Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

It is true, however, that in the conversation that followed over dessert, M. Gauche demonstrated a degree of common sense that quite amazed me. There are, after all, certain advantages in not having a regular education: a mind unfettered by authorities is sometimes capable of making interesting and accurate observations.

Judge for yourself. The amoeba-like Mrs Truffo, the wife of our muttonhead of a doctor, started up again with her mindless prattle about the joy and delight Mme Kleber will bring to her banker with her ‘tiny tot’ and ‘little angel’. Since Mrs Truffo does not speak French, the task of translating her sickly sentiments on the subject of family happiness being inconceivable without ‘baby babble’, fell to her unfortunate husband. Gauche huffed and puffed and then suddenly declared: ‘I cannot agree with you, madam. A genuinely happy married couple have no need whatsoever of children, for husband and wife are perfectly sufficient for each other. Man and woman are like two uneven surfaces, each with bumps and indentations. If the surfaces do not fit tightly against each other, then glue is required, otherwise the structure - in other words the family - cannot be preserved. Children are that selfsame glue. If, however, the surfaces form a perfect fit, bump to indentation, then no glue is required. Take me and my Blanche, if you like. Thirty-three years we’ve lived in perfect harmony. Why would we want children? Life is splendid without them.’ I am sure you can imagine, dear Emily, the tidal wave of righteous indignation that came crashing down on the head of this subverter of eternal values. The most zealous accuser of all was Mme Kleber, who is carrying the little Swiss in her womb. The sight of her neat little belly so carefully exhibited at every opportunity sets me writhing. I can just see the miniature banker nestled inside with his curly moustache and puffy little cheeks. In time the Klebers will no doubt produce an entire battalion of Swiss Guards.

I must confess to you, my tenderly adored Emily, that the sight of pregnant women makes me feel sick. They are repulsive! That inane bovine smile, that disgusting manner of constantly listening to their own entrails. I try to keep as far away from Mme Kleber as possible.

Swear to me, my darling, that we shall never have children. The fat bourgeois is right a thousand times over! Why do we need children when we are already boundlessly happy without them? All we need to do is survive this forced separation.

But it is already two minutes to 11. Time to take a reading.

Damnation! I have turned the whole cabin upside down. My sextant has disappeared. This is no delusion! It was lying in the trunk together with the chronometer and the compass, and now it is not there! I am afraid, Emily! O, I had a premonition of this. My worst suspicions have been confirmed!

Why? What have I done? They are prepared to commit any vileness in order to prevent our reunion! How can I check now that the ship is following the right course? It is that Renier, I know! I caught the expression in his eyes when he saw me handling the sextant on deck last night! The scoundrel!

I shall go to the captain and demand retribution. But what if they are in

it together? My God, my God, have pity

On Me.

I had to pause for a while. I was so agitated that I was obliged to take the drops prescribed for me by Drjenkinson. And I did as he told me, and started thinking of pleasant things. Of how you and I will sit on a white veranda and gaze into the distance, trying to guess where the sea ends and the sky begins. You will smile and say: ‘Darling Reggie, here we are together at last.’ Then we will get into a cabriolet and go for a drive along the seashore.

Lord, what nonsense is this! What cabriolet?

I am a monster, and there can be no forgiveness for me.

She woke up in an excellent mood, smiled affably at the spot of sunlight that crept onto her round cheek where it was creased by the pillow, and listened to her belly. The baby was quiet, but she felt terribly hungry. There were still 50 minutes left until breakfast, but Renate had no lack of patience and she simply did not know the meaning of boredom. In the morning sleep released her as swiftly as it embraced her in the evening, when she simply sandwiched her hands together and laid her head on them, and a second later she was immersed in sweet dreams.

As Renate performed her morning toilet she purred a frivolous little song about poor Georgette who fell in love with a chimney sweep. She wiped her fresh little face with an infusion of lavender and then styled her hair quickly and deftly, fluffing up the fringe over her forehead, drawing her thick chestnut tresses into a smooth bun and arranging two long ringlets over her temples. The effect was precisely what was required demure and sweet. She glanced out of the porthole. Still the same view: the regular border of the canal, the yellow sand, the white mud-daub houses of a wretched little hamlet. It was going to be hot. That meant the white lace dress, the straw hat with the red ribbon, and she mustn’t forget her parasol - a stroll after breakfast was de rigueur. Only she couldn’t be bothered to drag her parasol around with her. Never mind, someone would fetch it.

Renate twirled in front of the mirror with evident satisfaction, stood sideways and pulled her dress tight over her belly. Although to tell the truth, there was not much to look at as yet.

Asserting her rights as a pregnant woman, Renate arrived ahead of time for breakfast - the waiters were still laying the table. She immediately ordered them to bring her orange juice, tea, croissants with butter and everything else. By the time the first of her table-mates arrived - it was the fat M. Gauche, another early bird - the mother-to-be had already dealt with three croissants and was preparing to set about a mushroom omelette. The breakfast served on the Leviathan was not some trifling Continental affair, but the genuine full English variety: with roast beef, exquisite egg dishes, blood pudding and porridge.

The French part of the consortium provided nothing but the croissants. At lunch and dinner, however, the menu was dominated by French cuisine. Well, one could hardly serve kidneys and beans in the Windsor saloon!

The first mate appeared, as always, at precisely nine o’clock.

He enquired solicitously as to how Mme Kleber was feeling.

Renate lied and said she had slept badly and felt absolutely shattered, and it was all because the porthole didn’t open properly and it was too stuffy in the cabin. Alarmed, Lieutenant Renier promised that he would make inquiries in person and have the fault rectified. He did not eat eggs or roast beef - he was a devotee of some peculiar diet, sustaining himself largely on fresh greens. Renate pitied him for that.

Gradually the others also put in an appearance. The conversation over breakfast was usually listless. Those who were a bit older had not yet recovered from a wretched night, while the young people were still not fully awake. It was rather amusing to observe the bitchy Clarissa Stamp attempting to coax a response out of the stammering Russian diplomat. Renate shook her head in disbelief: how could she make such a fool of herself?

After all, my dear, he could be your son, despite those impressive streaks of grey. Surely this handsome boy was too tough a morsel for this ageing, simpering creature?

The very last to arrive was the Ginger Lunatic (Renate’s private name for the English baronet). Tousled hair sticking out in all directions, red eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth - he was a quite appalling mess. But Mme Kleber was not in the least bit afraid of him, and given the chance she never missed the opportunity to have a bit of fun at his expense. This time she passed the milk jug to the Lunatic with a warm, guileless smile. As she had anticipated, Milford-Stokes (what a silly name!) squeamishly moved his cup aside. Renate knew from experience that now he would not even touch the milk jug, and he would drink his coffee black.