'Oh, Paladin, you old hot-head you!' cried Sobolev, advancing on the Frenchman to clutch him in a general's embrace. 'A genuine Gaul! Let me kiss you!'
Paladin's face disappeared behind the general's immense beard and McLaughlin, who was playing chess with Perepyolkin (the captain had already removed his black bandage and was contemplating the board with both eyes screwed up in concentration), remarked dryly: 'The captain ought not to have used you as a scout. I am not really certain, my dear Charles, that your escapade is entirely beyond reproach from the viewpoint of journalistic ethics. A correspondent from a neutral country has no right to take either side in a conflict, and especially to take on the role of a spy, insofar—'
But at this everyone, including Varya, fell upon the tiresome Celt in such a concerted attack that he was forced into silence.
'Oho, here's real revelry!' a confident, ringing voice declared.
Varya swung round to see a handsome officer of the hussars with black hair, a jaunty moustache, slightly slanting eyes with a devil-may-care glint and a shiny new Order of St George on his pelisse. This new arrival was not in the least embarrassed by the universal attention that he had attracted - on the contrary, he seemed to accept it as something entirely natural and undeserving of comment.
'Captain of the Grodno Hussars Regiment, Count Zurov,' the officer announced with a salute to Sobolev. 'Do you not remember me, Your Excellency? We marched on Kokand together and I served on Konstantin Petrovich's staff.'
'Of course I remember you,' said the general with a nod. 'As I recall, you were tried for gambling while on the march and fighting a duel with some quartermaster or other.'
'By God's mercy nothing came of it,' the hussar replied flippantly. 'They told me my old friend Erasmus Fandorin is sometimes to be found in here. I trust they were not lying?'
Varya glanced quickly at Erast Petrovich, seated in the far corner. He stood up, gave an agonised sigh and said in a faint voice: 'Hippolyte? How do you c-come to be here?'
'There he is, damn me if he isn't!' The hussar dashed at Fandorin and began shaking him by the shoulders so enthusiastically that he set Erast Petrovich's head wobbling backwards and forwards.
'And they told me the Turks had set you on a stake in Serbia! Ah, but you've lost your looks, brother,-1 hardly knew you. Touch up the temples to make yourself a bit more impressive - is that it?'
My, but this titular counsellor certainly did have a curious circle of acquaintances: the Vidin pasha, the chief of gendarmes, and now this picture-postcard dandy with the swashbuckling manners. Varya crept a little closer, as if by chance, in order not to miss a single word.
'Life has certainly put us through the mill a bit, that it has.' Zurov stopped shaking his old friend and began slapping him on the back instead. 'But I'll tell you about my adventures some other time, tete-a-tete -they're not for a lady's ears.' He gave Varya a mischievous sideways glance. 'But anyway, they had the usual ending: I was left without a kopeck to my name, all on my lonely ownsome with my heart shattered to tiny little pieces' (another glance in Varya's direction).
'Who c-could ever have imagined it?' commented Fandorin.
'Are you stammering? Concussion? Don't worry about it, it'll pass. Near Kokand a blast wave flung me against the corner of a mosque so hard my teeth were chattering for an entire month, would you believe - I couldn't even get a glass anywhere near my mouth. But after that it was all right, it eased off.'
'And where did you c-come from before here?'
'That, brother Erasmus, is a long story.'
The hussar ran an eye over the club's habitues, who were observing him with undisguised curiosity, and said: 'Don't be shy, gentlemen; come closer. I'm relating my Scheherazade to my friend Erasmus here.'
'Odyssey,' Erast Petrovich corrected him in a low voice, retreating behind the back of Colonel Lukan.
