At that moment, the guardroom at the Fontanka reeked with a foul stench. Before Earl Knight, two figures shuffled nervously, shifting from foot to foot.
"Well, what've you got?" Knight's voice was low, but it carried a steely edge.
The young lad, nicknamed 'Scamp', began haltingly, scratching the back of his head with a grimy hand. He stank of last night's booze and something rotten.
"Well, sir... We've sussed 'em out, those... three blokes. Byakin, Terekhov, and another one, Zarizyn, I reckon..."
"Zazyrin?" Knight turned his head. A glint of interest, cold as steel, flashed in his eyes. "How'd he fall in with them? Not one of your lot, is he?"
"He's... well, now he's... keepin' his distance," Scamp mumbled, his lisp growing worse with nerves. "Gone off somewheres, on his own, like. But them other two... they've got someone else with 'em. Headin' to the Yorks, they are. The Americans, I mean."
Knight's lips twitched into a faint grimace. "Americans."
"What, they've got an open door over there? More like a public thoroughfare than a house, eh?"
"Exactly, sir!" Scamp perked up a bit. "The Yorks are throwin' a party, their lass's birthday! All open, they say. Papers wrote how the parents invited guests. Our lads scoped it all out, 'course..."
The second figure, a hunched man, suddenly raised his bleary eyes. He reeked of stale sweat and cheap tobacco, muttering as he swayed.
"Party... party... all dancin' and singin'... then they up and run. Like it's a fire. I know. I've seen. How they... how they come for souls..."
Knight's mouth barely twitched, a faint smirk. He was used to the "peculiarities" of his agents. The madder they were, the fewer questions they asked.
"And this... other one with them? A journalist, I wager? Rasolko, isn't it?" Knight's voice was steady.
"That's him, boss. Walks with 'em like he's one of their own, scribblin' everythin', always lookin'... side to side, in their faces. His paper... think it's the Saint Petersburg Gazette..."
Earl finally stepped away from the window, sauntered to the desk, and sat down deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, hands clasped on his knee.
"So," he said, almost musing aloud, his voice calm and even, "in a city where everyone watches everyone, where every breath is tracked, up pops a certain Mr. Rasolko. Notebook in hand. Playing the part of watcher, informer, and perhaps even investigator."
He paused, his gaze seemingly genial but piercing to the core.
"Strolling arm in arm with those who ought to be in cuffs by now. Heading to the Americans, no less, as if he's got an invitation. And all this—without clearance."
His tone didn't shift, but a sly, icy smirk flickered in his eyes.
"Curious, isn't it? How do they reward such types? With a commendation, a cup of lemon tea, or a bonus under Article 129? For unauthorized snooping?"
The tramps let out stifled chuckles, their laughter muffled, tinged with caution. The hunched one muttered again, swaying.
"Commendation... yeah, commendation... with blood on it... red... like tomato juice..."
Knight ignored him. His voice hardened.
"Listen up. Keep tabs on all three, but don't interfere with the journalist—watch him closely, though. If he veers off, report it immediately. And get Rasolko's name on the list. Now. Any zeal not backed by orders is shadier than a stash in a lamppost. That goes for anyone poking their nose where it doesn't belong. Got it?"
Both nodded. Scamp, as if afraid to open his mouth, only rasped, "Got it, sir."
Knight's shoulders eased slightly. Then, almost to himself, he added, his gaze drifting into the void.
"The dangerous ones aren't the bomb-throwers. It's the listeners. And this one, I reckon, listens far too well. He knows how to find what's hidden."
With that, he snuffed the lamp. The room sank into gloom. The tramps, like ghosts, melted into the shadows, leaving only the stench of booze and fear behind.
...666...
By midday, a crowd had begun to gather at the Yorks' home on Kirochnaya, as if by magic. The newspapers had barely been distributed that morning, with an inconspicuous paragraph announcing "a charity reception at the home of the respected American lawyer Eugene S. York, known for his connections with Russian merchants." The trick worked: the city's public, knowing where the bread was softer and the conversations safer, responded immediately.
The motley hats, the ironed frock coats, the enthusiastic governesses and the fragrant cadets mingled at the gate with respectable faces from a more discerning circle - especially those who had crossed paths with Gene York at least once on business. Among the latter, standing out for her fine bearing and elusive worldliness, walked Anna Lvovna Golovina - in a light, carefully tailored dress, with a collar trimmed with lace, slightly shading her stubborn chin. Behind her, half a step behind, walked Sergei Petrovich Maltsev - tall, reserved, a former officer, now a factory manager, with that very expression on his face that men wear in court and at funerals: respect, annoyance, readiness for anything.
They walked slowly, as if not wanting to rush the day, but Maltsev's gaze picked out details - not out of curiosity, but rather out of habit of checking. All this leisurely pace, this sense of celebration, left a bitter aftertaste in his soul: he had not forgiven Gene for the delay with the papers. Then, at the end of April, they were promised that the drafts would be ready "in a couple of days - more than two weeks had already passed.
"So he arranges receptions with such zeal," he muttered under his breath, so that only Anna Lvovna could hear, "but he leaves other people's business unfinished. It's not right."
There was no anger in the words, only wariness - the same one that Anna Lvovna recognized unmistakably. She did not want to continue. Everything in this yard - the voices, the vanilla, the noise of children and the smell of hot pies - seemed to belong to another life. One to which there was no need to bring the fatigue of litigation and calculating reproaches.
"Today is a holiday, Sergei," she whispered, trying to smooth over the tension. "At least once without arguing."
He nodded slightly, but his gaze remained cold and staring forward.
They approached the gate almost simultaneously with the new wave of guests. Jake, standing at the entrance, noticed something, nodded, said something to Gene, who was greeting some respectable merchant. He turned around, was surprised, raised his eyebrows, but immediately pulled himself together and went to meet them.
"Anna Lvovna! Sergei Petrovich! What a pleasant surprise!" Gene spoke with a polite smile, assuring that he was glad to see you, although he hadn't expected it. "I'm sincerely glad.
