Turkish Gambit (3 page)

It seemed that the volunteer had ventured a bet. But with what money? Three kurus? He would have to play for a long time to win a horse. Varya began to worry, realising that she had put her trust in a man whom she did not know at all. He looked strange, spoke strangely, acted strangely . . . but on the other hand, what choice did she really have?

There was a murmur in the crowd of idle onlookers -the fat man had thrown the dice. Then they clattered once again and the walls shook as the crowd howled in unison.

'‘I-twelve,' Fandorin announced calmly in Bulgarian and stood up. 'Where are my winnings?'

The fat man also leapt to his feet, seized the volunteer by his sleeve and started speaking rapidly, his eyes bulging wildly.

He kept repeating: 'Another round, another round!'

Fandorin waited for him to finish then nodded decisively,- but his acquiescence apparently failed to satisfy the loser, who began yelling louder than before and waving his arms about. Fandorin nodded again, even more decisively, and then Varya recalled the Bulgarian paradox, by which if you nodded it meant 'No'.

At this point the loser decided to move from words to actions: he drew his arm well back and all the idle onlookers shied away; but Erast Fandorin did not budge, except that his right hand, seemingly inadvertently, slipped rapidly into his pocket. The gesture was almost imperceptible, but its effect on the fat man was magical. He wilted instantly, sobbed and uttered some plaintive appeal. This time Fandorin shook his head, tossed a couple of coins to the landlord, who had appeared beside him, and set off towards the exit. He did not even glance at Varya, but she had no need of an invitation - she was up from her seat and at her rescuer's side in an instant.

'The second 1-last,' said Erast Fandorin, squinting in concentration as he halted on the porch.

Varya followed the direction of his gaze and saw a long row of horses, asses and mules standing along the hitching rail and calmly munching hay.

'There he is, your B-Bucephalus,' said the volunteer, pointing at a small brown donkey. 'Not much to look at, but then there's not so far to fall.'

'You mean you won it?' Varya asked in sudden realisation.

Fandorin nodded without speaking as he unhitched a scraggy grey mare.

He helped his travelling companion into the wooden saddle, leapt up on to his own grey with considerable agility and they rode out on to a country road brightly illuminated by the midday sun.

'Is it far to Tsarevitsy?' Varya asked, jolting in time to the short steps of her fluffy-eared mount.

'If we do not g-go astray, we shall reach it by nightfall,' the horseman replied grandly from above her.

He had become totally Turkicised in captivity, Varya thought angrily. He could at least have seated the lady on the horse. Typical male narcissism! A preening peacock! A vain drake, interested in nothing but flaunting himself before the dull grey duck. I already look like God only knows what, and now I have to play Sancho Panza to the Knight of the Mournful Visage.

'What have you got in your pocket?' she asked, remembering. 'A pistol, is it?'

Fandorin was surprised: 'In what pocket? Ah, in my p-pocket. Nothing, unfortunately.'

'I see, and what if he had not been frightened?'

'I would not have sat down to play with someone who would not be frightened.'

'But how could you win a donkey with a single throw?' Varya asked inquisitively. 'Surely that man didn't bet his donkey against three kurus?'

'Of course not.'

'Then what did you bet?'

'You,' Fandorin replied imperturbably. 'A girl for a donkey - now that is a worthwhile wager. I beg your gracious forgiveness, Varvara Andreevna, but there was no alternative.'

'Forgiveness!' Varya swayed so wildly in the saddle that she almost slipped over to one side. 'What if you had lost?'

'Varvara Andreevna, I happen to possess one unusual quality. I absolutely detest games of chance, but whenever I do happen to play I am sure to win without fail. Les caprices de la f-fortune! I even won my freedom from the pasha of Vidin at backgammon.'

Not knowing what reply to make to such a flippant declaration, Varya chose to be mortally offended, and therefore they rode on in silence. The barbarous saddle, a veritable instrument of torture, caused her a host of discomforts, but she endured them all, from time to time shifting her centre of gravity.

'Is it hard?' Fandorin asked. 'Would you like to place my jacket under you?'