'An Odyssey is what happens in Greece, but what happened to me was a genuine Scheherazade.' Zurov paused to whet his listeners' appetites and then launched into his narrative. 'And so, gentlemen, as a result of certain circumstances known only to myself and Fandorin here, I found myself in Naples, totally washed up, high and dry. I borrowed five hundred roubles from the Russian consul - the old skinflint wouldn't give me any more - and set out for Odessa by sea. But along the way the devil prompted me to set up a little game with the captain and the navigator. The scoundrels cleaned me out completely, right down to the very last kopeck. Naturally I protested vigorously and, having caused some minor damage to ship's property in the process, at Constantinople I was thrown off the ship, I mean to say I was put ashore - without any money or any possessions, not even a hat. And it was winter then, gentlemen. A Turkish winter, but even so it was cold. There was nothing else to be done, so I set out for our embassy. Broke through all the barriers, went all the way up to the ambassador himself, Nikolai Pavlovich Gnatiev. A most understanding kind of fellow. "I can't lend you any money," he says, "on account of my being opposed in principle to lending of any kind; but if you like, Count, I can take you on as my adjutant - I'm in need of a few valiant officers. In that case you will receive the usual start-up expenses and so on and so forth." And so I became an adjutant.'
'To Gnatiev himself?' said Sobolev with a shake of his head. 'The cunning old fox must clearly have seen something special in you.'
Zurov shrugged modestly and continued: 'On my very first day in my new post I provoked an international conflict and an exchange of diplomatic notes. Nikolai Pavlovich sent me with a request to the well-known Russophobe and religious hypocrite Hassan Hairulla - he's the top Turkish priest, a bit like the pope of Rome.'
'Sheikh-ul-Islam,' interjected McLaughlin, scribbling in his notebook. 'He's more like the chief procurator of your Synod.'
'That's it,' Zurov agreed with a nod. 'That's what I meant. This Hairulla and I took an immediate dislike to each other. I addressed him with appropriate respect, through the interpreter: "Your Grace, an urgent letter from Adjutant-General Gnatiev." But the rotten dog blinks his eyes and answers me back in French - deliberately, so the dragoman can't moderate what he says: "Now is the hour of prayer. Wait." He squatted down with his face towards Mecca and started repeating over and over: "Oh great and all-powerful Allah, extend Thy favour to Thy faithful servant and let him live to see the vile infidels who are unfit to trample Thy holy earth burning in hell." Very nice indeed. Since when did they start praying to Allah in French? Very well, I think, in that case I can introduce something new into the Orthodox canon. Hairulla turns towards me, feeling very pleased with himself now that he's set the infidel in his place. "Give me the letter from your general’' he says. "Pardonnez-moi, eminence," I reply, "this is the very time set for us Russians to say mass. Won't you pardon me for just a moment." Down I go, bang, on to my knees and start praying in the language of Corneille and Rocambole: "Lord of all blessings, delight thy sinful servant the boyar - that is, the chevalier - Hippolyte, and let him take joy in the sight of the Moslem dogs roasting in the frying pan." In short, I caused complications in Russo-Turkish relations, which were already very far from straightforward. Hairulla refused to take the letter, began swearing loudly in his own language and threw the dragoman and myself out. Well, Nikolai Pavlovich gave me a dressing-down for the sake of appearances, but I thought he seemed quite pleased. He obviously knew who to send to whom on what errand.'
'Smartly done, Turkestan fashion,' said Sobolev approvingly.
'But not very diplomatic,' put in Captain Perepyolkin, gazing at the unduly familiar hussar in disapproval.
'I didn't last too long as a diplomat,' Zurov sighed, adding thoughtfully, 'obviously that's not the way my path lies.'
Erast Petrovich snorted rather loudly.
'There I am walking across the Galat Bridge one day, displaying the Russian uniform and taking a look at the pretty girls. They might wear veils, but the she-devils choose the most transparent fabric they can find, and that just makes the temptation even greater. Suddenly I see this divine creature riding towards me in a carriage, with huge velvet eyes sparkling over the top of her veil.
