Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk (21 page)

Somehow, as the conversation proceeded, without any special effort on the part of the two men the initial mutual caution and even hostility completely evaporated, until they were talking like intelligent individuals who respected each other.

Matvei Bentsionovich also went across to the window and looked at the spruce little houses where Korovin's wards lived. “Supporting your patients must cost you a tidy sum, I suppose?”

“A little less than a quarter of a million a year. If you divide that by twenty-eight (which is the number of patients that I have), the average cost comes to approximately eight thousand, although, of course, the difference in costs is very great. Lentochkin costs me almost nothing. He lives as free as a bird. And I'm afraid he will soon take wing and ‘fly away into the sky,’ ” the doctor said with a sad laugh.

Berdichevsky was astounded by this incredible figure. He exclaimed, “Eight thousand! But that's …”

“You wish to say that it's madness?” Donat Savvich asked with a smile. “More like a millionaire's whim. Other rich men spend their money on items of luxury or courtesans, but I have my own passion. It's not philanthropy, since I don't do it for mankind, but for my own satisfaction. But I spend quite a lot on charity too, because of all the things this earthly life has to offer, the one I value most is my own peace of mind, and I do everything I can to avoid any pangs of conscience.”

“But doesn't it seem to you that your quarter of a million could be spent to the benefit of a far greater number of people?” asked Matvei Bentsionovich, unable to resist the gibe.

The doctor smiled again, even more good-naturedly. “You mean the hungry and the homeless? Well, naturally, I don't forget about them. The income from the capital that I inherited amounts to half a million a year. I give away exactly half of it to charitable societies as a voluntary wealth tax or, if you like, as payment for my clear conscience, but then I do exactly as I wish with the remainder. I dine on foie gras without the slightest feeling of guilt. I want to play at doctors, so I do. With complete peace of mind. Would you really begrudge half of your income in exchange for sound sleep and harmony with your own soul?”

Matvei Bentsionovich merely shrugged, at a loss to reply to this question. There was no point in trying to explain to the millionaire about his twelve children and the payments on the bank loan for his modest house and garden.

“I spend a mere trifle on myself, twenty or thirty thousand,” Korovin continued. “All the rest goes for my passion. Every one of my patients is a genuine treasure trove. They are all unusual, all talented; you could write a dissertation, or even a book, on any of them. I've already told you that I'm very selective and I don't take just anyone, only those for whom I feel a certain sympathy. Otherwise it's impossible to establish a bond of trust.” He looked at the assistant public prosecutor, smiled at him in a most friendly fashion, and said, “I would probably take somebody like you. If you should happen to develop a mental illness, of course.”

“Really?” laughed Berdichevsky, feeling flattered. “What sort of person do you think I am?”

Donat Savvich was on the point of answering, but just then his gaze turned to the window once again and he declared with a conspiratorial air, “We'll find that out in just a moment.”

He opened the window and shouted to someone: “Sergei Nikolae-vich! Are you eavesdropping again? Ai-ai-ai. Well, tell me, do you have your remarkable glasses with you? Excellent! Then would you be so kind as to call in to see me for a minute?”

A few moments later a puny little man entered the study, wearing something like a medieval gown and a large beret and carrying a linen bag in which something was rattling.

“What's that you have there?” the doctor asked curiously, pointing to the bag.

“Samples,” the strange individual replied, looking Berdichevsky up and down. “Minerals. From the shore. Emanational analysis. I explained it to you. But you're deaf. Who's this? Why about the other?”

“Right, allow me to introduce you. Mr. Berdichevsky, a guardian of law and order. He has come to investigate our mysterious goings-on. Mr. Lampier, a brilliant physicist, who also happens to be my guest.”

“I see,” said the assistant public prosecutor, with a sideways glance at Korovin, and then he spoke cautiously to the “physicist.” “Mm-hmm, pleased to meet you, very pleased. How do you do?”

