The Diamond Chariot (27 page)

There were another four guards in the hall as well, but there was no point in even thinking about them. Tanuki’s assignment was clear, he just had to let his own people in, and after that they would manage without him.

Bold Gonza had been given his nickname in honour of Gonza the Spear-Bearer from the famous puppet play – he was a really great fighter with a bamboo stick. Dankichi certainly deserved his nickname of Kusari, or ‘Chain’, too. He could knock the neck off a glass bottle with his chain, and the bottle wouldn’t even wobble. Then there was Obake the Phantom, a master of the
nunchaku
, and Ryu the Dragon, a former
sumotori
who weighed fifty
kamme
¹
– he didn’t need any weapon at all.

Tanuki didn’t have anything with him either. First, they wouldn’t have let him in with a weapon. And secondly, he could do a lot with his hands and feet. He only looked inoffensive – short and round like a little badger (hence his nickname).
²
And anyway, since the age of eight, he had practised the glorious art of jujitsu, to which, in time, he had added the Okinawan skill of fighting with the feet and legs. He could beat anyone – except, of course, for Ryu; not even a
gaijin
’s steam
kuruma
could shift him from the spot.

The plan thought up by the cunning Gonza had seemed quite simple at first.

Walk into the gambling den as if he wanted to play a bit. Wait until Fudo or Gundari, it didn’t matter which, left his post to answer a call of nature or for some other reason. Then go flying at the one who was still at the door, catch him with a good blow, open the bolt, give the prearranged shout and avoid getting killed in the few seconds before Gonza and the others came bursting in.

It was a rare thing for a novice to be given a first assignment that was so complicated and so responsible. In the normal way of things, Badger should have remained a novice for at least another three or four years, he was much too young for a fully fledged warrior. But the way things were nowadays, sticking to the old customs had become impossible. Fortune had turned her face away from the Chobei-gumi, the oldest and most glorious of all the Japanese gangs.

Who had not heard of the founder of the gang, the great Chobei, leader of the bandits of Edo, who defended the citizens against the depredations of the samurai? The life and death of the noble Yakuza were described in kabuki plays and depicted in Ukio-e engravings. The perfidious samurai Mizuno lured the hero, unarmed and alone, into his house by deception. But the Yakuza made short work of the entire band of his enemies with his bare hands, leaving only the base Mizuno alive. And he told him: ‘If I escaped alive from your trap, people would think that Chobei was too afraid for his own life. Kill me, here is my chest’. And with a hand trembling in fear Mizuno impaled Chobei on his spear. How could you possibly imagine a more exalted death?

Tanuki’s grandfather and his father had belonged to the Chobei-gumi. Since his early childhood, he had dreamed of growing up, joining the gang and making a great and respected career in it. First he would be a novice, then a warrior, then he would be promoted to the
wakashu
, the junior commanders, then to the
wakagashira
, the senior commanders, and at the age of about forty, if he survived, he would become the
oyabun
himself, a lord with the power of life and death over fifty valiant men, and they would start writing plays about his great feats for the kabuki theatre and the Bunraku puppet theatre.

But over the last year the clan had almost been wiped out. The enmity between two branches of the Yakuza lasts for centuries. The
Tekiya
, to which the Chobei-gumi belonged, were patrons of petty trade: they protected the street vendors and peddlers against the authorities, for which they received the gratitude prescribed by tradition. But the
Bakuto
made their living from games of chance. Those treacherous bloodsuckers never stayed anywhere for long, they flitted from place to place, leaving ruined families, tears and blood in their wake.

How well the Chobei-gumi had established themselves in the new city of Yokohama, which was positively seething with trade. But the predatory
Bakuto
had turned up, bent on seizing another clan’s territory. And how crafty they turned out to be! The hunchbacked owner of the ‘Rakuen’ didn’t act openly, with the two clans meeting in an honest fight and slashing away with their swords until victory is won. Semushi had proved to be a master at setting underhand traps. He informed against the
oyabun
to the authorities, then challenged the warriors to a battle, and there was a police ambush waiting there. The survivors had been picked off one by one, with ingenious patience. In a few short months the gang had lost nine-tenths of it membership. It was said that the hunchback had patrons in high places, that the top command of the police was actually in his pay – an entirely unprecedented disgrace!

