Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (26 page)

“That’s not right. We have to give the latecomers a chance to have a glass of champagne,” the artist objected, glancing at the entrance door again. “Really, the champagne is far more interesting than my boring landscapes.”

“Today is a fast day,” Tikhon Ieremeevich rebuked him sternly. “And Vladimir Lvovich and I are godly people. So do come on and show us your pictures.”

Bubentsov did actually take a sip from a glass, but immediately set it down. Raising his eyebrows in anticipation, the servant of the state said: “Yes, indeed. Do open the exhibition. Let us see what it is that you have been teasing us all with.”

Poggio turned pale. Eventually, having overcome his agitation and even seeming rather annoyed with himself, he started speaking rapidly.

“Very well, so be it. And so, ladies and gentlemen, as some of you are already aware, I came here to make a series of works for an exhibition in Moscow, at the Rumyantsev Museum. The title is
The Disappearing Russia.
The poetic world of the old noble’s estate, the image of the neglected garden, the bowers covered with climbing ivy, the early-evening mists, and other romantic nonsense. Ah, but what point is there in describing it—see for yourself.”

With a gesture that seemed somehow excessively abrupt, almost despairing, he pushed open the doors, inviting people into the salon.

The small exhibition—perhaps no more than thirty works in all—was hung simply but artfully. The slightly flickering light from the gas lamps did not spoil the impression with its glare; on the contrary, it lent the black-and-white pictures an air of living reality. Hanging along both side walls were charming landscapes and studies that captured the unpretentious but captivating beauty of the Drozdovka park, the broad expanse of the River, the decaying mansion house. The viewers passed slowly along the line of photographs, nodding their heads in approval, until they reached the wall opposite the door and froze, moving no farther, so that quite soon a rather substantial obstruction had formed there.

Polina Andreevna was among the first to find themselves at this enchanted spot, and she gave a quiet gasp, pressing her hands to her heart. Three large works, each almost a yard across, hung above a single title: “By the curving shore.” Each of them showed a female nude, apparently the same person in every case. We say “apparently” because the face of the sitter was hidden. In the photograph on the left she was squatting close to the edge of the water, her head lowered and her long hair hanging loose with waterweed twined into it. In the picture on the right the model was lying with her back to the viewer, with her hands extended above her head: the foreground was sand, the backdrop all glimmers of sun on water. But hanging in the center was a half-length portrait
en face
: The woman was standing in water up to her hips, covering her face with her hands; the wet, light-colored hair was crowned with a garland of lilies, the laughing eyes sparkled through the gaps between the parted fingers. One had to admit that the works had been executed most skillfully, but that, of course, was not the reason why everybody crowded around them.

So this was it, that wonderful, terrifying, unprecedented scandal, the approach of which Zavolzhsk had detected in advance with its sensitive nose! And the point was not at all that the model was naked. This may be a remote backwater, but it is not Persia, and our lovers of art cannot be embarrassed by a nude, not even by a photographic one. No, the whole catch here lay in the identity of the model, whose lineaments the viewers studied with avid interest. Was it her or was it not?

Donat Abramovich grunted hoarsely, grabbed hold of his beard with one hand, and shook his head in condemnation, but he was in no hurry to move aside—most definitely not. On the contrary, he put on the pince-nez that did not suit him at all and began studying the details as if he was evaluating a consignment of goods.

Shiryaev was a pitiful sight. He blushed bright red to the roots of his hair, his chest began heaving, and his fingers worked convulsively, alternately opening and clenching into fists. Poggio was also strange. He gazed at his own works with a vague, pained smile, seeming to have completely forgotten about his audience.

Bubentsov was the last to come up. He surveyed the triptych with the air of a connoisseur, inclined his head to one side, and asked with a laugh: “Who is this nymph?”

Arkadii Sergeevich roused himself and said with a careless wave of his hand, “Oh, just one of the local girls. Pretty, is she not?”

At that moment a loud, mocking voice spoke behind them.

“What is that you are all looking at, gentlemen? It must be quite a masterpiece.”

Standing in the doorway was Naina Georgievna, looking inexpressibly beautiful in a white dress girded around with a broad scarlet belt and a velvet hat with a veil, through which they could see her huge black eyes glittering.

Apparently the major scandal was yet to break.

“You came after all!” exclaimed Arkadii Sergeevich, taking a step toward her. “Too late! Or did you think I was only joking?”

“That was deliberate,” she replied, approaching the group of guests. “I was curious to find out what kind devilment you are capable of.”

She walked around the landscape section of the exhibition with studied slowness, even stopping in front of one rather unremarkable little study—probably simply in order to make a greater impression. Finally she reached the knot of people clustering around the triptych. They all hastily made way to allow her to the front.

There was complete silence while Telianova looked at the seditious photographs. Polina Andreevna noticed that several men were studying the line of the dangerous young lady’s neck from behind with especial interest, comparing it with the model as shown
de derrière.
It looked similar—very similar in fact.

When Naina Georgievna finally turned around, it was evident that her initial bravado had diminished somewhat, and the eyes behind the fine mesh had begun to glitter almost too brightly—could it be because of tears?

“And what has the curving shore got to do with all this?” Kirill Nifontovich Krasnov asked in a loud voice, evidently wishing to smooth over the awkward moment. “That is a motif from Pushkin,
Ruslan and Ludmila.
”

“Precisely,” replied Poggio, looking at Naina Georgievna with red, inflamed eyes.

“So you have depicted the mermaid, that’s it! ‘There be marvels, there the forest goblin wanders and a mermaid in the branches sits.’”

