Golden-tolobas

Although not a beauty

It was dislike at first sight.

When the train pulled away from the last Latvian station with the tuneless name Zelupe and, rattling along the iron bridge, began to approach the Russian border, Nicholas moved closer to the compartment window and stopped listening to the tongue-tied chatter of his fellow passenger.

Aivar Kalinkins, a specialist in the export of sour cream, was so proud of his knowledge of English that switching to Russian with him would have been simply cruel, and, judging by the way the Latvian businessman spoke about his recent compatriots, he would hardly have wanted to speak Pushkin’s language and Dostoevsky. Since Riga, the businessman has been practicing with the meek Briton in the use of idiomatic phrases and past perfect continuos, while calling his interlocutor “Mr. Fandoraine.” Nicholas did not explain that the name Fandorine on the business card was read differently in order to avoid questions about his ethnic roots - the explanation would have been too long.

He himself didn’t really understand why he decided to get to Russia in such a roundabout way: by boat to Riga, and from there by train. It would be much easier and cheaper to take a plane to Heathrow and after some three hours descend to Russian soil at Sheremetyevo Airport, which, according to the Baedeker guide, was only 20 minutes from Moscow. However, the founder of the Russian Fandorins, Captain Cornelius von Dorn, could not use the plane three hundred years ago. As, indeed, by train. But, at least, von Dorn had to move approximately the same road: to go around troubled Poland by sea, land in Mitau or Riga and join some merchant caravan heading to the capital of the wild Muscovites. Most likely, in 1675 the ancestor also crossed this sluggish river, glistening under the bridge. And he was worried before meeting with an unknown, semi-mythical country - just as Nicholas was worried now.

My father said: “There is no Russia. You see, Nikol, there is a geographical space in which there used to be a country with that name, but its entire population died out. Now the Ostrogoths live on the ruins of the Colosseum. They burn fires there and graze goats. The Ostrogoths have their own customs and morals, our own language. We, the Fandorins, have no need to see this. Read old novels, listen to music, leaf through albums. This is our Russia."

And Sir Alexander also called the current inhabitants of the Russian state “new Russians” - and long before this term became attached to the modern nouveau riche, who have recently gotten into the habit of ordering suits from expensive tailors on Savile Row and sending their children to the best private schools ( well, of course, not the best ones, but those where they accept money only). For Fandorin Sr., the “new Russians” were all the inhabitants of the Land of the Soviets, who bore so little resemblance to the “old Russians.”

Sir Alexander, the luminary of endocrinology, a Nobel laureate, was never wrong about anything, so for the time being, Nicholas followed his father’s advice and stayed away from the homeland of his ancestors. Moreover, loving Russia from a distance actually seemed easier and more pleasant. His chosen specialty - the history of the nineteenth century - allowed Fandorin Jr. not to subject this bright feeling to risky tests.

Russia of the last century, especially its second half, looked quite decent. Of course, even then, under the shadow of the double-headed eagle, a lot of abominations happened, but these were all moderate abominations, fitting into the framework of European history and therefore excusable. And where decency ended and the senseless Russian rebellion came into its own, the sphere of professional interests of Nikolas Fandorin also ended.

The most attractive aspect of the Master of History's relationship with Russia was its complete platonic nature - after all, knightly service to the Lady of the Heart does not imply carnal intimacy. While Nicholas was an undergraduate, graduate student and dissertation candidate, maintaining a distance from the Evil Empire did not seem so strange. Then, in the era of Afghanistan, the Korean airliner and the disgraced inventor of the hydrogen bomb, many Slavists were forced to be content with books and emigrant archives in their professional research. But then the evil spell that had bewitched the Eurasian power began to gradually dissipate. The socialist empire began to sag to one side and fell to pieces with fantastic speed. In a matter of years, Russia managed to enter fashion and then immediately leave it. A trip to Moscow ceased to be considered an adventure, and some of the serious researchers even got their own apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospekt or in the South-West, and Nicholas still kept a vow of allegiance to that old Russia, to the new one, which was changing so quickly and it was unclear where moving, for the time being observed from afar.

The wise Sir Alexander said: “Society can change quickly only for the worse - this is called revolution. But all good changes, called evolution, occur very, very slowly. Do not believe the New Russian rantings about human values. The Ostrogoths will yet show themselves.”

Father, as always, was right. His historical homeland gave Nicholas an unpleasant surprise - for the first time in his life he began to be ashamed of the fact that he was born Russian. Previously, when the country was called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, one could not identify with it, but now that it has returned to its former magical name, it has become more difficult to isolate oneself from it. Poor Nicholas clutched his heart when he saw the Caucasian bombings on TV, and grimaced painfully when the drunken Russian president conducted the frightened Berlin musicians. It would seem that what does he, a London master of history, care about the overweight guy from the former party secretaries? But the whole point was that this was not a Soviet president, but a Russian one. It is said: call a thing by another word, and it will change its essence...

