Boris Akunin - The Winter Queen

The queen of Egypt shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "Everyone is master of his own fate. But is that not enough questions for you?"

"No," Erast Fandorin said hurriedly. "How was Akhtyrtsev involved? And what is the significance of the bequest to Lady Astair?"

The buzz of voices suddenly grew louder, and Fandorin glanced around in annoyance.

"You don't care for my tone?" Hippolyte asked in a thunderous voice, harassing the drunken Akhtyrtsev. "Then how do you care for this, my dear fellow?" And he shoved the student's forehead with the palm of his hand, apparently without any great strength, but the miserable Akhtyrtsev went flying back against an armchair, plumped down into it, and stayed sitting there, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.

"By your leave, Count, but this will not do!" said Erast Fandorin, dashing across. "You may be stronger, but that does not give you any right…"

However, his faltering speech, at which the count had scarcely even glanced around, was drowned out by the resounding tones of the mistress of the house.

"Hippolyte! Get out! And do not dare set foot in here again until you are sober!"

The count swore and stomped off toward the door. The other guests gazed curiously at the wretchedly abject, limp form of Akhtyrtsev, who was not making the slightest effort to rise to his feet.

"You are the only one here who is anything like a man," Amalia Kazimirovna whispered to Fandorin, as she set off toward the corridor. "Take him away. And be sure to stay with him."

Almost immediately the lanky butler John appeared, having exchanged his livery for a black frock coat and starched shirtfront. He helped to get Akhtyrtsev as far as the door and then rammed his top hat onto his head. Bezhetskaya did not come out to take her leave, and a glance at the butler's dour face told Erast Fandorin that he had best be on his way.

OUT IN THE STREET, ONCE HE HAD TAKEN A a breath of fresh air, Akhtyrtsev appeared to revive somewhat. He was standing firmly on his own two feet without swaying, and Erast Petrovich decided that it was no longer necessary to support him by the elbow.

"Let's take a stroll as far as Sretenka Street," he said, "and I'll put you in a cab there. Do you have a long journey home?"

"Home?" In the flickering light of the kerosene streetlamp the student's pale face appeared like a mask. "Oh, no, I'm not going home, not for the world! Let's take a drive somewhere, shall we? I feel in the mood for a talk. You saw… the way they treat me. What's your name? I remember — Fandorin, a funny name that. And I'm Akhtyrtsev, Nikolai Akhtyrtsev."

Erast Petrovich gave a gentle bow as he attempted to resolve a complex moral dilemma: would it offend against decency if he were to take advantage of Akhtyrtsev's weakened condition in order to worm out of him the information he required, since the "sloucher" himself seemed rather inclined to a little candid conversation?

He decided that it would not. The investigative passion had indeed taken a tight grip on him.

"The Crimea's not far from here," Akhtyrtsev recalled. "And there's no need for a cab — we can walk. It's a filthy dive, of course, but they do have decent wines. Let's go, eh? I invite you."

Fandorin raised no objections, and they set off slowly (the student was just a little unsteady on his feet, after all) along the side street toward the lights of Sretenka Street shining in the distance.

"Tell me, Fandorin, I suppose you think I'm a coward?" Akhtyrtsev asked, slurring his words slightly. "For not calling the count out, for enduring the insult and pretending to be drunk? I'm no coward, and perhaps I'll tell you something that will convince you of that… He was deliberately trying to provoke me. I daresay she was the one who put him up to it, in order to be rid of me and not pay her debt… Oh, you've no idea what kind of a woman she is! And for Zurov killing a man means no more than swatting a fly. He practices shooting with a pistol every morning for an hour. They say he can put a bullet into a five-kopeck piece at twenty paces. Call that a duel? There's absolutely no risk in it for him at all. It's simply murder called by a fancy name. And the main thing is, he won't pay for it — he'll squirm his way out of it somehow. He already has done so more than once. Well, he might go traveling abroad for a while. But now I want to live — I've earned the right."

