April 4, Great Tuesday, morning

Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official of special assignments under the Moscow Governor-General, a 6th class person, holder of Russian and foreign orders, was turning inside out.

The thin, blue-pale face of the college adviser was contorted in pain, one hand in a white kid glove with silver buttons was pressed to his chest, the other was frantically cutting through the air - with this unconvincing gesture, Erast Petrovich wanted to reassure his assistant: nothing, they say, nonsense, will pass now. However, judging by the duration and painfulness of the spasms, this was not even nonsense.

Fandorin’s assistant, provincial secretary Anisiy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, homely young man of 23 years old, had never seen the boss in such a pitiful state. Tulipov himself, however, was somewhat green-faced, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored boss, always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy seriously.

“W-wait...” Erast Petrovich squeezed out, wincing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The usual slight stutter, the memory of a long-standing concussion, noticeably intensified due to nervous breakdown. – Th-go there... Let the p-protocol be d-detailed... Photographic s-photographs from all angles. And the traces so as not to be... trampled...

He was bent over again, but this time the outstretched hand did not waver - the finger inexorably pointed at the crooked door of the plank shed, from where a few minutes earlier the collegiate adviser had emerged all pale, on weak legs.

Anisiy did not want to go back into the gray twilight, where there was a viscous smell of blood and offal. But service is service.

I took in more of the damp April air into my chest (hey, it wouldn’t make me feel sick), crossed myself and - it was as if I was headed into a pool.

In the shack, which was used for storing firewood, and now, due to the imminent end of the cold weather, was almost empty, a fair number of people had gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective department, a private bailiff, a quarterly supervisor, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also the janitor Klimuk, who discovered the scene of the monstrous crime. – in the morning he poked his head in to get some firewood, saw it, yelled as much as he was supposed to, and ran after the police.

Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed across the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman was sobbing subtly and sniffling.

- Well, sir, what do we have? – forensic expert Egor Villemovich Zakharov purred with curiosity, picking up something spongy, blue-purple, from the floor with his hand in a rubber glove. - No spleen. Here she is, darling. Excellent, sir.

In a bag of it, in a bag. Another womb, a left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting all the little things... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not the mesentery?

Anisiy looked down, shied away in horror and almost tripped over the prone body of Andreichkina’s girl, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the deceased’s craft, was gleaned from a yellow ticket that lay neatly on the ripped open chest. Nothing more neat was observed in the posthumous appearance of the maiden Andreichkina.

Her face, presumably, which was invisible in life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes bulged out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a silent scream. It was even scarier to watch below. Someone striped the poor body of the walking woman length and breadth, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spread blood and small shreds of either a mangled or torn dress.

Leonty Andreevich Izhitsyn, an investigator for the most important cases under the district prosecutor, squatted down next to the doctor and asked in a businesslike manner:

- Traces of intercourse?

“I’ll outline this for you later, my dear.” I’ll draw up a report and display everything as it is. Here, you see for yourself, the darkness is Egyptian and the groan is pitch-black.

Like any foreigner who has mastered the Russian language perfectly, Yegor Villemovich loved to insert various tricky phrases into his speech. Despite the quite ordinary surname, there was an expert of British blood. In the kingdom of the late sovereign, the doctor father, also a doctor, came to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zekarais, difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told along the way how they were traveling in a carriage. It’s clear from him that he’s not his brother, a hare: lanky, thick-haired, sandy hair, a wide, lipless, mobile mouth, constantly moving a crappy hemp pipe from corner to corner.

Investigator Izhitsyn with ostentatious interest, clearly showing off, looked at how the expert twirled another lump of torn flesh in his tenacious fingers and sarcastically asked:

- What, Mr. Tyulpanov, is your boss still breathing air? And I said, they would have managed just fine without the governor’s supervision. The picture is not for sophisticated eyes, but we are people who are accustomed to everything.

It’s clear that Leonty Andreevich is dissatisfied and jealous. It's no joke - Fandorin himself was assigned to oversee the investigation. What kind of investigator would like this?

- What are you talking about, Linkov, like a girl! - Izhitsyn growled at the sobbing policeman. - Get used to it. You are not for “special assignments”, therefore, you will still see enough of everyone.

“God forbid that we get used to this,” muttered senior policeman Pribludko, an old and experienced campaigner, known to Anisius in a third-year case, in a low voice.

This was not the first time I had to work together with Leonty Andreevich. An unpleasant gentleman - twitchy all over, chuckles incessantly, and his eyes are prickly. He’s dressed to the nines, the collars look like they’re made of alabaster, the cuffs are even whiter, he keeps snapping his shoulders and knocking off specks. He is ambitious and has a great career. Only at last Epiphany he had a hitch with the investigation into the spirituality of the merchant Sitnikov. The case was noisy, partly even affecting the interests of influential persons and therefore could not tolerate delays, so His Excellency Prince Dolgoruky asked Erast Petrovich to help the prosecutor’s office. And the boss knows which assistant - he took it and unraveled the whole case in one day. No wonder Izhitsyn is furious. He has a presentiment that he will again be left without laurels.

“Looks like everything,” the investigator announced. - So, so. The body is in the police morgue, on Bozhedomka. Seal the barn and place a policeman. Agents should interview all surrounding residents, and be stricter. Have you heard or seen anything suspicious? You, Klimuk, came for firewood for the last time at the eleventh hour, right? – Leonty Andreevich asked the janitor. – And death occurred no later than two in the morning? (This is for expert Zakharov). Therefore, you should be interested in the interval from the beginning of the eleventh hour to two in the morning. – And again to Klimuk. – Maybe you’ve already talked to someone here? What didn't they tell you?

The janitor (piebald beard with a broom, bushy eyebrows, knobby skull, height two arshins four inches, a special feature - a wart in the middle of the forehead, Anisiy was practicing drawing up a verbal portrait) stood, crumpling his already impossibly crumpled cap.

- No, your honor. There's something we don't understand. He propped the barn door open and ran to Mr. Pribludko. And they didn’t let me leave the neighborhood until the bosses arrived. The inhabitants, they don’t even know anything. That is, of course, they see that the police have come in large numbers... That the police gentlemen have deigned to arrive. But the residents don’t know about this passion (the janitor glanced fearfully at the corpse).

“That’s what we’ll check,” Izhitsyn grinned. “So the agents are off to work.” And you, Mr. Zakharov, take away your treasures. And so that by noon there will be a full conclusion, in full form.

“Gentlemen agents p-please stay where you are,” came the quiet voice of Erast Petrovich from behind. Everyone turned around.

How did the college adviser come in, when? And the door didn’t creak. Even in the twilight it was clear that the boss was pale and upset, but his voice was even and his manner of speaking was always the same - restrained, polite, but in such a way that you wouldn’t want to object.