Maltsev did not respond with his hand to Gene's outstretched palm, but only nodded briefly.
"It would be even more joyful, Mr. York," he remarked, almost without intonation, "if things did not remain in limbo."
Gene didn't seem offended. Not a muscle moved on his face. He just smiled even wider.
"On a holiday, it is especially important to strengthen trust, Sergei Petrovich. The matter is under control. The first papers are promised by the end of the week. That is the main thing, isn't it?"
"They promised it by the beginning of May," Maltsev reminded, his voice dry.
Gene chuckled briefly, almost cheerfully, as if he found this argument amusing.
"Well, it was May! The eighteenth is quite within the bounds of what is acceptable. The deadline is a delicate matter, especially in our bureaucratic country."
Anna touched Sergei on the elbow.
"Today is a holiday, Sergei Petrovich. The rest will come later."
He did not argue. He merely nodded and followed her into the courtyard, into the midst of the guests, without looking back at Gene York, who continued to stand at the gate, greeting the new arrivals with unfailing politeness. The celebration in the Yorks' house on Kirochnaya had already gained momentum, like a seething cauldron from which a polyphonic hum was coming. In the spacious halls and on the veranda, among the delicate patterns of the wrought-iron railings and flowering flowerbeds, people of different classes and nationalities mingled, as if they had stepped out of the pages of a thick novel.
Countess Vorontsova, whose diamonds on her neck sparkled brighter than the morning sun, sighed languidly, turning to the illustrious gentleman who seemed to have just arrived from London.
"Oh, Mr. Bernhard," she cooed in perfect English, barely covering her plump cheeks with her fan, "these Americans... So unusual, isn't it? This... This freedom of morals of theirs. No formalities!"
Mr. Bernhard, a portly, middle-aged gentleman, chuckled as he adjusted his cuff.
"Yes, Countess. The sight is impressive. But, I must admit, their hospitality... It invigorates. Unlike our strong English teas. Although, I will tell you frankly, I really miss real strong tea."
In another corner, an elderly French merchant, Monsieur Dubois, with a face covered with wrinkles like an old map, was sipping champagne and animatedly conversing with a merchant of the second guild, Ignat Savelyevich Pushkarev.
"What a world!" Dubois exclaimed, waving his hand. "This is simply marvelous! You won't see anything like this in Paris! All these people are so... So alive!"
Pushkarev, a stocky man with a waxed moustache, laughed, causing his stomach to shake.
"Alive, monsieur," he answered in a deep voice. "Especially those who have come from the factories and plants these days. They say York is on friendly terms with everyone these days."
Anna Lvovna Golovina, standing with Sergei Petrovich Maltsev near one of the marble columns, sighed barely noticeably.
"Really, Sergei Petrovich," she whispered, trying to shout over the hubbub of voices. "It seems that all of Petersburg has decided to honor the Yorks with its attention. Have these Americans really gained favor so quickly?"
Maltsev, with an inscrutable expression on his face, merely glanced sideways at the noisy crowd.
"My dear Anna Lvovna, these days you are as changeable as the weather. Rather, it is a matter of their... Their enterprise. Or their ability to create appearances."
It was at that moment, as if on cue, that they entered the yard: Starikov, Byakin, Terekhov, and in the very center, Rasolko, striding with the importance of a colonel hiding a bomb under his tunic. Only he had a bomb - a paper one: a notebook, a pencil, and a look with which he could measure the distance to the chopping block.
Starikov, in a bright white shirt, already slightly sweaty on the chest, immediately headed towards the footman at the entrance, for some reason extending his hand to him for a handshake.
"A friend of Mr. York!" he announced loudly, as if letting the whole court know about him. "They are expecting us! I hope the treat will be no worse than at the Medved!"
The footman nodded reservedly and pointed to the veranda. Byakin hesitated, looked around, and adjusted his worn jacket every now and then. Terekhov, as if he were at a dacha, put his hands behind his back and began to study the stool with the compote, with the air of a man who had attained Zen and was deeply thinking about the essence of apples.
Rasolko remained silent, his camera-like eyes absorbing everything: faces, gestures, expressions, the distance between people and dishes, the clock on the wall, the books on the shelf, the angle of the candles.
The manufacturer Porokhovnikov, standing by the window with a glass of champagne, glanced in the direction of Gene, who was just talking with Mr. Smith.
"What is this, Mr. York?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "Has this evening really become a get-together? Who allowed such liberties to be taken?"
Countess Zvyagintseva, having overheard, added, covering her mouth with a fan:
"I see that York has really decided to open the doors to everyone. An unacceptable liberty! Where are the rules of decency, Fyodor Ivanovich?
There was a reproach in her tone: either towards York, or towards everyone at once - what kind of holiday is this, they say, if guests without breeding, without cuffs, without a filter appear in the house?
Anna Lvovna tensed up a little, her face seemed to freeze for a moment; Sergei Petrovich, holding a glass in his hand, did not take a sip, but only placed it on the windowsill. A slight murmur ran through the hall - not words, but movements, glances, rustling fabric.
York, overhearing the snatches of conversation, stepped forward, calmly, evenly, a little defiantly. He did not hide, did not apologize: on the contrary, he held himself confidently, with dignity, like a man who knew his place. The light waistcoat was almost a ceremony, the absence of a hat was a gesture. He spoke quietly, but his voice filled the hall, as if a brass instrument had sounded in the room - not angrily, but clearly.
"Gentlemen! Ladies!" he said, and his English accent gave his words special weight. "My house is open to all today. We are gathered here to celebrate the birthday of my daughter Delia York. And how can a celebration be marred by conventions?"
He glanced around at those gathered, stopping at Starikov and his companions, then at Porokhovnikov and Countess Zvyagintseva.
"I don't think it's right to weigh people by their collars or their origins. It's not names that invite us, but living, thinking, feeling people. The house is open today," York repeated, "and that means no one should be deprived of bread. On this day, everyone is equal before the spirit of the holiday!"
