Boris Akunin - All the World's a Stage

He had to go to the theatre, take a close look at everything and, most important of all, try to get Madam Altairsky-Lointaine herself to speak frankly. That was four. I shall see her again! I shall talk to her!

The inner dialogue continued in this way right through until the morning, with feverishly agitated emotions constantly hindering the work of thought.

Eventually, after dawn, Fandorin said to himself: What the blazes is this? I think I must be unwell . He lay down and with an effort of will forced himself to relax and fall asleep.

Three hours later Fandorin got up well rested, performed his usual physical exercises, took an ice bath and walked on a tightrope stretched across the courtyard for ten minutes. Control over his interior world was re-established. Erast Petrovich ate a hearty breakfast and looked through the Moscow newspapers that had been delivered; a brief glance at the sad headlines – and then rapidly on to the current events pages. Even the publications that lacked a theatre review section had published reports about the play at Noah’s Ark and the snake. Some reporters were appalled, some joked about it, but all of them, without exception, wrote about it. The reporters’ theories (envy among actors, a spurned admirer, a malicious joke) were of no real interest because they were so obvious. The only useful information that Fandorin gleaned from this reading was the fact that the actor who was bitten (Mr Nonarikin) had been given an injection of antivenom and the state of his health was no longer any cause for concern.

Olga Leonardovna called several times in an agitated state, but Masa had been instructed to tell her that his master was not at home. Erast Petrovich did not feel like wasting time and mental energy on sentimental conversations. Those resources could be put to far better use.

The manager of Noah’s Ark met his visitor at the service entrance, shook his hand in both of his own and led him to his office – all in all, he was hospitality itself. During their telephone conversation Fandorin had thought that Stern seemed a little wary, but the theatre director had agreed immediately to meet.

‘Madam Chekhov’s wish is sacred to me,’ Stern said, offering Erast Petrovich a seat in an armchair. His narrow, intent eyes slid over the visitor’s impervious face and elegant cream suit and halted on the pointy-toed shoes of crocodile leather. ‘She called yesterday and asked for a complimentary ticket for you, but it was too late, there wasn’t a single good seat left. Olga Leonardovna said she would arrange things somehow without my help, but she wanted me to set aside some time for you after the performance. She called again this morning to ask if the meeting had taken place…’

‘I didn’t bother you yesterday, in view of the circumstances.’

‘Yes, indeed, an absolutely macabre incident. All that screaming backstage! And the audience was so very excited!’ The director’s thin lips extended into a sweet smile. ‘But what is the reason for your visit? Olga Leonardovna didn’t explain. “Mr Fandorin will explain that,” she said… Pardon me, but what line of business is it that you are in?’

Erast Petrovich limited himself to answering the first question.

‘Madam Chekhova considers that your leading actress…’ – he hesitated briefly. He had been about to pronounce the name, but for some reason he didn’t – ‘…is in danger. Yesterday’s incident d-demonstrates that Olga Leonardovna is right. I promised to get to the bottom of things.’

The theatrical innovator’s sharp eyes glinted with curiosity.

‘But who are you? Could you really be some kind of psychic? I’ve heard that fortune-tellers and clairvoyants are all the fashion in Moscow. I find that very, very interesting!’

‘Yes, I have made a study of clairvoyance. In Japan,’ Erast Petrovich said with a serious expression. It had occurred to him that this story could be very convenient for the forthcoming investigation. And then again, clairvoyance (i.e. ‘clear vision’) and deduction (that is, clear thinking) did have quite a lot in common.

‘Phenomenal!’ Stern exclaimed, so enthused that he jumped up out of his chair. ‘Perhaps you could demonstrate your art? Well, if only on me, for instance. I ask you please, glance into my future! No, better, into my past, so that I can appreciate your skill.’

What a mercurial gentleman , thought Fandorin. A veritable bead of mercury . (The comparison arose in response to the way the theatre director’s bald head glinted in a ray of sunlight – the September day had turned out fine.)

The newspaper-reading and telephone calls on which Erast Petrovich had spent half of the present day had thrown very little light on Noah Stern’s biography. He had a reputation as a reticent individual who did not like to talk about his past. The only thing known about him was that he had grown up in the Jewish Pale, in extreme poverty, and lived a vagabond life during the days of his youth. He had started as a clown in a circus and then acted in provincial theatres for a long time until eventually he became well known. He had acquired his own theatre company only a year ago, when he won the patronage of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company, which had taken a gamble on his talent. Stern told the newspaper correspondents cock-and-bull stories about himself, always different ones – and he quite obviously did it deliberately. Everything added up to just one conclusion: here was a man obsessed by a single, solitary passion – the theatre. He had no family and did not seem to have a home either. Noah Noaevich was not even known to have had any casual affairs with actresses.

‘Glance into your p-past?’

The director’s high-strung face started quivering in its craving for an immediate miracle.

‘Yes, something from out of my childhood.’

Stern was certain that no one knew anything about that period of his life, Erast Petrovich realised.

Well then, if clairvoyance was to be the thing…

‘Tell me. Is Noah Noaevich your real name?’

‘The absolutely genuine article. As stated on my birth certificate.’

‘I see…’ Fandorin drew his black eyebrows in towards the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes up towards his forehead, across which a greyish lock of hair dangled down (this was exactly the way he imagined that a clairvoyant would have behaved). ‘The beginning of your life is a sad one, my d-dear sir. Your father never even saw you. He departed to the next world while you still dwelt in your mother’s womb. His death was sudden – an unexpected blow of Fate.’

The chances of being mistaken were not very great. Among Jews there was an old custom of naming children in honour of some relative who had died, but almost never in honour of the living. That was precisely why it was so rare for a son to be given his father’s name, except in cases when the father had died. The assumption that the death had been sudden was not so very risky either. Men who had been seriously ill for a long time did not produce such vigorous progeny.

This simple little deduction absolutely bowled the impressionable showman over.

‘Phenomenal!’ he exclaimed, clutching at his heart. ‘I’ve never told anybody that! Not a single soul! There is no one around me who could know anything about my life! My God, how I adore everything that is inexplicable! Erast Petrovich, you are a unique individual! A miracle worker! From the very first moment I laid eyes on you, I realised that I saw before me an exceptional man. If I were a woman or a disciple of Oscar Wilde, I would absolutely fall in love with you!’

This joke was accompanied by an extremely charming smile. The wide-open brown eyes gazed at Fandorin with an expression of such sincere liking that it was impossible not to respond in kind.