Oh, what a president! The worst thing about the new Russia was the nightmarish combination of unjustified arrogance with obscene self-flagellation in the spirit of “I am a king, I am a slave, I am a worm, I am God.” And the eternal begging to the accompaniment of threats, to the rattling of rusty strategic weapons! And the shamelessness of the new elite! No, Nicholas was not at all eager to set foot on the soil of his spiritual fatherland, but in the depths of his soul he knew that sooner or later this meeting could not be avoided. And slowly I prepared.

Unlike his father, who was pointedly not interested in Moscow news and still said “airplane” and “salary” instead of “airplane” and “salary,” Fandorin-fils tried to keep up to date (this is also an expression that Sir Alexander resolutely did not recognize) all Russian news, made acquaintances with visiting Russians and wrote down new words and expressions in a special notebook: slop music = bad music (“sucks” is probably close to “sewage”); how to hide a citron = how to steal a million (“to hide” is close to to rat, “citron” is a semantic substitution of the word “lemon”, a homonymous imitation of the word “million”) and so on, page after page. Nicholas loves to show off his impeccable Moscow accent and knowledge of modern idioms in front of some Russian traveler. The young ladies were invariably impressed by a perfectly mastered trick: a two-meter Londoner, not natively polite, with a stupid pasted-on smile and an impeccable parting exactly in the middle of the top of his head - in a word, a pure Englishman Englishmanovich - suddenly said: “Dear Natasha, shouldn’t we crash in Chelsea "It's a great party there these days."

* * *
The day after Nicholas admired the conducting skills of the Russian president on TV, an event occurred that became the first step towards meeting his homeland.

The brilliant and infallible Sir Alexander made the only mistake in his life. Going with his wife to Stockholm (the trip was of exceptional importance for accelerating the inevitable, but still lingering Nobel Prize), Fandorin Sr. decided not to fly by plane, but to take a short, pleasant voyage across the North Sea on the ferry Christiania. Yes, yes, on the same “Christiania”, which, due to an incredible coincidence of computer glitches, collided with an oil tanker in the fog and capsized. There was a monstrous, uncivilized crush for places on the rafts, and those who did not have enough places went to where the remains of the galleons of the Great Armada were rotting. Despite his age, Sir Alexander was in excellent physical shape and could certainly have been among the lucky ones who survived, but it was completely impossible to imagine his father pushing away other passengers in order to save himself or even Lady Anna...

Leaving aside the emotions that are quite natural under these sad circumstances, the result of the fatal mistake of the would-be laureate was that Nicholas inherited the title, an excellent apartment in South Kensington, converted from a former stable, money in the bank - and lost a wise adviser. A meeting with Russia has become almost inevitable.

And a year after the first step, the second, decisive step followed. But before we talk about half of Captain von Dorn’s letter and the mysterious parcel from Moscow, it is necessary to clarify one circumstance that played an important, and perhaps decisive role in the behavior and actions of the young master.

This circumstance was called the offensive word incompleteness, which Nicholas learned from one of his fleeting New Russian acquaintances (insufficiently screwed - as in a screw that is not screwed in; used to mean “incompleteness”, “inferiority”; “somehow he is kind of underscrewed” - about a person, who have not found their place in life). The word was harsh, but precise. Nicholas immediately realized that this was about him, he was the underdog. It dangles in the hole called life, spins around its own axis, but does not connect or hold anything - it just looks like a screw.

The capacious prefix “nedo” generally explained a lot to Fandorin about himself. Take height, for example. Six feet and six inches - it would seem that you couldn’t call him a runt; Nicholas could look down on the vast majority of the inhabitants of the planet. But it was worth converting the height into meters and it turned out symbolically: one meter ninety-nine. It's a little short of two meters.

It's the same with profession. The age, of course, is still childish - up to forty is still a long way off, but peers have published one or two monographs, and many are already holding doctorates, one has even been awarded membership in the Royal Historical Society. Professor Crisby, the former scientific director, once said: they say, Nicholas Fandorin may be a historian, but of small caliber. He will not get large hunting trophies, that is, new theories and concepts - unless he shoots small factual sparrows. And all because there is no perseverance, patience and thoroughness. Or, as the venerable professor put it, not enough meat on the ass.

Well, isn't it a shame? What if a person is allergic to dust? If, after ten minutes of sitting in the archive, tears flow from your eyes, your nose runs, the ever-present pink blush on your cheeks spreads into crimson spots and your voice completely fades? Yes, Nicholas has never been to the so-called third world countries, because it is dusty and dirty everywhere! In my second year I didn’t go to Morocco for excavations because of this!