Extending his red lips into a pitiless smile, Arkadii Sergeevich drawled: “Perhaps. Or something else from the same work, from
Ruslan.
” And, emphasizing every word, he added, “‘Oh, knight, that was Naina.’”

Without saying anything at all (that was the most terrifying thing about it), Stepan Trofimovich launched himself at his old classmate and punched him viciously in the face, sending the artist sprawling back against the wall with the red blood gushing out of his broken mouth onto his beard.

“Stepan, what are you doing?” Pyotr Georgievich exclaimed in horror, grabbing Shiryaev by the shoulder from behind. “What’s wrong with you?” And then he suddenly realized—“You thought it was Naina?”

The scene that ensued was perfectly outrageous, with several men restraining Stepan Trofimovich, who tried to break free, but still said nothing at all and merely wheezed hoarsely. Pyotr Georgievich covered his face with his hands and sobbed loudly. Poggio, who looked like a vampire with his bloodied mouth, was choking on his own coughing or hysterical laughter.

Naina Georgievna suddenly swung around sharply to face Bubentsov, who was observing the battle with a carefree smile, and asked in a ringing voice: “Well, are you enjoying yourself?”

“But of course!” he replied softly.

“The Prince of Darkness,” whispered Naina Georgievna, stepping away from him in fright, and then, speaking even more quietly, she added the following incomprehensible words: “The Prince and the Princess, how fitting…”

And without waiting for the end of the altercation, she went dashing headlong out of the salon.

“Princess Telianova has not quite mastered the art of leaving the stage,” Vladimir Lvovich remarked ironically, addressing his hostess. “She cannot make a simple exit; she always has to run.”

Olympiada Savelievna looked like a triumphant Nike—the soirée had exceeded all her expectations.

“That’s enough, gentlemen!” she announced loudly. “Really, what sort of childishness is this? It’s all that champagne that’s to blame. Come to the public opening tomorrow. I think it will be interesting.”

ONLY THERE WAS no public opening the following day, because there was nothing to open.

And no one to open it.

CHAPTER 8

The Same Characters, Almost

LET US TAKE everything in the right order, however, because here every little detail is important, even if at first sight it seems absolutely insignificant.

When Arkadii Sergeevich failed to appear for his breakfast at half past nine, Olympiada Savelievna thought nothing of it at first because, as might naturally be expected from a member of an artistic profession, the guest from St. Petersburg was not notable for his punctuality. However, a quarter of an hour later, when the omelette could wait no longer, she sent a manservant. He went around via the courtyard and the street, since there was no other way to gain admission to the separate wing, rang the bell, and then, just to make sure, knocked at the door. There was no reply.

At this the postmaster’s wife became concerned that Arkadii Sergeevich might be feeling unwell after the harrowing experiences of the previous day and the blow to the face he had received from Stepan Trofimovich Shiryaev. The manservant was despatched for a second time, this time with a key. But the key proved not to be necessary because, in his usual absentminded manner, Poggio had left the door unlocked. The messenger entered the apartment and a few moments later his piercing screams were heard resounding through the house.

AT THIS POINT we ought to explain that murders had become extremely rare events in our town in recent years. To be specific, the last time this sin had been committed was in the summer of the year before last, when two carters got into a quarrel over some local Carmen from the market, and one struck the other too lustily over the head with a thick billet. And the murder before that one had taken place an entire five years earlier, again not with any malice aforethought, but out of love: Two sixth-form grammar-school pupils took it into their heads to fight a duel. One of them—at this point there is no way to tell which—intercepted a love letter addressed to the pretty young daughter of our municipal archivist, Benevolenksky. The boys did not have any pistols, so they fired at each other with shotguns, and both of them were killed outright. All the newspapers wrote about that incident, although not as sensationally, of course, as in their articles about the current Zyt case. And the poor girl who had been the unwitting cause of a double murder was sent away from Zavolzhsk forever to live with relatives in some distant province almost as remote as Vladivostok itself.

But on this occasion it was not a case of a drunken brawl or youthful extremism. This instance displayed all the signs of a premeditated, carefully planned murder, and one that was aggravated by exceptional brutality. Headless bodies that belonged to people whom nobody knew and had been dragged here from some remote thicket or other were all very well and good. But it was quite another thing when such an appalling incident occurred in Zavolzhsk itself, on the very finest street, and to a celebrity from the capital who was known to every member of good society. But the most terrible thing of all was that the crime had been committed—and of this no one had the slightest doubt—by someone from that very society and, in addition, for motives that were highly inflammatory to the imagination (we hardly need mention that the whole town had learned about the scandalous finale to Olympiada Savelievna’s soirée that very same evening).

These motives were the main subject of popular discussion, but there were various suggestions as to the identity of the murderer, and at least three different parties were formed. The most numerous was the Shiryaev party. The next in size consisted of those who saw the culprit in the insulted and humiliated Naina Georgievna, from whom it was possible to expect anything at all after the story of the dogs. The third party directed its suspicions at Pyotr Georgievich, citing his nihilist convictions and Caucasian blood. We said “at least three,” since there was also a fourth party, which was not very numerous, being formed in circles close to the governor and Matvei Bentsionovich Berdichevsky. These people whispered that Bubentsov must have been involved in some way or another—but this was only too clearly a case of wishful thinking.

It is hardly surprising that by midday the whole of Zvolzhsk had learned about the terrible event. Our townsfolk were in a strange condition, both excited and subdued at one and the same time, and the general state of mind was so apprehensive that His Grace ordered services of lustration to be held in the churches and he himself delivered a sermon in the cathedral, speaking of the heavy trials that had been visited upon the town, by which he most certainly did not mean only the murder of the photographer.