“Mr. Izhitsyn, even the janitor understood that there was no need to talk about the incident,” Erast Petrovich said dryly to the investigator. “Actually, that’s why I was sent, to ensure the strictest secrecy.” No polls. Moreover, I ask and even oblige everyone present to remain completely silent about the circumstances of the case. Explain to the residents that... a walker hanged herself, committed suicide, a common thing. If rumors about what happened spread across Moscow, each of you will fall under official investigation, and whoever is guilty of disclosing it will suffer severe punishment. Sorry, gentlemen, but th-those are the instructions I received, and there are reasons for that.

At a sign from the doctor, the policemen were about to take the stretcher that stood against the wall to place the corpse on it, but the collegiate adviser raised his hand:

- W-wait.

He crouched over the dead woman.

-What's that on her cheek?

Izhitsyn, stung by the reprimand, shrugged his narrow shoulders:

- Blood stain. Here, as you may have noticed, there is blood in abundance.

- But not on the face.

Erast Petrovich carefully rubbed the oval spot with his finger - a mark remained on the white glove. With extreme, as it seemed to Anisiy, excitement, the collegiate adviser (and for Tyulpanov simply “chief”) muttered:

-No cut, no bite.

The investigator watched the official’s manipulations with bewilderment, the expert Zakharov with interest.

Taking out a magnifying glass from his pocket, Fandorin clung to the very face of the victim, peered and gasped:

- Lip trace! Lord, this is a trace of a kiss! There can be no doubt!

- Why kill yourself like that? – Leonty Andreevich sarcastically. “There are worse marks here.” – He shook the toe of his boot towards the open chest and the gaping pit of the abdomen. “You never know what might pop into a crazy person’s head.”

“Oh, how bad,” muttered the college adviser, not addressing anyone.

With a quick movement, he tore off the soiled glove and threw it aside. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and very quietly:

- God, will this really start in Moscow...

* * *

What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the specimen of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust!1
What a creature man is! How noble of mind! How limitless in talents! How expressive and marvelous in form and movement! How similar to an angel in deeds, and how similar to the Almighty in understanding! The beauty of creation! The highest example of all living things! And yet, what do I care about this quintessence of dust? (English)

Let it go. Let the Prince of Denmark, an idle and blaséd creature, not care about a person, but I do! The bard is half right: there is little angelic in human deeds, and it is blasphemy to liken the understanding of man to God, but there is nothing more beautiful than man in the world. What are deeds and understanding - deception, chimera, vanity, truly the quintessence of dust. A person is not a business, but a Body. Even plants that caress the eye, the most lush and intricate of flowers, cannot be compared with the magnificent structure of the human body. Flowers are primitive and simple, the same inside and outside: turn the petal this way, turn it that way. Looking at flowers is boring. Where are their greedy stems, wretchedly geometric inflorescences and pitiful stamens, to the purple of elastic muscles, the elasticity of silky skin, the silvery mother-of-pearl of the stomach, the graceful twists of the intestines and the mysterious asymmetry of the liver!

Can the monotony of the color of a blooming poppy compare with the variety of shades of human blood - from the piercing scarlet arterial flow to the royal venous porphyry? Where is the vulgar blue of the bell to the soft blue pattern of the capillaries or the autumn coloring of the maple to the crimson of monthly flows! The female body is more refined and a hundred times more interesting than the male. The function of the female body is not rough labor and destruction, but creation and nurturing. The elastic uterus is like a precious pearl shell. Idea! It will be necessary to somehow open the fertilized womb in order to find a ripening pearl inside the pearl oyster - yes, yes, of course! Tomorrow!

I had to fast for too long, from Maslenitsa itself. My lips dried up, repeating: “Revive my accursed heart with a passionate fast!” The Lord is kind and merciful, He will not be angry with me for not having the strength to endure six days until the Holy Resurrection. After all, April 3 is not just a day, it is the anniversary of the Illumination. Then it was also April 3. It doesn’t matter if it’s a different style. The main thing is the sound, the music of the words: third ap-re-la.

I have my own fast, my own Easter. Just breaking the fast, breaking the fast. No, I won't wait until tomorrow. Today! Yes, yes, have a feast. Not to be satisfied, but to be satiated. Not for your own sake - for the glory of God.

After all, it was He who opened my eyes and taught me to see and understand true beauty. Moreover, reveal it and show it to the world. And revealing it is the same as creating it. I am the Creator's apprentice.

How sweet it is to break your fast after a long period of abstinence. I remember every sweet moment, I know that my memory will preserve everything down to the smallest detail, without losing any of the visual, taste, tactile, auditory and olfactory sensations.

I close my eyes and see.

Late evening. I can not sleep. Excitement and delight lead me along dirty streets, through vacant lots, between crooked houses and rickety fences. I haven't slept for many nights in a row. Presses the chest, squeezes the temples. During the day I forget myself for half an hour, an hour and wake up from terrible visions that I don’t remember in reality.

I walk and dream of death, of meeting Him, but I know: I can’t die, it’s too early, my mission is not fulfilled.

A voice from the darkness: “Pardon me for half a glass.” Rattling, soaked. I turn around and see the most vile and ugliest of human beings: a degraded whore - drunk, ragged, but at the same time grotesquely painted with whitewash and lipstick.

I turn away in disgust, but suddenly a familiar sharp pity pierces my heart. Poor creature, what have you done to yourself! And this is a woman, a masterpiece of God's art! So abuse yourself, desecrate and vulgarize the gift of God, so humiliate your precious reproductive system!

Of course it's not your fault. A soulless, cruel society has thrown you into the mud. But I will clean you up and save you. My soul is light and joyful.

Who knew it would turn out like this. I had no intention of breaking my fast - otherwise my path would have lay not through these miserable slums, but through the fetid back streets of Khitrovka or Grachevka, where filth and vice nest. But generosity and generosity overwhelm me, only slightly colored by impatient thirst.

“I’ll make you happy now, honey,” I say. “Come with me.”

I'm in a man's dress, and the witch thinks that there is a buyer for her rotten goods. She laughs hoarsely and shrugs: “Where are we going? Hey, do you have any money? At least feed him, or better yet, bring him.” Poor, lost sheep.

I lead her with me through the dark yard, towards the barns. I impatiently pull one door, then another, the third is unlocked.

The lucky woman breathes moonshine fumes down my neck and giggles: “Look, he’s leading me to the barn. Look, I'm impatient."

A swing of the scalpel, and I open the doors of freedom to her soul.

Liberation does not come without pain, it is like childbirth. The one I now love with all my heart is in great pain, she wheezes and chews on the gag, and I stroke her head and console her: “Be patient.” The hands do their job quickly and cleanly. I don't need light, my eyes see no worse at night than during the day.

I reveal the desecrated, dirty shell of my body, the soul of my beloved sister soars upward, while I freeze in awe of the perfection of the divine mechanism.

When I bring the hot bun of my heart to my face with a gentle smile, it is still trembling, still beating like a caught goldfish, and I tenderly kiss the wonderful fish on the open lips of the aorta.