“A guardian? Investigate!” the madman cried, without replying to the greeting. “But that … yes, yes! A long time ago! And he doesn't look like the other! Just a moment, just a moment … Ah, where are they? Where have they gone?”

He became so agitated that Matvei Bentsionovich began feeling worried that he might pounce on him, but the doctor winked reassuringly.

“Are you looking for your remarkable spectacles? Why there they are, in your breast pocket. I wanted to ask you to carry out a chromospectro-graphic inspection of this gentleman.”

“What's that?” Berdichevsky exclaimed, even more alarmed now. “A chromo—”

“A chromospectrographic inspection. It's one of Sergei Nikolaevich's inventions. He has discovered that every human being is surrounded by a certain emanation of energy that is invisible to the eye. The color of this emission is determined by the condition of the internal organs, a person's level of intellectual development, and even his moral qualities,” Korovin began to explain with a perfectly serious air. “Mr. Lampier's spectacles render this invisible aureole visible. And I must say that as far as physical health is concerned, Sergei Nikolaevich's emanational diagnosis is quite frequently correct.”

Meanwhile, the man had already set a huge pair of spectacles with violet lenses on his nose and aimed them at Berdichevsky.

“Good,” Lampier muttered. “Excellent … Not like the other one … No crimson at all … A hint of yellowish green—ai-ai-ai … But never mind, there's some orange … The head … I see … The heart … Did you know that you have a sick liver?” he suddenly asked in a perfectly normal voice, and Matvei Bentsionovich shuddered, because recently he had been getting stabbing pains in his right side, especially after supper.

The madman whisked his absurd oculars off his nose, grabbed the investigator by the hand, and started gabbling: “A talk! Absolutely! Face-to-face! I've been waiting a long time, a long time! A lot of blue! That means you'll be able to understand! Immediately! To my place, my place! Oh, at last!”

He began pulling Berdichevsky after him with so much determination that the startled official barely managed to break free.

“Calm down, Sergei Nikolaevich, calm down,” said the doctor, coming to Berdichevsky's assistance. “Matvei Bentsionovich and I will just finish talking, and then I'll send him across to your laboratory. You go there and wait.”

When his patient had gone out, muttering and waving his arms about, Donat Savvich gave the assistant public prosecutor a glance of mock horror and whispered, “You have no more than five minutes to leave the grounds of the clinic. Otherwise Lampier will come back and you won't get rid of him that easily.”

It was good advice, and Berdichevsky decided it would be best to take it, especially since there seemed to be no point in delaying at the clinic any longer.

MATVEI BENTSIONOVICH STRODE along the yellow brick road winding between the low forested hills—no doubt it was the same one that the unfortunate Lagrange had followed only a week earlier on his way from visiting Dr. Korovin. What had been going on then in the doomed police chief's soul? Had he known that he was approaching the end of his last day in this world? What had he been thinking about as he looked down at the town, the monastery, the lake?

Actually, it was not all that difficult to reconstruct Felix Stan-islavovich's train of thought. It could be assumed that by the evening he had already firmly decided to make his nocturnal excursion to the mysterious hut and check what kind of evil spirit it was that had broken its way through into the human world at that spot. How very like the gallant colonel it was to go dashing in headlong, and damn the consequences.

Well then, we shall act differently, the assistant public prosecutor thought to himself, although, of course, we shall not ignore that important little house either. The very first thing we shall do is to examine it by the light of day, that is, not today, but tomorrow, because it is already getting dark, and we shall need witnesses.

And then what? Cut the pane of glass with the cross on it out of the window frame and send it to Zavolzhsk for examination? No, that would take too long. Better summon Semyon Ivanovich here, together with three or four of the brighter police officers, to avoid having to rely on the base Vitalii and his peacekeepers. Establish twenty-four-hour observation posts in the hut and around it. And then we'll see how this demon of ours behaves.