However, why be disingenuous with yourself? History attracted Nicholas not as a scientific discipline designed to comprehend the life experiences of mankind and draw practical lessons from this experience, but as a fascinating, mesmerizing pursuit of time that has passed forever. Time was difficult to grasp, it slipped away, but sometimes a miracle happened, and then for a moment it was possible to grab this firebird by the ephemeral tail, so that a brittle shining feather remained in the hand.

For Nicholas, the past came to life only when it acquired the features of specific people who once walked the earth, breathed living air, committed righteous and terrible deeds, and then died and disappeared forever. I couldn’t believe that I could just disappear forever. It’s just that those who have died become invisible to the living. The words of the new Russian poet, some of whose poems were recognized even by the irreconcilable Sir Alexander, did not seem to Fandorin to be a metaphor: “... There is no death in the world. / Everyone is immortal. Everything is immortal. There is no need / to be afraid of death, either at seventeen or at seventy. / There is only reality and light, / there is neither darkness nor death in this world. / We are all already on the seashore, / and I am one of those who choose the nets / when immortality comes in a shoal.”

Find out as much as possible about a person from the past: how he lived, what he thought about, touch the things that he owned - and then the one who has forever hidden in darkness will be illuminated by light, and it will turn out that no darkness really exists .

This was not a rational position, but an inner feeling that was difficult to express in words. In any case, one should not have shared such irresponsible, semi-mystical views with Professor Crisby. Actually, Fandorin specialized not in ancient history, but in the nineteenth century, because it was easier to look into yesterday than the day before yesterday. But studying the biographies of so-called historical figures did not give a sense of personal involvement. Nicholas did not feel connected with people who were known to everyone without him. He thought for a long time about how to combine private interests with professional pursuits, and in the end a solution was found. As often happens, the answer to a difficult question was very close - in my father’s office, on the mantelpiece, where there stood an inconspicuous carved ebony box.

* * *

Grandmother Elizaveta Anatolyevna, who died many years before Nicholas was born, took only two valuables from Crimea in 1920. The first is the future Sir Alexander, who at that time was still in his mother’s womb. The second is a casket with family heirlooms.

The most educational of the relics was a yellowed notebook, covered in the even, pedantic handwriting of great-great-grandfather Isaak Samsonovich, who served as a clerk in the Moscow archive of the Ministry of Justice and compiled the family tree of the Fandorin family with detailed comments.

There were also much more ancient objects in the box. For example, a cypress cross, which, according to the family chronicler, belonged to the legendary founder of the family, crusader Theo von Dorn.

Or a copper-red strand of hair, not faded over centuries, in parchment, on which the barely visible inscription “Laura 1500” was read. Isaac Samsonovich’s note was brief: “A woman’s curl, no one knows whose.” Oh, how the mysterious copper-haired Laura, hidden by the impenetrable curtain of centuries, excited Nikolka’s wild imagination in childhood!

On my father’s table stood, taken from the same chest, a photographic portrait of a breathtakingly beautiful brunette with sad eyes and impressive gray streaks at the temples. It was the grandfather, Erast Petrovich, a remarkable character in many respects.

And what was the value of the note from the great empress, who personally wrote only two words on a piece of vellum paper, but what words! “Eternally grateful” - and below the famous flourish: “Catherine”. My father said that my grandfather’s orders, including gold ones with precious stones, were once kept in the box, but in difficult times my grandmother sold them. And she did the right thing. What a miracle - “Vladimirs” and “Stanislavs”, there are any number of them in antique shops, but for the fact that Elizaveta Anatolyevna preserved the ancient jade rosary (now it’s impossible to find out which of the ancestors belonged to) or the onion watch of foreman Larion Fandorin with a stuck there is a Turkish bullet in it - eternal gratitude to my grandmother.

Nicholas himself found it strange that he had not thought of such a simple thing earlier. Why delve into the biographies of strangers, about whom everything is more or less known, if there is a history of your own kind? No one will cross the road here.

First, the master, of course, took up the queen’s autograph, which could only belong to Danila Fandorin, who held the inconspicuous but key position of chamber secretary under Northern Semiramis. Nicholas published an essay about his ancestor in a venerable historical journal, where, among other things, he expressed some cautious assumptions about the reasons for the august gratitude and the dating of this document (June 1762?). Slavic historians greeted the publication favorably, and the researcher, inspired by success, took up State Councilor Erast Petrovich Fandorin, who in the 80s of the last century served as an official of special assignments under the Moscow Governor-General, and then, as a private person, was investigating all sorts of mysterious cases , which was so rich at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Unfortunately, due to the sheer delicacy of this gentleman detective's activities, Nicholas found very little documentary traces of his activities, so instead of a scientific article he had to publish a series of semi-fictionalized sketches based on family legends in an illustrated magazine. From the point of view of his professional reputation, the idea was dubious, and as penance, Nicholas began a painstaking study of the ancient, pre-Russian period of the history of the von Dorns: he studied the ruins and surroundings of the family castle Theofels, met with the offspring of parallel branches of the family (it must be said that the descendants of the crusader Theo were scattered from Lapland to Patagonia), sneezed and cried a lot in landarchives, museum storage rooms and diocesan scriptoriums.