Someone muttered something dissatisfied - a word like "pathos" floated up and immediately sank into the general silence. No one objected out loud. Countess Zvyagintseva only snorted, straightening her fan, and whispered to Mr. Smith:
"What did I say? Pure... Pure Americanism!"
Porokhovnikov merely shrugged and walked over to the buffet, as if snorting to the side, but not wanting to escalate the situation. He took another glass of champagne, turning away, as if he didn't like all of this.
"Oh, something's brewing!" Rasolko suddenly hissed, loud enough to make Baroness von Strahlendorf, who was standing nearby and had a face like a dried apple, shudder.
"What did you say, my dear sir?" she muttered, adjusting her reticule.
"Ah, Baroness!" Rasolko bowed his head, his smile was unctuous, like rancid butter. "I just admire. I admire how here... How extraordinary everything is here! As if not in Petersburg, but somewhere in America, where, they say, even a cook can dine with a prince!
The Baroness snorted, her nostrils flaring.
"Oh, really! A cook? No way! That's too much!"
Rasolko winked at her playfully.
"And just look, Baroness," he nodded slightly toward the tea table, where Byakin, looking like a hungry dog, was sipping jelly straight from a ladle, and Starikov, chomping, was stuffing his mouth with pastry. "Aren't these, by any chance, the very same... The most democratic morals?"
Countess Vorontsova, who overheard this conversation, hastened to join in.
"My God, this is..." she hesitated, at a loss for words. "This is simply... This is simply unacceptable! What will they think of us, Mr. Bernhard?
Mr. Bernhard just muttered:
"Yes indeed, Countess. An unusual sight."
Rasolko turned to Byakin and Starikov, slightly bowing his head, and his voice sounded like the creaking of an unlubricated cart.
"Allow me to introduce myself! Journalist Rasolko. I am collecting material for an article about... About progressive trends. Tell me, gentlemen", he bowed his head slightly, his voice was unctuous", you, then, are one of those... One of those who fight for equality? Well, commendable, commendable! And what do you actually do? What ideas do you have, besides... Besides drinking jelly?"
Byakin, tearing himself away from the ladle, looked at Rasolko with cloudy eyes.
"What do you want, my dear? Why are you bothering me? Jelly is just that - jelly. It makes the soul happy. And ideas... Ideas are in the head, not on the tongue."
Starikov, having finished chewing the cake, wiped his lips with his sleeve and answered loudly.
"Ideas? The most real ones! We are for the people! For justice! So that everyone, like us, has the right to eat as much as they want here, and not bow to this..." he waved his hand in the direction of the manufacturer Porokhovnikov, who, noticing the gesture, frowned even more.
Rasolko rubbed his hands joyfully.
"Wonderful! Simply wonderful! And then there are rumors that some of you", he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but so that everyone around could hear, "do not advocate peaceful ideas at all. Is this really slander?"
Terekhov, tearing himself away from the door handle, which he had been scrupulously studying, suddenly turned around, his eyes burning.
"Slander!" he said hoarsely. "We are for the people. And whoever is against the people is..."
He didn't finish, but his gaze was eloquent, and his fist clenched. Several ladies standing nearby recoiled in fear.
Rasolko smiled with satisfaction, glancing at Porokhovnikov, who was nervously stroking his moustache, and at Countess Zvyagintseva, whose fan was trembling in her hand.
"And who is more afraid of whom here - these trinity of merchants, or the trinity of merchants?" he muttered barely audibly, but so that the gentlemen standing nearby, among whom was the merchant Pushkarev, could hear.
Pushkarev, a stocky man with a waxed moustache, chuckled.
"Nowadays, Mr. Journalist, the public has changed. Not like before."
Monsieur Dubois, an elderly French businessman, agreed, sipping his champagne.
"Oui, monsieur! C'est la vie!"
Rasolko walked away from them, heading towards the window, where Gene York was still talking with Porokhovnikov and Zaretsky.
"Of course I understand, Mr. York," Porokhovnikov said, trying to speak quietly, but his indignation was evident in every word, "but... But this is already going beyond all bounds! These people... They shouldn't be allowed into decent society even within cannon shot! What will they think... What will Countess Zvyagintseva think? She'll leave immediately!"
Zaretsky, nodding in agreement, looked back at the approaching Rasolko, but immediately looked away.
"Reputation," he muttered, "isn't like a cabbage pie; you can't bake it again."
Rasolko, having come close, as if by accident, stopped abruptly.
"Ah, reputation!" he exclaimed, looking straight into Porokhovnikov's eyes, his voice rang out, attracting attention. "How true that is, esteemed Theodore Ivanovich! After all, reputation is such a fragile thing. Just let the wind blow... Or, say, the truth - he paused meaningfully, enjoying the expression of horror on the manufacturer's face - and it will crumble to dust! Especially if in the house of a respected lawyer there are suddenly discovered... Unreliable elements, isn't that so? What will the newspapers say, eh? About 'charity' and 'equality'?"
Gene York, who had remained calm until then, frowned slightly, his gaze meeting Rasolko's icy gaze. Porokhovnikov turned as white as chalk. Zaretsky looked at him, dumbfounded.
Rasolko, enjoying the effect produced, turned and glanced around the entire hall, as if surveying the field of the upcoming battle.
"I see, I see, gentlemen," he said loudly, addressing everyone. "What scope for a journalist's pen! So many... So many new faces! So many... So many unexpected meetings! Ah, this Petersburg!"
Karen flashed in the depths of the house - her face tense, her gestures quick and businesslike.
"Pelageya!" she called to the maid, her voice sounding tense. "Where are the cakes? Why isn't the table straightened? Everything must be under control, otherwise everything will fall apart!"
Rasolko grinned, his eyes flashing a cold, deathly light.
"Oh, Mrs. York," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Baroness von Strahlendorff, who was standing nearby, "you won't have long to hide your skeletons in the closet. Soon everyone will know what kind of snake you've been harbouring in your American bosom! And your house, your fucking holiday, will stink of shame so much that no lavender can cover it up!"
