The Winter Queen (31 page)

The women were more taken by the young couple’s youth and beauty. The groom was very touchingly agitated, blushing and blanching by turns and stumbling over the words of his vow—in short, he was quite wonderful. And as for the bride, Lizanka Evert-Kolokoltseva, she seemed such a heavenly creature that it quite made one’s heart flutter just to look at her. That frothy white dress, that weightless, floating veil, and that wreath of Saxony roses—it was all absolutely perfect. When the bride and groom took a sip of red wine from the chalice and kissed each other, the bride was not overcome by embarrassment. On the contrary, she smiled happily and whispered something to her groom that made him smile, too.

This is what Lizanka whispered to Erast Fandorin. “Poor Liza has decided not to drown herself and to get married instead.”

Fandorin had been suffering terribly all day long from the incessant attention and his state of total dependence on the people around him. A great number of old fellow pupils from the gymnasium had turned up, as well as ‘old friends’ of his father (all of whom had vanished without trace during the final year of his life, only to resurface now). First Fandorin had been taken to a bachelor’s breakfast at the Prague tavern on Arbat Street, where he had endured being nudged in the side, winked at, and offered condolences on some mysterious misfortune. Then he had been taken back to the hotel, where the barber Pierre had arrived and tugged painfully on his hair as he curled it into a voluptuous pompadour. He was not supposed to see Lizanka until the ceremony, and that was also a torment to him. In the three days since the groom had arrived from St. Petersburg, where he was now employed, he had hardly seen his bride at all. Liza had been busy all the time with important preparations for the wedding.

Then Xavier Feofilaktovich Grushin, bright scarlet after the bachelor’s breakfast in his black tailcoat and white best-man’s ribbon, had seated the groom in an open carriage and driven him to the church. As Erast Fandorin stood on the steps and waited for the bride, someone had shouted something to him from out of the crowd and one young lady threw a rose at him and it scratched his cheek. Finally they brought Lizanka, who was almost completely invisible behind wave upon wave of transparent material. They stood side by side in front of the lectern, with the choir singing and the priest chanting ‘For great is God’s mercy and love toward man’ and then something else. They exchanged rings and stood on the carpet, and then Liza said that phrase about Poor Liza, and Erast Fandorin suddenly relaxed, glanced around, saw the faces and the tall dome of the church, and everything felt good.

It had been good afterward, too, when everyone came up and congratulated them so warmly and sincerely. He had especially liked the governor-general, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgoruky, plump and good-natured, with his round face and drooping mustache. He said he had heard many complimentary things about Fandorin and wished him a happy marriage with all his heart.

Then they went out into the square and everyone there was shouting, but he could not see very much because the sun was shining so brightly.

He and Lizanka got into an open carriage, and suddenly he could smell flowers.

Lizanka removed her long white glove and squeezed Erast Fan-dorin’s hand tightly in her own. He stealthily moved his face close to her veil and took a quick breath of the aroma of her hair, her perfume, and her warm skin. At that very moment (they were driving past the Nikitskie Gates) Fandorin’s glance happened to fall on the porch of the Church of the Ascension, and it was as if his heart were suddenly clutched by an icy hand.

Fandorin saw two boys about eight or nine years of age, wearing tattered blue uniforms. They were sitting there among the beggars, seeming lost and chanting plaintively in small, shrill voices. The little paupers twisted their necks in curiosity to watch as the glittering wedding procession drove by.

“What’s wrong, my love?” Liza asked, frightened at the sudden pallor of her husband’s face.

Fandorin did not answer.

A SEARCH OF THE SECRET BASEMENT in the wing of the Astair House had failed to produce anything of interest. A bomb of unknown design had produced a powerful, compact explosion that caused hardly any damage to the building but entirely demolished the subterranean premises. Nothing remained of the archive, nor of Lady Astair herself—unless, that is, one counted a small scrap of silk from a dress.

Deprived of its leader and source of finance, the international network of Astair Houses had collapsed. In some countries the orphanages had been taken over by the state or by charitable societies, but for the most part the institutions had simply closed. In Russia at least, both Astair Houses had been closed on the orders of the Ministry of Public Education as hotbeds of godlessness and pernicious ideas. The teachers had all left and most of the children had simply wandered off.