The result of all these efforts was not very impressive - half a dozen modest publications and two or three third-rate discoveries, on which you cannot build a decent monograph.

* * *

The article about half of the will of Cornelius von Dorn (another relic from the black box), published four months ago in the Royal Historical Journal, was also not something to be particularly proud of. In order to decipher the scribbles of the brave Württemberg captain, who hardly suspected that a powerful branch of the Russian Fandorins would grow from his loins, it was necessary to take a special course in paleography, but even after deciphering the document did not become any clearer.

If the thick, gray sheet had been cut crosswise rather than lengthwise, it would have been possible to at least read a piece of coherent text. But the scroll kept in the casket was too narrow - some ignoramus cut the letter from top to bottom, and the second half was not preserved.

In fact, Nicholas was not even completely sure that this was a spiritual note and not some kind of business note. In support of his hypothesis, he quoted the first lines in the article, in which, as expected in wills, the temptation of the devil and Jesus Christ were mentioned, and then some instructions of an economic nature followed.

The venerable magazine, by tradition, did not recognize illustrations, so it was not possible to include a photograph of the text, and Nicholas did not quote further - there were vague, fragmentary instructions about a certain house (probably inherited by Cornelius’s son), interspersed with commemorations of Fondhorn’s ancestors. If information about the property of a foreign mercenary had survived completely, this, of course, would have been of some historical interest, but what was much more important was that the signature and date were readable, indicated in the lower left corner and therefore perfectly preserved: “written on the pitches of the summer of the 190th Maya in 3 days of fondorn roots I had a hand in.” (See photograph of the manuscript in the column. - "Results" .)

It followed from this that in May 1682 (year 7190 according to the old Russian chronology) Cornelius was in the Volga city of Kromeshniki, where just at that time the disgraced boyar Artamon Sergeevich Matfeev was waiting to be called to Moscow. This confirmed the family legend that Captain von Dorn was close to the first minister of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich and even married his daughter. The last statement, of course, was completely fabulous in nature and was probably based on the fact that Cornelius’ son Nikita Fondorin served for a long time as the personal secretary of Count Andrei Artamonovich Matfeev, Peter’s envoy to various European courts.

Nicholas's article ended with the assumption that the letter was apparently cut up during the May rebellion of the Moscow archers, who threw the boyar Matfeev and several of his associates into the spears, including, probably, Cornelius von Dorn, information about whom was not preserved after 1682.

And three weeks ago, when Nicholas returned from Venice, where a trace of a most curious story from 1892 connected with the restless Erast Petrovich was discovered, a parcel from Moscow was waiting for him.

On the rough brown wrapper there is a stamp from the Moscow Main Post Office. No sender's name, no return address. Inside is an issue of the magazine "Russian Archival Bulletin" from three years ago. There is a red bookmark stuck to page 178, where the “Archival News” section was located. Ordinary information, lost among notices of scientific seminars, defended dissertations and minor finds in provincial funds. Without a signature, without even a title - just separated by an asterisk.

* During the excavation work during the construction of the district administration building in the city of Kromeshniki (Kostroma region), a stone basement was discovered, which apparently belonged to the ensemble of the patrimonial estate of the Counts Matfeevs, which burned down in 1744. Members of the provincial archaeological commission examined the dungeon, tapped the walls and found a hiding place - a small niche filled with two white bricks. Inside was a leather chest with objects that most likely dated back to the mid-17th century: a unique bronze alarm clock made in Hamburg and a gold medallion with the Latin initials “C. v. D,” as well as the right half of a scroll written in semi-character. The alarm clock and medallion were transferred to the city museum of local lore, the scroll was sent for storage to the Central Academy of Arts.

Nicholas skimmed the note with his eyes, then read it again, very carefully, and his heart ached from an inexpressible, heady feeling - the same one that overwhelmed Fandorin every time thin luminous threads suddenly began to sift through the thick darkness of an irrevocably past time. It was because of this magical moment, which the learned master had the opportunity to experience only a few times in his life, that he began to study history. In pitch darkness, in the land of no return1 (you can’t say that in Russian), a light suddenly lit up, emitting weak, alluring rays. Take a step, grab onto these ethereal threads and maybe you will be able to grab Time by the edge of the black mantle and make it return!

