“Will you allow us to enter, Anton Sergeevich?” the young man enquired politely. And then, without waiting for my permission, he continued: “You may call my male companion Esteemed Mr. Pasha, my female companion Esteemed Miss Lena, and me—simply Petya.”
“Come in, Pasha, come in, Lena, and you come in too, Petya,” I replied, and stepped aside. Naturally the Russian names were a gesture of traditional Chinese courtesy—they would have introduced themselves to an American as John, Jim, and Jill, for example. “Please forgive my bathrobe. I took a shower after the journey.”
“That is very good,” Petya said approvingly while his companions came in and seated themselves in the armchairs. It was only then that I realized there were obviously too many chairs in the room—four of them. I could even see that two of them were a slightly different color from the others and were standing in rather inconvenient spots in the passage. “A healthy mind in a healthy body,” Petya concluded.
“As they say in Russian: ‘You have to choose one or the other,’ ” I joked sourly.
“They are mistaken,” said Petya, waiting for me to sit down. I sat down and swore under my breath—I felt like striking an affectedly casual pose by crossing my legs, but in the bathrobe that was impossible.
Which was what they had been counting on.
Okay, I’d have to put up with it. No point in getting fancy and changing the bathrobe into a suit, or teleporting my own clothes onto myself. That would just be too affected altogether.
Once he was sure we were all seated, Petya himself perched on the edge of an armchair, looked at Pasha, and asked me: “Did you have a good flight? Did you have any problems on the way? Did you like our airport? Have you had a chance to enjoy the architecture and atmosphere of Taipei?”
“Yes, no, yes, no,” I replied. “Are my respected visitors in good health? Have the consequences of the latest typhoon been liquidated?” (To be honest, I didn’t know when there had last been a typhoon here and how strong it was, but they happen all the time in Taiwan.) “Are the Dark Ones up to their mischief?”
The elderly man suddenly smiled.
“And the views of the rice and tea harvest are good here, too,” he said, with a nod. “All right, Anton, let’s stop the fencing. A visit by such a powerful member of the Russian Watch is a conspicuous event on our quiet little island. We would like to inquire what has brought you here—and with such a surprising companion.”
I didn’t reply immediately.
For some reason Arina and I had never discussed this situation at all, even though we realized that our arrival would not go unnoticed.
“This isn’t a business trip,” I said. “It’s a private visit.”
The elderly man nodded and looked at me, waiting.
“Certain events took place in Moscow . . . some time ago . . .” I went on cautiously.
“We know,” said the woman. But she didn’t clarify.
“Since I was personally involved in the events, I took what happened very much to heart,” I continued, finding myself constructing the phrase in an almost Asian style. “When the esteemed witch Arina and I met in London, I was informed by her that, as often happens, the same thing had already happened somewhere else . . . and that the highly esteemed Mr. Fan Wen-yan, who works in the Gugun Imperial Museum—the Gugun National Imperial Museum”—I corrected myself—“can cast some light on that old story . . .”
The Taiwanese exchanged glances.
“Your companion is wanted by the Inquisition and by your own Watch,” said Pasha. “Does that not perturb you?”
“As a Higher Other of the Night Watch I have the right to choose my own tactics and decide how to act,” I said cautiously. “And in addition, at the present moment her interests and my own coincide. And as for the Inquisition . . . unfortunately, I am not able to guarantee the detention of the Witch Arina. She is in possession of a Minoan Sphere and at any moment she can disappear to absolutely anywhere at all. Teleportation with the assistance of this artifact cannot be intercepted or traced,” I added, to make things perfectly clear.
“We are aware of that,” Pasha said, nodding. “We acknowledge your right to make this visit.”
“And your right to choose your own tactics,” added Lena.
“And to speak to Mr. Fan Wen-yan,” said Petya, putting in his own kopeck’s worth.
“But any unsanctioned use of magic against the Others and people of Taiwan will be punished with the full severity of the law,” Pasha continued.
“Even if you are provoked, in danger or only indirectly responsible,” Lena advised me.
“Mr. Fan Wen-yan will decide for himself whether or not to have dealings with you. You must not badger him,” added Petya.
All right, fair enough. Honesty had proved better than politics.
I paused and then nodded: “Thank you, dear colleagues. I had not dared to hope for or expect such a cordial reception and magnanimous conditions. Naturally, it is not our intention either to violate your customs and traditions or to inconvenience in any way the Others and ordinary citizens of Taiwan.”
Pasha smiled.
“We are all citizens of Taiwan, Mr Gorodetsky, including the Others, both Light and Dark. Allow me once again to welcome you to our island and . . . I can sense several artifacts in your bag, and I find one of them especially interesting. May I take a look at it?”
Especially interesting?
There was nothing magical in my suitcase, apart from the suitcase itself being enchanted. And in my bag . . . there was the comb that Svetlana had given me for my birthday, nothing special, simply so that my hair would grow well and the style would hold . . . a few small bottles of healing potions, also from her—the magical equivalent of painkillers and antacids . . . a perfectly ordinary silver ring with a piece of amber in which a small amount of Power had been accumulated, also a present, but Olga had given it to me after a certain Watch operation—nothing unusual, every second Other wears a ring like that . . .