The Baroness, hearing this, widened her eyes and hastily retreated.
Karen, noticing Rasolko's gaze, suddenly stopped. Her eyes, full of some hidden sadness, met his. For a split second. It seemed to her that she saw in his eyes not just curiosity, but something cold, predatory, and for a second a chill ran through her body. She quickly turned away, hurrying to the servants.
Rasolko, having caught this fleeting fright, smiled with satisfaction.
"Yes, yes, be afraid. You will all be afraid. It cannot be otherwise. After all, I, Rasolko, see right through you. I see all your rot. And I will drag it out so that you can choke on it." He took another step, approaching the center of the hall, like a predator choosing prey, or an executioner approaching the scaffold, choosing who else to provoke.
Meanwhile, Delia, the main culprit of this whole celebration, is at the old piano. The girls have gathered around her, their faces glowing with anticipation.
"Deedle, come on, play! Liszt's Second Rhapsody! Please!" begged one of them, with a long braid and a bow.
Delia sat down, placed her slender fingers on the keys, but did not play a note. She simply sighed, heavily, almost like an adult.
Rasolko, like a shadow, appeared nearby.
"Oh, what are we doing?" he said loudly, addressing the girls, but so that the whole room could hear. "Is the young lady really that modest? Or perhaps Liszt's music is too... Too rebellious for our society?"
Baroness von Strahlendorf, who was passing by, stopped.
"What nonsense are you talking about, my dear sir?" she hissed, her apple-face wrinkled even more.
"Ah, Baroness!" Rasolko bowed his head, his smile was unctuous. "I only admire. Young Miss York is so serious. No hysterics, no silly babble. Suspiciously smart, isn't she? I bet she doesn't read Pushkin's fairy tales, but something heavier?"
At that moment, Karen, approaching her daughter, quietly called:
"Deedle, they're waiting for you. Sorry, dear, but I need to go away."
Delia stood up, quietly apologizing to the girls, and followed her mother.
Rasolko turned to Gene, who was standing by the window with the manufacturer Porokhovnikov.
"Mr. York!" he called loudly. "What a piercing look you gave your daughter! Just as if... as if you were expecting something important! Isn't that so?"
Gene York frowned and just shook his head.
"Mr. journalist, you seem to imagine too much."
"Oh, really?" Rasolko chuckled. "But it seemed to me that you and your daughter understand each other without words! Not like a father and child, but like... allies! And if an alliance, then perhaps there is a purpose in it, right?"
Porokhovnikov grimaced and turned away.
"What is he talking about?" he muttered to Zaretsky. "It's all pure speculation!"
Rasolko ignored them, walking over to the bookcase, pretending to examine the carved patterns.
"Wow!" he exclaimed, pulling out a book at random. "Wow! Herzen! Is it possible that Americans have come to love our Russian literature so much? Or maybe it's not just literature, but... And a guide to action? What do you say, gentlemen?"
Monsieur Dubois, who was standing next to the merchant Pushkarev, shrugged his shoulders.
"Mon ami, littérature et politique, c'est pas la même chose."
Pushkarev, a stocky man with a waxed moustache, chuckled.
"People read all sorts of books these days, Mr. Journalist. Some of them are not for good at all."
"Exactly!" Rasolko picked up, looking at the volume of Herzen. "Especially if we are talking about 'freedom' and 'equality'! And this, as we know, can easily be turned upside down in a newspaper headline - and presented as undermining public order! Isn't that right, Mr. York?"
Gene York, who came closer, looked extremely irritated.
"Mr. Rasolko, it seems you are too carried away by your fantasies."
"Fantasies?" Rasolko feigned indignation. "Oh, no, Mr. York! Only facts! And your guests, by the way, confirm my... My observations!"
Somewhere nearby, Jake laughed loudly, clapping someone on the shoulder.
"Oh, come on!" Jake exclaimed. "What secrets could there be in such a beautiful house? Only good nature!"
Rasolko looked at him with contempt.
"Good nature, you say?" he hissed. "But what if it's just a cover, Mr. Madison? What if this house is not just a place for celebration, but... And the center from which the influence on minds comes? Eh?"
He stood at the sideboard, took a piece of lemon from his glass and threw it into his mouth with feigned indifference.
"If Mr. York is really connected with Geneva," he said loudly, turning to Zaretsky, who was standing nearby, "it's a discovery. It's a big deal. He balances too cleverly between decency and the shadows. He allows himself too much in front of the authorities. Don't you think?"
Zaretsky, pale, recoiled.
"I... I don't know anything!"
Rasolko grinned.
"Oh, you know! You all know!" He glanced at the door through which Karen and Delia had disappeared. "The daughter is suspicious. He is a silver tongue. They have clients from all over the city. A cover? This whole house is one big cover!"
He did not smile. His face was cold and motionless.
"The house on Kirochnaya," he said loudly, as if dictating to someone invisible. "Where, under the guise of family celebrations, people of dubious convictions gather..."
Countess Zvyagintseva, who overheard these words, gasped and quickly walked away.
"Oh, my God, how awful!" she whispered to her companion. "This man... He's just the devil!"
Rasolko, standing by the buffet, caught her eye and only winked sarcastically, pretending to be busy with an anchovy cracker. His attention was sharpened to the limit.
"Oh, what do we see here?" he said loudly, so that several voices fell silent and heads turned in his direction. "Look at that! Is this really a new trend in high society?"
Baroness von Strahlendorf, with a face like a dried apple, shuddered.
"What are you saying, my dear sir?" she muttered, her tone full of alarm.
"Ah, Baroness!" Rasolko bowed his head, his smile was unctuous, but his eyes shone with malice. "I only admire! Look, look!"
At that moment, a boy came into Rasolko's field of vision - a servant without livery, with a metal tray full of teacups. His face was thin, tanned, his forehead tense. He walked unevenly, was nervous, but held on.