Kromeshniks, C. v. D., Matfeevs, fragment of a scroll, 17th century - everything matched. The missing spiritual part had been discovered, there was no doubt about it! The origin of the parcel was more or less clear. One of the Russians (presumably a historian or an archive worker) came across Fandorin’s article in the Royal Historical Journal, remembered a note from the old Archive Bulletin and decided to help the Englishman. How is it in Russian - not to give your name, not to attach a cover letter, not to give a return address! From a Western point of view, this is pure barbarism. However, Nicholas managed to study well the habits and psychology of the new Russians. The anonymity of the message testified not so much to a lack of education as to shyness. Probably, the parcel was sent by a poor man (we know the situation of Russian scientists today), but proud. He is afraid that a rich foreigner, delighted with an invaluable tip, will insult him with an offer of a monetary reward. Or the sender was embarrassed to make mistakes in English, although, it would seem, he could have realized that the author of the article about Russia in the 17th century should, at the very least, understand modern Russian.

(Oh, the notorious New Russian shyness! Nicholas knew one Muscovite who was interning at the University of London, who drunkenly said something stupid to the head of the department, and the next day he didn’t even ask for forgiveness, although, judging by his embarrassed look, he remembered everything perfectly. “You need to go up to the professor and just apologize ", - Fandorin told him. - Well, we drank - it doesn’t happen to anyone.” “New Russian” replied: “I can’t. I’m embarrassed to apologize.” And so he suffered until the end of the internship.)

What's the difference! If an unknown benefactor does not want Nikolas’s gratitude, then don’t. The main thing is that now, with some luck and persistence, it will be possible to write a real book. If Cornelius was in exile together with Artamon Matfeev (and now this can be considered practically proven), then truly invaluable information could be found in the full text of the will. It smelled like a serious scientific discovery. If the discovery doesn’t work out, it will still be possible to collect material for a monograph. Let's say with this name:

" CORNELIUS VON DORN/CORNEY VONDORN

Biography of a foreign serviceman of the pre-Petrine era,
compiled by his descendant"

And what? Not bad at all. Sit in this very Central Archive of Old Documents, that is, the Central Archive of Ancient Documents, look through the files on the hiring of foreign officers, registers on the issuance of salaries, interrogation protocols of the Secret Affairs order in the case of Artamon Matfeev - you see, the facts will come up. Set them out against the broad background of the era, give similar biographies of other mercenaries, and then a book will come out. At the same time, Nicholas will finally get acquainted with the real, and not the romanticized, homeland. Really, it's long overdue.

Sir Alexander lay at the bottom of the sea and could not dissuade the heir from the risky undertaking, and Nicholas carried out his decision with dizzying speed. I contacted the Moscow archive by fax, made sure that the required document was indeed in the storage room and could be issued, and the rest was nothing at all: a ticket, a hotel reservation, drawing up a will (just in case). In the absence of close and distant relatives, Nicholas bequeathed all movable and immovable property to the World Fund for Animal Rights.

And that's it, off we go - by sea, then by train, along the expected route of our distant ancestor.

The case that now rested under the seat of the sleeping car contained everything necessary: ​​a solid recommendation from the Royal Historical Society, a laptop with a satellite phone, a hand-held scanner and the latest, newly developed program for deciphering ancient manuscripts, the treasured half of the spiritual with an accompanying certificate, insurance, return ticket with an open date (not for a train, for a plane).

Before meeting with his homeland, Nicholas completed an auto-training course designed to shake hereditary prejudice.

Suppose Russia is not a very attractive country, the master told himself. Politically dubious, civilizationally backward, and also of unstable moral principles. But these are all relative concepts. Who said that Russia should be compared with prosperous England, which moved to a decent life a hundred or two hundred years earlier? Why not with North Korea or the Republic of Chad?

Moreover, Fandorin had enough complaints about the British. A nation of some kind of armadillos, each on his own, carrying his own shell - you won’t get through. And no one will knock, because it will be considered an invasion of privacy. And the vaunted British wit! Lord, not a word in simplicity, everything with an antics, everything with self-irony. Is it possible to talk with an Englishman about some “Russian” topic like good and evil, immortality or the meaning of existence? Impossible. That is, of course, it is possible, but it’s better not to.

And there was still hope for the non-rational, the intuitive - for Russian blood, the Slavic soul and the voice of our ancestors. Suddenly, when modest birch groves and aspen copses stretch beyond the carriage windows, and at the station from the platform you can hear the voices of women selling currants and seeds (or what do they sell on the platforms now?), your heart will clench with deep, intimate recognition, and Nicholas will see the same old Russia, which, it turns out, has not gone anywhere, but has simply aged - no, not aged, but matured - by a hundred years. I really wanted it to turn out this way.

* * *

This is what Master of History N. Fandorin was thinking about as the wheels of the signature train “Ivan the Terrible” rattled as they wound up the last kilometers to the Latvian-Russian border. It’s a pity, it was almost completely dark, and the landscape outside the window merged into a blue-gray mass, enlivened by rare lights, and Mr. Kalinkins was very distracting with his far from perfect English.