“What artifact do you mean?” I asked.
“It has the form of a chalice,” Petya clarified politely.
So that was it . . .
I walked over to the bag, took out Erasmus’s chalice, and held it out to Petya. He hid his hands behind his back.
The chalice was taken by Pasha, who politely pretended not to have noticed my gaffe. Or perhaps it wasn’t a gaffe? Who was I supposed to hand the artifact to—the most powerful of them, as a sign of respect, or the weakest, so that he could check to see if it was dangerous before handing it on to his boss?
These Chinese rules of courtesy are so complicated!
Pasha took the chalice and turned it round in his hands. Then he looked at me.
“Do you know how to use this, Gorodetsky?”
“No.”
“And are you sure you want to find out?”
“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.
But Pasha didn’t explain anything to me. He looked at the chalice, stroking it with his dry, tenacious fingers as if he was making conversation. Perhaps he was a tale-ender—a rare specialization that involved the use of objects to extract information from the past . . .
Pasha looked at Lena. She shrugged. Then he looked at Petya. He nodded.
“This vessel contains grief and sadness, Gorodetsky,” said Pasha. “You should know that if you wish to drink from it.”
“We know how to awaken the prophecy,” Lena confirmed. “It is simple.”
“But we will not tell you that,” Petya said in conclusion. “We do not wish to be responsible for the possible consequences.”
They all got up together and moved towards the door. Petya went out first and stood in the corridor, holding the door open, then Lena followed. Pasha lingered for a moment and gave me a look of either fellow feeling or compassion.
“In Europe it is usually thought that always and everywhere there are at least two paths to follow, and one of them is good. In Asia we know that there might not be any path
s at all, or there might be a countless number. But that does not mean that even one of them will prove to be good.”
“I live in Russia,” I replied. “That is not Europe, and it is not Asia. We have no paths at all, only directions, but that has never disconcerted us.”
Pasha raised one eyebrow, pondering my words. Then he smiled, nodded, and went out.
Petya closed the door behind him.
I slipped off the bathrobe and dressed hurriedly, and a minute later I was knocking at the door of the adjacent room. It opened with a click, although Arina was standing at the window, looking out at Taipei.
“Did you have any visitors?” I asked.
“They just left,” Arina answered, without turning round. “Pasha, Lena, and Petya. Fourth-, First-, and Second-Level. Light Ones.”
“How amusing—they were in my room as well,” I said. “And they just left, too.”
“Childish tricks,” Arina remarked scornfully, “I expect we even had identical conversations.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “Didn’t they try to arrest you?”
“I explained that it was pointless,” Arina replied. “But they could see that for themselves, anyway. Well, then—shall we go to see Fan?”
“ ‘I’ll take you to the museum, my sister told me,’ ” I murmured, quoting Mayakovsky. “Why be in such a hurry? I’d rather have a decent meal, catch up on my sleep, and have the meeting tomorrow.”
“All right,” Arina agreed readily. “There are several good restaurants right here in the hotel. Or we could go out into town. I told you that you won’t get poisoned here, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” I replied. “Are you feeling sad about something?”
Arina looked at me and then turned back to the window.
“Time, Anton, time . . . I look at how the city has changed, and I realize how I’ve changed myself. An old crone who looks young—strong, healthy, immortal—but an old crone.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Why is it like that for you witches? If an Other is even Fifth-Level, he can keep his body young . . .”
“We’re witches,” Arina replied, as if that was an explanation. She paused for a moment and then added anyway: “The way we absorb our Power is a bit different. We draw it from the earth, the wind, the rivers . . . nature doesn’t know how to be eternally young, Anton. Nature was ancient when people were still no different from animals. Mountains grow old and crumble, rivers change their courses, earth is carried away by the wind . . . We’re the same. Theoretically probably immortal—like all Others. But we grow old, although slowly. It’s very hard to take, charm-weaver . . . I can recall drinking sweet plum wine and kissing my lover—one of the thousands I’ve had—in this city. But I was still young then. And the city was different. And life seemed brighter.”
“But has the city really got worse?”
“Not even Moscow has got worse, although it’s been trying hard enough in recent years,” Arina snorted. “No, it’s not worse, just unfamiliar. And that’s what makes my old heart ache.”
I felt awkward, as if I’d glanced through a keyhole and seen something that wasn’t intended for my eyes at all.
“Come on, let’s go and try those Chinese delicacies,” Arina said, rousing herself and turning away from the window. “After that I intend to visit the spa, but I don’t suppose you’ll be keeping me company?”
“I think not,” I agreed.
“Quite sure? They offer a discount for a party of two,” Arina laughed. “A jacuzzi with a view of the city at night, a massage, aromatic oils . . .”
“ ‘Be gone, you libertine, your caress is repugnant,’ ” I declaimed, modifying Kozma Prutkov’s verse slightly. And immediately I realized just how inappropriate it was in this case.
“That’s not it, Anton:
“Be gone, you toothless hag! Your caress is repugnant!
From out your countless wrinkles artificial pigment
Crumbles like plaster, dropping on your breast.