And that was how it happened that at the age of eighteen, long before the normal time, Tanuki had moved up from the novices to become a fully fledged member of the Chobei-gumi. True, at the present time there were only five warriors left in the clan: the new
oyabun
Gonza, Dankichi with his chain, Obake with his
nunchaku
, the man-mountain Ryu and himself, Tanuki.

That wasn’t enough to keep watch over all the street trade in the city. But it was enough to get even with the hunchback.

So here was Badger, exhausted by the fatigue and the strain of it all, waiting for the second day for the moment to arrive when there would be only one guard left on the door. He couldn’t deal with two, he knew that very well. And he could only deal with one if he ran at him from behind.

Fudo and Gundari had gone away – to sleep, to eat, to rest – but the one who left was always immediately replaced by one of the men on duty in the gambling hall. Tanuki had sat there for an hour, ten hours, twenty, thirty – but all in vain.

Yesterday evening he had gone out for a short while and walked round the corner to where the others were hiding in an old shed. He had explained the reason for the delay.

Gonza told him: Go and wait. Sooner or later one man will be left on the door. And he gave Tanuki ten yen – to lose.

In the morning Tanuki had gone out again. His comrades were already tired, of course, but their determination to avenge themselves had not weakened. Gonza gave him another five coins and said: That’s all there is.

Now it was getting on for evening again, the entrance to the ‘Rakuen’ was still guarded as vigilantly as ever, and on top of everything else, Badger had only one final yen left.

Surely he wouldn’t have to leave without completing his assignment? Such disgrace! It would be better to die! To throw himself at both terrifying monsters and take his chances!

Semushi scratched his sweaty chest that was like a round-bellied barrel and jabbed a finger in Tanuki’s direction.

‘Hey, kid, have you moved in here to stay? You just keep on sitting there, but you don’t play much. Either play or get lost. Have you got any money?’

Badger nodded and took out his gold coin.

‘Then stake it!’

Tanuki gulped and put his yen down on the left of the line, where money was staked on ‘odds’. He changed his mind and moved it to ‘evens’. Then he changed his mind again and wanted to move it back, but it was too late. Semushi had raised his hand.

The dice rattled in the little cup. The red one landed on 2. The blue one rolled round in a semicircle on the straw mats and landed on 3.

Tanuki bit his lip to stop himself howling in despair. His life was ending, destroyed by a vicious little six-sided cube. Ending in vain, pointlessly.

Of course, he would try to overpower the guards. Drift quietly towards the door, hanging his head low. He would strike the long-armed Fudo first. If he could hit the
mineh
point on the chin and put his jaw out of joint, Fudo would lose all interest in fighting. But then he wouldn’t take Gundari by surprise, and that meant that Tanuki’s life would simply be thrown away. He wouldn’t be able to able to open the door, or let Gonza in …

Badger looked enviously at the smokers. They just carried on sleeping, and nothing mattered a damn to them. If he could just lie there like that, gazing up at the ceiling with a senseless smile, with a thread of saliva dangling out of his mouth and his fingers lazily kneading the fragrant little white ball …

He sighed and got to his feet decisively.

Suddenly Gundari opened the little window cut into the door. He glanced out and asked: ‘Who is it?’

Three people came into the room one after another. The first was a Japanese with a foreign haircut and clothes. He grimaced fastidiously while the guards searched him and didn’t look around. Then a white woman came in, or maybe a girl – you could never tell how old they were, twenty or forty. Terribly ugly: huge big arms and legs, hair a repulsive yellow colour and a nose like a raven’s beak. Tanuki had already seen her here yesterday.

Gundari searched the yellow-haired woman, while Fudo searched the third of the newcomers, an astoundingly tall, elderly
gaijin
. He looked round the den curiously: he looked at the players, the smokers, the low counter with the beakers and jugs. If not for his height, the
gaijin
would have looked like a human being: normal hair – black with venerable grey at the temples.

But when the longshanks came closer, Tanuki saw that he was a monster too. The
gaijin
’s eyes were an unnatural colour, the same colour as the abominable die that had ruined unfortunate Badger.

You do not toss it,
You are the one who is tossed
By the die of chance.