At first, when he complained about the difficulties with the penetration of Latvian dairy products into the European market, it was still tolerable. Fandorin wanted to give the businessman good advice: forget about the European market, where the Latvian company would never be allowed in anyway - there is nowhere to put their cows, but instead it is better to be friends with the Russians and be glad that there is such a gigantic sour cream market nearby. I wanted to give advice, but I refrained in time. Nicholas had a harmful, incurable habit of meddling with people with unsolicited advice, which in England is considered indecent and even completely unimaginable. Over the thirty-odd years of his life in the British Isles, Fandorin bit his tongue so many times, ready to most shamelessly invade someone else's privacy, that it is even surprising how this insidious instrument was not completely bitten off.

In addition, the advice would hardly have been to the taste of the Baltic, because from complaining about the hard-heartedness of Europeans, Mr. Kalinkins switched to denouncing the Russians, worse than whom, in his opinion, were only the stingy Estonians. Nicholas himself did not have a very flattering opinion of the “new Russians,” but it was disgusting to hear his own judgments from the lips of a foreigner. (It seems that Pushkin also wrote something like this?)

“We’re out of luck with you,” muttered the sour cream exporter. - There weren’t enough tickets for our signature train “Karlis Ulmanis”. Everything is different there - clean, cultural, fresh dairy products in the restaurant. And this is some kind of Gulag on wheels. Do you know what "GULAG" is? The conductors give you cold tea, the restaurant smells of rotten cabbage, and after the border, you’ll see that prostitutes will start wandering around the carriages.

“I imagined the Gulag a little differently,” Fandorin couldn’t help but sarcastically, but his fellow traveler didn’t understand the irony.

- What else! - he lowered his voice. - After passport control and customs, you and I will lock the door with a padlock and chain, because... they are playing pranks. - Mr. Kalinkins pronounced this word in Russian (it turned out: because they there... poshalivayut), snapped his fingers and translated this specific verb as “hold up”2. - Real bandits. They break into the compartment and take the money. And the train police and conductors are at the same time with them - they suggest where the richer passengers are. Last month, a friend of mine...

Nicholas was tired of listening to this Russophobic chatter, and he committed a blatantly discourteous act - he put on his headphones and turned on the player, the cassette of which was set to a psychotherapeutic song calling for people to love black Russia. Fandorin planned this in advance: to cross the border to the hoarse voice of singer Yuri Shevchuk.

It seems to have worked.

"Motherland, I'm going to my Motherland!" - sounded in the headphones, “Ivan the Terrible” slowed down, preparing to slow down at the first Russian station, and Nicholas swayed to the beat of the catchy chorus. Something really stirred in my heart, it tingled in my nose, before my eyes - that’s some more news! - Tears appeared.

Motherland! I'm going to my homeland!
Let them shout "Ugly!"
And we like her!
Although not a beauty!

Trusting bastards! - Unable to bear it, Nicholas sang along with the stentorian singer and caught himself. He knew that singing out loud was categorically contraindicated for him: like Chekhov’s hero, his voice was strong, but disgusting, and besides, he completely lacked an ear for music.

Fandorin turned from the window and glanced guiltily at the Latvian. He looked at the Englishman with horror, as if he saw the Gorgon Medusa in front of him. The singer from Nicholas, of course, was lousy, but not to the same extent? Oh yes, the master remembered, Kalinkins doesn’t know that I speak Russian.

However, there was no need to explain, because at that very moment the door slid open with a clang, and two military men in green caps burst into the compartment, their boots rattling: an officer and a soldier.

The officer was incredibly red-faced and, as it seemed to the master, not quite sober - in any case, he smelled of some strong, but apparently inexpensive alcoholic drink; besides, he hiccuped every now and then.

These are border guards, Fandorin realized.

The chief guard stood in front of the Briton, extended his palm outstretched with a spatula and said:

- Ik.
Nicholas was confused, realizing that he had absolutely no idea how the everyday ritual of checking passports takes place in Russia. Is it really customary to start it with a handshake? This is unusual and probably not very hygienic, considering how many passenger palms the officer must shake, but it is very Russian.

Fandorin hastily jumped up, smiled broadly and firmly shook the border guard’s hand. He stared up at the crazy foreigner in amazement and muttered in a low voice, turning to his subordinate:

- Damn. Look, Sapryka, you haven’t seen enough of this yet.
Then he pulled his fingers out, wiped his palm on his pants and barked:

- Give me your passport, you non-Russian devil. Passport, understand? - And again to the soldier: - It’s not a passport from him, but a certificate from the madhouse.

Skinny, pale Sapryka chuckled uncertainly.

