Boris Akunin - Special Assignments

Many performances had been played out - both small and large, genuinely triumphant and less successful - but so far there had not been a single flop followed by booing and whistling.

At one time Momos had developed an interest in immortalising the memory of national heroes. The first time, after losing at whist on a Volga steamer and going ashore in Kostroma without a single kopeck to his name, he had tried collecting contributions for a bronze monument to Ivan Susanin. But the local merchants had been stingy, the landed gentry had tried to make their contributions in butter or rye, and the outcome had been a mere trifle - less than eight thousand. In Odessa, though, the contributions paid for a monument to Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin had been generous, especially from the Jewish merchants, and in Tobolsk the fur traders and gold miners had stumped up seventy-five thousand to the eloquent 'member of the Imperial Historical Society' for a monument to Yermak Timofeevich, the conqueror of Siberia.

The year before last the Butterfly Credit Union had proved a great success in Nizhny Novgorod. The idea had been simple and brilliant, designed for that extremely common breed of people whose belief in free miracles is stronger than their natural caution. Butterfly had taken loans from the locals at a fantastically high rate of interest. The first week, only ten people put their money in (nine of them decoys, hired by Momos himself). However, next Monday, when they all received ten kopecks for every rouble invested - the interest was paid out weekly - the town seemed to go insane. A queue three blocks long formed at the company's office. A week later Momos again paid out ten per cent, after which he had to rent another two offices and hire twelve new assistants to take in the money. On the fourth Monday the doors of the offices remained locked. The rainbow-winged Butterfly had fluttered on its way, quitting the banks of the Volga for ever in search of pastures new.

For any other man the pickings from Nizhny Novgorod would have been enough to last the rest of his life, but Momos never hung on to money for very long. Sometimes he imagined that he was a windmill fed by a broad stream of bank notes and jingling coins. The windmill waved its broad sails through the air, knowing no respite, transforming the money into the fine flour of diamond tie pins, thoroughbred trotters, wild sprees that lasted for days, breathtaking bouquets for actresses. But the wind always kept on blowing, and the flour was scattered into the boundless distance, and not a single speck remained.

Well, let it scatter, there was enough 'grain' to last Momos for ever. There would always be grist for the miraculous windmill.

He had made a thorough tour of all the trade fairs and provincial towns, constantly developing his skill. Last year he had reached the capital, St Petersburg, and cleaned up quite handsomely. The suppliers to the royal court, crafty bankers and commercial counsellors would not soon forget the Jack of Spades.

It was only quite recently that Momos had thought of declaring his exceptional gift to the public. He had succumbed to the blandishments of the imp of vanity, and begun to feel slighted. All those incomparably talented capers he had thought up, all that imagination and skill and passion he had invested, and there was no recognition for it. The blame was always lumped on to some band of swindlers, or Jewish plots, or the local authorities.

And the good people of Russia were unaware that all these elaborate chefs-d'oeuvre were the work of a single master.

Money was no longer enough for Momos; he wanted fame. Of course, it was much riskier to work with a trade mark, but fame was never won by the faint-hearted. And just you try to catch him, when he had his mask prepared for every operation! Who were you supposed to catch? Who should you be searching for? Had anyone ever seen Momos's genuine face? Well then ...

'Gasp and gossip and laugh in farewell' was Momos's mental valediction to his fellow-countrymen. Applaud a great artist, for I shall not be with you for ever.'

No, he wasn't preparing to die - not at all; but he had begun thinking seriously about parting with the Russian expanses that were so dear to his heart. There was just the old capital to work over, and then the time would be exactly right for Momos to make his debut on the international stage - he could feel that he was already strong enough to do it.

The wonderful city of Moscow. The Muscovites were even more stupid than the Petersburgians, more open-hearted and less callous, and they had just as much money. Momos had been based here since the autumn and had already pulled off several elegant swindles. Another two or three operations and it would be 'Farewell, my native land!' He ought to take a stroll around Europe and a look at America. They said many interesting things about the North American states. His instinct told him he would find the space to spread his wings there. He could launch a campaign to dig some canal, organise a stockholding company to construct a trans-American railroad or, say, to search for Aztec gold. And then again, German princes were in great demand just then, especially in the new Slav countries and on the South American continent. That was something worth thinking about. Indeed, in his prudent manner, Momos had already taken certain measures.

But for the time being, he had business in Moscow. He could go on shaking the apples off this tree for a long time yet. Give him time, and the writers of Moscow would be writing novels about the Jack of Spades.

The morning after the amusing caper with the English lord and the old governor, Momos woke late, with a headache - he had been celebrating all evening and half the night. Mimi just adored celebrations; they were her natural element, so they had had glorious fun.

The mischievous girl had transformed their deluxe suite in the Metropole Hotel into a Garden of Eden: tropical hothouse plants in tubs, the chandelier completely covered with chrysanthemums and lilies, the carpet littered with rose petals, baskets of fruit from Eliseev and bouquets from Pogodin everywhere. A python from Morselli's menagerie was looped round the palms in patterned coils, imitating the original Serpent Tempter - not very convincingly, however: because it was winter, the serpent dozed all the time and never once opened its eyes. But Mimi, in her role as Eve, was on top form. As he remembered, Momos smiled and rubbed his aching temple. That cursed Veuve Clicquot. When, after the fall had already taken place, Momos was luxuriating in the spacious porcelain bath tub, surrounded by floating Wanda orchids (at fifteen roubles apiece), Mimi had showered him with champagne from huge bottles. He had obviously been too zealous in striving to catch the frothing stream in his hps.

But yesterday even Mimi had worn herself out with her gambolling. Look at the way she was sleeping - you couldn't have woken her up if there was a fire. Her slightly swollen lips were half open, she had put both hands under her cheek in the way she usually did, and her thick golden locks were scattered across the pillow.

When they'd decided that they would travel together, Momos had told her: A man's life, my girl, is the same as he is. If he is cruel, then life is cruel. If he is timid, then it is terrifying. If he is sour, then it is sad. But I am a jolly man and my life is jolly, and so will yours be too.'

And Mimi had fitted into the jolly life as if she had been created especially for it, although he had to assume that in her twenty-two years she must have tasted more than her share of bitter radish and mustard. But Momos had not asked her about that - it was none of his business. If she wanted to tell him, she would. But she wasn't one of those girls who cling to bad memories and she certainly wouldn't try to appeal to his pity.