The Diamond Chariot (34 page)

The two rikshas pulling the carriage stopped at a pair of tall open-work gates, beyond which the new arrivals could see a lawn illuminated by torches and, a little farther away, a large two-storey house with its windows glowing cheerfully, hung with coloured lanterns. A slowly moving procession of carriages and local
kuruma
s stretched along the avenue leading to the house – the guests were getting out at the steps of the front porch.

‘Tsurumaki is a village to the west of Yokohama,’ Doronin continued, keeping one hand on the handlebars of Fandorin’s tricycle, because Erast Petrovich was scribbling in a notepad and occasionally pressing his foot down on the pedal. ‘Our former Jiro grew rich from construction contracts under the previous regime of the Shogun. Construction contracts have always been a shady and risky business, at all times and in all countries. The workers are a wild bunch. Keeping them under control requires strength and cunning. Don set up his own brigade of overseers, excellently trained and well armed, all the work was done on schedule and the clients were not concerned about the means used to achieve this result. When civil war broke out between the supporters of the Shogun and the supporters of the Mikado, he immediately realised which way the wind was blowing and joined the revolutionaries. He organised his supervisors and workers into fighting units – they were called “Black Jackets”, from the colour of their work clothes. He fought a war for a couple of weeks, and he has been reaping the rewards ever since. Now he is a politician, and an entrepreneur, and a philanthropist. Mr Cloud has opened the country’s first English school and a technical college, and even built a model prison – clearly in memory of his own past, which is itself enveloped in thick clouds. Without Don, our settlement would simply wither away. Half of the clubs and drinking establishments belong to him, the useful contacts with government officials, the profitable supply contracts – everything passes through him. The governors of the four surrounding prefectures come to him for advice, and even some ministers do the same …’ At this point Doronin stop in mid-phrase and jerked his chin cautiously to one side. ‘Incidentally, there is an individual far more influential than Don. The senior foreign adviser of an imperial government, and the main enemy of Russian interests. The Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox in person.’

As Bullcox and his companion came closer, he cast a casual glance at the waiting guests and led his companion up to the steps. He was a most colourful gentleman: exuberant, fiery-red hair, sideburns covering half his face, a keen (indeed, predatory) glance and a white sabre scar on his cheek.

‘What is so honourable about him, this Bullcox?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.

Doronin chuckled.

‘Nothing. I was referring to his title. Bullcox is a “Right Honourable”, the youngest son of the Duke of Bradfordshire. One of those young, ambitious climbers that they call “the hope of the empire”. He had a brilliant career in India. Now he is trying to conquer the Far East. And I am afraid that he will conquer it.’ Doronin sighed. ‘There is simply no comparison between our strength and the strength of the British – in both naval and diplomatic terms …’

Catching the eye of the Right Honourable, the consul bowed coolly. The Briton inclined his head slightly and turned away.

‘We still greet each other, as yet,’ Doronin remarked. ‘But if, God forbid, war should break out, we can expect anything at all from him. He is one of that breed who do not play by the rules and never accept that any goal is unachievable …’

The consul went on to say something else about pernicious Albion, but at that precise moment something strange happened to Erast Petrovich – he could hear his superior’s voice, he even nodded in reply, but he completely stopped understanding the meaning of the words. And the reason for this inexplicable phenomenon was trivial, even paltry. Algernon Bullcox’s female companion, to whom Fandorin had so far paid no attention, suddenly turned round.

Absolutely nothing else at all happened. She simply looked round, and that was all. But in that second the titular counsellor’s ears were filled with the chiming of silvery bells, his mind lost the ability to distinguish words and something altogether incredible happened to his vision: the surrounding world shrank to a small circle, leaving the periphery shrouded in darkness – but that circle was so distinct and so bright that every detail included in it seemed positively radiant. And the unknown lady’s face was caught in this magical circle – or perhaps everything happened the other way round: the light radiating from that face was too bright, and that was why everything around went dark.

With an effort of will, Erast Petrovich tore himself away from the astounding sight for a moment to look at the consul – could he really not see it? But Vsevolod Vitalievich was moving his lips as if nothing had happened, producing inarticulate sounds, and apparently had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. So it’s an optical illusion, whispered Fandorin’s reason, which was accustomed to interpreting all phenomena from a rational viewpoint.

Never before had the sight of a woman, even the most beautiful, had such an effect on Erast Petrovich. He fluttered his eyelashes, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again – and, thank the Lord, the enchantment disappeared. The titular counsellor saw before him a young Japanese woman – a rare beauty, but no mirage, a living woman of flesh and blood. She was tall for a native woman, with a supple neck and exposed white shoulders. A nose with a slight crook in it, an unusual form to the elongated eyes stretching out towards the temples, a small mouth with plump lips. The beauty smiled in response to some remark from her beau, revealing her teeth – fortunately they were perfectly even. The only thing that might have been regarded as a defect from the viewpoint of the European canon were the charming, but distinctly protruding ears, nonchalantly exposed to view by the tall hairstyle. However, this regrettable prank of nature did nothing at all to spoil the overall impression. Fandorin recalled that Doronin had said protruding ears were considered a sign of sensuality in Japan.