The place was chosen well, no one disturbs me, and this time the hymn to Beauty is sung to the end, completed with a kiss on the cheek. Sleep, sister, your life was disgusting and terrible, your appearance offended the eyes, but thanks to me you became beautiful.

Take the same flower. Its true beauty is not seen on the lawn or in the flower bed, oh no! A royal rose in a bodice, a carnation in a buttonhole, a violet in a charming woman’s hair. The triumph of a flower comes when it is already cut; its real life is inseparable from death. It's the same with the human body. While it lives, it is not given the opportunity to reveal itself in all the splendor of its delightful structure. I help the body to reign. I'm a gardener.

Although no, the gardener only cuts flowers, and I also create a panel, a majestic decoration, from bodily organs of intoxicating beauty. In England, a previously unprecedented profession is coming into fashion - decorator, a specialist in decorating a home, shop window, or festive street.

I'm not a gardener, I'm a decorator.

Further we go, worse it becomes

April 4, Holy Tuesday, noon

At an emergency meeting with the Moscow Governor-General, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgoruky, the following were present:

Chief of Police Major General of His Imperial Majesty's retinue Yurovsky;

Prosecutor of the Moscow Judicial Chamber, Acting State Councilor, Chamberlain Kozlyatnikov;

Chief of the Detective Police, State Councilor Eichmann;

official of special assignments under the Governor General, collegiate adviser Fandorin;

Investigator for the most important cases under the prosecutor of the Moscow Court Chamber, court adviser Izhitsyn.

“The weather, what a bastard the weather is,” Vladimir Andreevich opened the secret meeting with these words. - This is disgusting, gentlemen. Cloudy, windy, slushy, muddy, and worst of all, the Moscow River overflowed more than usual. I went to Zamoskvorechye - a nightmare and horror. The water rose three and a half fathoms! Everything was flooded right up to Pyatnitskaya. And there is chaos on the left bank. You can't drive along Neglinnoe. Oh, let's disgrace ourselves, gentlemen. Dolgoruky will disgrace himself in his old age!

Everyone present sighed with concern, only the investigator for the most important cases showed some amazement on his face, and the prince, who was distinguished by rare powers of observation, considered it possible to explain:

– I see that you, young man... uh... it seems, Glagolev? No, Bukin.

“Izhitsyn, your Excellency,” the prosecutor prompted, but not loudly enough—at the seventy-ninth year of his life, the Moscow Viceroy (they called the all-powerful Vladimir Andreevich and so) became hard of hearing.

“Sorry, old man,” the governor good-naturedly spread his hands. - So, Mr. Pyzhitsyn, I see that you are in the dark... Probably, you are not entitled to your position. But since the meeting... So,” the prince’s long face with a drooping chestnut mustache acquired solemnity, “on Easter of Christ, the first throne will be blessed by the arrival of His Imperial Majesty. They will arrive without pomp, without ceremony - to bow to Moscow shrines. It was ordered not to notify Muscovites in advance, because the visit was planned as if impromptu. 2
improvised (French).

Which, however, does not relieve us of responsibility for the level of the meeting and the general condition of the city. For example, gentlemen, I am receiving a message this morning from the Most Reverend Ioannikios, Metropolitan of Moscow. The bishop complains and writes that in the confectionery stores before Holy Easter there is a uniform disgrace: the windows and counters are completely lined with candy boxes and bonbonnieres depicting the Last Supper, the Way of the Cross, Golgotha ​​and the like. This is blasphemy, gentlemen! “If you please, my dear sir,” the prince turned to the chief police chief, “today issue an order to the police so that such indecencies are strictly suppressed. Destroy the boxes and transfer the contents to the Orphanage. Let the orphans feast on the holiday. And also fine the shopkeepers so that they don’t let me down at the monastery before the royal arrival!

The Governor-General excitedly straightened his curly wig, which had slightly slid to one side, and wanted to say something else, but coughed.

The inconspicuous door leading to the inner chambers immediately opened, and from there, silently stepping with half-bent legs in felt boots, rolled out a thin old man with a dazzlingly shining bald skull and enormous sideburns - His Excellency's personal valet Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev. This sudden phenomenon surprised no one. All those present considered it necessary to greet the newcomer with a bow or at least a nod, for Frol Grigorievich, despite his modest position, was considered in the ancient city to be particularly influential and, in a sense, even omnipotent.

Vedishchev quickly dripped some kind of mixture from the bottle into a silver glass, gave the prince a drink and just as quickly disappeared in the opposite direction, without looking at anyone.

“Shpashibo, Frol, shpashibo, darling,” the Governor-General mumbled after his confidant, moved his chin so that his jaws would fall into place, and continued without any lisp. – So let Erast Petrovich deign to explain what caused the urgency of this meeting. You, my soul, know very well that every minute counts for me these days. Well, what happened to you there? Have you made sure that rumors about this dirty trick with dismemberment do not spread among ordinary people? This was just what was missing on the eve of the royal arrival...

Erast Petrovich stood up, and the eyes of the highest guardians of Moscow law and order turned to the pale, decisive face of the collegiate adviser.

“Measures have been taken to preserve t-secrets, your Excellency,” Fandorin began to report. “Everyone who was involved in the inspection of the crime scene was warned of responsibility, and a non-disclosure signature was taken from them. The janitor who discovered the body, as a person prone to drinking immoderately and not vouching for himself, was temporarily placed in a special cell of the Gendarmerie Department.

In the whole wide world there was no more unhappy person than Anisy Tyulpanov. Well, maybe only somewhere in black Africa or Patagonia, but it’s unlikely that it’s closer.

Judge for yourself. Firstly, the name is Anisiy. Have you ever seen a noble man, a chamber cadet, or even a mayor called Anisy? So it immediately smells like lamp oil, a priest’s nettle seed.

And the last name! Laughter, and that's all. He got the unfortunate family nickname from his great-grandfather, a village sexton. When Anisiev, the founder, was studying at the seminary, the rector’s father decided to change the dissonant surnames of future church ministers to godly ones. For simplicity and convenience, one year named the students entirely after church holidays, another year after fruits, and the flower year fell on my great-grandfather: some became Hyacinths, some Balzaminov, some Lyutikov. The ancestor did not finish the seminary, but passed on the stupid surname to his descendants. It’s good that they called it Tulipov, and not some Danvanchikov.

What a nickname! What about the appearance? First things first, the ears stick out to the sides, like the handles of a chamber pot. If you take it with a cap, they are willful, they try to get out and stick out, as if they were propping up a cap. Too elastic, gristly.

Previously, Anisy used to spend a long time spinning in front of the mirror. And he’ll turn this way and that way, let his long, specially grown hair fall on both sides, cover his pop ears – it seems to be better, at least for a while. But as acne popped up all over his personality (and this was already the third year), Tulipov put the mirror in the attic, because looking at his disgusting mug had become completely unbearable for him.