Be mindful of the Styx and bid these passions rest!’ ”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s all right,” Arina laughed. “I’m not some old Greek woman, I’m a genuine Russian. An old woman, yes, but with my own teeth—note that for the record! And I won’t argue with the conclusion either:
“You should be lying now—long overdue the day!—
Calcined to crumbling dust, within an urn of clay’ ”
“Arina, please accept my apologies.”
Arina chuckled again.
“Forget it. And thanks for reminding me of Volodya . . .”
“What Volodya?”
“Well, not Putin, obviously. Volodya Zhemchuzhnikov, the poet . . .”
“One of the four authors who were ‘Kozma Prutkov’?” I asked, gazing at Arina’s dreamy smile. “Did you have an affair with him, then?”
“I don’t tell anecdotes about famous and historical individuals,” Arina snapped. “I was brought up better than that. I could tell you about a certain count, without giving you his name—what a joker he was! He once came to visit me in a carriage, absolutely naked and carrying an absolutely immense bouquet of white roses. Well, he wasn’t shy of his own driver, naturally enough, and I lived in a secluded spot. He walked straight in without being announced—and his wife was sitting there with me: she’d come to complain about her husband’s debauchery . . .”
“I’m certain that could not have been a pure coincidence,” I remarked in a quiet voice.
“Well then, what did the joker come up with, once he grasped just how embarrassing the situation was?” Arina went on. “He threw the bouquet down at his wife’s feet and, without so much as a glance at me, flung himself on her like some wild beast. And he shouted: ‘What have you done to me? You have bewitched me! At the mere thought of you, I tore my clothes off in the carriage!’ And the stupid fool believed him. She pulled a ring with a magnificent ruby off her finger, put it in my hand, and whispered: ‘Thank you, enchantress!’ Then she bundled her husband up in the tablecloth and dragged him off home. And wouldn’t you know, the next day he sent me a matching bracelet to go with the ring . . . he didn’t show up himself, the great stud.”
Arina stopped talking, pleased with her story.
“You’ve convinced me yet again that Witches view the world from a highly original perspective,” I said.
“Not Witches, but women, and not the world, but men,” Arina laughed. “All right, let’s go. I won’t try to seduce you, especially since you have a spell on you that your wife put there . . .”
“You already admitted that was a lie,” I remarked.
“I did? I’m really getting old,” Arina sighed.
Chapter 8
WHEN I FOUND MY SWIMMING TRUNKS IN AMONG THE CLEAN underclothes in the suitcase, I examined them thoughtfully for a while.
I’d never really thought of Taiwan as a seaside resort. But it was an island, after all. And it was in the south.
Could Sveta really have sensed that I would end up by the sea? I wondered what it was called here—Yellow Sea, Sea of China, Sea of Japan . . . So far the only ones I had swum in were the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.
But somehow I doubted that fate would hand me such a pleasant surprise. The only amusements for me would be the hotel and the museum . . .
The hotel! But of course. It was a five-star hotel, and that meant—
A couple of minutes later I was standing in the elevator, wearing the bathrobe over my trunks and a pair of hotel slippers. And a couple of minutes after that I was lying in cool water and looking up at the sky.
The hotel swimming pool was on the roof. Huge, deep, and almost completely deserted—either because it was so early or because all the other guests were busy with other things. Apart from me, the only person there was a fat man of European appearance, lounging in the round bowl of the jacuzzi that projected into one corner of the pool and gazing at me benignly. Probably the right thing to do would have
been to start dashing across the smooth surface of the water, tearing it open with a lively crawl, a stubborn breaststroke or an energetic butterfly. Maybe my example would have inspired the chubby hotel guest to take up sport and develop a wonderful physique—and could eventually have led to him changing his life completely.
But I myself could only swim in one style, the one that we used to call “frog paddling” when I was a kid, which is basically the most primitive possible variety of breaststroke, known to mankind ever since Neolithic times.
And, apart from that, I felt too lazy.
I splashed about in the pool for a while, gazing at the clear blue sky. Early September in Taiwan is quite a hot period, and it rains frequently too. But this morning it was remarkably cool and sunny at the same time.
It would be good to stay on here for a few days . . . No, it would be better to come here with my wife and daughter. To take a look at a different natural setting and culture, try the local cuisine, and really go swimming in the sea. It was a shame Svetlana didn’t want to come back to the Watch. With her abilities . . .
I sighed and climbed out of the water. It was time to have breakfast and look for Arina—the Witch wasn’t likely to be in the mood to sleep until midday.
We set out for the museum in a taxi, although I had suggested getting to know the Taiwan underground system. The museum was located outside the city, and we drove past new and old neighborhoods along a rapid-transit highway. I gazed out of the window curiously.
“You should travel more, Gorodetsky,” Arina said, glancing round at me. “Otherwise when you’re away on business external appearances will distract you from the essence of things.”
“Everything just doesn’t add up, somehow,” I admitted.
“Take your example from your bosses,” Arina continued. “Gesar, for example. Born in Tibet. Worked in territory that is now modern China and India. And then in Europe—in Holland.”