Boris Akunin - The Coronation

Were we really safe now?

I looked out of the windowand saw that the fieldwas jammed solid with people out of their minds. Screaming, groaning, crunching sounds, laughter – all of these were mingled together in the hubbub. There had to be a million of them! Clouds of dust swirled and shimmered in the air, transforming it into a thick fatty broth.

Someone had climbed into the next pavilion and began throwing mugs and sacks of presents out of the window. A brawl immediately started up beside the wall there.

‘Oh Lord, save Thy people,’ I blurted out, and my hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.

‘What are you up to?’ someone shouted up at us. ‘Toss out the mugs! Is there any drink?’

The pavilion creaked and wood dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. I cried out in horror as I saw our frail refuge falling to pieces. Something struck me on the back of my head, and it was a relief when I lost consciousness.

I do not know who dragged me out from under the debris and then carried me to a safe place, or why they did it. In all probability I was once again indebted to Fandorin for saving me, although I do not find that a pleasant thought.

However it happened, I came round on a wooden grandstand at the edge of the Khodynsk Field. The sun was already high in the sky. I lifted my head, then immediately dropped it again, hitting it hard against the rough surface of the bench. I then managed to sit up after a fashion and felt my pounding head with my hands. It did not feel as if it was really mine. Although there was a substantial lump on the top of it, otherwise I seemed to be more or less unhurt. Fandorin was nowhere to be seen. I was in a strange drowsy state and could not get rid of the metallic ringing sound in my ears.

The first thing I did was survey the vast field. I saw booths and pavilions twisted awry and tight lines of soldiers moving slowly across the grass. And everywhere, almost completely covering the ground, therewere bodies: many were motionless, but some were still moving. It was distressing to watch, this feeble stirring. There was a buzzing in my temples and my eyes were blinded by the bright sun. I tucked my head into my crossed arms and either fell asleep or fainted. I do not know how long I sat there, leaning against the skirting of the grandstand, but the next time I woke up it was long after midday and the field was empty. There were no soldiers and no bodies.

My head was no longer hurting so badly, but I felt very thirsty.

I sat there, wondering feebly if I ought to go somewhere or if it would be better to stay where I was. I stayed, and it was the right thing to do, because soon Erast Petrovich appeared. He was stillwearing his police uniform, but his bootswere absolutely filthy and his white gloves black with soil.

‘Are you back with us?’ he asked in a gloomy voice. ‘My God, Ziukin, what a disaster. The only time I ever saw the like was at Plevna. Thousands killed and mutilated. This is the worst of all Lind’s atrocities. He has taken an army of slaves with him into the grave like some ancient king.’

‘So Lind was crushed too?’ I asked without any great interest, still unable to shake off my lethargic drowsiness.

‘I cannot see how he could possibly have survived in such a crush. However, let us go and check. The soldiers and police have just finished laying out the mangled bodies for identification – over there, along the side of the road. The line of the dead is almost a verst long. But how can we identify him? We don’t even know what he looks like. Except perhaps for the cloak . . . Let’s go, Ziukin, let’s go.’

I limped along after him.

The line of dead bodies stretched along the main highway, running as far as the eye could see in both directions. Therewere cabs and carts driving out from Moscow as the order had been given to transport the dead to the Vagankovskoe Cemetery, but they had not started moving them yet.

There were high-ranking officials striding about everywhere with sombre faces: military officers, police officers, civilians, each one accompanied by his own retinue. Oh, you will all get it in the neck for allowing the coronation to be wrecked, I thought, but more in sympathy than condemnation. It was Lind who had started the slaughter, but it was the men in charge who would have to pay.

I had a strange feeling as I slowly walked along the side of the road – as if I were some kind of high noble reviewing a parade of the dead. Many of the corpses grinned at me, theirwhite teeth exposed in their flattened faces. From the beginning I felt as if I were frozen, and then I completely turned to stone, which was probably all for the best. I only stopped once, beside that boy whom they had tried to pass out of the crowd. Evidently they had failed. I stared with apathetic curiosity at the transparent blueness of his wide staring eyes and hobbled on. There were quite a number of people staring into the dead faces like Fandorin and myself – some looking for relatives, some simply curious.

‘Look at this, look here,’ I heard a voice say. ‘What a rich man he was, eh?’

A crowd of idlers had gathered round one dead body, and there was a police constable on guard. It was just another dead body – skinny, with straw-coloured hair and a crushed nose – but there were about a dozen purses and several watches on chains laid out on its chest.

‘A pickpocket,’ a lively old man explained to me and clicked his tongue regretfully. ‘That old buzzard fate didn’t spare him either. And he was expecting such a rich haul.’

Ahead of mesomeone started howling – theymust have recognised a dear one – and I hurried on to get past as quickly as possible.

I strode on rapidly for about another twenty paces, and then my stupor seemed to vanish as if by magic. That black frock coat was familiar!

Yes, it was definitely him. The Postman!

Fandorin also saw him and walked over quickly. He squatted down.

The face of the doctor’s helper was entirely undamaged apart from the imprint of the sole of someone’s boot on one cheek. I was struck very powerfully by the expression of surprise on the frozen features. What had he found so astonishing in the final moment of his criminal life? What had he seen that was so incredible? The gaping abyss of hell?

Erast Petrovich straightened up abruptly and declared in a hoarse voice: ‘Lind is alive!’

Seeing my eyebrows shoot up in bewilderment, he bent down, parted the corpse’s blood-soaked clothes and unbuttoned its shirt to expose the pale hairy chest. There was a neat black triangular wound just below the left nipple.

‘There, you see it,’ Fandorin said in a quiet voice. ‘A familiar sign. That is Lind’s stiletto. The doctor remains true to himself – he leaves no witnesses.’ Erast Petrovich straightened up and looked in the direction of Moscow. ‘Let’s go, Ziukin. There’s nothing more we can do here. Quickly!’

He strode off rapidly, almost running, in the direction of the Petrovsky Palace.

‘Where are you going?’ I shouted, chasing after him.

‘Where else but the Postman’s house? Lind might still be there. After all, he doesn’t know that we discovered his hideaway.’

We could not walk all the way into Moscow, and all the cabs had been commandeered by the police to transport the dead, after the wounded had been taken to the hospitals in the morning. The carriages were setting off one after the other in the direction of the Tverskaya Gate, each bearing a doleful cargo.

High Police Master Lasovsky walked past, surrounded by a group of blue uniforms. I hastily turned my face away, only realising afterwards that in my present condition it would have been almost impossible to recognise me, not to mention the fact that just at that moment Afanasii Ziukin was probably the very last thing on the colonel’s mind. The kidnapping of Mikhail Georgievich, even the disappearance of the Orlov, paled into insignificance in comparison with the tragedy that had just taken place. Fate had not inflicted such a blow on a new monarch in Russia since at least 1825. Good Lord. What an international scandal! And what a monstrous omen for the reign just begun!