From the list seized from Cunningham it had been possible to identify eighteen former wards of Astair Houses, but that was of little use, since it was impossible to determine which of them were members of the organization Azazel and which were not. Nonetheless, five of them (including the Portuguese government minister) had retired, two had committed suicide, and one (the Brazilian life guardsman) had even been executed. An extensive intergovernmental investigation had identified numerous notable and highly respected individuals who were former pupils of Astair Houses. Many of them made no effort to conceal the fact, actually priding themselves on the education they had received. Certainly, some of Lady Astair’s children had preferred to go into hiding in order to avoid the troublesome attentions of the police and secret services, but the majority remained in their positions, since there was no crime of which they could be accused. Henceforth, however, the path to the highest level of state service was barred to them, and when appointments were made to high positions it became customary once again, as in feudal times, to pay particular attention to an individual’s origins and pedigree. God forbid that some ‘foundling’ (the style in which the competent circles referred to Lady Astair’s wards) should ever worm his way to the top! The general public, however, was not even aware that any purge had taken place, since a series of carefully coordinated precautions and safeguards was implemented by the governments concerned. For some time rumors circulated of a global conspiracy of either Masons or Jews, or else of both of them together, and Mr. Disraeli’s name was mentioned, but then it all seemed to die down, especially as the whole of Europe was agitated by the grave crisis that was brewing in the Balkans.

Fandorin had been obliged in the line of duty to participate in the investigation of the Azazel Affair, but had demonstrated so little diligence that General Mizinov thought it best to assign his capable young colleague to different work, to which Erast Fandorin applied himself with far greater energy. He felt that his conscience was not entirely clear in relation to the Azazel business and that he had played a somewhat ambiguous role. The oath sworn to the baroness (and broken against his own will) had substantially marred the happiness of the weeks preceding his wedding.

And now, on the very day of that wedding, what should happen but that Fandorin’s gaze should fall upon the victims of his own ‘self-sacrifice, valor, and praiseworthy zeal’ (as described in the imperial decree concerning his decoration).

Suddenly dejected, Fandorin hung his head morosely, and as soon as they arrived at her father’s house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, Lizanka acted decisively to take matters into her own hands. She withdrew with her gloomy husband into the cloakroom that was located beside the entrance hall and gave the strictest possible instructions that no one was to enter without permission. Fortunately the servants had enough to do in dealing with the guests arriving at the house, who had to be kept occupied until the banquet. Heavenly odors wafted through from the kitchen, where the chefs specially hired from the Slaviansky Bazaar had been laboring indefatigably since the crack of dawn. Behind the firmly closed doors of the ballroom the orchestra was running through its final rehearsal of the Viennese waltzes, and in general everything was proceeding according to plan. All that remained to be done was to restore the spirits of the demoralized groom.

Reassured on having ascertained that the cause of this sudden melancholia was not some inopportune reminiscence of an absent rival, the bride set confidently to work. Erast Fandorin’s only response to direct questions was to mumble incoherently and attempt to turn away from her, and Lizanka was obliged to change tactics. She stroked her husband’s cheek, kissed him first on the forehead, then on the lips, and then on the eyes. Gradually he relented, thawed, and became entirely manageable again. The newlyweds, however, were in no hurry to join their guests. The baron had already come into the hall several times and approached the closed door, even cleared his throat tactfully, but he had not dared to knock.

Eventually he was obliged to do so.

“Erast!” Alexander Apollodorovich called (as of today he had begun to address his son-in-law in familiar fashion). “Forgive me, my friend, but there is a special messenger here from St. Petersburg to see you. On some urgent matter!”

The baron glanced around at the dashing young officer in the plumed helmet who was posed in absolute immobility beside the entrance. Under his arm the special messenger was holding a square parcel wrapped in government standard-issue gray paper with sealing-wax eagles.

The bridegroom glanced out, red faced, from behind the door.

“You wish to see me, Lieutenant?”

“Mr. Fandorin? Erast Petrovich Fandorin?” the messenger inquired in a clear voice with a guards officer’s lilt.

“Yes, I am he.”