Anisiy got up for work at the crack of dawn; according to winter time, it was still night. The path is not close. The house, inherited from the deacon, was located in the gardens of the Intercession Monastery, right next to the Spasskaya outpost. Along Empty Street, through Taganka, past the unkind Khitrovka, Anisius walked quickly for a full hour to serve in the Gendarmerie Department. And if, like today, it freezes and covers the road with ice, then it’s a total disaster - in tattered boots and a thin overcoat, it didn’t look too avant-garde. If you clink your teeth, you will remember better times, and carefree adolescence, and mamma, may she rest in heaven.

Last year, when Anisiy joined the police, it was much easier. The salary was eighteen rubles, plus additional pay for overtime, and for night shifts, and sometimes they also gave traveling workers a raise. Sometimes it came up to thirty-five rubles a month. But Tyulpanov, an unhappy man, could not hold on to a good, profitable position. He was recognized by Lieutenant Colonel Sverchinsky himself as a hopeless agent and generally a slobber. First, he was caught leaving the observation post (how could he not leave and drop by home if his sister Sonya had not been fed since the morning?). And then it turned out even worse, Anisiy missed the dangerous revolutionary. During the operation to seize a safe house, he stood in the backyard, at the back door. Just in case, to be on the safe side, due to his youth, Tyulpanov was not allowed to actually be detained. And it had to happen that the arresters, experienced wolfhounds, masters of their craft, missed one student. Anisiy sees a young lady in glasses running towards him, and her face is so frightened and desperate. He shouted “Stop!”, but did not dare to grab it - the young lady’s arms were painfully thin. And he stood like an idol, looking after her. He didn't even blow the whistle.

For this glaring omission they wanted to kick Tyulpanov out of the service altogether, but his superiors took pity on the orphan and demoted him to office boy. Anisiy now held a minor position, for an educated person, five classes of real graduate, even shameful. And, most importantly, completely hopeless. So you go through your whole life as a pathetic little jerk, without earning a class rank.

It’s bitter for anyone to give up on oneself at twenty, but it’s not even a matter of ambition. Live for twelve and a half, try it. You don’t need that much yourself, but you can’t explain to Sonya that his younger brother’s career didn’t work out. She wants some butter, some cottage cheese, and some candy she always needs to pamper. And firewood to heat the stove costs three rubles today. Sonya is an idiot for nothing, but she moos when it’s cold and cries.

Anisy, before rushing out of the house, managed to change his sister’s wet clothes. She opened her small, piggy eyes, smiled sleepily at her brother and stammered: “Nisiy, Nisii.”

“Sit here quietly, you fool, don’t spoil me,” Anisiy punished her with feigned severity, turning his heavy body, hot from sleep. He put the agreed-upon ten-kopeck piece on the table for his neighbor Sychikha, who was looking after the poor woman. I quickly devoured a stale roll of bread, washed it down with cold milk, and that was it, it was time to head into the dark and blizzard.

Mincing along the snow-covered wasteland towards Taganka and constantly slipping, Tyulpanov felt very sorry for himself. Not only is he poor, ugly and untalented, but this Sonya is a lifelong hanger. He is a doomed man; he will never have a wife, children, or a comfortable home.

Running past the Church of All Who Sorrow, he habitually crossed himself at the icon of the Mother of God illuminated by a lamp. Anisiy loved this icon since childhood: it does not hang in the warmth and dryness, but right on the wall, in the seven winds, only covered from rain and snow with a visor, and on top is a wooden cross. The light is small, unquenchable, burning in a glass cap, visible from afar. This is good, especially when you look out from the darkness, cold and windy howl.

What is that white thing there, above the cross?

White dove! She sits, cleans her wings with her beak, and doesn’t care about the blizzard. According to the true sign, which the late mother was a great expert on, a white dove on the cross - to happiness and unexpected joy. Where does happiness come from?

The drifting snow continued to curl across the ground. Oh, it's cold.

But Anisy’s work day actually started off quite well today. One might say that Tyulpanov was lucky. Yegor Semenych, the collegiate registrar who was in charge of the mailing list, glanced sideways at Anisie’s unconvincing overcoat, shook his gray head and gave a good, warm assignment. Don’t run all over the endless, windswept city, but just deliver a folder with reports and documents to His Highness Mr. Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official of special assignments under His Excellency the Governor-General. Deliver and wait to see if there will be any return correspondence from Mr. Court Counselor.

It's okay, it's possible. Anisiy perked up and delivered the folder in an instant, without even having time to freeze. Mr. Fandorin lived nearby - right there, on Malaya Nikitskaya, in his own outbuilding at the estate of Baron von Evert-Kolokoltsev.

Anisy adored Mr. Fandorin. From a distance, timidly, with reverence, without any hope that the big man would ever notice his tulip existence. The court councilor in Gendarmersky had a special reputation, although Erast Petrovich served in a different department. His Excellency the Moscow chief of police Efim Efimovich Baranov, even though he was a lieutenant general, did not consider it shameful to ask an official for special assignments for confidential advice or even to seek patronage.

Of course, every person at least partially knowledgeable in big Moscow politics knew that the father of the first throne, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgoruky, distinguishes himself as a court councilor and listens to his opinion. They said different things about Mr. Fandorin: for example, that he had a special gift - to see through any person and to instantly see through any, even the most mysterious, secret to the very essence.

By virtue of his position, the court councilor was supposed to be the governor general's eye in all secret Moscow affairs that fell under the jurisdiction of the gendarmerie and police. Therefore, every morning Erast Petrovich was delivered the necessary information from General Baranov and from the Gendarmersky - usually to the governor’s house, on Tverskaya, but it also happened at home, because the court councilor’s schedule was free and, if he wanted, he could not go to the presence at all.

One of the most favorite stories about Fandorin is gloomy, almost hopeless, dark and very atmospheric. Jack the Ripper is at work in Moscow - women are dying one by one, and Fandorin, together with his new assistant Tyulpanov, will have to catch the seemingly elusive killer.

The main feature of the text that sets it apart from the series of stories about Erast Petrovich is that, along with a description of the actions of the detective and his partner, excerpts from the killer’s diary are interspersed into the narrative. The maniac writes in an unusual, twitchy, crazy way: we can get acquainted with his philosophy, learn how a being so far from all human beings thinks. Akunin, a master of stylization, again succeeded with such a polyphony of styles: perhaps the killer’s reasoning is no less fascinating to read than the line of the investigators. Following the general stylistic outline of stories about Jack, which world culture brought into the world of Fandorin, the story told in the story is cruel and merciless to the main characters. The darkness that has descended on Fandorin's modern Moscow is as impressive as the foggy gateways of London. Undoubtedly, “The Decorator” will take its rightful place in the hall of fame of stories about the most famous maniac of all time. However, even if we look away from the odious figure of Jack, we can conclude that the story is good even without this reference: the plot takes a dashing turn more than once, some events plunge into real shock, and it was not easy for me to establish the identity of the criminal - the intrigue is twisted perfectly.