Varya did not reply because, in the first place, his suggestion seemed to her not entirely proper and, in the second place, on a point of principle.

The road wound on for a long time between low wooded hills, then descended to a plain. In all this time the travellers encountered no one and Varya was beginning to feel alarmed. Several times she stole a sideways glance at Fandorin, but that blockhead remained absolutely imperturbable and made no further attempt to strike up a conversation.

Wouldn't she cut a fine figure, though, appearing in Tsarevitsy in an outfit like this? It wouldn't matter to Petya, she supposed: she could dress up in sackcloth as far as he was concerned - he wouldn't notice; but there would be the headquarters staff, society people. If she turned up looking like a scarecrow . . . Varya tore her cap off her head, ran her hand through her hair and felt really depressed. Not that her hair was anything special in any case: it was that dull, mousy colour which is called light brown, and her masquerade had left it all tangled and matted. It had last been washed over two days ago in Bucharest. No, she had better wear the cap. A Bulgarian peasant's outfit was not so bad after all; it was practical and even striking in its own way. The chalvars were actually rather like the famous 'bloomers' that the English suffragettes used to wear in their struggle with those absurd and humiliating drawers and petticoats. If only she could draw them in round the waist with a broad scarlet sash, like in Mozart's Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail (she and Petya had seen it last autumn at the Mariinsky Theatre), they would actually be rather picturesque.

Suddenly Varvara Suvorova's musings were interrupted in a most unceremonious fashion. The volunteer leaned over and seized the donkey's bridle, the stupid animal came to an abrupt halt and Varya was almost sent flying over its long-eared head.

'What's wrong with you, have you gone mad?'

'Whatever happens now, do not say a word’ Fandorin said in a quiet and very serious voice, gazing forward along the road.

Varya raised her head and saw an amorphous throng galloping towards them, enveloped in a cloud of dust: a group of riders, probably about twenty men. She could see their shaggy caps and the bright spots of sunlight glinting on their cartridge belts, harnesses and weapons. One of the horsemen was riding ahead of the rest and Varya could make out a scrap of green cloth wound around his tall fur hat.

'Who are they, Bashi-Bazouks?' Varya asked in a low, tremulous voice. 'What will happen now? Are we done for? Will they kill us?'

'I doubt it, as long as you keep quiet,' Fandorin replied, somehow not sounding very confident. 'Your sudden talkativeness is rather ill-timed.' He had completely stopped stammering, which alarmed Varya greatly.

Erast Fandorin took the donkey by the bridle once again and moved over to the edge of the road; then he tugged Varya's hat right down over her eyes and whispered: 'Keep your eyes on the ground and don't make a sound.'

However, she was unable to resist darting a furtive glance at these famous cutthroats about whom all the newspapers had been writing for more than a year.

The one riding ahead (probably the bek), with the ginger beard, was wearing a tattered and dirty quilted beshmet, but his weapons were silver. He rode past without so much as a glance at the wretched pair of peasants, but his gang proved less stand-offish. Several of the riders halted beside Varya and Fandorin, talking among themselves in guttural voices. The Bashi-Bazouks wore expressions that made Varvara Andreevna want to squeeze her eyes tight shut - she had never suspected that people could have such horrible masks for faces. Then, suddenly, in among these nightmarish snouts she caught a glimpse of an entirely normal human face. It was pale, with one eye swollen and bruised, but the second brown eye was staring directly at her with an expression of mortal anguish.

Amongst the bandits, seated facing backwards in the saddle, was a Russian officer in a dusty, tattered uniform. His arms were twisted behind his back, there was an empty sabre scabbard hanging round his neck and there was caked blood at the corner of his mouth. Varya bit her lip in order not to cry out. Unable to bear the hopeless despair that she read in the prisoner's gaze, she lowered her eyes. But even so terror forced a cry, or rather a hysterical sob, from her dry throat; for strapped to the pommel of his saddle one of the partisans had a light-haired human head with a long moustache. Fandorin squeezed Varya's elbow hard and said a few short words in Turkish - she could distinguish the words