The strange border guard treated the red book with the national British fauna - a lion and a unicorn - without any interest. He handed it to the assistant with the words:
- Tow. Ik.

The soldier stamped a stamp on the open page, and meanwhile the officer was already busy with Mr. Kalinkins.

“Yeah,” the red-faced man said ominously. - Fraternal Latvia. - Wincing, I flipped through the pages, and for some reason looked at the light. “And the visa is crap, smeared,” he noted with obvious satisfaction. - You can only go to Africa with this one. And you can’t really make out the date.

- They gave me one at your consulate! - the businessman became worried. - I didn’t put the stamp! Mister Senior Lieutenant, this is nitpicking!

The senior lieutenant narrowed his eyes.
- Nitpicking, you say? How are your border guards harassing our citizens? I’ll put you in jail right now until we find out, and then there will be nit-picking.

Mr. Kalinkins turned pale and asked in a trembling voice:
- No need. Please.

After a pause, the border guard nodded:
- Like this. I will teach you to respect Russia... Hic! Okay, spank him, Sapryk. - And he majestically walked out into the corridor, touching the door with his shoulder.

The soldier placed the stamp above his passport, glanced sideways at Kalinkins’ pack of Winstons that was lying on the table, and quietly asked:
- Would you like me to buy you a cigarette?

The Latvian, cursing hissingly in his own way, pushed the entire pack towards the outstretched hand.

Nicholas watched this scene in complete stupor, but the shock was just beginning.

Not even a minute had passed before the door slid open again (knocking was apparently not customary here), and a customs official entered the compartment. A ballpoint pen hung on a cord around his neck. He took a quick look at both passengers and immediately sat down next to the Latvian citizen.

- Drugs? - the customs officer asked sincerely. - Is there some heroin there, some cocaine?
- Which drugs! - cried the unfortunate Kalinkins. - I am a businessman! I have a contract with Syrkolbasimpeks!

- What about personal search? - the man in the black and green uniform said to this, turned to Nicholas and said confidentially. - We also had one “businessman” here last week. He hid a bag of dope in his asshole. Nothing, they found it in the glasses.

The Latvian swallowed nervously and thrust something rustling under the table to the customs officer.
“Well, a contract is a contract,” the official sighed and “Fandorin.” -Where will you be with us?
And again, the British passport aroused much less interest than the Latvian one.
“Gute Reise,” for some reason the customs officer said in German, getting up.

The inspection is over.

The train screeched its brakes, the carriage swayed and stood up. Outside the window one could see a poorly lit platform and a station building in the false Empire style with the sign "NEVOROTINSKAYA Moscow-Baltic Railway."

Here it is, Russian land!

The first acquaintance with representatives of the Russian state made such a stunning impression on the master of history that there was an urgent need for an urgent snack.

The fact is that Nikolas Fandorin did not drink alcohol at all, but ate very moderately, and even then only physiologically correct food, so the urge, familiar to most people, to have a drink to calm down, usually transformed into a desire to eat something unplanned and wrong.

Remembering his fellow passenger's warning about the dining car, Nicholas decided to buy something at the station buffet - fortunately, the schedule indicated that the train would stop at Nevorotinskaya for fifteen minutes (obviously to drop off border guards, customs officers and detained violators). Just in case, Fandorin left his wallet with money, documents and credit cards in the case, and took with him several thousand-ruble notes, prudently exchanged at the Riga station.

The conductor, who was sitting on the step, stepped aside to let the passenger go down and yawned noisily. To this unromantic sound, the descendant of eight generations of Russian Fandorins stepped onto his native, asphalt-rolled soil.

Looked left, looked right.

On the left hung a faded long banner with an image of a mustachioed Soviet soldier in a cap and white letters: “50 YEARS OF THE GREAT VICTORY. WE HAVE COVERED HALF THE WORLD WITH YOU, IF NECESSARY WE WILL REPEAT!”

On the right stood a small plaster Lenin wearing a cap and with his arm outstretched. Nicholas was surprised, because the newspapers wrote that all the cult monuments of totalitarianism had long been demolished. Obviously, there is a so-called “red belt” here, the master decided and entered the station hall.

It smelled like a long-clogged toilet, and dirty, ragged people lay and slept on the benches - presumably modern clochards, called homeless people. Nicholas was embarrassed to look at these picturesque bangs and quickly walked to the glass buffet counter.

From nervous excitement I was drawn to something especially seditious: a hot dog or even a hamburger. However, on the plates lay only uneven pieces of white bread with fatty black sausage, curled up slices of cheese and small shriveled fish. The sight of these sandwiches made Fandorin shudder. He glanced around the counter and finally asked the tired, dull-eyed saleswoman, who was examining the flies crawling on the counter:

- I'd like some yogurt, please. With fruits. No, two are better.
The barmaid, without raising her eyes, threw two tubs of Tutti-frutti onto the counter (Nicholas usually bought Danone - low-fat, without flavoring, but that’s crazy), took two thousand rubles and, instead of change, laid out three lollipops in faded pieces of paper.