Perhaps, the only thing that can be a little disappointing is the solution: such a large-scale figure of a maniac in the finale is shrunk to the size of an ordinary person; Frankly speaking, I liked the version about Prince Albert that smacks of a conspiracy theory better, and the theory of a female character looks more promising - if we are talking about Jack (I, of course, have no complaints about the novel here). Although, of course, “the Russian land may give birth to its own Platos and quick-witted Newtons” - such a position may also arouse interest. Black humor.

Rating: 9

It’s probably not for nothing that “Decorator” is located next to “Jack of Spades” under the same cover. Momus and the Ripper have many similarities. Both love and know how to transform themselves, both have reached truly professional heights in their “business,” both love their “work” and have a passion for thoroughly implementing their plans. But here comes the turn to talk about the differences. Momus is deeply flawed on the mental level: a complete egoist and sensualist, a narcissistic scoundrel who does not take into account the well-being of the majority. The decorator is wonderful on a mental level: a man with deep ideas and lofty ideals, who loves humanity and strives for harmony. Only now we look at the deeds of their hands. The activity of the “vicious” Momus awakens in the soul a desire to grab him and flog him. The activities of the “righteous” decorator make the hairs on your stomach stand on end... Khoja Nasredin’s prayer is true: “Deliver me, Allah, from benefactors, and I myself will get rid of ill-wishers.”

Akunin's talent is to unobtrusively cast the reader's suspicion on one or another character. And at the same time, give such a denouement that you understand: this is the only way it could have happened. But the story is really scary. That hopelessness that really gives you chills: maniacs are among us. And it could be any of your loved ones.

Rating: 10

Boris Akunin

Decorator

One of the most dramatic novels about Erast Fandorin. After the bright and cheerful “Jack of Spades”, the author plunges us into the world of a sadist, maniac and psychopathic Ripper. Already from the first lines, the reader understands that there will be no happy ending; a Gothic novel does not use such techniques.

Moscow is shocked by the murder of the prostitute Andreichkina, monstrous and cynical - the harlot was not just killed, but completely gutted, creating a nightmarish still life of entrails next to the body and the maniac left a calling card - a bloody kiss - on the victim. An official on special assignments, who recently visited England and is familiar with the criminal situation there, comes to the conclusion: the murderer from Whitechapel, Jack the Ripper, did not disappear, but moved to Russia and continues his terrible deeds. During the investigation and the actions taken to capture the criminal, Fandorin loses colleagues, friends, love and succumbs to despair.

It's a tough book, nothing to say. Of course, the plot is far-fetched, apparently Akunin really wanted to weave a world-famous murderer into Russia in the 19th century, but it was done unnaturally and unnaturally. Why do we need such laurels? In this regard, of course, there is some slack in the plot. The most dramatic moment in the story

Spoiler (plot reveal)

The murder of the Tyulpanov family - Anisy and Sonechka and the nanny Pelageya.

When you get used to a character, you worry about him, his loss is like a blow to the head. It’s a pity for Anisy, it’s a pity, but most of all you sympathize with Fandorin - after all, Anisy became for him more than a secretary and assistant, he was a faithful and devoted friend, to whom E. Petrovich treated, if not in a fatherly way, then acted as an older brother.

Fandorin’s personal life is sketched sparingly, but even from these touches one could understand that the college counselor has sincere and deep feelings for Angelina Krasheniniikova, repeatedly offered to legitimize their relationship, but it didn’t work out, Gela could not come to terms with the fact that her beloved man committed lynching over the criminal, although she was well aware that there could be no other solution and

Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)

went to the monastery.

In a few days, Fandorin’s established and harmonious world collapsed and returned to its starting point, when seven years ago, in 1882, Erast returned to Moscow from Japan with his faithful Masa. Only this time the bitterness of loss is stronger...

The Decoratorat line did not make any impression; Akunin could not come up with anything original and made do with literary cliches about maniacs - narcissism, narcissism, the artistry of the inner world and other maniacal cockroaches.

By the way, later I was incredibly happy when Anisy and Gela reappeared on the pages of “Fandoriada” (“Skarpea of ​​the Baskakovs”, a year before the events of “Decorator”).

Rating: 8

So... Akunin decided to play with the contrasts of different images. Momus was an adventurer, but, on the whole, a funny guy, not a damned murderer. Talent, acting, brilliant mind...

Our “decorator”, aka Jack the Ripper (I don’t quite understand why, but oh well) has the same performance characteristics. But a completely different application. Light games in the style of Julio Jurenito were replaced by a completely terrible craving for murder and mutilation, the destruction of flesh. The decorator's gaze is confused and blurred, he sees in the surrounding only ugliness, which, in his distorted imagination, strives to correct and cure - to lead to perfection. Innate psychological deformity, a craving for perversion and cruel hard labor did their job, turning a secret madman into a dangerous and intelligent vigilante.

This is the kind of opponent Erast Fandorin and his newly minted big-eared Watson faced this time... I must say that the detective this time turned out to be quite good, lively and even slightly confusing, because it is not so easy to unravel the killer. By the way, I also fell for the wrong trail, and who wouldn’t? Mistakes cost many people their lives, but they were worth it. The world has been cleared... From what? From an idealist who exterminated others in the name of an idea? Even so, we don’t need such benefactors of dubious quality.

Quite decent.

Rating: 8

I began my acquaintance with Akunin’s work with this book. It was recommended by a friend of mine who knows that I adore thrillers and detective stories. Since then, this book has become my favorite by Akunin, and one of my favorite thrillers in general.

The gloomy and terrible atmosphere is very powerfully recreated. The novel is truly scary in some places. It is very difficult to guess who the maniac is. And the idea itself regarding Jack the Ripper and the motivation for his murders is very original and unusual. Many thanks to Akunin for this novel. I have re-read and will re-read.

Akunin would write more such thrillers... although his books cannot be called a classic detective story.

Rating: 10

One of Akunin’s most “catchy” novels. Probably not so much because of the terrible murders and naturalistic descriptions of the victims, but because the victims include characters already familiar and sympathetic to the reader. The author skillfully manipulates the reader, forcing him to conduct his “investigation” in the direction of one or another suspect. For example, I managed to guess the killer only in the last quarter of the story, and even then with considerable doubts.

The logic of the criminal is from a series of all sorts of “perfumers” (that’s the name). The perversion of concepts and emotions is, yes, madness, of course, but does it serve as an excuse for the murderer? It is with some relief that you read about the last shot, although it violates the usual “correctness” of Fandorin’s actions...

Rating: 9

The theme with the maniac ripper is, of course, a hackneyed one, but despite this the story turned out to be very good. If only because Fandorin and his partner Tyulpanov unraveled a case that at the very beginning seemed absolutely hopeless, and besides, the investigation was conducted with practically no evidence: shuffle:.

In the novel, even for a while, the main character becomes Tyulpanov, who is very similar to Fandorin, with his manner of investigation: beer:, Akunin turned out to be a very colorful character: super:.

The only thing I didn't like about the story was the ending. In my opinion, the author really wanted to make him a criminal, according to the principle “who is least thought of” and from this, in my opinion, the story suffered somewhat.