"And here is another 'progressive element!'" exclaimed Rasolko, pointing at the boy. "Look! A servant, a kitchen boy! Without livery! And what do you think?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but so that everyone around could hear him, "I saw! I saw how his eyes met with the young lady York!"
Several ladies standing nearby gasped.
"And what then?" asked Countess Zvyagintseva, unable to contain her curiosity.
"Of course!" Rasolko smiled maliciously. "She... She smiled at him! Softly, like adults when they don't know what to say! Not condescendingly, not 'kindly', like they condescend to children - no! As an equal! And she quietly said something to him! Very simply! But in this short dialogue - a gesture, a look, an answer - there was everything that shouldn't have been!"
A whisper ran through the hall.
"Misalliance!" Rasolko said loudly. "A young lady and a plebeian! Ideal material for a pamphlet! Or a denunciation! Isn't that right, gentlemen?"
Merchant Pushkarev shook his head.
"Yeah, times..."
Rasolko, enjoying the effect produced, continued.
"How dare he! A little kitchen snot! He's obviously got all snug - like a puppy! They're not related, then! Not a godson! Just... Just a stupid, wretched son of a poor, dirty servant! And she treats him like an equal! Do you approve of such morals, gentlemen?"
He turned to Gene York, who was standing nearby with Porokhovnikov.
"Mr. York!" he hissed. "What do you say to this? Your daughter! Your reputation!"
Gene York, pale with anger, clenched his fists.
"Mr. Rasolko, this... This is none of your business!"
"Oh no, you are mistaken, it is mine!" Rasolko exclaimed. "And not only mine, but all of Russia's! If this is their future, then let the punishment thunder right now! After all, this is... After all, this is dirt! Swampy, sticky, disgusting in its 'beyond rank'!"
Countess Zvyagintseva, covering her mouth with a fan, whispered to Mr. Smith.
"What did I say? Pure... Pure Americanism!"
Rasolko, catching her gaze, winked sarcastically.
"You're right! After all, he's a servant, and he's close to his daughter!" he proclaimed, as if giving instructions to an invisible scribe. "Pay attention! Potential leverage!"
He turned to face Karen, who had emerged from the depths of the house, her face tense.
"Oh, Mrs. York!" Rasolko addressed her loudly. "Don't you know what's going on under your nose? Your daughter... Your daughter talks to the servants as if they were equals! What is that if not a disgrace for such a house?"
Karen winced.
"What are you talking about, Mr. Rasolko?!
"I bring the truth, Mrs. York!" he cried. "The truth is that you will not have long to hide your skeletons in the closet! Soon everyone will know what kind of snake you have nursed in your American bosom! And your house, your damned holiday, will stink of shame so that no lavender can kill it!"
Karen, noticing his gaze, suddenly stopped. She quickly turned away, hurrying to the servants.
Rasolko, having caught this fleeting fright, smiled with satisfaction.
"Yes, yes, be afraid. You will all be afraid. It cannot be otherwise. After all, I, Rasolko, see right through you. I see all your rot. And I will drag it out so that you can choke on it." He took another step, approaching the center of the hall, like a predator choosing prey, or an executioner approaching the scaffold, choosing who else to provoke.
At that moment, Jake Madison, standing at the entrance to the veranda with a glass of punch, turned around.
"Hey, Mr. Journalist!" he shouted, his voice loud and good-natured. "What are you so upset about? It's just a child talking to a servant! There's nothing special about it!"
Rasolko turned to Jake, his gaze becoming even sharper.
"Nothing special?" he hissed. "Oh, Mr. Madison! You must be very naive! Or... Or are you in on this too? What do you say, huh? The Americans, they're all in it, aren't they?"
Jake burst out laughing.
"We, Mr. Rasolko, are in agreement in only one thing: the desire to have fun and not to meddle in other people's business! Which is what I advise you to do!"
Rasolko only snorted contemptuously.
"Oh, we'll see who doesn't get involved! And who will wipe whom out later!" His voice dropped, but was audible to everyone. "All these 'equalities', 'freedoms'... This is just a cover for something dirtier, isn't it?"
A new whisper ran through the hall. Some guests began to exchange nervous glances.
"He's running like a madman!" exclaimed Porokhovnikov, glancing at Gene York. "What are we going to do?"
"This man... He must be stopped!" hissed Countess Zvyagintseva.
Rasolko, hearing them, laughed loudly.
"Stop? Me? Ha! You've picked the wrong guy, gentlemen! I am the voice of truth! And let it be as bitter as this lemon!" He took another bite. "Where else is there rot? Show me!"
He looked around the room, his eyes shining.
"Oh, did I hear wrong?" he suddenly said loudly, and several heads turned in his direction. "Or did I just think the air here... crackled?"
Baroness von Strahlendorf, with a face like a dried apple, widened her eyes.
"Has something happened, sir?
"Look at that!" Rasolko exclaimed, pointing to the stairs. "It seems like someone has decided to ruin the party!
From the stairs came a strange, overly distinct voice, with that awkward accent with which indecent words are spoken at someone else's party.
"What?!" someone from the crowd asked sharply, not believing that he had heard correctly, or not wanting to hear it again.
Rasolko turned around. The picture was almost absurd: Byakin - with a glass, with a fork, with his trademark half-laugh - was talking to a man in front of whom even silence had to stand still. Behind him stood a lady with an unbuttoned glove, someone dropped a glass, someone, on the contrary, was trying too hard not to drop either his gaze or his breath.
"It's... It's the minister!" whispered Countess Zvyagintseva, covering her mouth with her fan.
"And what does he say there?" asked the merchant Pushkarev, craning his neck.
And Byakin, as if by the way, without pressure, with that same touch of irony behind which it is easy to hide a subversive meaning, allegedly noted:
"Your Excellency, allow me to point out that your gymnasium reform has turned out to be nothing more than a cardboard sign, a sham from circulars, a report for the sake of a report!"