1
A measure of weight equal to 3.75 kilograms

2
In Japanese, ‘
tanuki
’ means badger

THE BLUE DIE LOVES THE
GAIJIN

Things were not good at the house of Captain Blagolepov. And it was not even a matter of the departed lying on the table in his old patched tunic with the copper five-kopeck pieces over his eye-sockets (had he brought them with him from Russia, especially for this occasion?). Everything in this decrepit dwelling was permeated with the smell of poverty and chronic, mildewed misery.

Erast Petrovich looked round the dark room with a pained air: tattered straw mats on the floor, the only furniture the aforementioned unvarnished table, two rickety chairs, a crooked cupboard and a set of shelves with just one book or, perhaps, an album of some kind. Under the icon in the corner a slim little candle was burning, the kind that were sold in Russia at five for half a kopeck. The most distressing elements were the pitiful attempts to lend this kennel at least some semblance of home comfort: the embroidered doily on the bookcase, the wretched curtains, the lampshade of thick yellow card.

The spinster Sophia Diogenovna Blagolepova was well matched to her dwelling. She spoke in a quiet little voice, almost a whisper, sniffing with her red nose; she was swathed in a faded, colourless shawl and seemed to be on the point of breaking into protracted floods of tears.

In order to avoid provoking this outpouring of grief, Fandorin comported himself sadly but sternly, as became a vice-consul in the performance of his official responsibilities. The titular counsellor felt terribly sorry for the spinster, but he was afraid of women’s tears and disliked them. Owing to inexperience, his condolences did not turn out very well.

‘P-please allow me for my part, that is, on behalf of the state of Russia, which I represent here … That is, of course, not I, but the c-consul …’ Erast Petrovich babbled unintelligibly, stammering more than usual in his agitation.

When Sophia Diogenovna heard the state mentioned, she gaped at him in fright with her faded blue eyes and bit the edge of her handkerchief. Fandorin lost the thread of his thought and fell silent.

Fortunately Shirota helped him out. It seemed that this kind of mission was nothing new to the clerk.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich Doronin has asked us to convey to you his profound condolences,’ the clerk said with a ceremonial bow. ‘Mr Vice-Consul will sign the necessary documents and also present you with a financial subsidy.’

Recollecting himself, Fandorin handed the spinster the five coins from the state and the two from Doronin, to which, blushing slightly, he added another handful of his own.

This was the correct manoeuvre. Sophia Diogenovna ceased her sobbing, gathered the Mexican silver together in her palm, counted it quickly and also gave a low bow, displaying the plait arranged in a loop on the back of her head.

‘Thank you for not leaving a poor orphan without support.’

Her thick hair was a beautiful golden-wheat colour. Blagolepova could probably have been rather good-looking, if not for her chalky complexion and the expression of stupid fright in her eyes.

Shirota was making signs to the functionary: he had pinched his finger and thumb together and was running them through the air. Ah, he meant the receipt.

Erast Petrovich shrugged, as if to say: It’s too awkward, later. But the Japanese himself presented the lady with the paper, and she signed with a pencil in a curly flourish.

Shirota sat down at the table, took out a sheet of paper and a travelling inkwell and prepared to write out the death certificate.

‘What were the cause and the circumstances of the demise?’ he asked briskly.

Sophia Diogenovna’s face instantly melted into a tearful grimace.

‘Papa came home in the morning at about seven o’clock. He said, I feel bad, Sophia. I’ve got this aching in my chest …’

‘In the morning?’ Fandorin asked. ‘Was he working at night, then?’

He was sorry he had asked. The tears poured down in torrents from Blagolepova’s eyes.

‘No-o,’ she howled. ‘He’d been in the “Rakuen” all night long. It’s a place like a tavern. Only in our taverns they drink vodka, and in theirs they smoke a noxious weed. I went there at midnight and implored him: “Father, let’s go home. You’ll spend everything on smoking again, and our apartment isn’t paid for, and the oil for the lamp has run out …” He wouldn’t come, he drove me away. He almost beat me … And when he dragged himself home in the morning, there was nothing in his pockets, they were empty … I gave him tea. He drank a glass. Then he suddenly looked at me and said: “That’s that. Sophia, I’m dying. Forgive me, my daughter”. And he put his head on the table. I started shaking him, but he was dead. He was staring sideways, with his mouth open …’