But in general it’s not even bad, I’m just sorry for Tyulpanov:weep:

Rating: 9

Creepy novel

First of all, the novel should appeal to readers who love the connection of a fiction story with other stories, legends and historical events. Surely, this feeling is similar to when you meet good old acquaintances, when destinies are intertwined in the work, already familiar and new characters meet and live side by side... So, how could Fandorin not meet such a notorious historical figure of the nineteenth century like Jack the Ripper...

The most terrible novel for me is about Fandorin. Scary not only because of the pictures remaining after death (which not every reader may like), but also because of how dark the human soul can be, how much it can hide within itself. All this is in the figure of the main villain, who has a sick mind, cunning and prudence and an almost mystical elusiveness. Without a doubt, this is one of the most successful and terrible characters in Akunin and in literature in general. At the end of the story it became really scary, scary for Fandorin himself, for Masa, and most importantly, for the defenseless girl.

The work uses an interesting technique: the narration is in the third person, describing Fandorin, his environment and the investigation, and the narration is in the first person, when the killer himself speaks to the reader. It’s as if his dark mind is revealed to the reader, and the scoundrel’s breath can even be felt... An excellent technique that allows the plot to be revealed in the best possible way. Needless to say, Chkhartyshvili is a master of the pen: appl: Otherwise, everything is fine: dynamic plot, lively characters.

Not bad

Rating: 9

I read this story a long time ago, but the impressions are still strong. Because in a historical setting about maniacs, this is quite original. And the plot keeps you in suspense, and you worry about the characters. The denouement is unusual, which is also a plus for the work. Of the entire series about Fandorin, this is the cutest. But, I’ll make a reservation right away, for me. Not everyone likes detective stories about maniacs, but the descriptions and details are all right here, so those who are faint of heart and simply don’t like “about gore and dismemberment” should first think about how sure they are that they want to read this.

Rating: 9

One of the most favorite stories about Fandorin is gloomy, almost hopeless, dark and very atmospheric. Akunin's talent is to unobtrusively cast the reader's suspicion on one or another character. And at the same time give such a denouement that you understand: this is the only way it could have happened. The story is truly scary - with that hopelessness that really gives you chills: maniacs are among us, and it could be any of your loved ones...

“The Decorator” is the sixth book by Boris Akunin from the “The Adventures of Erast Fandorin” series. Together with the story “Jack of Spades” it forms the book “Special Assignments”.

Unheard-of events occur in Moscow - the police discover one after another women with their throats cut. All the victims showed no signs of sexual assault, but their internal organs were removed and carefully laid out at the crime scene, forming a kind of “scenery,” as the criminal himself calls it. On the face or neck of each victim there is a bloody imprint of a kiss - the handwriting of London's Jack the Ripper. Has a serial killer really moved to Moscow? Of course, the official for special assignments, Erast Petrovich Fandorin, will have to find the answer to this question.

Boris Akunin

Special Assignments: Decorator

Bad start

April 4, Great Tuesday, morning

Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official of special assignments under the Moscow Governor-General, a 6th class person, holder of Russian and foreign orders, was turning inside out.

The thin, blue-pale face of the college adviser was contorted in pain, one hand in a white kid glove with silver buttons was pressed to his chest, the other was frantically cutting through the air - with this unconvincing gesture, Erast Petrovich wanted to reassure his assistant: nothing, they say, nonsense, will pass now. However, judging by the duration and painfulness of the spasms, this was not even nonsense.

Fandorin’s assistant, provincial secretary Anisiy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, homely young man of 23 years old, had never seen the boss in such a pitiful state. Tulipov himself, however, was somewhat green-faced, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored boss, always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy seriously.

“W-wait...,” Erast Petrovich squeezed out, wincing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The usual slight stutter, the memory of a long-standing concussion, noticeably intensified due to nervous breakdown. – Th-go there... Let the p-protocol be d-detailed... Photographic s-photographs from all angles. And the traces so as not to be... trampled...

He was bent over again, but this time the outstretched hand did not waver - the finger inexorably pointed at the crooked door of the plank shed, from where a few minutes earlier the collegiate adviser had emerged all pale, on weak legs.

Anisiy did not want to go back into the gray twilight, where there was a viscous smell of blood and offal. But service is service.

I took in more of the damp April air into my chest (hey, it wouldn’t make me feel sick), crossed myself and - it was as if I was headed into a pool.

In the shack, which was used for storing firewood, and now, due to the imminent end of the cold weather, was almost empty, a fair number of people had gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective department, a private bailiff, a quarterly supervisor, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also the janitor Klimuk, who discovered the scene of the monstrous crime. – in the morning he poked his head in to get some firewood, saw it, yelled as much as he was supposed to, and ran after the police.

Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed across the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman was sobbing subtly and sniffling.

- Well, sir, what do we have? – forensic expert Egor Villemovich Zakharov purred with curiosity, picking up something spongy, blue-purple, from the floor with his hand in a rubber glove. - No spleen. Here she is, darling. Excellent, sir. In a bag of it, in a bag. Another womb, a left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting all the little things... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not the mesentery?

Anisiy looked down, shied away in horror and almost tripped over the prone body of Andreichkina’s girl, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the deceased’s craft, was gleaned from a yellow ticket that lay neatly on the ripped open chest. Nothing more neat was observed in the posthumous appearance of the maiden Andreichkina.

Her face, presumably, which was invisible in life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes bulged out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a silent scream. It was even scarier to watch below. Someone striped the poor body of the walking woman length and breadth, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spread blood, and small shreds of either a mangled or torn dress.

Leonty Andreevich Izhitsyn, an investigator for the most important cases under the district prosecutor, squatted down next to the doctor and asked in a businesslike manner:

- Traces of intercourse?

“I’ll outline this for you later, my dear.” I’ll draw up a report and display everything as it is. Here, you see for yourself, the darkness is Egyptian and the groan is pitch-black.

Like any foreigner who has mastered the Russian language perfectly, Yegor Villemovich loved to insert various tricky phrases into his speech. Despite the quite ordinary surname, there was an expert of British blood. In the kingdom of the late sovereign, the doctor father, also a doctor, came to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zekarais, difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told along the way how they were traveling in a carriage. It’s clear from him that he’s not his brother, a hare: lanky, thick-haired, sandy hair, a wide, lipless, mobile mouth, constantly moving a crappy hemp pipe from corner to corner.

