Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘In our work, Kornei Selifanovich, there are no trifles. And that is something you ought to get clear before you try to master French,’ I said with a severity that was perhaps inordinate but justified by the circumstances. ‘Be so good as to go round all the doors and check. Begin with the upper floors.’

When he had left, I put my eye to the keyhole again, but the room was quiet and deserted, and the only movement was the curtain swaying at the open window.

I took a master key that fitted all the doors in the house out of my pocket, went inside and ran across to the window.

I was just in time to see two figures dive into the bushes: one was tall, wearing a black pea jacket and a peaked cap, the other was a squat figure in a blue robe, with a long plait and a bowler hat. That was exactly how Masa had looked when he was playing the part of the Chinese pedlar on the day we first met. ‘Strollers’ like that had spread all over St Petersburg in the last few years, and apparently all over Moscow too.

I did not have any time to think.

I clambered determinedly over the window sill, jumped down onto the ground, hunched over and ran after them.

It was easy enough to determine the direction in which the disguised men were running from the shaking of the bushes. I tried hard not to fall behind, but I avoided getting too close to them, in order not to give myself away.

With an agility that I found impressive, Fandorin and Masa scaled the railings and jumped down on the other side. My attempt to overcome this barrier, a sazhen and a half in height, went less smoothly. I fell off twice, and when I finally did find myself on the top I did not dare jump for fear of breaking my leg or spraining my ankle, and I carefully slid down the thick railings, catching the coat-tail of my livery and lacerating the entire flap, and also getting dirt on my culottes and white stockings. (It later became clear that if we had gone along the main avenue instead of through the garden, we would have run into Mademoiselle Declique on her way back from her unexpectedly brief expedition.)

Fortunately Fandorin and Masa had not got very far. They were standing arguing with a cabby who apparently was very reluctant to let such a suspicious-looking pair into his vehicle. Eventually they got in and drove off.

I glanced to the left and then to the right. Therewere no more cabs to be seen. The Kaluga Highway is just that, not really a street, more like a country high road, and cabbies are a rare commodity there. But once again my experience as a footman came in useful. I set off trotting smoothly at an easy pace, keeping close to the railings of the park, since the cab was not moving very fast. I did not come across a cab until I reached the Golitsyn Hospital, when I was beginning to get out of breath. Puffing and panting, I slumped on to the seat and told him to follow the other cab, offering to pay him twice the usual rate.

The driver looked respectfully at my green livery with braid trimmings and the gold epaulette with aiguillettes (in order to get into the ceremonial parade, I had decked myself out in my dress uniform, and afterwards there had been no time to change back – thank goodness that at least the three-cornered hat with the plumage had been left at home) and called me ‘Your Excellency’.

At Kaluga Square we took a turn to the left, came out on the embankment just before the bridge and then we did not make any more turns for a long time. Thank God, the passengers in the carriage in front did not turn round even once – my green and gold outfitmust have been clearly visible from a long distance away.

The river divided into two. Our route lay along the the narrower of the two channels. On the left I could see the Kremlin towers and eagles between the buildings, and still we kept on driving, further and further, so that I no longer knew what part of Moscow we had reached.

At long last we made another turn and rumbled across a short cobblestoned bridge, then across a longwooden one, then across a third, which bore a plaque: ‘Small Yauza Bridge’.

The houses became poorer and the streets dirtier. And the longer we drove along that atrocious, rutted embankment, the more wretched the buildings became, so that I could not think of any other word to describe them except slums.

The driver suddenly halted his horse.

‘You do what you like, guv’nor, but I’m not going into Khitrovka. They’ll rob me. Take me horse and give me a good battering into the bargain, if not worse. Everyone knows what the place is like, and evening’s coming on.’

And indeed dusk was already falling – how had I failed to notice that?

Realising that it was pointless to argue, I got out of the cab immediately and handed the driver three roubles.

‘Oh no!’ he said, grabbing me by the sleeve. ‘You just look how far we’ve rode, and you promised me double, Your Excellency!’

Fandorin’s carriage disappeared round the corner. In order not to fall behind, I tossed the insolent fellow another two roubles and ran in pursuit.

The people I encountered on the street were unsavoury in the extreme. To put it more simply, they were riff-raff, the same sort as we have on the Ligovka in St Petersburg only probably even worse. What I found particularly unpleasant was that every last one of them was staring at me.

Someone shouted after me familiarly: ‘Hey, you dandy drake, what have you lost around here?’

I pretended not to hear.

The cab was not there round the corner – there was nothing but an empty, crooked little street, crooked street lamps with broken glass covers and half-ruined little houses.

I dashed to the next turn and then jerked back sharply, because right there, only about fifteen paces away, the men I was looking for were getting out of their carriage.

I cautiously peeped round the corner and saw a crowd of repulsive ragamuffins gather round the new arrivals from all sides, gaping curiously at the cabby, from which it was possible to conclude that the appearance of a cab in Khitrovka was a rather extraordinary event.

‘Well, what about a rouble and a half, then?’ the driverwhined plaintively, addressing the disguised state counsellor.

Fandorin swayed back on his heels, keeping his hands in his pockets, baring his teeth in a fierce grin with a glint of gold caps, which had appeared in his mouth out of nowhere, and spat neatly on the driver’s boot. Then he asked mockingly: ‘What about a kick and a poke?’

The idle onlookers chortled.

Oh, what a fine state counsellor this was!

The cabby pulled his head down into his shoulders, lashed his horse and drove off, accompanied by whistling, hallooing and shouts of an obscene nature.

Without even glancing at each other, Fandorin and the Japanese walked off in different directions. Masa ducked into a gateway and seemed to dissolve into the gathering gloom, while Erast Petrovich set off along the very middle of the street. After hesitating for a while, I followed the latter.

It was incredible how much his walk had changed. Hewaddled along as if he were on invisible springs, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched over. He spat zestfully twice to once side and kicked an empty tin can with his boot. A crudely painted wench in a bright-coloured dress came walking towards him, wiggling her hips. Fandorin deftly extracted one hand from his pocket and pinched her on the side. Strangely enough, this style of courtship seemed very much to the lady’s liking – she squealed, broke into peals of laughter and shouted such a pithy phrase after her admirer that I almost stumbled over my own feet. If only Xenia Georgievna could have seen how little this gentleman cared for her tender feelings!

He turned into a dark narrowalleyway – no more than a chink between two buildings. I went in after him, but before I had even taken ten steps I was grabbed by the shoulders from both sides. A whiff of something rotten and sour blew into my face and a young, nasal voice drawled: ‘Ea-sy now, Mister, ea-sy.’