lower,” Masa boasted, pointing at the wallpaper.
Instead of answering, Fandorin called out once again: “ Ichi, ni, san! ” The vertiginous feat was repeated, and this time the servant touched the ceiling with his foot as he tumbled head over heels.
“I reached it, and you didn’t!” he declared. “Yes, master, even though your legs are considerably longer than mine.”
“You are made of rubber,” growled Fandorin, panting slightly. “All right, now we will fight.”
The Japanese bowed from the waist and adopted the combat position without any great enthusiasm: legs bent at the knees, feet turned out, arms relaxed.
Erast Fandorin leapt up, spun around in the air, and struck his partner quite hard on the back of the head with the toe of his slipper before Masa had time to turn away.
“First hit!” he shouted. “Come on!”
Masa created a distraction by tearing the white band off his forehead and tossing it to one side, and when Fandorin’s gaze involuntarily followed the flying object, the servant uttered a guttural cry, launched himself across the floor like a bouncing rubber ball, and tried to catch his master across the ankle with a hard kick. However, at the final moment Erast Petrovich leapt back, managing at the same time to strike the shorter man across the ear with the edge of his open hand.
“Second hit!”
The Japanese leapt agilely to his feet and began walking around the room with short, rapid steps, tracing out a semicircle. Fandorin shifted his weight lightly from one foot to the other where he stood, holding his upturned palms at the level of his waist.
“Ah, yes, master, I quite forgot,” said Masa, still walking. “It is unforgivable of me. A woman came to see you an hour ago. Dressed all in black.”
Erast Fandorin lowered his hands.
“What woman?”
He immediately received a blow from a foot to his chest. As he flew back against the wall, Masa exclaimed triumphantly: “First hit! An old, ugly woman. Her clothes were completely black. I could not understand what she wanted and she went away.”
Fandorin stood there, rubbing his bruised chest.
“It’s high time you learned some Russian. While I’m out, take the dictionary that I gave you and learn eighty words.”
“Forty will be enough!” Masa exclaimed indignantly. “You are simply taking your revenge.” And then, “I’ve learned two words already today: sweehar , which means ‘dear sir,’ and chainee — that’s Russian for ‘Japanese’.”
“I can guess who your teacher was. Just don’t ever think of calling me ‘sweetheart’. Eighty words, I said — eighty. Then next time you’ll fight fair.”
Erast Petrovich sat down in front of the mirror and started to apply his makeup. After considering several wigs, he selected a dark-brown one, with the hair cut to a single length and a neat center part. He turned down the ends of his curled black mustache and stuck a fluffy, lighter one over it, then glued on a thick, full beard cut short and square. He painted his eyebrows the appropriate color and moved them up and down for a while, stuck out his lips, extinguished the gleam in his eyes, pinched his ruddy cheeks, sprawled back in his chair, and, as if at the wave of a magic wand, was suddenly transformed into a boorish young merchant from Okhotny Ryad.
Shortly after seven in the evening a smart cab drove up to the Alpine Rose German restaurant on Sofiiskaya Street: a gleaming, lacquered droshky with steel springs, scarlet ribbons woven into the manes of the pair of black horses pulling it, and the spokes of the wheels painted yellow with ocher. The dashing cabbie roared out a deafening ‘whoa’ and cracked his whip boisterously.
“Wake up, Your Honor, here you are, delivered all proper and correct!”
The passenger in the back of the cab was snoring gently, sprawled out on the velvet seat — a young merchant in a long-skirted blue frock coat, crimson waistcoat, and tight-fitting boots. A gleaming
Instead of answering, Fandorin called out once again: “ Ichi, ni, san! ” The vertiginous feat was repeated, and this time the servant touched the ceiling with his foot as he tumbled head over heels.
“I reached it, and you didn’t!” he declared. “Yes, master, even though your legs are considerably longer than mine.”
“You are made of rubber,” growled Fandorin, panting slightly. “All right, now we will fight.”
The Japanese bowed from the waist and adopted the combat position without any great enthusiasm: legs bent at the knees, feet turned out, arms relaxed.
Erast Fandorin leapt up, spun around in the air, and struck his partner quite hard on the back of the head with the toe of his slipper before Masa had time to turn away.
“First hit!” he shouted. “Come on!”
Masa created a distraction by tearing the white band off his forehead and tossing it to one side, and when Fandorin’s gaze involuntarily followed the flying object, the servant uttered a guttural cry, launched himself across the floor like a bouncing rubber ball, and tried to catch his master across the ankle with a hard kick. However, at the final moment Erast Petrovich leapt back, managing at the same time to strike the shorter man across the ear with the edge of his open hand.
“Second hit!”
The Japanese leapt agilely to his feet and began walking around the room with short, rapid steps, tracing out a semicircle. Fandorin shifted his weight lightly from one foot to the other where he stood, holding his upturned palms at the level of his waist.
“Ah, yes, master, I quite forgot,” said Masa, still walking. “It is unforgivable of me. A woman came to see you an hour ago. Dressed all in black.”
Erast Fandorin lowered his hands.
“What woman?”
He immediately received a blow from a foot to his chest. As he flew back against the wall, Masa exclaimed triumphantly: “First hit! An old, ugly woman. Her clothes were completely black. I could not understand what she wanted and she went away.”
Fandorin stood there, rubbing his bruised chest.
“It’s high time you learned some Russian. While I’m out, take the dictionary that I gave you and learn eighty words.”
“Forty will be enough!” Masa exclaimed indignantly. “You are simply taking your revenge.” And then, “I’ve learned two words already today: sweehar , which means ‘dear sir,’ and chainee — that’s Russian for ‘Japanese’.”
“I can guess who your teacher was. Just don’t ever think of calling me ‘sweetheart’. Eighty words, I said — eighty. Then next time you’ll fight fair.”
Erast Petrovich sat down in front of the mirror and started to apply his makeup. After considering several wigs, he selected a dark-brown one, with the hair cut to a single length and a neat center part. He turned down the ends of his curled black mustache and stuck a fluffy, lighter one over it, then glued on a thick, full beard cut short and square. He painted his eyebrows the appropriate color and moved them up and down for a while, stuck out his lips, extinguished the gleam in his eyes, pinched his ruddy cheeks, sprawled back in his chair, and, as if at the wave of a magic wand, was suddenly transformed into a boorish young merchant from Okhotny Ryad.
Shortly after seven in the evening a smart cab drove up to the Alpine Rose German restaurant on Sofiiskaya Street: a gleaming, lacquered droshky with steel springs, scarlet ribbons woven into the manes of the pair of black horses pulling it, and the spokes of the wheels painted yellow with ocher. The dashing cabbie roared out a deafening ‘whoa’ and cracked his whip boisterously.
“Wake up, Your Honor, here you are, delivered all proper and correct!”
The passenger in the back of the cab was snoring gently, sprawled out on the velvet seat — a young merchant in a long-skirted blue frock coat, crimson waistcoat, and tight-fitting boots. A gleaming
Similar Books
