Lidia Evgenievna groaned. “I can't stand it here any longer! There, that's where I want to go, there!” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm toward the lake, or perhaps the sky. Or perhaps the wide world that lay out of sight, beyond the dark waters?

The glove slid out of her fingers and went flying downward, describing an elegant spiral through the air. Their shoulders touched as they leaned forward and saw it, a white spot fluttering in the wind on a rocky ledge down below.

Now will I have to climb down for it? the police chief thought with a shudder, but his fingers were already unbuttoning his jacket. “Never mind,” he said in a cheerful voice, hoping that she would stop him. “I'll get it back in a moment.”

“Yes, I was not mistaken in you,” said Lidia Evgenievna, nodding to herself, and after that the colonel was ready not only to climb down, but to fling himself downward like a swallow. His fear had evaporated.

He began clambering down, clutching at roots and feeling for rocks and minute ledges with his feet. Twice he almost fell, but the Lord protected him. The fluttering strip of white came closer and closer. It was a good thing the glove hadn't flown all the way to the bottom, but got caught halfway down the cliff.

There it was, the little darling!

Lagrange reached out for it and stuffed the silk trophy inside his shirt. It was quite a way back up to the cliff edge, but never mind— climbing up was easier than climbing down.

It was some time before he reached the top, filthy all over, soaked in sweat, wheezing and groaning.

“Here is your glove,” he declared triumphantly, gazing around.

But Lidia Evgenievna was no longer there on the hill. She had disappeared.

“SO, YOU SAY you are his uncle on his mother's side?” Korovin asked, looking intently at Felix Stanislavovich, but for some reason keeping his eyes on his visitor's neck. “And it seems you work in a bank?”

Lagrange had already been hanging about in the doctor's office for almost an hour, and so far he had gotten absolutely nowhere. Donat Savvich had proved to be a difficult man to talk to and resistant to psychological manipulation according to the rules worked out by the finest minds of the police department and the corps of gendarmes.

Acting precisely in accordance with the very latest interrogative techniques, in the first minute of conversation the police chief had tried to establish the appropriate hierarchy and define who was the “father” and who was the “son.” Firmly clasping the lean, clean-shaven doctor's hand, he had looked him straight in the eye, smiled pleasantly, and said, “An excellent establishment you have here. I've heard about it, read about it, and I'm impressed. We are really fortunate that Alyosha has found himself in such reliable hands.”

He deliberately spoke the compliment in an extremely quiet voice, so that his opponent would immediately start listening carefully, mobilize the muscles of his lower neck, and involuntarily lean his head forward. In addition, according to the law of mirror reflection, Korovin ought to have spoken loudly, straining his vocal cords. That would have successfully completed the first stage of the incipient relationship, with an initial psychological advantage already established.

But the doctor's skill in the art of discursive positioning was no less great than the police chief's. He must have had plenty of practice with his patients. If the conversation had not taken place on Donat Savvich's territory but in a certain severely appointed office with a portrait of His Majesty the emperor on the wall, then the advantage would have lain with Felix Stanislavovich, but as things were he was obliged to change tack.

When the doctor squeezed the colonel's hand energetically he did not turn his eyes away, and he replied to the complimentary words in a tone that was barely audible: “Come now, the case is hardly fortunate.” La-grange immediately realized that Donat Savvich would be no pushover. The host sat the visitor in an extremely comfortable but rather low armchair that was tilted backward slightly, while he himself took a seat at the desk, so that Felix Stanislavovich was obliged to look up at Korovin from below. The doctor thereby immediately acquired the initiative in the dialogue.

“It's very good that you came so quickly. Well then, tell me everything as quickly as you can.”

“Tell you what?” Lagrange asked, confused.

“What? Why, your nephew's entire life, starting from the very beginning. When he began to hold his little head up, how old he was when he started to walk, at what age he stopped wetting the bed. And his family tree too, with all the details. The young man came to see me once, before the breakdown, and I questioned him on a preliminary basis, but I need to verify the data.”

Cursing himself for his unsuccessful choice of cover story, the police chief began fantasizing as he answered myriad idiotic questions. There was simply no way he could move on to the real business.

“Yes, I work in a bank,” he replied. “The Volga-Caspian, as a senior clerk.”

“Aha, as a clerk,” Donat Savvich said with a sigh, taking a papirosa out of a gold cigarette case with a monogram and blowing a crumb of tobacco off it. “So where did you get that line on your neck? Just here. The kind that military men … or gendarmes … have from the constant contact of their uniform collars?”

Damn this doctor! He'd led him on, taunting him for the best part of an hour, forcing him to think up all sorts of rubbish about his adored nephew's chicken pox in childhood and his inclination to masturbate, when he'd already guessed everything!