'Yusuf-pasha' and 'kaimakam' - but they made no impression on the bandits. One of them, with a pointed beard and an immense crooked nose, pulled back the upper lip of Fandorin's horse, baring the long, rotten teeth. He spat contemptuously and said something that made the others laugh. Then he lashed the nag on its crupper with his whip and the startled beast shied away, immediately breaking into an uneven trot. Varya struck at the donkey's bloated sides with her heels and trudged after it, afraid to believe that the danger was past. The world was swirling around her; that nightmarish head with its eyes closed in suffering and the blood caked in the corners of its mouth tormented her. Cutthroats are people who cut throats -the absurd, delirious phrase kept running round and round in her head.

'No fainting, if you please,' Fandorin said quietly. 'They could come back.'

It was tempting fate. A moment later they heard the drumming of hooves approaching from behind.

Erast Fandorin glanced round and whispered: 'Do not turn round, f-forward.'

Varya, however, did turn round, although it would have been better if she had not. They had ridden about two hundred paces away from the Bashi-Bazouks, but one of the horsemen - the one who had the severed head - was galloping back again and rapidly overtaking them, with that terrible trophy bouncing merrily against the flank of his steed.

Varya glanced despairingly at her companion, but his customary presence of mind seemed to have deserted him. He had thrown back his head and was nervously quaffing water from a large copper canteen.

The accursed donkey plodded along in melancholy fashion, absolutely refusing to walk any faster. A few moments later the impetuous horseman drew level with the unarmed travellers and reared up his bay. Leaning down, the Bashi-Bazouk grabbed Varya's cap from her head and burst into rapacious laughter when her light-brown hair came tumbling down.

'Kadin!' he cried with a gleam of white teeth.

In one swift movement the gloomily preoccupied Erast Fandorin snatched off the bandit's tall shaggy hat and swung the heavy canteen hard against the back of his shaven head. There was a sickeningly moist thud, the flask glugged and the Bashi-Bazouk went tumbling into the dust.

'To hell with the donkey! Give me your hand. Into the saddle. Ride for all you're worth. Don't turn round!' Fandorin rattled out in staccato fashion, once again without any stammer.

He helped the numbed Varya up on to the bay, pulled the rifle out of its saddle holster, and they set off at a gallop.

The bandit's horse went hurtling forwards and Varya pulled her head back down into her shoulders, afraid that she would not be able to keep her seat. The wind whistled in her ears, her left leg slipped out of the overlong stirrup at just the wrong moment, shots rang out behind her and something heavy thumped painfully against her right hip.

Varya glanced down briefly, saw the mottled, blotchy skin of the severed head jostling up and down and gave a strangled cry, letting go of the reins, which she should not have done under any circumstances. The next moment she went flying out of the saddle, describing an arc through the air and landing heavily in something green, yielding and rustling - a bush at the side of the road.

This was just the right moment for her to slip into unconsciousness, but somehow it did not happen. Varya sat there on the grass, holding her scratched cheek, with broken branches swaying around her.

Meanwhile events were proceeding on the road. Fandorin was lashing the unfortunate nag with the rifle butt and it was giving its all, desperately flinging its large-boned legs forward. It had already almost reached the bush where Varya was sitting, still stunned from her fall; but galloping along in pursuit in a thunderous hail of rifle fire at a distance of about a hundred paces was a posse of horsemen, ten of them at least. Suddenly the grey mare faltered in its stride, flailing its head piteously to the left and the right, and staggered sideways a little, then a little further, finally collapsing smoothly to the ground and pinning down its rider's leg. Varya gasped out loud. Fandorin somehow managed to extricate himself from under the horse as it struggled to get to its feet and drew himself erect. He glanced round at Varya, shouldered the rifle and took aim at the Bashi-Bazouks.

He took his time before firing, getting a good aim, and his pose was so impressive that none of the bandits chose to be the first in line for a bullet; the partisan detachment spilled off the road and scattered across the meadow, forming a semi-circle round the fugitives. The shooting subsided and Varya guessed that the bandits wanted to take them alive.