Boris Akunin: Turkish Gambit

This story had a bad effect on Pyotr. It was March, spring had come early, the breeze blowing from the Neva was redolent of open spaces and drifting ice, and Pyotr had given her an ultimatum: things could not go on as they were,- they were made for each other,- their relations had stood the test of time. They were both flesh and blood and they had no business attempting to defy the laws of nature. Of course, he would settle for carnal love without a wedding ceremony, but it would be better to get married properly, since it would spare them many complications. And somehow he had managed to put things so cleverly that afterwards only one thing was discussed: which kind of wedding they should have, civil or church. The arguments continued until April, but in April the long-expected war for the liberation of the Russian people's Slav brethren had broken out, and as a man of honour Pyotr Yablokov had signed up as a volunteer. Before his departure Varya had promised him two things: that she would soon give him her final answer and that they would assuredly fight together side by side - somehow she would think of a way.

And so she had. Not immediately, but she had thought of a way. She had failed to get a job as a nurse in a temporary military infirmary or a field hospital -they refused to take her incomplete midwifery studies into consideration. Nor were female telegraphers being taken on for active army service, Varya had been on the point of succumbing to despair when a letter arrived from Roumania: Petya complained that he had not been allowed to join the infantry because of his flat feet and had been retained at headquarters on the staff of the commander-in-chief, the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich - for volunteer Yablokov was a mathematician and the army was desperately short of cryptographers.

It would not be too difficult to find some kind of work at general headquarters, Varya had decided, or, if the worst came to the worst, simply to lose herself in the hurly-burly at the rear, and she had immediately formulated The Plan, of which the first two stages had worked so wonderfully well, but the third had culminated in disaster.

Meanwhile events were moving to a conclusion. The crimson-nosed landlord burbled something menacing and began waddling towards Varya, wiping his hands on a grey towel and looking in his red shirt very much like an executioner approaching the block. Her mouth went dry and she felt a bit sick. Perhaps she should pretend to be deaf and dumb?

The dejected type sitting with his back to her rose unhurriedly to his feet, walked over to Varya's table and sat down facing her without speaking. She saw a pale face, almost boyish despite the greying temples, with cold blue eyes, a thin moustache and an unsmiling mouth. It was a strange face, quite unlike the faces of the other peasants, though the stranger was dressed in the same way as they were - excepting only that his jacket was a little newer and his shirt was cleaner.

The blue-eyed stranger did not even glance round at the landlord; he merely waved his hand dismissively, and the menacing executioner immediately withdrew behind his counter. Varya, however, felt none the calmer for that. On the contrary, indeed, the most terrifying part was only just about to begin.

She wrinkled up her forehead, readying herself for the sound of foreign speech. Better if she did not speak but merely nodded and shook her head. Only she must not forget that the Bulgarians did everything in reverse: when you nodded it meant 'No'; when you shook your head it meant 'Yes'.

The blue-eyed man, however, did not ask her any questions. He sighed dejectedly, and spoke to her with a slight stammer in perfect Russian:

'Ah, m-mademoiselle, you would have done better to wait for your fiance at home. This is not a novel by Mayne Reed. Things could have t-turned out very badly.'

Varya did not immediately grasp the meaning of what had been said. Out of inertia she first nodded, then shook her head and only after that did she open her mouth wide in amazement.

'Don't be surprised,' the strange peasant said in a dull voice. 'The fact that you are a g-girl is immediately obvious - a strand of your hair has crept out from under your cap on that side. That is one.' (Varya furtively tucked the treacherous curl back into place.) 'The fact that you are Russian is also obvious: the snub nose, the Great Russian line of the cheekbones, the light-brown hair, and - most importantly - the absence of any sun-tan. That is two. As for your fiance, that is equally simple: you are p-proceeding on your way surreptitiously, so you must be on private business. And what private business could a young woman of your age possibly have with an army in the field? Only romance. That makes three. Now for number f-four: that moustachioed fellow who brought you in here and then disappeared was your guide? And, of course, your money was hidden among your things? F-foolish. You should keep everything of importance about your p-person. What is your name?'

'Varya Suvorova, Varvara Andreevna Suvorova.' Varya whispered in fright. 'Who are you? Where are you from?'

'Erast Petrovich Fandorin. A Serbian volunteer. I am making my way home from Turkish captivity.'

Thank God! Varya had already decided he must be a hallucination. A Serbian volunteer! From Turkish captivity! Glancing reverentially at his grey temples, she was unable to refrain from asking, and even pointing impolitely with her finger: 'Is that because they tortured you there? I've read about the horrors of Turkish captivity. And I suppose that's what caused your stammer too?'

Erast Fandorin frowned and replied reluctantly. 'Nobody tortured me. They plied me with coffee from morning till evening and conversed exclusively in French. I lived as a guest with the K-Kaimakam of Vidin.'

'With whom?'

'Vidin is a town on the Roumanian border, and a kaimakam is a governor. As for the stammer, that is a c-consequence of an old concussion.'

'So you escaped?' she asked enviously. 'And you are on your way to the active army to continue the fight?'

'No, I have done quite enough fighting already.'

Varya's face must have expressed extreme bewilderment. In any event, the volunteer felt it necessary to elucidate: 'War, Varvara Andreevna, is abominable and disgusting. In war no one is right and no one is wrong. And there are good and bad on both sides. Only the good are usually k-killed first.'

'Then why did you go to Serbia as a volunteer?' she asked heatedly. 'Nobody drove you to it, I suppose?'

'Out of egotistical considerations. I was unwell and in need of treatment.'

Varya was astonished. 'Can people be healed by war?'

'Yes. The sight of others' p-pain makes it easier to bear one's own. I found myself at the front two weeks before Chernyaev's army was routed. After that I had more than my fill of wandering through the mountains and shooting. Thank God, I don't th-think I hit anybody.'

He is either trying to strike a pose or is simply a cynic, Varya thought, rather annoyed, and she remarked caustically: 'You should have stayed with your kaimakam until the war was over. What point was there in escaping?'