This book is part of a series of books:

BAD START
April 4, Great Tuesday, morning Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official of special assignments under the Moscow Governor-General, a 6th class person, holder of Russian and foreign orders, was turning inside out.
The thin, blue-pale face of the collegiate adviser was contorted in pain, one hand in a white kid glove with silver buttons was pressed to his chest, the other was convulsively cutting through the air - with this unconvincing gesture, Erast Petrovich wanted to reassure his assistant: nothing, they say, nonsense, will pass now. However, judging by the duration and painfulness of the spasms, this was not even nonsense.
Fandorin’s assistant, provincial secretary Anisiy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, homely young man of 23 years old, had never seen the boss in such a pitiful state. Tulipov himself, however, was somewhat green-faced, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored boss, always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy seriously.
“W-wait...,” Erast Petrovich squeezed out, wincing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The usual slight stutter, the memory of a long-standing concussion, noticeably intensified due to nervous breakdown. - Th-go there... Let the p-protocol be d-detailed... Photographic s-pictures from all angles. And the traces so as not to be... trampled...
He was bent over again, but this time the outstretched hand did not waver - the finger inexorably pointed to the crooked door of the plank shed, from where a few minutes earlier the collegiate adviser had emerged all pale, on weak legs.
Anisiy did not want to go back into the gray twilight, where there was a viscous smell of blood and offal. But service is service.
I took in more of the damp April air into my chest (oh, it wouldn’t make me feel sick), crossed myself and - it was as if I was headed into a pool.
In the shack, which was used for storing firewood, and now, due to the imminent end of the cold weather, was almost empty, a fair number of people had gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective department, a private bailiff, a quarterly supervisor, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also the janitor Klimuk, who discovered the scene of the monstrous crime. - in the morning he poked his head in to get some firewood, saw it, yelled as much as he was supposed to, and ran after the police.
Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed across the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman was sobbing subtly and sniffling.
- Well, sir, what do we have? - forensic expert Yegor Villemovich Zakharov purred with curiosity, picking up something spongy, blue-purple from the floor with his hand in a rubber glove. - No spleen. Here she is, darling. Excellent, sir. In a bag of it, in a bag. Another womb, a left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting all the little things... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not the mesentery?
Anisiy looked down, shied away in horror and almost tripped over the prone body of Andreichkina’s girl, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the deceased’s craft, was gleaned from a yellow ticket that lay neatly on the ripped open chest. Nothing more neat was observed in the posthumous appearance of the maiden Andreichkina.
Her face, presumably, which was invisible in life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes bulged out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a silent scream. It was even scarier to watch below. Someone striped the poor body of the walking woman length and breadth, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spread blood, and small shreds of either a mangled or torn dress.
Leonty Andreevich Izhitsyn, an investigator for the most important cases under the district prosecutor, squatted down next to the doctor and asked in a businesslike manner:
- Traces of intercourse?
- I’ll outline this for you, dear, later. I’ll draw up a report and display everything as it is. Here, you see for yourself, the darkness is Egyptian and the groan is pitch-black.
Like any foreigner who has mastered the Russian language perfectly, Yegor Villemovich loved to insert various tricky phrases into his speech. Despite the quite ordinary surname, there was an expert of British blood. In the kingdom of the late sovereign, the doctor’s father, also a doctor, came to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zekarayes, difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told along the way how they rode in a carriage. It’s clear from him that he’s not his brother, a hare: lanky, thick-haired, sandy hair, a wide, lipless, mobile mouth, constantly moving a crappy hemp pipe from corner to corner.
Investigator Izhitsyn with ostentatious interest, clearly showing off, looked at how the expert twirled another lump of torn flesh in his tenacious fingers and sarcastically asked:
- What, Mr. Tyulpanov, is your boss still breathing air? And I said, they would have managed just fine without the governor’s supervision. The picture is not for sophisticated eyes, but we are people who are accustomed to everything.
It’s clear that Leonty Andreevich is dissatisfied and jealous. It's no joke - Fandorin himself was assigned to oversee the investigation. What kind of investigator would like this?
- What are you talking about, Linkov, like a girl! - Izhitsyn growled at the sobbing policeman. - Get used to it. You are not for “special assignments”, therefore, you will still see enough of everyone.
“God forbid that we get used to this,” muttered senior policeman Pribludko, an old and experienced campaigner, known to Anisius in a third-year case, in a low voice.
This was not the first time I had to work together with Leonty Andreevich. An unpleasant gentleman - twitchy all over, chuckles incessantly, and his eyes are prickly. He’s dressed to the nines, the collars look like they’re made of alabaster, the cuffs are even whiter, he keeps snapping his shoulders and knocking off specks. He is ambitious and has a great career. Only at last Epiphany he had a hitch with the investigation into the spirituality of the merchant Sitnikov. The case was noisy, partly even affecting the interests of influential persons and therefore could not tolerate delays, so His Excellency Prince Dolgoruky asked Erast Petrovich to help the prosecutor’s office. And from the boss it is known which assistant - he took it and unraveled the whole matter in one day. No wonder Izhitsyn is furious. He has a presentiment that he will again be left without laurels.
“That seems to be it,” the investigator announced. - So, so. The body is in the police morgue, on Bozhedomka. Seal the barn and place a policeman. Agents should interview all surrounding residents, and be stricter. Have you heard or seen anything suspicious? You, Klimuk, came for firewood for the last time at the eleventh hour, right? - Leonty Andreevich asked the janitor. - And death occurred no later than two in the morning? (This is for expert Zakharov). Therefore, you should be interested in the interval from the beginning of the eleventh hour to two in the morning. - And again to Klimuk. - Maybe you’ve already talked to someone here? What didn't they tell you?
The janitor (piebald beard with a broom, bushy eyebrows, knobby skull, height two arshins four inches, a special feature - a wart in the middle of the forehead, Anisiy was practicing drawing up a verbal portrait) stood, crumpling his already impossibly crumpled cap.
- No, your honor. There's something we don't understand. He propped the barn door open and ran to Mr. Pribludko. And they didn’t let me leave the neighborhood until the bosses arrived. The inhabitants, they don’t even know anything. That is, of course, they see that the police have come in large numbers... That the police gentlemen have deigned to arrive. But the residents don’t know about this passion (the janitor glanced fearfully at the corpse).
“That’s what we’ll check,” Izhitsyn grinned. - So the agents are off to work. And you, Mr. Zakharov, take away your treasures. And so that by noon there will be a full conclusion, in full form.
“Gentlemen agents, please stay where you are,” Erast Petrovich’s quiet voice came from behind. Everyone turned around.
How did the college adviser come in, when? And the door didn’t creak. Even in the twilight it was clear that the boss was pale and upset, but his voice was even and his manner of speaking was always the same - restrained, polite, but in such a way that you wouldn’t want to object.
