“And then in the morning Pierre turned up dressed like a dandy, in a white waistcoat, terribly cheerful. He was a lucky sort, and obviously he was hoping his luck would hold in this, too. We threw the dice in my study. He got nine and I got three. I was prepared for that. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I’d rather die here.” I spun the cylinder and put the barrel to my heart. “Stop!” he said to me. “Don’t fire at your heart. If the bullet goes crooked you’ll be in agony for ages. Shoot yourself in the temple or the mouth instead.” “Thank you for your concern,” I said, and at that moment I hated him so much I could easily have shot him without any duel. But I took his advice. I’ll never forget that click, the very first one. It clanged so loudly right in my ear, like…”
Akhtyrtsev shuddered convulsively and poured himself another glass. The singer, a fat Gypsy woman in a shimmering golden shawl, began crooning some heartrending melody in a low voice.
“I heard Pierre’s voice say, ‘Right, now it’s my turn. Let’s go out into the air.’ Only then did I realize I was alive. We went to Shvivaya Hill, where there’s a view over the city, Kokorin walking in front with me about twenty paces behind. He stood for a while on the edge of the cliff—I couldn’t see his face—then he raised the hand holding the gun so that I could see it, spun the cylinder, and quickly set it against his head—click. But I knew nothing would happen to him, I hadn’t even been hoping it would. We threw the dice again. And I lost again. I went down to the Yauza—there wasn’t a single soul around. I climbed up on a bollard by the bridge, in order to fall straight into the water…Again I was spared. We went off to one side, and Pierre said to me, ‘This is becoming a bit of a bore. Let’s give the philistines a fright, shall we?’ He was putting a brave face on it, I must give him that. We came out on a side street, and there were people there and carriages driving along. I stood on the far side of the road. Kokorin doffed his hat, bowed to the right and the left, raised his hand, gave the cylinder a spin—and nothing. Well, we had to scoot out of there quickly. There was uproar and screaming and ladies squealing. We turned into a gateway, down on Maroseika Street already. We threw the dice, and what do you think? My turn again! He had two sixes, and I threw a two, I swear it. That’s it, I thought, finite, nothing could be more symbolic than that. One gets everything, the other gets nothing. I tried to shoot myself for the third time outside the church of Kosma and Damian—that’s where I was christened. I stood up on the porch, where the beggars are, gave them each a ruble, then took off my cap…When I opened my eyes I was alive. And one holy fool there said to me, ‘If the soul itches—the Lord will forgive.’ If the soul itches—the Lord will forgive; I remembered that. Right, so we ran away from there. Kokorin chose a rather grander place, right beside the Galofteevsky Passage. He went into a confectioner’s on Neglinny Lane and sat down—I stood outside the window. He said something to the lady at the next table and she smiled. He took out his revolver and pressed the trigger—I saw it. The lady laughed even more. He put the revolver away, chatted with her for a bit about something or other, and had a cup of coffee. I was already in a daze—I couldn’t feel a thing. There was only one thought in my mind: now we have to throw the dice again.”
“We threw them on Okhotny Ryad, beside the Hotel Loskutnaya, and this time the first turn fell to him. I threw seven and he threw six. Seven and six, only one point in the difference. We walked together as far as Gurov’s inn, and there, where they’re building the Historical Museum, we separated. He went into the Alexander Gardens, walking along the alley, and I walked along the pavement outside the fence. The last thing he said to me was, “We’re a pair of stupid fools, Kolya. If nothing happens this time, to hell with the whole damn business.” I wanted to stop him, I swear to God, but I didn’t. Why, I don’t know myself. But that’s a lie, I do know…I had a mean thought—let him twirl the cylinder one more time, and we’ll see what happens. Maybe we’ll be finished up then…I’m only telling you this, Fandorin. This is like a confessional…”
Akhtyrtsev took another drink. Behind the pince-nez his eyes were dull and red. Fandorin waited with bated breath, even though the general course of subsequent events was already known to him. Akhtyrtsev took a cigar out of his pocket and struck a match with a trembling hand. The long thick cigar looked remarkably out of place with his unattractive, puerile face. Wafting the cloud of smoke away from his eyes, Akhtyrtsev rose sharply to his feet.
“Waiter, our bill! I can’t stay here any longer. Too noisy, too stuffy.” He tugged at the silk tie around his throat. “Let’s take a cab somewhere. Or just take a stroll.”
Out on the porch they halted. The lane was dismal and deserted; in all the buildings except the Crimea the windows were dark. The gas flame in the nearest streetlamp fluttered and flickered.
“Or perhapsh I will go home?” Akhtyrtsev slurred, with the cigar clasped in his teeth. “There should be cabs jusht ‘round the corner.”
The door opened and their recent neighbor, the white-eyed functionary, emerged onto the porch with a peaked cap tilted to one side of his head. Hiccuping loudly, he reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket and took out a cigar.
“Would you mind giving me a light?” he asked, moving closer to the young men. Fandorin detected a slight accent—possibly Baltic German, possibly Finnish.
Akhtyrtsev slapped first one pocket, then another, and there was a rattle of matches. Erast Fandorin waited patiently. Suddenly the appearance of the white-eyed man underwent an incomprehensible transformation. He seemed to become slightly shorter in height and he slumped over a little to one side. The next instant a broad, short blade seemed to appear out of nowhere in his left hand, and with an economical, elastic movement the functionary thrust the blade into Akhtyrtsev’s right side.
The subsequent events occurred very quickly, taking no more than two or three seconds, but to Erast Fandorin time seemed to be standing still. He had time to notice many things, time to think about many things, but he was quite unable to move, as if the glint of light on steel had hypnotized him.