The anticipation thickened around. The air seemed to become thicker. The minister said something muffled, more like a groan.
"Who... Who is this?!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with indignation.
Byakin, without losing his easygoing cheerfulness, replied:
"Me? I, your Excellency, am the people. One of them. And so, you see, what a dialogue is emerging between us!"
With these words, he turned abruptly and left without even coming out - cutting himself out of the scene, leaving behind him the slam of the door and emptiness.
There was silence for a few moments. Then someone's voice, female, high-pitched, surprised, asked the question that was apparently on everyone's lips:
"Who was that?!"
Jake Madison muttered reluctantly, as if making excuses:
"Just some student... He came here by chance."
Rasolko, turning pale from realization, said loudly, addressing everyone:
"He! It's him! It's me... It was I who brought them! You said yourself that York was worth listening to, he was an interesting figure! You described the reception yourself as a quiet opportunity to penetrate - into the environment, into the situation, into the speech! You yourself noted in your mind that maybe you'll be able to fish out something useful!
A new whisper ran through the room. Several people looked at each other in amazement.
"Well, that's it!" Rasolko shouted, and his voice broke into a hoarse voice. "Byakin - usually the most reserved, the one who preferred to speak in quotations and omissions - suddenly fired off a phrase from which others could have assembled an editorial! And the minister left, like the hero of a provincial tragicomedy, with offended pathos and comic punctuality!"
Gene York, who had been standing motionless, suddenly took a step forward. His gaze became piercing.
"What does this mean, Mr. Rasolko?" he asked, and there was a threat in his voice."
"That's it!" Rasolko exclaimed. "With this, the balance is gone! That's it! There's nothing!"
Karen was picking something up from the floor.
"These are fragments!" she exclaimed, holding up the broken glass. "Everything is falling apart!"
The music froze in the girls' fingers like water in a hole in the ice.
"Deedle!" whispered one of the girls at the piano. "Where did she go?"
Xander slipped into the kitchen, disappearing into it like into the service door of a theater.
Rasolko stood in the middle of the hall.
"This is the theatre of life for you!" he cried, his voice full of bitterness. "It all happened by chance! Too abruptly, too absurdly, too recognizably!"
Countess Zvyagintseva, clasping her hands, whispered:
"He's gone crazy!"
Rasolko turned to her, his eyes burning.
"All of you!" he shouted. "All of you are my puppets! And one of you - fell out of character! Knocked out the scenery! Broke the illusion!"
He looked at the door behind which Byakin had disappeared, and his face distorted.
"If I hadn't brought you..." he whispered, but then stopped short, not finishing. He simply turned away.
And - for the first time that evening - one of the guests noticed a shadow cross Rasolko's face, as if he felt... He felt ashamed. But then that expression disappeared, replaced by his usual grimace.
"He's somehow... somehow strange," Zaretsky muttered.
"Yes, indeed," Porokhovnikov agreed. "But what to do now?"
The conversations in the hall were beginning to slide into a lazy, almost family-like muttering. Suddenly, a dull knock on the door came from the hallway - too decisive to be accidental. Boots, still damp from the street, shuffled across the parquet. Three gendarmes entered the room - in overcoats, with the street cold in the folds of the fabric. One held a list, the second examined their faces with cold caution, the third silently closed the door behind them.
Rasolko, who was standing at the buffet, said loudly, addressing the nearest guests:
"Look at this! What guests! Have they really decided to keep an eye on our celebration?"
Baroness von Strahlendorf turned pale and whispered:
"My God... Gendarmes!"
The first gendarme was already looking through the lines on the paper, as if checking not against a register, but against a sentence.
"Artyom Starikov!" he said, and the name sounded without a question, more like an established fact.
Starikov, holding a cup of tea that he had just taken from the governess, froze. It seemed he wanted to say something, but the second gendarme was already standing too close, leaving no room even for surprise.
"The hour of reckoning has come, gentlemen!" Rasolko exclaimed, his voice ringing with malice. "Could it be that one of our 'progressive' friends turned out to be not so innocent after all?"
"Be quiet!" Countess Zvyagintseva hissed. "They'll put us all in jail!"
"Denis Terekhov!" said the first gendarme.
Terekhov, without tearing himself away from the plate of berries, raised his gaze - slowly, as if he knew that there would be no return after this raising. He did not ask a single question. He only muttered something under his breath, too quietly to hear.
"What is he muttering there?" asked the merchant Pushkarev. "Is he saying goodbye to life or something?"
"Of course!" Rasolko shouted. "Freedom is over, gentlemen! Equality is over! Now only... Only a government house!"
Someone among the guests, perhaps one of those watching from behind the column, whispered in bewilderment:
"And what about the third one? Byakin, I think, is the one who argued with the minister at the snack table?"
The footman, who was standing nearby, remembered how he had left about twenty minutes ago, having thrown out something harsh as a parting word.
"Yes, sir," the footman muttered. "He left. So abruptly."
One of the gendarmes, still looking at the list, remarked:
"It seems he disappeared. And that's a shame."
"That's always the way it is!" Rasolko exclaimed. "These 'fighters for the people' are the first to run when things get hot! Isn't that right, Mr. York? Your 'friend' turned out to be a coward!"
Gene York, who had been keeping a stony expression until now, suddenly took a step forward.
"Mr. Rasolko, stop it! You are going beyond the bounds of decency!"
"Decency?" Rasolko laughed, an unpleasant, creaky laugh. "Oh, Mr. York! What kind of decency is there when it comes to the security of the state!"
Lisa Roselli, the Yorks' governess, who had been standing nearby, adjusted her cuff as if doing so mechanically. She nodded toward the prisoners.
"Does she approve?" whispered one of the ladies.
"Or he just realizes that it was meant to happen," someone else replied.
"Is the governess in on the plot too?" Rasolko cried out, his eyes shining. "Oh, this house is full of surprises!"
Meanwhile, the gendarmes led Starikov and Terekhov to the exit. Starikov, hunched over, walked silently. Terekhov, it seemed, did not even resist.
