Boris Akunin - Special Assignments

'So tell me: does he often hand out alms to the beggars?' asked Momos, feeling the blood beginning to course recklessly through his veins.

Mimi glanced into the tavern, looking bored, and he gave her a sign: Don't interfere, this is business.

Tishkin propped his sullen head on his hand and his unsteady elbow slithered across the dirty tablecloth. 'Often. From tomorrow, when the Lenten Fast begins, he'll be coming to Our Lady of Smolensk every day. The bastard has an office here, on Pliushchikha Street. He'll get out of his sleigh along the way, hand out a rouble in kopecks and then ride on to rake in the thousands.'

'I tell you what, Egor Tishkin,' said Momos: 'I feel sorry for you. You come along with me. I'll get you a place to sleep for the night and give you a bit of money for a drink. You can tell me about your bitter life in a bit more detail. So you say he's highly superstitious, this Eropkin?'

It's just downright unfair, Momos thought as he led the stumbling martyr to the door. What sort of bad luck is this at the very last moment! It was February the shortest little month of all! Only twenty-eight days! There'd be thirty thousand less in the sack than in January or in March. But at least it was already the twenty-third. Not too long to wait until the end of the month, but still enough time to prepare properly. Only he'd have to get the luggage from the train.

There was an immense operation taking shape: he could wipe out all his Moscow fiascos in a single stroke.

The following day, the first day of the Week of the Adoration of the Cross, Smolenskaya Square was unrecognisable, as if the sorcerer Chernomor had shot by above the square in the night and with a single pass of his broad hands swept all the sinners, drunks, singers and shouters off the face of the earth, whisked away the spiced-tea men, piemen and pancake men, carried off the bright-coloured pennants, the paper garlands and the balloons, leaving behind only the empty fairground booths, only the black crows on the snow gleaming wetly in the sun, only the beggars on the porch of the Church of Our Lady of Smolensk.

Matins had been sung in the church while it was still dark, and the long, dignified fast, intended to last seven weeks, had begun. The church elder had already walked through the fasting congregation three times, collecting offerings, and three times carried a dish heavy with copper and silver into the sanctuary, when the most important parishioner of all, His Excellency Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin, arrived. He was in an especially mellow mood today: his broad, flabby face was cleanly washed, his sparse hair was combed in a neat parting and his long sideburns were slicked with oil.

Samson Kharitonovich positioned himself directly opposite the Holy Doors of the sanctuary and spent about a quarter of an hour bowing down to the ground and crossing himself with broad gestures. The priest came out with a candle, waved the censer at Eropkin and muttered: 'Lord, Master of my life, purify me, a sinner ...' And then up walked the elder with an empty dish. The praying man got up from his knees, parted the fabric flaps of his coat and put three hundred-rouble notes in the elder's dish - that was Samson Eropkin's established custom on the Monday of the Cross.

The generous man came out on to the square, where the poor beggars were already waiting, holding out their hands, bleating, jostling each other. But Kuzma simply swayed his whip slightly and the jostling immediately stopped. The paupers lined up in two ranks, like soldiers on parade. A solid mass of coarse grey cloth and tatters, except that on the left side near the middle there was something white.

Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin screwed up his puffy little eyes and saw a fine-looking boy standing among the beggars. The boy had large, bright-blue eyes. He had fine features and his face was clean. His golden hair was cut pudding-basin style (oh, what an outcry there'd been: Mimi had at first absolutely refused to have her lovely locks trimmed so short). The miraculous youth was dressed in nothing but a snow-white shirt - but he didn't seem to feel the cold at all (why, of course not: under the shirt there was a fine sweater of the best-quality angora, and Mimi's delicate bust was tightly wrapped in warm flannel). He had velveteen trousers, and bast sandals, and his light-coloured foot wrappings were unstained.

As he gave out his kopecks, Eropkin glanced now and then at the unusual beggar, and when he got close to the boy, he held out not one coin, but two, and told him: 'Here you are, pray for me.'

The golden-haired youth did not take the money. He raised his clear eyes to the sky and declared in a ringing voice: 'You give too little, servant of God. The dues you offer Our Lady of Sorrow are too small.' He looked Eropkin straight in the eye and the venerable believer was strangely disturbed by that stern, unblinking glance. 'I see your sinful soul. There is a bloody stain on your heart, and filthy decay within you. It must be pu-urged, it must be pu-urged,' the holy fool sang. 'Or else the stench and decay will devour you. Does your belly pain you, Samson? Does your kidney torment you with agony? That's from the filth; it must be pu-urged.'

Eropkin stopped dead in his tracks. And with good reason! His kidneys really were in a terrible state, and he had a large wine-coloured birthmark on the left side of his chest. The information was accurate, all right; it had come from Egor Tishkin.

'Who are you?' His Excellency gasped in fright.

The boy did not answer. He raised his blue eyes to the sky again and began moving his lips gently.

'He's a holy fool, benefactor,' eager voices told Eropkin from both sides. 'It's his first day here, father. Nobody knows where he came from. He talks in riddles. His name's Paisii. Not long since he had a falling fit, and foam came out of his mouth, but it smelt like heaven. He's one of God's own.'

'Then here's a rouble for you, if you're one of God's own. Pray for the forgiveness of my grievous sins.'

Eropkin took a paper rouble out of his wallet, but again the holy fool did not accept it. He said in a quiet voice: 'Do not give it to me. I don't need it: the Mother of God will feed me. Give it to him.' And he pointed to an old beggar known to the whole market, the legless Zoska. 'Your lackey offended him yesterday. Give it to the cripple, and I'll pray to the Mother of God for you.'

Zoska rolled up eagerly on his little trolley and held out his huge, knotty hand. Eropkin squeamishly thrust the rouble into it.

'May the Most Holy Virgin bless you,' the boy declared in a ringing voice, stretching out his slim hand towards Eropkin. And then a miracle happened that was remembered for a long time afterwards in Moscow.

From out of nowhere a huge raven flew up and landed on the holy fool's shoulder. The beggars in the crowd gasped out loud. But when they noticed that the black bird had a gold ring on its leg, everything went quiet.

Eropkin stood there, numb with fright, his thick lips trembling, his eyes starting out of his head. He tried to raise his hand to cross himself, but he couldn't do it.

Tears began flowing from the holy fool's eyes. 'I pity you, Samson,' he said, taking the ring off the bird's leg and holding it out to Eropkin. 'Take it, it's yours. The Holy Virgin does not accept your rouble; she is paying you back. And she sent a raven because your soul is black.'

The man of God turned and walked quietly away.

'Stop!' Samson Kharitonovich shouted, gazing at the glittering ring in confusion and dismay. 'You, you wait! Kuzma! Put him in the sleigh! We'll take him with us!'

The black-bearded hulk overtook the boy and took hold of his shoulder.

'Let's go to my house, do you hear? What's your name? ... Paisii!' Eropkin called to him. 'Live with me for a while, warm yourself