“But excuse me, this product expired a month ago,” Fandorin said, having studied the labeling. - You can't eat this yogurt.
Here the saleswoman finally looked at the picky customer and muttered with hatred:

- Wow, how you all got me. Get out of here, Uncle Styopa. I'm sick without you.
And so she said this sincerely, convincingly, that Nicholas took the expired yogurt and walked to the exit in confusion.

At the door someone grabbed him by the sleeve.
- Hey mister, wonna fuck?

Fandorin decided that he had misheard - it was unlikely that this unattractive, bearded man, looking like a goblin from a fairy tale, could seriously offer him his sexual services.
- Ten bucks. Only ten bucks! To next station. - The stranger pointed to the train, and then somewhere to the side. - Ten bucks!

It turns out that standing to the side, against the wall, was a girl with red hair, freckles, and looking no older than thirteen years old. She looked at the foreigner indifferently, batted her thickly painted eyelashes and blew a bubble of bubble gum from her unnaturally scarlet lips.

- Lord, she’s just a child! - exclaimed the shocked Nicholas. - How old are you, girl? Do you go to school? How can you? For ten dollars! This is monstrous!

The girl sniffled and loudly slammed her chewing gum, and the pimp pushed the master on the shoulder and said in Russian:
- Give more, if you're so kind.

Fandorin rushed out of this den.
- Fuck yu, mister! - the bearded man shouted after him.

Oh horror, the train has already started moving, although the allotted fifteen minutes have not yet expired! Seized with panic at the thought of what might remain in this nightmarish Nevorotinskaya, Nicholas threw the yoghurts into the trash can and rushed as fast as he could to catch up with the floating carriage.

I barely had time to jump onto the step. The conductor was smoking in the vestibule with two tall young men in blue and white tracksuits. He glanced briefly at the out of breath Englishman and did not express any feelings about his safe return.

I won’t go to any Kromeshniki, thought Nicholas, walking along the corridor. I’ll scan the second half of the will, rummage through the columns of the Foreign and Reitar orders and back to London. Three days. Maximum - five. The regime in Moscow will be as follows: hotel - archive - hotel.

* * *

No, Fandorin absolutely did not like his historical homeland. I wonder how singer Shevchuk can like her?

The worst thing was that a bad feeling stirred in the master’s soul, telling him: from now on, he would no longer be able to love that old Russia as selflessly as before. Ah, father, father, the wisest of people...

The sour cream merchant locked himself in the compartment and did not immediately let his fellow traveler in, and when he finally opened it, he pointedly shielded himself with a glossy Latvian magazine.

Whenever Nicholas found himself in a difficult situation or a particularly bad state of mind, he composed a limerick. The slight strain of thought required for this delicate activity, coupled with the comical absurdity of the result, contributed to relaxation and the restoration of a positive outlook on the world. The tried and tested method helped even now - after the exercise in poetry, my mood actually improved a little.

Then someone knocked delicately on the door, Fandorin got up to push back the bolt, and Mr. Kalinkins put down the magazine and said nervously in Russian:
- Through the chain! Only through the chain!

It was completely dark in the slightly opened gap, although a few minutes ago there was light in the corridor. A hand in something blue, with a white stripe along the sleeve, reached right towards Nicholas’s face, and a tickling, fetid stream hit his nose.

Fandorin wanted to be indignant at such blatant obscenity, but did not, because his legs suddenly stopped supporting him.

The master of history sank to the floor, pressed his temple to the doorframe, feeling the rigidity of the metal rib, and lost contact with reality.

Reality returned to the besotted Englishman, also through his temple, which ached and throbbed so much that Nicholas, willy-nilly, was forced to first shake his leaden head and then open his eyes.

It took another five minutes to restore the interrupted series of events and understand the meaning of what happened.

Mr. Kalinkins lay in his place, rolling his white eyes. A string of saliva was dripping from his mouth, and a gutted wallet lay on his chest.

Nicholas knelt down next to his fellow traveler, felt the cervical artery - thank God, he was alive.

My foot hit something hard. Case! His own “Samsonite”, who gaped guiltily at his owner.

It's empty inside. No laptop, no phone, no purse, and - worst of all - the envelope containing a three-hundred-year-old family heirloom.

Horror, horror.

Application.
Limerick, composed by N. Fandorin after leaving Nevorotinskaya station on the evening of June 13, at the beginning of ten :
One crazy master
He was too quick to make decisions.
To the land of aspens and birches
The goblin brought him
And he said to the fool: "Fuck yu, mister."