“An urgent secret package from the Third Section. Where should I put it?”

“Why, in here if you like,” said Fandorin, making way for him. “Excuse me, Baron.” (He was still unaccustomed to being on first-name terms with his father-in-law.)

“I understand. Business is business,” said his father-in-law, bowing his head and closing the door after the messenger, while he himself remained outside to make quite sure that no one would intrude.

The lieutenant placed the package on a chair and extracted a sheet of paper from behind the lapel of his uniform jacket.

“Please be so kind as to sign for receipt.”

“What is it?” Fandorin asked as he signed.

Lizanka stared curiously at the package, showing not the slightest inclination to leave her husband alone with the courier.

“I was not informed,” the officer replied with a shrug. “It weighs about four pounds. I believe you are celebrating a happy event today? Could it perhaps be in that connection? In any case, please accept my personal congratulations. There is a letter here that will probably make everything clear.”

He drew a small envelope without any address on it out of his cuff. “Permission to leave?”

Erast Fandorin examined the seal on the envelope, then nodded.

The special messenger saluted, turned smartly on his heels, and left the room.

The drawn shades made the room rather dark and Fandorin walked over to the window that looked directly out onto Malaya Nikitskaya Street, opening the envelope as he went.

Lizanka put her arms around her husband’s shoulders and breathed in his ear. “Well, what is it? Congratulations?” she asked impatiently and then, catching sight of the glossy piece of card with two golden rings, she exclaimed, “Why, so it is! Oh, how lovely!”

That very second Fandorin’s attention was caught by a rapid movement outside the window, and he glanced up to see the courier behaving in a rather strange fashion. He went racing down the steps, launched himself at a run into a waiting cab, and shouted to the coachman, “Go! Nine! Eight! Seven!”

As the coachman swung his whip he glanced around for an instant. Just an ordinary coachman: a hat with a tall crown, a graying beard, nothing unusual about him but the color of his eyes—extremely light, almost white.

“Stop!” Erast Fandorin shouted furiously, and without thinking what he was doing he leapt over the windowsill out into the street.

The coachman cracked his whip and his pair of blacks set off at a trot.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Fandorin roared as he ran in pursuit, although he had nothing to shoot with—in honor of the wedding his trusty Herstal had been left at the hotel.

“Erast! Where are you going?”

Fandorin glanced back as he raced along. Lizanka was leaning out of the window with an expression of total bewilderment on her face. The next moment flames and smoke came bursting out of the window and Fandorin was hurled roughly to the ground.

For a while everything was quiet, dark, and peaceful, then, from the bright daylight that stung his eyes and the dull roaring in his ears, he realized he was alive. He could see the cobblestones of the roadway, but he could not understand why they were right there in front of his eyes. The sight of the gray stone was disgusting and he tried to turn away, but that only made things worse. He saw a pellet of horse dung lying beside something disagreeably white, with two small gold circles glittering on it. Erast Fandorin sat up with a jerk and read the line written in a large, old–fashioned hand, with curlicues and intricate flourishes:

My Sweet Boy, This is a Truly Glorious Day!

The meaning of the words failed to penetrate the fog in the concussed youth’s mind, and in any case his attention was distracted by another object that was sparkling cheerfully where it lay in the middle of the road.

Erast Fandorin did not realize what it was for a moment. The only thought that came to him was that the ground was definitely no place for
that
. Then he recognized it: a gold ring glittering on the third finger of a slim girl’s arm severed at the elbow.

THE FOPPISHLY DRESSED but terribly slovenly young man stumbled along Tverskoi Boulevard with rapid, erratic steps, paying no attention to anyone—expensive crumpled frock coat, dirty white tie, dusty white carnation in his buttonhole. The promenading public stepped aside to make way for this strange individual and gazed after him curiously. It was not at all a question of the dandy’s deathly pallor—after all, there was no shortage of consumptives in Moscow—nor even that he was undoubtedly drunk as a lord (he was staggering uncertainly from side to side). There was nothing new in that. No, the attention of those he encountered, especially the ladies, was attracted by one particularly intriguing feature of his appearance: despite his obvious youth the bon vivant’s temples were a stark white, as if they were thickly coated with hoarfrost.