Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘Zizi, Lola, careful!’ he shouted at the young ladies. ‘I’ll cut myself.’

Then there was a positive hail of questions and comments, so that I could no longer tell which of the girls had said what: ‘Why are you shaving off your moustache? You’ll look a real freak without it! Hey, you’ll blunt my Zolingen with that stubble of yours! Are we going anywhere after the show? And where’s Paulie? Who’s this with you? Phoo, he’s terribly stuffy, doesn’t look like much fun.’

‘Who’s not much fun – Afanasii?’ Endlung interceded for me. ‘If you only knew . . . He can give me a hundred points start. The moustache? That’s for a bet. Afanasii and I are going to a masquerade. Come on, girls, turn me into a lovably plump little lady, and make him something a bit more, you know, showy. What’s this?’

He took a thick ginger beard off a hook on the wall and answered his own question.

‘Aha, from Nero. Little Lola’s simply delightful in that role. Turn this way, brother Ziukin . . .’

The actresses set to work merrily, without stopping talking for a single moment. And five minutes later there was a most unsavoury-looking gentleman glaring out at me from the mirror, with a thick red beard and tangled eyebrows of the same colour, thick hair cut in a fringe and a monocle into the bargain.

Endlung’s transformation took more time, but he became completely unrecognisable. After adjusting the folds of his sumptuous dress, which was completely covered in ruffles, the lieutenant put on a half-mask, stretched out his thickly painted lips into a smile and was suddenly transformed into a well-padded floozy. I noticed for the first time that he had coquettish little dimples in his cheeks.

‘Very chic!’ Endlung said approvingly. ‘Girls, you are absolute kittens! We’ll win this bet. Forward, Afanasii, time is precious!’

As we approached the entrance flooded with electric light, I also put on a half-mask. I was very much afraid that they would not let us into the club, but obviously we looked entirely comme il faut , and the doorman opened the doors for us with a respectful bow.

We entered a richly appointed hallway, where Endlung threw off the cloak he had put on over his ethereal dress. There was a wide white stairway leading up, and the flight of steps ended at a huge mirror in a bronze frame, with two couples like us standing in front of it, preening themselves.

I was about to walk on by, but Endlung nudged me with his elbow, and I realised that it would have looked suspicious. For the sake of appearances, we loitered in front of the mirror, but I deliberately screwed up my eyes in order not to see the caricature created by Lola and Zizi’s deft hands. The lieutenant, however, regarded his reflection with quite evident enjoyment: he adjusted his little curls, extended his leg and stretched out his foot. Thank God, they had chosen him a dress with no décolleté and covered shoulders.

The spacious hall was furnished with luxurious good taste in the very latest Venetian style – with gold and silver panels on the walls, cosy little alcoves and large grottoes created using tropical plants in tubs. There was a buffet with various wines and hors d’œuvres in the corner, and a bright-blue grand piano on a high platform. I had never seen one like that before. On all sides there was the sound of muted voices and laughter, and the smell of perfume and expensive tobacco.

At first glance it looked like a perfectly ordinary high-society rout. On closer observation, however, one was struck by the excessively ruddy cheeks and dark eyebrows of some of the beaux, and the ladies looked very strange altogether: far too broad in the shoulder, with prominent Adam’s apples, and one actually had a slim moustache. Endlung also noticed her, and a shadow flitted across his animated face – apparently he had sacrificed his moustache in vain. Then again, there were some creatures with nothing at all to indicate that they were not men. For instance, one in the costume of Columbine, who seemed vaguely familiar to me, could probably have rivalled the slim waist and suppleness of Miss Zizi herself.

Endlung and I walked arm-in-arm between the palm trees, trying to spot Banville and Carr. Almost immediately a gentleman wearing a steward’s ribbon in a bow on his chest came dashing up to us, pressed his hands to his heart and chanted reproachfully: ‘A breach, a breach of the rules. Those who arrive together must amuse themselves separately. You’ll have plenty of time for spooning later, my darlings.’

He winked at me in a most brazen fashion and pinched Endlung gently on the cheek, for which the lieutenant immediately slapped him on the forehead with his fan.

‘A frisky one,’ the steward said to the gentleman of the bedchamber. ‘Permit me to introduce you to the Count of Monte Cristo.’

He led a red-lipped old man in a black curly wig over to Endlung.

‘And you, Ginger, will discover ecstasy in the company of a delightful nymph.’

I assumed that in this circle it was the custom to address everyone familiarly, and replied in the same tone: ‘Thank you, my considerate friend, but I would prefer—’

However, a brash nymph in a Greek tunic with a gilded harp clasped under her arm was already hanging on my elbow.

She immediately began talking some nonsense or other in an extremely unnatural falsetto, continually pursing her lips up into a tight heart shape.

I dragged the companionwho had been imposed on me across the hall and suddenly saw Mr Carr. He was wearing a velvet mask, but I recognised him immediately from his blindingly bright yellowhair. The fortunate Englishmanwas sitting all alone by the wall, drinking champagne and gazing around. I saw that the lieutenant and his old man had occupied the next table. My eyes met Endlung’s, and he turned his head emphatically to one side.

I followed the direction of his glance. Lord Banville was standing behind a column nearby, although he was more difficult to identify than Mr Carr, because his mask covered his face right down to the chin. However, I recognised the familiar trousers with scarlet trimming.

I seated myself on a couch and the nymph gladly plumped down beside me, pressing her thigh against my leg.

‘Are you tired?’ shewhispered. ‘And you look like such a strong boy. What a sweet wart you have. Just like a raisin.’

She touched my cheek with her finger. I barely managed to stop myself from slapping the impudent woman, that is man, on the hand.

‘Lovely beard, so silky soft,’ the nymph cooed. ‘Are you always such a surly bugaboo?’

Without taking my eyes off Banville, Imuttered: ‘Yes, always.’

‘The way you looked at me just now stung like a whiplash.’

‘I’ll give you a lashing all right, if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,’ I snarled, deciding not to beat about the bush.

‘On my botty?’ she squealed with a quiver and pressed her entire body against me.

‘I’ll give you a drubbing you’ll remember for a long time,’ I said and shoved her away.

‘A long, long time?’ my tormentor babbled and heaved a deep sigh. ‘How lovely you are! Charming! Charming!’

The steward trotted over to a very tall slim gentleman wearing a scarlet silk mask beneath which a well-tended imperial beard could be seen. I spotted the austere dispassionate face of Foma Anikeevich behind the new arrival and immediately guessed who this was. The governor general’s butler looked as if he was accompanying his master to a perfectly ordinary rout. Foma Anikeevich had not put on a mask, and he was carrying a long velvet cloak over his arm – he had deliberately not left it in the cloakroom so that the guests would not be confused concerning his status. A subtle man, no two ways about it.