Boris Akunin: All the World's a Stage

‘Fandorin at your s-service.’

‘Erast Petrovich, for my sake, for the sake of our friendship, in the name of mercy. For the sake of my late husband, do not refuse me!’ a woman’s voice declared rapidly in resounding tones. A familiar voice, certainly, but distorted by agitation. ‘You are a noble and compassionate man, I know that you cannot refuse me!’

‘So he has died…’ Fandorin hung his head, even though the widow could not see it, and spoke with sincere feeling. ‘Please accept my p-profoundest condolences. This is not only your personal grief, it is an immense loss for the whole of Russia. You are a strong person. I know your presence of mind will not desert you. And for my part, of course, I will do everything that I possibly can.’

Following a pause, the lady continued in a tone of voice that conveyed a certain perplexity:

‘Thank you, but I have come to terms with it one way or another. Time heals all wounds…’

‘Time?’

Erast Petrovich stared at the telephone in stupefaction.

‘Well, yes. After all, it is seven years since Anton Pavlovich died… This is Olga Leonardovna Knipper-Chekhov here. I suppose I must have woken you up?’

Oh, how very awkward! Hurling a furious glance at the entirely innocent Masa, Fandorin blushed. It was not surprising that the voice had seemed familiar to him. He had long-standing ties of friendship with the writer’s widow – they had both been members of the commission on Chekhov’s legacy.

‘F-for God’s sake f-forgive me!’ he exclaimed, stammering more than usual. ‘I thought you were… It d-doesn’t matter…’

The consequence of an essentially comic misunderstanding was that from the very beginning of the conversation Fandorin found himself in the position of a man apologising and feeling guilty. If it were not for that, his response to the actress’s request would most probably have been a polite refusal, and his entire subsequent life would have turned out quite differently.

But Erast Petrovich was embarrassed, and the word of a noble man is not a sparrow.

‘You really will do everything you can for me? I’m taking you at your word, now,’ Olga Leonardovna said in a less agitated voice. ‘Knowing you as a true knight and a man of honour, I have no doubt that the story I am about to tell you will not leave you unmoved.’

In fact, even without the awkward start to the conversation, it would not have been easy to refuse a request from this woman.

In society Chekhov’s widow was regarded with disapproval. It was considered good form to denounce her for preferring to flaunt her brilliance on stage and spend her time in the jolly company of friends from the Art Theatre, instead of nursing the fatally ill writer in his dreary solitude in Yalta. She didn’t love him! She didn’t love him! She had married the dying man out of cold calculation, in order to acquire Chekhov’s fame, while clinging on to her own, in order to secure a name that would be a genuine trump-card in her subsequent theatrical career – such was the generally voiced opinion.

Erast Petrovich was outraged by this injustice. The late Chekhov had been a mature and intelligent man. He knew that he was not simply marrying a woman, but an illustrious actress. Olga Leonardovna had been prepared to give up the stage in order to remain beside him constantly, but it would be a fine husband who agreed to accept such a sacrifice. To love meant to wish happiness for the loved one. Without selflessness, love was not worth a brass farthing. And the wife had been right to let her husband win this battle of magnanimities. The important thing was that she had been with him before he died and eased his passing. She had told Fandorin that on the very last evening he joked a lot and they laughed heartily. What more could one wish for? A good death. No one had any right to condemn this woman.

All these thoughts flashed through Erast Petrovich’s mind, not for the first time, as he listened to the actress’s rambling, incoherent story. It concerned a certain Eliza, a friend of Olga Leonardovna’s and apparently also an actress. Something or other had happened to this Eliza that had ‘left the poor thing in a constant state of mortal fear’.

‘Pardon me,’ Erast Petrovich interposed, when the other party broke off in order to sob. ‘I d-didn’t quite understand; Altairsky and Lointaine – are they one individual or two?’

‘One! Her full name is Eliza Altairsky-Lointaine. She used to go by the stage name of “Lointaine”, but then she married and became “Altairsky” as well, after her husband. They soon separated, it’s true, but you must agree that it would be stupid for an actress to renounce such a beautiful surname.’

‘But even so, I don’t quite…’ Fandorin wrinkled up his forehead. ‘This lady is afraid of something, you have described her nervous state most eloquently. But what exactly is frightening her?’

And, most importantly, what is it that you want from me? he added to himself.

‘She won’t tell me what the problem is! Eliza is a very secretive, she never complains about anything. That’s such a rare thing for an artiste! But she came to visit me yesterday, we had a good talk, and something came over her. She burst into tears, fell on my breast and started babbling about her life being a nightmare and saying she couldn’t bear it any longer, she was hounded and tormented to death. But when I started badgering her with questions, Eliza suddenly turned terribly pale and bit her lip, and I couldn’t drag another word out of her. Eventually she babbled something unintelligible, asked me to forgive her momentary weakness and ran off. I didn’t sleep last night and I’ve had the jitters all day long! Ah, Erast Petrovich, I’ve known Eliza for a long time. She’s not a hysterical girl who imagines things. I’m sure she’s in some kind of danger and, what’s more, danger of a kind that she can’t even tell a friend about. I implore you, in the name of all the bonds between us, find out what the matter is. It’s a mere trifle for you, after all, you’re a master at solving mysteries. How brilliantly you tracked down that missing manuscript of Anton Pavlovich’s!’ she said, reminding Fandorin of the story that had marked the beginning of their acquaintance. ‘I shall help you gain entry to her circle of acquaintances. Eliza is the heroine now at Noah’s Ark.’

‘Who? W-where?’ Erast Petrovich asked in surprise.

‘She’s the leading lady in that new-fangled company which is attempting to rival the Art Theatre,’ Olga Leonardovna explained in a tone that carried a hint of condescension – either for Fandorin’s theatrical ignorance, or for the madmen who had dared to compete with the great Moscow Art Theatre. ‘Noah’s Ark has arrived on tour from St Petersburg, to astound and conquer the public of Moscow. It’s quite impossible to get a ticket, but I have arranged everything. You will be allowed in and given the very finest seat, so that you can get a good look at all of them. And afterwards you can pay a visit backstage. I shall telephone Noah Noaevich (that’s their manager, Noah Noaevich Stern). And I shall tell him to render you every possible assistance. He’s positively dancing reels round me, hoping to lure me into joining him, so he will do as I ask without any unnecessary questions.’

Erast Petrovich loosed an angry kick at a chair, and it cracked in half. An absolutely worthless, laughable case – the hypochondriacal caprices of some prima donna with a quite incredible name – but it was absolutely impossible to refuse. And this at a moment when he was expecting an invitation to assist with the investigation of a crime of historical, one might even say epochal, significance!