They turned off Sretenka Street into another side street, rather seedy looking, but even so it had not mere kerosene lamps but gas lamps. Now ahead of them there loomed up a three-story building with brightly lit windows. It had to be the Crimea, Erast Fandorin thought with a sinking heart — he had heard a great deal about this iniquitous establishment that was famous throughout Moscow.

No one met them at the high porch with its bright lamps. Akhtyrtsev pushed against the tall, decoratively carved door with a habitual gesture, and it yielded easily, breathing out warmth and a smell compounded of cooking and alcohol. There was a sudden din of voices and squeaking of violins.

After leaving their top hats in the cloakroom, the young men fell into the clutches of an animated fellow in a scarlet shirt, who addressed Akhtyrtsev as "Your Excellency" and promised him the very best table that had been specially kept for him. The table proved to be by the wall and, thank God, it was a long way from the stage, where the Gypsy choir was keening loudly and rattling its tambourines. Erast Fandorin, who found himself in a genuine den of debauchery for the first time, twisted his head first one way, then the other. The clientele here was extremely varied, but there did not appear to be a single sober person among them. The tone was set by young merchants and stockbrokers with pomaded partings in their hair — everybody knew who had the money nowadays — but there were also gentlemen of a decidedly aristocratic appearance, and somewhere he even caught the golden gleam of monogrammed initials on an aide-de-camp's epaulet. The collegiate registrar's interest was aroused most strongly, however, by the girls who came to sit at the tables as soon as they were beckoned. He blushed at the low-necked dresses they were wearing, and their skirts had slits through which round knees in net stockings protruded shamelessly.

"What, girls caught your eye, have they?" Akhtyrtsev laughed, ordering wine and a main course from a waiter. "After Amalia I don't even think of them as creatures of the female sex. How old are you, Fandorin?"

"Twenty-one," said Fandorin, adding a year to his age.

"Well, I'm twenty-three, and I've already seen a lot. Don't gawp at the whores — they're a complete waste of time and money. And it leaves you feeling disgusted afterward. If you must love, then love a queen! But then, why am I telling you that? You didn't end up at Amalia's by sheer chance, after all. Has she bewitched you? She likes doing that — adding to her collection — and the exhibits have to be continually renewed. How does that song in the operetta go, ' Elle nepense qu'à exciter les kommes' * BORIS AKUNIN Translated by Andrew Bromfield THE WINTER QUEEN ? But everything has its price, and I've already paid mine. Would you like me to tell you a story? Somehow I like you. You're remarkably good at keeping quiet. And it will be useful for you to know what kind of woman she is. Maybe you'll come to your senses before you get swallowed up like me. Or have you already been swallowed up, eh, Fandorin? What were you whispering to her back there?"

Erast Fandorin lowered his eyes.

"Then listen," said Akhtyrtsev, launching into his story. "Not long since you suspected me of cowardice, because I let Hippolyte off and didn't call him out. But I've fought a duel the likes of which your Hippolyte has never even dreamed of. Did you hear the way she forbade us to talk about Kokorin? I should think so! His blood's on her conscience — on hers. And on mine, too, of course. Only I've redeemed my mortal sin by fear. Kokorin and I were in the same year at the university — he used to go to Amalia's place too. We used to be friends once, but because of her we became enemies. Kokorin was a bit more free and easy than me, with a cute kind of face, but entre nous , * BORIS AKUNIN Translated by Andrew Bromfield THE WINTER QUEEN once a merchant always a merchant, a plebeian, even if you have studied at the university. Amalia had her fill of amusement out of us — first she would favor one of us, then the other. Called me Nicolas, and spoke to me familiarly, as if I were one of her favorites, and then for some stupid trifle or other she'd consign me to disgrace. She'd forbid me to show my face for a week, and then she was back to formal terms — Mr. Akhtyrtsev, Nikolai Stepanich. Her policy is to never ever let anyone off the hook."