"Well, gentlemen," Rasolko said when the door closed behind the detainees. "Is the party continuing? Or are you going to celebrate now... Are you going to celebrate the arrests?"
A sigh of relief mixed with tension swept through the room. Some guests began to hurriedly say goodbye.
"What a nightmare!" exclaimed Countess Zvyagintseva. "I'm leaving immediately!"
"And I!" Baroness von Strahlendorf echoed.
Rasolko, pleased with the effect produced, laughed loudly.
"Run, run, gentlemen! But you can't run away from the truth!"
...666...
Outside the house, at the foot of the porch, Earl Knight stood looking up at where the windows still flickered behind the curtains, restlessly as candles in the wind.
"Well, that's it, gentlemen," he said quietly, slightly moving his shoulder under his coat, "the holiday is over. Although, as you can see, I never got to attend it."
Two of the detectives were milling around next to him - mangy, sweaty, one even wearing a coat that was too big for him, and both were looking at the mansion with a pitiful readiness, as if they were hoping that they would soon be invited inside for a piece of pie and a sip of "real tea."
"It's a pity, of course," muttered one of them, the younger one. "But they have... They have a ball there, it's like. And punch, they say... With rum."
Knight turned slowly, his gaze warm, almost good-natured - only his mouth was not smiling.
"Punch, you say?" he asked, clicking his tongue. "With rum. And salmon pies, I suppose? Oh, you aesthetes with soles. Why, I wonder, did you want to ask to go there? To observe? Or, excuse me, to sit between the countess and the governess and tell how you once arrested a pharmacist in his underwear?"
The tramp shuddered and guiltily hid his hands in his sleeves.
"Not really... We're here on business... If anything..."
"On business, you are right here", Knight pointed his finger into the air between them, as if piercing an invisible line. "Stand here. And observing the festivities is a delicate matter, as you can see. Rasolko managed it. Without punch. Without rum buns. Just - he came, noticed, and brought. Like a trainer.
"A shepherd, your honor?" the elder one dared, either in tone or out of stupidity.
Knight narrowed his eyes.
"A shepherd... No, too noble. I would say a rat-catcher. From Hamelin. He blew his whistle - and they followed him, some with leaflets, some with a bomb in their bosom. And they follow willingly."
The carriage squealed its brakes - Starikov and Terekhov were already inside, one of the gendarmes closed the door behind them, not loudly, but decisively.
"Will there be any information from them?" the assistant asked, looking down slightly.
"They'll all do something," Knight responded. "One will talk out of stubbornness. The second out of fear. The main thing is to listen correctly. And not interrupt."
He took a step forward and glanced at the facade of the mansion.
"It's interesting, York," he said, as if into the air, "when you called your guests, you expected anyone. Except us. But we are like shadows in the house: we don't call, we come."
Then, without changing his intonation, he turned to the tramps:
"Write a report. Without rhetoric. Without epithets. Strike out the words 'solemnly', 'panic', and 'cold horror'. Write instead: 'The guests are somewhat discouraged.' Let the reader figure it out for himself. It's safer.
He paused, then again quietly, almost affectionately:
"And Rasolko... Let him continue for the time being. He is dirty, but talented, oh, how wonderfully talented!"
The carriage with the prisoners started off, its springs creaking, and rolled away with a dull thud. Behind it came the second one, with assistants and a secret police officer, who was still exchanging short phrases with the coachman at the door. Earl Knight did not turn around - he never turned around when the deed was already done.
...666...
An awkward silence fell over the house, as if after a drum had been struck, and then suddenly a strange, suppressed noise broke through - not a hum, no, more like a sparse movement of bodies and glances. Someone coughed, and one man dipped a spoon into his cup so loudly that everyone jumped. In the far corner, dishes clanged - the waiter, with trembling hands, tried to carry away a tray of pastries, but one of the tarts slid to the floor.
"It's outrageous!" Baroness von Strahlendorf exhaled, already pulling off her gloves. "It's just... It's just outrageous!"
"Arrests, at a children's party!" another one chimed in, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. "Who invited these people anyway?"
"What is this, a conspiracy? Right under our noses?" came from the column where two cadets were huddled.
"But I told you," Countess Zvyagintseva muttered resentfully. "I told you this morning that I found this Starikov suspicious. His eyes are darting around."
"Yes, it's... It's all because of this Rasolko!" the merchant Pushkarev roared. "He danced in circles with them! He suspected something, right?
"Rasolko?!" two people asked at once. "Where is he?
"And he... He disappeared," someone noted, "after the gendarmes left."
Karen, standing by the tray with the cold tea, did not answer. She looked ahead, at the empty center of the room, where the gendarmes had just stood. Her fingers gripped the edge of the tablecloth so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Gene came quietly to the side and put his hand on her shoulder, carefully, as if checking whether the glass was fragile. But she did not move.
"Lisa," Karen said, looking into space, "explain."
"Mrs. York," the governess began, and there was a strange mixture of formal softness and dry certainty in her voice. "I suppose you have a right to know. My presence here... It has more than just educational purposes."
"What?" Karen turned around sharply, "What do you mean by that?"
"What I was instructed to do... I was instructed to observe," Lisa said clearly, "not to report. To observe. I did not designate any of the guests. No one was compromised personally. But my appointment is by no means only pedagogical."
"Oh my God," Karen breathed out, "Are you saying you're a spy?"
"No," Lisa said calmly. "I'm a representative. Temporarily appointed. At the request of… a diplomatic mission. It's not a secret, Mrs. York. Just an understatement."
"You lied to me." Karen's voice became muffled. "All these days..."
"I was working," Lisa responded. "Your daughter is healthy. Your house is in order. Everything else is secondary."
"It's a betrayal," Karen took a step back, as if from a spit. "And you're not even ashamed."
Gene didn't say a word. He looked at Lisa for a long time, as if he was remembering something. Then he said quietly:
"So, all this was not accidental. And it has already begun. We just have to catch up."
