Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘“Sir!”’ the nymph gasped, as if I had sworn at her in the foullest of language. And then she shrieked, ‘Gentlemen! He called me “sir”! He is not one of us, gentlemen!’

She pulled away from me in disgust.

Someone at one side said: ‘And I see that beard looks false too!’

A sturdy-looking gentleman in a light-blue morning coat tugged on Nero’s beard, and it slipped sideways in a most treacherous fashion.

‘Right, you villain, you odious spy, you’ll pay for this!’ the sturdy gentleman said with a ferocious grin, and I barely managed to dodge the weighty fist that he swung at me.

‘Hands off!’ Endlung roared, dashing up to my assailant and giving him a jab to the jawin accordance with the rules of English boxing.

This blow sent the gentleman in the light-blue morning coat tumbling to the floor, but then others came dashing towards us from every direction.

‘Gentlemen, they are Guardians,’ someone shouted. ‘There’s a whole gang of them here. Beat them!’

Punches and kicks showered down on me from all sides, and one, which landed in my stomach, winded me. I doubled over, was knocked off my feet and not allowed to get up again.

I think Endlung put up a desperate resistance, but the odds were simply too great. We were soon standing side by side, each restrained by a dozen pairs of hands.

There were faces radiating hate everywhere.

‘They’re Guardians! Squares! Bastards! Oprichniks! Kill them, gentlemen, just as they kill us.’

Another hail of blows descended on me. There was a salty taste in my mouth and one of my teeth was wobbly.

‘Put them in the torture chamber. Let them rot there!’ someone shouted. ‘To teach the others a lesson!’

This ominous suggestion met with approval from the others.

We were bundled out into the corridor and dragged down a narrow stairway. I was kept busy dodging kicks, but Endlung swore, using a range of maritime terms, and fought for every single step. Finally we were carried along a dimly lit passage without a single window and tossed into a dark room. I struck the floor painfully with my back and an iron door slammed shut behind us.

When my eyes had adapted slightly to the gloom I saw a small grey rectangle in the top corner of the opposite wall. Holding onto the wall, I went across to it. It was a small window, but I could not reach it – it was too high.

Turning towards the spot where I calculated they must have thrownEndlung, I asked: ‘Have these gentlemen lost their minds? What are squares? Guardians?’

The invisible lieutenant groaned in the darkness and spat. ‘ ,’ he said with profound feeling, using words that I will not repeat. ‘They’ve broken a crown on my tooth. Squares are non-homosexual men, which includes you and me. And the Guardians, Ziukin, are a secret society that protects the honour of the dynasty and ancient Russian houses against dishonour and disgrace. Surely you must have heard of them? The year before last they forced that . . . oh, what is his name . . . the composer . . . damn, I can’t remember . . . they forced him to take poison for pansifying .’ Endlung mentioned the name of one of the youthful grand dukes, which I shall most certainly not repeat. ‘And last year they threw that old bugger Kvitovsky into the Neva for pestering young lawyers. Those are the Guardians that they took us for. We’re lucky that they didn’t tear us to pieces on the spot. So we’re going to die of hunger and thirst in this cellar. What a fine day, Monday the thirteenth.’

The lieutenant started squirming about on the floor, evidently making himself more comfortable, and remarked philosophically: ‘And a fortune-teller in Nagasaki told me I would die in a sea battle. I’ll never believe any predictions of the future again.’

1 That is us, the French.

2 He is speaking of Napoleon.

When I woke up, I was barely able to straighten my arms and legs. Sleeping on a stone floor, even one covered with a carpet, was a harsh and cold experience. It had taken a long time for my nerves to settle down the night before. I had walked along the walls, tried picking at the lock with a tiepin, until I could feel that my strength was almost exhausted. I had lain down, thinking that I would never fall asleep and envying Endlung, who was snoring away serenely in the darkness. But eventually even I was overcome by slumber. I cannot say that it was refreshing – I awoke feeling completely shattered – but the lieutenant was still sleeping as sweetly as ever, with his head cradled on one elbow, and the thick-skinned fellow could clearly not give a damn for anything in the world.

I was able to examine the pose in which my companion in misfortune was sleeping because our prison cell was no longer pitch black: therewas a feeble grey light entering the cell through the small window. I got up and limped closer. The windowturned out to be barred and I was not able to see anything through it. It obviously opened into a niche that was a lot lower than street level. But there could be no doubt that the niche did look out towards the street – I could hear the muted clattering of wheels, horses neighing and a police constable’s whistle. All of which meant that the morning was well advanced. I took my watch out of my pocket. It was almost nine o’clock. What were they thinking about our absence in the Hermitage? Ah yes, their Highnesses would be too busy to be concerned about us – it was coronation day. And then afterwards, when Pavel Georgievich told them about our mission, it would not make any difference. After all, Banville and Carr were not to blame for what had happened to us. Were we really going to die in this stone cell?

I looked around. Ahigh, gloomy ceiling. Barewalls, absolutely empty. But suddenly I noticed that the walls were not bare at all – therewere strange objects hanging on them. Iwalked closer and shuddered in horror. For the first time in my life I realised that cold sweat was not just a figure of speech but a genuine natural phenomenon: I automatically raised a hand to my forehead, and it was sticky, wet and cold.

Hanging on thewalls in a strict geometrical arrangementwere rusty chains with shackles, enormous spiked whips, seven-tailed lashes and other instruments intended for infernal torture.

We really had been confined in a torture chamber!

I do not normally think of myself as a coward, but Iwas unable to contain a howl of genuine horror.

Endlung lifted his head up off his elbow, blinking sleepily and looking around. Yawning, he said: ‘Good morning, Afanasii Stepanovich. Only don’t tell me that it isn’t good. I can see that for myself from that twisted expression on your face.’

I pointed a trembling finger at the instruments of torture. The lieutenant froze just as he was, with his mouth open in an unfinished yawn. He whistled, got lightly to his feet and took the shackles down off the wall, then the terrible whip. He turned them over this way and that in his hands and shook his head.

‘Oh, the jokers. Take a look at this . . .’

I timidly took hold of the whip and saw that it was not leather at all. It was light and soft, made of silk. The shackles proved to be dummies too – the iron hoops for wrists and ankles were lined with thick quilted material.

‘What are these for?’ I asked, bewildered.

‘We must assume that this chamber is intended for sadomasochistic fun and games,’ Endlung explained with the air of a connoisseur. ‘All people can be divided into two categories . . .’ He raised one finger didactically. ‘Those who like to make others suffer, and those who like to be made to suffer. The first group are called sadists, and the second masochists, I don’t remember why. You, for instance, are definitely a masochist. I read somewhere that it is mostly masochists who go into service. And I am probably a sadist, because I really hate it when people batter me in the face, like yesterday. The best marriages and friendships are formed between a sadist and a masochist – each provides what the other needs. To put it simply, I hurt and abuse you in everyway I can, and you lap it up like honey. Understand?’