Well, all right, better late than never. This Fandorin here, initially appointed as second secretary at the embassy, had now been transferred to the Yokohama consulate, in order to release Vsevolod Vitalievich from routine work. Mr Ambassador had probably taken this veritably Solomonic decision himself, after checking the titular counsellor’s service record. He had not wished to keep such a recondite individual about his own person. So there you are, dearest Vsevolod Vitalievich, take what is of no use to us.
The snow-white colonialist stepped on to the quayside and no more doubt remained. Definitely Fandorin, every point of the description fitted. Dark hair, blue eyes and the most significant distinguishing feature – prematurely grey temples. But oh, he was dolled up as if he were going on an elephant hunt!
The initial impression was not reassuring. The consul sighed and moved forward to meet him. The omurasaki butterfly flitted its wings in response to this upheaval, but remained on the flower, still unnoticed by Doronin.
Oh, deary me, look at his finger – a diamond ring, Vsevolod Vitalievich noted as he bowed in greeting to the new arrival. And a moustache curled into little loops, if you please! Not a single hair out of place on those temples! And that languorous, blasé expression in the eyes! Griboedov’s Chatsky, to an absolute T. Pushkin’s Onegin: ‘And, like everything in the world, travelling palled on him’.
Immediately after they had introduced themselves, he asked, with an ingenuous air:
‘Do tell me at once, Erast Petrovich, did you see Fuji? Did she hide from your eyes or reveal herself to you?’ And then he explained confidentially: ‘It’s a kind of omen I have. If a person has seen Mount Fuji as he approaches the shore, it means that Japan will open her soul to him. But if capricious Fuji has shut herself off behind the clouds – then, alas. Though you may live here for ten years, you will neither see, nor understand, the most important things of all.’
Actually, Doronin knew perfectly well that Fuji could not possibly have been visible from the sea today, owing to the low clouds, but he needed to take this Childe Harold from the Third Section down a peg.
However, the titular counsellor was neither flustered, nor upset.
He merely remarked, with a slight stammer:
‘I don’t b-believe in omens.’
Well naturally. A materialist. All right, let’s give him a nip from the other side.
‘I am acquainted with your service record,’ said Vsevolod Vitalievich, raising his eyebrows admiringly. ‘What a career you have made, you have even been decorated! Abandon a brilliant stage like that for our modest backwater? There can only be one reason for it: you must have a great love for Japan! Am I right?’
‘No,’ the latter-day Onegin said with a shrug, squinting at the flower in the consul’s buttonhole. ‘How can one love what one does not know?’
‘Why, most certainly one can!’ Doronin assured him. ‘And with far greater ease than objects that are only too familiar to us… Hmm, is that your luggage?’
This von-baron had so many things that almost a dozen porters were required to carry them: suitcases, boxes, bundles of books, a huge three-wheeled velocipede and even a sazhen-long clock made in the image of London’s Big Ben.
‘A beautiful item. And useful. I confess, I prefer a pocket watch myself,’ said the consul, unable to resist a sardonic comment, but he promptly took himself in hand, put on a radiantly polite smile and extended one arm in the direction of the shoreline. ‘Welcome to Yokohama. A splendid city, you will like it!’
This final phrase was uttered entirely without irony. In three years Doronin had developed a genuine affection for this city that grew larger and lovelier by the day.
Just twenty years ago there had been a tiny fishing village here, but now, thanks to the meeting of two civilisations, a truly magnificent modern port had sprung up, with a population of fifty thousand, of whom almost one fifth were foreigners. A little piece of Europe at the very end of the world. Vsevolod Vitalievich was especially fond of the Bund – a seaside esplanade with beautiful stone buildings, gas street lamps and an elegant public.
But Onegin, having cast an eye over this magnificent sight, pulled a sour face, which only served to confirm Doronin’s decision not to like his new work fellow. He passed his verdict: a pompous, preening peacock and supercilious snob. ‘And I’m a fine fellow too, putting on a carnation for his sake,’ thought the consul, gesturing irritably for Fandorin to follow him. He pulled the flower out of his buttonhole and flung it away.
The butterfly soared into the air, fluttered its wings above the heads of the Russian diplomats and, mesmerised by the whiteness of it, settled on Fandorin’s helmet.
Why did I have to dress up in this clown’s outfit? the owner of the miraculous headgear thought in purple anguish. The moment he stepped on the gangway and surveyed the public on the quayside, Erast Petrovich had made a highly unpleasant discovery for anyone who attaches importance to correct dress. When one is dressed correctly, people around you look you straight in the face; they do not gape open-mouthed at your attire. It is the portrait that should attract attention, not the frame. But exactly the opposite was happening here. The outfit purchased in Calcutta, which had appeared perfectly appropriate in India, looked absurd in Yokohama. From the appearance of the crowd, it was clear that in this city people did not dress in the colonial fashion, but in a perfectly normal manner, European-style. Fandorin pretended not to notice the inquisitive glances (which he thought seemed derisive) and strove with all his might to maintain an air of equanimity. There was only one thought in his mind – that he must change as soon as possible.
Even Doronin seemed staggered by Erast Petrovich’s gaffe – Fandorin could sense it from the consul’s barbed glance, which not even the dark glasses could conceal.
Observing Doronin more closely, Erast Petrovich followed his customary habit and employed deductive analysis to construct a cognitive image. Age – forty-seven or forty-eight. Married, with no children. Disposition – intelligent, choleric, inclined to caustic irony. An excellent professional. What else? He had bad habits. The circles under his eyes and a sallow complexion indicated an unhealthy liver.
But the young functionary’s first impression of Yokohama was not at all favourable. He had been hoping to see a picture from a lacquered casket: multi-tiered pagodas, little teahouses, junks with webbed-membrane sails skimming across the water – but this was an ordinary European seafront. Not Japan, more like Yalta. Was it really worth travelling halfway round the globe for this?
The first thing Fandorin did was to get rid of the idiotic helmet – in the simplest way possible. First he took it off as if he was suddenly feeling hot. And then, as they walked up the stairway to the esplanade, he surreptitiously set the colonialist contrivance down on a step and left it there – if anybody wanted it, they were welcome.
The omurasaki did not wish to be parted from the titular counsellor. Forsaking the helmet, it fluttered its wings just above the young man’s broad shoulder, but did not actually alight – it had spotted a more interesting landing place: a colourful tattoo, glistening with little drops of sweat, on a rickshaw man’s shoulder: a dragon in blue, red and green.
The butterfly’s legs brushed against the taut bicep and the fleet-winged traveller caught the local man’s guileless, brownish-bronze thought (‘Kayui!’) [i], after which its brief life came to an end. Without even looking, the rickshaw man slapped his open hand against his shoulder, and all that was left of the exquisite creature was a little blob of greyish blue.