And in the hall the guests were still moving about - some were already leaving without saying goodbye, others were whispering, exchanging glances, and everyone suddenly became very small, alien, and even the piano in the corner, covered with a tablecloth, seemed absurd. The holiday had disappeared.
Xander, pressed against the corner of a column in the hall, heard everything - not entirely, in fragments, but enough. Someone sighed, someone held back irritation.
"No way, that's not why we came..."
"What a disgrace..."
"Why bring children here, to politics..."
"Who would have thought..."
He peered through the crack between the curtains and the wallpaper, freezing every time someone passed by. He felt Delia there. Standing. And silent. He knew it as well as he knew what he had in his pocket - a small box with dried flowers from the front garden. He wanted to go out, but did not dare. Then he took a step - quietly, like a mouse. She was standing by the window, straight, like an adult, and her face was somehow... Somehow different. Not upset, not sad - just not at all childish.
"Did you see how he... That... Student," Xander whispered, coming closer. "Right by the collar. And he didn't even say a word."
Delia didn't turn around. There seemed to be something like a smile frozen at the corner of her lips, not a cheerful one, but the kind her father had when he heard nonsense.
"Why are you hiding? Are you afraid?" she asked. Her voice sounded tired, as if she had just had to sit through a long, boring adult meeting.
"I'm not afraid," Xander muttered. "It's just... I just thought you'd be better off alone. Well, not with all these people. They're like flies, buzzing and buzzing, and then, hop, they're gone."
Delia looked at him finally - not with a smile, not with reproach, just looked at him as if he was the only one who remained real.
"It was my birthday," she said. "And then it was taken away."
Xander shifted from foot to foot. He didn't know what to say, and that only made him angry. Finally, he extended his hand, clenched his fist, and placed something warm in her palm. She Mr.nched her fingers. There were two petals, dry, almost transparent, and a thread.
"It's... It's not a gift. Just so... Well, so I don't forget. I thought you'd be happy, but now might not be the time."
"Thank you," Delia said. Calmly. Almost in a whisper.
And somewhere in the corner lay an open box, carelessly pushed aside by one of the guests with his foot. The gilding had come off the postcard, but the inscription was still legible:
"Happiness, love and freedom. You deserve more."
Nobody knew who wrote it.
"Xander..." Delia suddenly said, slowly, as if she was hesitating. "And you... Do you believe that people... That they might not be what they seem?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know. But you - you're always real. Even when you're angry. And she..." he glanced sideways at the hall, where Lisa was still standing, "she's like a soap bubble. It seems to sparkle, but if you touch it, that's it."
Delia chuckled softly.
"I won't cry," she whispered. "Let them think what they want. Just... Just don't go, okay?"
"Where am I going? I'm here", and he added, as if to himself: "I'll always be here."
They stood next to each other, their shoulders barely touching. The room smelled of the remains of buns, the stifling perfume of the guests, and something else - new, as if from the street, from the future that was just about to enter.
"Xander," she said suddenly. "I didn't even have any candles. No cake, no candles."
He looked around. Then he grinned, leaned towards her and whispered:
"Then let's make a wish just like that. Without candles. Just say it - no need to say it out loud."
Delia closed her eyes. For a second. And suddenly it became quiet. Even the hall, where the guests were muttering, seemed to move away somewhere far away.
"I made a wish," she said. "But I won't tell anyone."
Xander nodded. And then added, looking into her eyes:
"I still know."
Delia didn't answer. She just looked at Xander with an expression as if she didn't believe - not in his knowledge, not in her own words, but in the fact that all this was really happening. As if the whole day had been a scene cut from someone else's life that she had been told to play out. She lowered her eyes, ran her finger along the fold of her dress, and shook her head slightly. Then, without saying a word, she sat down on the edge of the low bench and froze.
"Do you want me to bring you some water?" Xander asked. His voice became very cautious.
"I don't want to." She didn't even turn around. "I want everything to be like before."
"Well, if I could, I would..."
"You can't," she interrupted. "No one can. Not even Dad."
He stood there, not knowing what to do with his hands. He shoved them into his pockets. He took them out. He shoved them in again. He wanted to say something, something stupid, funny, but everything that came to mind seemed false. Like adults. Like Lisa.
The noise in the hall became thicker and louder. Someone was lamenting out loud:
"I don't understand... Inviting someone to a children's party and organizing something like this…"
"Yorks, of course, are Americans... But still..."
"Both the police and the provocations... This is already..."
Delia suddenly sat up straight.
"Something's going to happen," she whispered. "I can already feel it."
Xander was about to ask again, but at that moment Gene's voice cut through the air - unexpectedly sharp, firm, like the knock on a door behind which everything had already been decided:
"We're leaving."
It wasn't said loudly. Not even at the top of his voice. But that's what you say when you don't intend to explain anything.
Xander froze.
Delia didn't jump up or gasp. Only her gaze slowly rose to the stairs, as if she was trying to hear not the phrase itself, but everything hidden in it: the borders, the tickets, the suitcases, the silence after the station. She knew everything: the tone, the meaning, the consequences. No one discusses such decisions. They are simply made.
Xander leaned forward slightly.
"He... He's serious?"
"Yes," said Delia. "Seriously now."
There was a silence in the room, awkward and trembling. A lady's dress rustled against the edge of a chair, someone finished their tea too quickly. Several people - one of the neighbors, the factory owner's wife, the school inspector - exchanged glances. No one dared to speak.
"Deedle," Xander said quietly again. "Well, if you really are... Then..."
She looked at him. And there was something unbearably adult in her gaze - almost pity. But she said nothing. She just stood up - calmly, slowly, and stepped towards the stairs.
"I need to go upstairs," she said. "If I'm going to leave, I'm not going to leave empty-handed."
Xander moved after her, but she turned around:
"No. Stay. I need to do it myself."
He froze halfway. He only whispered:
"Then I'm here. While you're going down. I'm here."