Boris Akunin - Special Assignments

Anisii, who had not hitherto been unduly spoiled by the attentions of the fair sex, froze completely rigid on finding himself at the centre of a bevy of beauties. The young ladies twittered gaily, discussing the details of his costume without the slightest embarrassment, and one, the extremely pretty Georgian Princess Sofiko Chkhartishvili, even called Tulipov 'a lovely little Moor'. A phrase that was often repeated was 'poor thing', which set Anisii blushing deeply (thank God, no one could see that under his Brazil-nut make-up).

In order to clarify the matter of the make-up and the comments about the 'poor thing', we shall have to turn the clock back a few hours, to the moment when Ahmad-Khan and his faithful secretary were preparing for their first grand social entrance ...

Erast Petrovich, already sporting a pitch-black beard, but still in his household dressing gown, made Anisii up himself. First he took a little bottle of dark chocolate-coloured liquid and explained that it was an infusion of Brazil nut. He rubbed the thick, odorous oil into the skin of Anisii's face, ears and eyelids. Then he glued on a thick black beard and pulled it off again. He stuck on a different one, something like a goatee, but rejected that too.

'No, Tulipov, we can't make a Moslem out of you,' the Chief told him. 'I was too hasty with Tarik-bei. I should have said you were a Hindu. Some kind of Chandragupta or other.'

'Can't I just have a moustache, without a beard?' asked Anisii. It was an old dream of his to have a moustache, but the way his own grew was unconvincing somehow, in little clumps.

'It's not done. In oriental etiquette that is too dandified for a secretary' said Fandorin. He turned Anisii's head to the left, then to the right and declared: 'There's nothing else for it; we'll have to make a eunuch of you.' He mixed up a little yellow grease and started rubbing it into Anisii's cheeks and under his chin -'to loosen the skin a bit and gather it into a fold'. He inspected the result and was satisfied: A genuine eunuch. Just what we need.'

But that was not the end of Tulipov's torments. 'Since you're a Moslem now, the hair has to go' - the Court Counsellor passed sentence implacably.

Already crushed by his transformation into a eunuch, Anisii bore the shaving of his head without a murmur. The shaving was carried out deftly by Masa, with an extremely sharp Japanese dagger. Erast Petrovich rubbed the smelly brown infusion into Anisii's naked cranium and told him: 'It shines like a cannon ball.' He took a little brush, tinkered with Anisii's eyebrows a little and approved his eyes: brown, with a slight slant, just right.

He made Anisii put on the broad silk trousers and some sort of short, patterned woman's jacket, then the robe, and finally jammed a turban on his bald pate and unfortunate ears.

Anisii walked across to the mirror with slow, reluctant steps, expecting to see some hideous monstrosity - and instead was pleasantly astonished: staring out at him from the bronze frame was a picturesque Moor - no sign at all of pimples or protruding ears. What a pity it was he couldn't stroll around Moscow like that all the time!

'You're done,' said Fandorin. 'Just rub some make-up into your hands and neck. And don't forget your feet and ankles -you'll be wearing loose slippers ..."

The gilded morocco sandals, which Erast Petrovich referred to so unromantically as slippers, caused Anisii problems, because he wasn't used to them. They were the reason why Anisii stood absolutely stock-still at the ball. He was afraid that if he moved from the spot one of them was bound to fall off - it had already happened on the staircase. When the lovely Georgian lady asked in French if Tarik-bei would care to dance a waltz with her, Anisii became flustered and, instead of following instructions and replying silently with an oriental bow, he whispered quietly: 'Non, merci, je ne danse pas.'

Thank God, the other girls didn't seem to have caught what he muttered, or the situation would have become complicated. Tarik-bei was not supposed to understand a single white man's language.

Anisii turned anxiously to his chief, who had been talking for several minutes to a dangerous guest, the British Indologist Sir Andrew Marvell, an exceedingly boring gentleman wearing spectacles with thick lenses. A little earlier, when Ahmad-Khan had been exchanging bows with the Governor-General on the upper landing of the staircase, Dolgorukoi had whispered excitedly (Anisii had heard snatches of the exchange): 'Why the devil did he have to turn up? ... And he would have to be an Indologist!... I can't turn him out, he's a baronet... What if he sees through your disguise?'

However, to judge from the calm way in which the prince and the baronet were conversing, Fandorin was in no danger of being seen through. Anisii did not know English, but he heard he often-repeated words 'Gladstone' and 'Her Britannic Majesty'.

When the Indologist blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief and walked away the prince summoned his secretary to him with a brief, imperious gesture of a swarthy, ring-bedecked hand and hissed to him: Wake up, Tulipov. And be more affectionate with her; don't look so surly. Only don't overdo it.'

'More affectionate? Who with?' Anisii asked in an astonished whisper.

'Why with that Georgian. Can't you see that it's her? The window-jumper.'

Tulipov looked round and was struck dumb. It was her! Why hadn't he realised it straight away! Yes, the white-skinned young lady from the lottery now had swarthy skin, the hair that had been golden was black and woven into two plaits, her eyebrows had been painted out as far as her temples, and a delightful mole had somehow appeared on her cheek. But it was her, definitely her! And the sparkle in her eyes was exactly the same as that other time, just before her reckless leap from the window ledge.

The bait had been taken! The grouse was circling round the decoy hen.

Gently, now, Anisii, you mustn't go frightening him off. He pressed his hand to his forehead, then to his heart, and bowed to the starry-eyed charmer with true oriental gravity.

But was he a charlatan? - that was the first thing that had to be checked. The last thing he needed was to bump into some professional colleague on tour, come to pluck the plump Moscow geese. An Indian rajah, the Shakh-Sultan emerald -there was more than a whiff of the operetta about all these oriental delights.

He had checked. And the very last person His Bengali Highness resembled was a crook. Firstly from close up it was immediately obvious that he came from a genuine royal blood line: from his bearing, his manners, from the benevolent languor of his gaze. Secondly Ahmad-Khan had struck up such a highly intellectual conversation with 'Sir Andrew Marvell', the well-known Indologist who had happened so opportunely to be in Moscow - all about the internal politics and religious confessions of the Indian Empire - that Momos had been afraid he might give himself away. The prince's polite question about his opinion of the practice of suttee and whether it reflected the true spirit of Hinduism had obliged him to change the subject to the health of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, feign a sudden attack of sneezing and beat a hasty retreat.

But the most important thing was that the emerald shone with such seductive conviction that not a trace of doubt remained. How he longed to detach that glorious green cobblestone from the noble Ahmad-Khan's turban, saw it up into eight substantial gemstones and sell off each one for something like twenty-five thousand. Now that would be just the job!

Meanwhile Mimi had been working on the secretary. She said that although Tarik-bei was a eunuch, that didn't stop him shooting keen glances into a lady's decollete, and he was clearly not indifferent to the female sex in general. Mimi could be trusted in such matters; there was no way to fool her. Who could say how eunuchs felt about such things? Perhaps the natural desires never went away even when the means of satisfaction had been lost?