“Mr. Izhitsyn, even the janitor understood that there was no need to talk about the incident,” Erast Petrovich said dryly to the investigator. - Actually, that’s why I was sent, to ensure the strictest secrecy. No polls. Moreover, I ask and even oblige everyone present to remain completely silent about the circumstances of the case. Explain to the residents that... a walker hanged herself, committed suicide, a common thing. If rumors about what happened spread across Moscow, each of you will fall under official investigation, and whoever is guilty of disclosing it will suffer severe punishment. Sorry, gentlemen, but th-those are the instructions I received, and there are reasons for that.
At a sign from the doctor, the policemen were about to take the stretcher that stood against the wall to place the corpse on it, but the collegiate adviser raised his hand:
- W-wait.
He crouched over the dead woman.
-What's that on her cheek?
Izhitsyn, stung by the reprimand, shrugged his narrow shoulders:
- Blood stain. Here, as you may have noticed, there is blood in abundance.
- But not on the face.
Erast Petrovich carefully rubbed the oval spot with his finger - a mark remained on the white glove. With extreme, as it seemed to Anisiy, excitement, the collegiate adviser (and for Tyulpanov simply “chief”) muttered:
- No cut, no bite.
The investigator watched the official’s manipulations with bewilderment, the expert Zakharov with interest.
Taking out a magnifying glass from his pocket, Fandorin clung to the very face of the victim, peered and gasped:
- Lip trace! Lord, this is a trace of a kiss! There can be no doubt!
- Why kill yourself like that? - Leonty Andreevich sarcastically. - There are worse marks here. - He shook the toe of his boot towards the open chest and the gaping pit of the abdomen. - You never know what will come into a crazy person’s head.
“Oh, how bad,” muttered the college adviser, not addressing anyone.
With a quick movement, he tore off the soiled glove and threw it aside. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and very quietly:
- God, will this really start in Moscow...
* * *What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the specimen of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust! Let it go. Let the Prince of Denmark, an idle and blaséd creature, not care about a person, but I do! The bard is half right: there is little angelic in human deeds, and it is blasphemy to liken the understanding of man to God’s, but truly there is nothing more beautiful in the world than man. What are deeds and understanding - deception, chimera, vanity, truly the quintessence of dust. A person is not a business, but a Body. Even plants that caress the eye, the most lush and intricate of flowers, cannot be compared with the magnificent structure of the human body. Flowers are primitive and simple, the same inside and outside: turn the petal this way, turn it that way. Looking at flowers is boring. Where are their greedy stems, wretchedly geometric inflorescences and pitiful stamens, to the purple of elastic muscles, the elasticity of silky skin, the silvery mother-of-pearl of the stomach, the graceful twists of the intestines and the mysterious asymmetry of the liver!
Can the monotony of the color of a blooming poppy compare with the variety of shades of human blood - from the piercing scarlet arterial flow to the royal venous porphyry? Where is the vulgar blue of the bell to the soft blue pattern of the capillaries or the autumn coloring of the maple to the crimson of monthly flows! The female body is more refined and a hundred times more interesting than the male one. The function of the female body is not rough labor and destruction, but creation and nurturing. The elastic uterus is like a precious pearl shell. Idea! It will be necessary to somehow open the fertilized womb in order to find a ripening pearl inside the pearl oyster - yes, yes, of course! Tomorrow!
I had to fast for too long, from Maslenitsa itself. My lips dried up, repeating: “Revive my accursed heart with a passionate fast!” The Lord is kind and merciful, He will not be angry with me for not having the strength to endure six days until the Holy Resurrection. After all, April 3 is not just a day, it is the anniversary of the Illumination. Then it was also April 3. It doesn't matter if it's a different style. The main thing is the sound, the music of the words: third ap-re-la.
I have my own fast, my own Easter. Just breaking the fast, breaking the fast. No, I won't wait until tomorrow. Today! Yes, yes, have a feast. Not to be satisfied, but to be satiated. Not for your own sake - for the glory of God.
After all, it was He who opened my eyes and taught me to see and understand true beauty. Moreover, reveal it and show it to the world. And revealing it is the same as creating it. I am the Creator's apprentice.
How sweet it is to break your fast after a long period of abstinence. I remember every sweet moment, I know that my memory will preserve everything down to the smallest detail, without losing any of the visual, taste, tactile, auditory and olfactory sensations.
I close my eyes and see.
Late evening. I can not sleep. Excitement and delight lead me along dirty streets, through vacant lots, between crooked houses and rickety fences. I haven't slept for many nights in a row. Presses the chest, squeezes the temples. During the day I forget myself for half an hour, an hour, and wake up from terrible visions that I don’t remember in reality.
I walk and dream of death, of meeting Him, but I know: I can’t die, it’s too early, my mission is not fulfilled.
A voice from the darkness: “Pardon me for half a glass.” Rattling, soaked. I turn around and see the most vile and ugliest of human beings: a degraded whore - drunk, ragged, but at the same time grotesquely painted with whitewash and lipstick.
I turn away in disgust, but suddenly a familiar sharp pity pierces my heart. Poor creature, what have you done to yourself! And this is a woman, a masterpiece of God's art! So abuse yourself, desecrate and vulgarize the gift of God, so humiliate your precious reproductive system!
Of course it's not your fault. A soulless, cruel society has thrown you into the mud. But I will clean you up and save you. My soul is light and joyful.
Who knew it would turn out like this. I had no intention of breaking my fast - otherwise my path would have lay not through these miserable slums, but through the fetid back streets of Khitrovka or Grachevka, where filth and vice nest. But generosity and generosity overwhelm me, only slightly colored by impatient thirst.
“I’ll make you happy now, honey,” I say. “Come with me.”
I'm in a man's dress, and the witch thinks that there is a buyer for her rotten goods. She laughs hoarsely and shrugs: “Where are we going? Hey, do you have any money? At least feed him, or better yet, bring him.” Poor, lost sheep.
I lead her with me through the dark yard, towards the barns. I impatiently pull one door, then another, the third is unlocked.
The lucky woman breathes moonshine fumes down my neck and giggles: “Look, he’s leading me to the barn. Look, I'm impatient."
A swing of the scalpel, and I open the doors of freedom to her soul.
Liberation does not come without pain, it is like childbirth. The one I now love with all my heart is in great pain, she wheezes and chews on the gag, and I stroke her head and console her: “Be patient.” The hands do their job quickly and cleanly. I don't need light, my eyes see no worse at night than during the day.
I reveal the desecrated, dirty shell of my body, the soul of my beloved sister soars upward, while I freeze in awe of the perfection of the divine mechanism.
When I bring the hot bun of my heart to my face with a gentle smile, it is still trembling, still beating like a caught goldfish, and I tenderly kiss the wonderful fish on the open lips of the aorta.
The place was chosen well, no one disturbs me, and this time the hymn to Beauty is sung to the end, completed with a kiss on the cheek. Sleep, sister, your life was disgusting and terrible, your appearance offended the eyes, but thanks to me you became beautiful.
Take the same flower. Its true beauty is not seen on the lawn or in the flower bed, oh no! A royal rose in a bodice, a carnation in a buttonhole, a violet in a charming woman’s hair. The triumph of a flower comes when it is already cut; its real life is inseparable from death. It's the same with the human body. While it lives, it is not given the opportunity to reveal itself in all the splendor of its delightful structure. I help the body to reign. I'm a gardener.
Although no, the gardener only cuts flowers, and I also create a panel, a majestic decoration, from bodily organs of intoxicating beauty. In England, a previously unprecedented profession is coming into fashion - decorator, a specialist in decorating a home, a shop window, or a festive street.
I'm not a gardener, I'm a decorator.