Hmm, Berdichevsky suddenly said to himself, coming to a halt. Here I am thinking just like a regular police goon. As if I didn't understand that if there really is some kind of mystical material involved here, then the subtle thread connecting it with earthly reality could be snapped very easily. It would be exactly the same approach to the Gordian knot that I argued against so strongly.

Even a blockhead like Lagrange, God rest his soul, had realized that supernatural phenomena can only be observed one to one, without any official witnesses or police constables. If the experiment was to be accurate, he had to do as Lentochkin described in his letter: go alone, naked, and pronounce the incantation. And if nothing out of the ordinary happened, only then conduct the investigation in the usual manner, in the firm conviction that he was dealing with physical phenomena.

Matvei Bentsionovich realized that these considerations were largely a matter of theory, because nothing would make him go anywhere at night, at least not to a place where one man had gone crazy and another had shot himself through the heart.

To launch into that kind of escapade would be stupid, ludicrous in fact, and, above all, it would be a betrayal of his responsibility to Masha and the children.

He began thinking about his wife, thanks to whom his life had become complete, full of meaning and happiness. How dear and good his Masha was, especially when she was pregnant, even though at those times her eyes turned red, her eyelids were covered with broken veins, and her nose stuck out just like a duck's bill. The assistant public prosecutor smiled as he recalled Masha's fondness for singing (even though she had no ear for music at all), her superstitious fear of the pockmarked crescent moon and brown cockroaches, the rebellious lock of hair on the back of her head, and many more of those little details that have no meaning except to one who loves.

His eldest daughter, Katyenka, had taken after her mother, thank God. Just as determined and all of a piece, always knowing what she wanted and how to get it.

His second daughter, Ludmilochka, was probably more like her father—she liked to cry a bit and she was a compassionate soul, sensitive to the beauties of nature. Life would not be easy for her. May God grant her a husband who was considerate and humane.

And his third daughter, Nastenka, promised to develop into a genuine musical talent. How fleetly her pink little fingers slid across the keys of the pianoforte! When she was a little older, he would definitely have to take her to St. Petersburg and show her to Iosif Solomonovich.

This mental inventorying of the numerous members of his family was Berdichevsky's favorite pastime, but on this occasion he failed to get as far as his fourth daughter, Lizanka. Suddenly a woman on a black horse appeared from around the bend, riding toward him, her appearance as unexpected as it was out of keeping with the languid chiming of the monastery bells and the entire dreary landscape of Canaan: Matvei Bentsionovich was stupefied.

The slim-legged stallion came trotting along the roadway, turned slightly sideways, as genuinely thoroughbred and frolicsome English horses sometimes do, and so the assistant public prosecutor had a full view of the woman riding sidesaddle—from her little hat with a veil to the toes of her lacquered boots.

As she drew level with the man walking along, she looked down at him, and the piercing gaze of those black eyes, as sharp as any arrow, set the sober-minded official's heart fluttering.

It was she—there was no doubt about it! The same stranger whose mere appearance had seemed to drive the blanket of fog from the island. The hat with ostrich feathers had been replaced by a cardinal's cap of scarlet velvet, but the dress was still black, the color of mourning, and Berdichevsky's sensitive nose also caught the familiar, dangerously exciting scent of that perfume.

Matvei Bentsionovich stopped and watched the graceful horsewoman ride by. Rather than lashing on her English stallion, she was gently stroking its gleaming crupper with her riding crop, and in her left hand she was holding a small lacy handkerchief.

Suddenly this light scrap of material broke free, swirled around in the air for a brief moment like a playful butterfly, and landed on the ground at the edge of the road. The horsewoman rode on without noticing her loss or bothering to glance around at the man, who was still standing there stock-still.

Let it lie where it has fallen, Berdichevsky's reason cautioned him— or perhaps it was not even his reason, but his instinct for self-preservation. What was not meant to be should be left well alone.

But Matvei Bentsionovich's feet were already carrying him toward the fallen handkerchief. “My lady, stop!” the investigator called out in a halting voice. “Your handkerchief! You have dropped your handkerchief!”