But even so, the most striking thing about the woman was not the features of her face, but the vivacity that filled them and the grace of her movements. This became clear after the single second for which the Japanese woman had paused to allow the vice-consul to examine her so thoroughly, when she flung the end of her necklet back over her shoulder. This impetuous, fleeting gesture caused the glowing circle to reappear – although not quite as dramatically as the first time. The head of an ermine came to rest against the beauty’s back.

Erast Petrovich started recovering his wits and even thought abstractedly that she was not so much beautiful as exotic. Indeed, she herself was rather like a predatory beast with precious fur – an ermine or a sable.

The lady carried on looking in Fandorin’s direction – not, unfortunately, at his fine manly figure, but at his tricycle, which was a strange sight among the carriages and
kuruma
s. Then she turned away, and Erast Petrovich felt a twinge in his heart, as if he had suffered some painful loss.

He looked at that white neck, the black curls on the back of that head, those ears protruding like two petals, and suddenly remembered something he had read somewhere: ‘A true beauty is a beauty from all sides and all angles, no matter what point you observe her from’. A clasp in the form of an archer’s bow glinted in the stranger’s hair.

‘E-er, why, you’re not listening to me,’ said the consul, touching the young man’s sleeve. ‘Lost in admiration of Miss O-Yumi, are you? No point in that.’

‘Who is sh-she?’

Erast Petrovich tried very hard to make the question sound casual, but clearly did not succeed very well.

‘A courtesan. A “Dame aux Camelias”, but of the very highest class. O-Yumi began in the local brothel “Number Nine”,’ where she was wildly successful. She has excellent English, but can also make herself understood in German and Italian. She herself chooses who to be with. Do you see that clasp in her hair, shaped like a bow? “
Yumi
” means a bow. No doubt it is a hint at Cupid. At present she is kept by Bullcox, and has been for quite a long time. Don’t gape at her, my dear boy. This bird of paradise flies too high for the likes of you and me. Bullcox is not only a handsome devil, he is rich too. Respectable ladies consider him a most interesting man, an attitude encouraged in no small measure by his reputation as a terrible hellraiser.’

Fandorin shrugged one shoulder.

‘I was only looking at her out of curiosity. And I am not attracted to venal women. In general, I cannot even imagine how it is possible to b-be’ – [here the titular counsellor’s cheeks turned pink –] ‘with a tainted woman who has belonged to God knows who.’

‘Oh, how young and – pardon me – foolish you are,’ Doronin said with a thoughtful smile. ‘Firstly, a woman like that cannot belong to anyone. Everyone belongs to her. And secondly, my young friend, women are not tainted by love, they merely acquire radiance. But in any case, your sniffing should be categorised as “sour grapes”.’

Their turn came to walk up on to the porch where the host was receiving his guests. Erast Petrovich gave his tricycle into the care of a valet and walked up the steps. Doronin led his concubine by the arm. For a brief moment she was beside the ‘tainted woman’, and Fandorin was astounded at how different these two Japanese women were: one endearing, meek and serene, while the other had an aura of glorious danger.

O-Yumi was just offering the host her hand for a kiss. He leaned down, so that his face was completely hidden, leaving in view just a fleshy nape and a red Turkish fez with a dangling tassel.

The ermine necklet slid down a long elbow glove and the Japanese beauty tossed it back over her shoulder again. Fandorin caught a momentary glimpse of a delicate profile and the moist gleam of eyes under trembling lashes.

Then the courtesan turned away, but the beady glass eyes of the furry ermine continued to observe the vice-consul.

Either it will bite,
Or tickle you with its fur,
The nimble ermine.

THE SILVER SLIPPER

The courtesan laughed as she said something to him, and the ‘new Japanese’ straightened up.

Fandorin saw a ruddy face, overgrown almost right up to the eyebrows with a thick black beard, a pair of exceptionally lively eyes and a lush mouth. Don Tsuramaki grinned, exposing remarkably firm teeth, and gave Bullcox a friendly slap on the shoulder.

Doronin was right: there was almost nothing Japanese in their host’s manner and appearance – except for the slant of his eyes and his low stature.

A huge, thick cigar was smoking in his short-fingered hand, his large stomach was tightly bound in with a scarlet silk waistcoat, and an immense black pearl glinted on his tie.

‘O-oh, my Russian friend!!’ Don exclaimed in a booming voice. ‘Welcome to an old bachelor’s den! The incomparable Obayasi-san,
yoku ira-syshaimashita
!’
¹
And this must be the assistant you have been waiting for so impatiently. What a fine young man! I’m afraid he will change my girls’ minds about being re-educated!’

A hot palm squeezed the titular counsellor’s hand tightly, and that was the end of the introduction: Tsurumaki gave a howl of joy and dashed over to embrace some American captain.

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.