Boris Akunin - All the World's a Stage

The nights were worst of all. In her distressed and lonely condition (lovers were out of the question!) Eliza had repulsive dreams in which eroticism mingled with appalling images of death.

She thought about him often now. The moment would come when Genghis Khan’s insanity reached its climax and then the monster would kill her. It could happen very soon now.

But then why did she not turn to anyone for help?

There were several reasons.

Firstly, as we have already said, there was no proof and nobody would believe her.

Secondly, she was ashamed of her own horrendous stupidity – how could she have married such a monster? It serves you right, you little idiot!

Thirdly, she was tormented by remorse for two lives that had been lost. If you’re guilty, then you must pay.

And in addition – the most terrible reason of all – Eliza had never before felt the fragile beauty of the world so keenly. The psychiatrist she consulted very cautiously about Genghis Khan, without naming any names, told her that the condition of paranoiacs worsened in autumn. This is the final autumn of my life , Eliza told herself, as she looked at the poplars starting to turn yellow, and her heart contracted in sweet despair. A moth flying towards a candle flame probably feels much the same thing. It knows it is going to die, but doesn’t want to turn aside…

The one and only time she had blurted out her fear, in a moment of weakness, had been about ten days ago, to that soul of kindness, Olga Knipper. The dam had burst, so to speak. Eliza didn’t explain anything specific, but she wept and babbled incoherently. Afterwards she was sorry she had done it. With her Germanic tenacity, Olga had pestered Eliza with questions. She had telephoned and sent notes, and after that business with the snake she had come rushing round to the hotel, hinted mysteriously about some man who would help Eliza in any situation, gasped and sighed and pried. But it was as if Eliza had turned to stone. She had decided that whatever must be could not be avoided, and there was no point in getting other people involved.

There was only one way to get rid of this good-hearted meddler, and it was a cruel one: to provoke a quarrel with her. And Eliza knew how to do that. She said a lot of offensive, absolutely unforgivable things about Olga’s relationship with her deceased husband. Olga cringed and burst into tears and her tone of voice became cold and formal. ‘God will punish you for that,’ she said – and left.

He will punish me , Eliza thought languidly, and soon . On that day she felt so numbed, barely even alive, that she didn’t repent in the least. She only felt relief at having been left in peace. Alone with her final autumn, insanity and nightmares.

‘Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap!’ The tapping on the glass came again and Eliza rubbed her eyes, driving away the appalling dream. There was no carriage, and no dead men pressing their faces avidly against the glass.

The darkness was lightening. The outlines of objects had already appeared, she could see the hands of the clock on the wall: a few minutes after five. Dawn would break soon and, like a little nocturnal animal, the fear would creep away into its burrow until the evening twilight came again. She knew that now she could go to sleep without being afraid, there were no nightmares in the morning.

But suddenly there it was again, a quiet ‘tap-tap-tap’.

She raised herself up on her pillow and realised that her awakening had been false. The dream was continuing.

She was dreaming that she was lying in her hotel room just before dawn, looking out of the window, and there was a dead face with a red, dishevelled beard – huge and blurred. Lord God, have pity!

She pinched herself and rubbed her eyes, which were gluing themselves shut again. Her vision cleared. No, it wasn’t a dream!

There was a huge bunch of peonies swaying outside the window. A hand in a white glove appeared out of it and knocked: ‘tap-tap-tap’. Then a face appeared beside it, not a dead one, but very much alive. The lips below the moustache with twirled ends stirred in a soundless whisper, the eyes goggled as they attempted to make out the interior of the room.

Eliza recognised one of her most tenacious admirers – the Life Hussar Volodya Limbach. The St Petersburg cohort of reckless theatre lovers included quite a number of young officers. Any even slightly well-known actress, singer or ballerina always had these noisy, exuberant youths among her retinue. They engineered ovations, threw heaps of flowers, could even hiss at a rival actress, and on the day of a premiere or a benefit performance they unharnessed the horses from the carriage and pulled the sovereign of their hearts through the streets themselves. Their adoration was flattering and useful, but some of the young men did not know where to stop and allowed themselves to cross the line between adoration and harassment.

If Eliza’s condition had been different, she might possibly have laughed at Limbach’s prank. God only knew how he had managed to clamber onto the cornice of a high first-floor window. But this time she flew into a fury. Damn the young pup! What a fright he had given her!

She leapt up off the bed and ran to the window. Making out an unclad white figure in the half-light, the cornet pressed his face avidly against the glass. Without even bothering to think that the boy might fall and break his neck, Eliza turned the catch and pushed the flaps of the window, which swung wide open.

The bouquet went flying down through the air and Limbach himself was knocked off balance by the blow, but he wasn’t sent tumbling into the abyss. In contradiction of the laws of gravity, the young officer hung suspended in mid-air, swaying to and fro and turning gently around his own axis.

The mystery was explained: the impudent young man had lowered himself from the roof on a rope that was wound round his waist.

‘Divine one!’ Limbach exclaimed in a choking voice, and started speaking in brief phrases. ‘Let me in! I wish only! To kiss the hem! Of your nightgown! Reverently!’

Eliza’s fury suddenly evaporated, its place taken by the terrible thought that if Genghis Khan found out about this, the foolish boy would be killed!

She cast a glance along Tverskaya Street, which was absolutely deserted at this time in the morning. But how could she be sure that the cursed maniac was not hiding somewhere in a gateway or behind a street lamp?

Without saying a word, Eliza shut the window and closed the curtains. Entering into negotiations, expostulating or scolding would only increase the risk.

But Limbach would not back down. Now she would have no peace from him even at night, in her own room. And the worst thing of all was that the window looked straight out onto the street…

During their Moscow tour the company of Noah’s Ark was staying in the ‘Louvre-Madrid’ on the corner of Leontiev Lane. The ‘Louvre’ was the name of a luxurious hotel with a façade overlooking Tverskaya Street. The director, leading man and leading lady lived here, in deluxe apartments. The more modest part of the complex, the ‘Madrid’ lodging rooms, had windows that looked out onto Leontiev Lane. This was where the other actors were quartered. Visiting companies often stayed in this twin establishment, which seemed to be specially adapted for the theatrical hierarchy. The wits of the theatre scene had dubbed the long corridor connecting the magnificent hotel and the modest lodging rooms ‘the impassable Pyrenees’.

If this happened again, she would have to exchange rooms with someone on the other side of the Pyrenees, Eliza thought, calming down slightly and even starting to smile. After all, it is hard to remain indifferent in the face of such insane amatory follies. He had come dashing down here from St Petersburg, the little devil. Probably without saying a word to his superiors. And now he would spend a long stretch in the guardhouse. But that wasn’t the most terrible thing that could happen to him…