And sitting beside her is this Abyssinian eunuch, a huge great brute, and behind them another carriage with the servant women. I stopped and bowed - in a dignified manner befitting a diplomat - and then she removed her glove and blew me a kiss' - Zurov pursed up his lips - 'with her little white hand.'
'She removed her glove?' Paladin inquired in his French accent with the air of an expert. 'That is no jest, gentlemen. The Prophet regarded fine, delicate hands as the most seductive part of the female body and categorically forbade noble Moslem women to go without gloves, in order not to subject men's hearts to temptation. And so removing a glove - c'est une grande signe, like a European woman removing . . . But then, I had better refrain from drawing parallels.' He stopped short, with a sideways glance at Varya.
'There now, you see,' put in the hussar. 'After that, how could I possibly offend the lady by ignoring her? I take the shaft horse by the bridle and stop it, because I want to introduce myself. Then that eunuch, the boot-blacked oaf, lashes me smartly across the cheek with his whip. What would you have me do? I pulled out my sword, ran the lout through, wiped my blade on his silk caftan and went home feeling sad at heart. No time for the pretty lady now. I had a feeling things would end badly. And it was prophetic: they turned out very nasty indeed.'
'But why was that?' Lukan asked curiously. 'Was she a pasha's wife?'
'Worse,' sighed Zurov. 'The wife of His Infidel Highness Abdul-Hamid II himself. And of course the eunuch was the sultan's too. Nikolai Pavlovich did the best he could for me. He told the padishah in person: "If my adjutant had accepted a blow with a whip from a slave, I myself would have torn off his shoulder straps for disgracing the name of a Russian officer." But what do they know about the meaning of an officer's uniform? They threw me out, within twenty-four hours. Off to Odessa on a packet boat. It was a good thing the war started soon anyway. When he said goodbye to me, Nikolai Pavlovich told me: "You should thank God, Zurov, that it wasn't the senior wife, but only a 'little lady' - kuchum kadineh."'
'Not k-kuchum, but kuchuk,' Fandorin corrected him, and suddenly blushed, which Varya thought strange.
Zurov whistled: 'Oho! And how do you happen to know?'
Erast Petrovich did not answer, but he looked highly disgruntled.
'Mister Fandorin spent some time as a guest of a Turkish pasha,' Varya declared provocatively.
'And the entire harem took care of you?' the count asked with keen interest. 'Well, tell us about it; don't be such a swine.'
'Not the entire harem, only a kuchuk-hanum’ the titular counsellor mumbled, clearly reluctant to go into the details. 'A really splendid, good-hearted g-girl. And entirely modern. She knows French and English and is fond of Byron. She is interested in medicine.'
This was a new and unexpected side to the secret agent, and one which for some reason was not at all to Varya's liking.
'A modern woman would never agree to live as the fifteenth wife in a harem,' she snapped. 'It is humiliating and altogether barbaric'
'I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but that remark is not entirely fair,' said Paladin, continuing to roll his Russian r's in the French manner. 'You see, during my years of travelling in the East, I have made quite a serious study of the Moslem way of life.'
'Yes, Charles, yes, do tell us about it,' said McLaughlin. 'I recall your series of essays on the life of the harem. It was quite excellent' - and the Irishman positively beamed at his own magnanimity.
'Any social institution, including polygamy, has to be viewed in its historical context,' Paladin began in a professorial tone, but Zurov pulled such a long face that the Frenchman thought better of it and began speaking like a normal human being. 'Actually, in the conditions of the Orient, the harem is the only means capable of offering a woman a chance of survival. Judge for yourself: from the very beginning Moslems have been a nation of warriors and prophets. Since the men spent their lives waging war, they died and a huge number of women were widowed or were unable to find themselves a husband in the first place. Who was going to feed them and their children? Mohamed had fifteen wives, but not at all because of his excessively voluptuous inclinations. He accepted the responsibility of caring for the widows of his fallen comrades-in-arms, and these women could not even be called his wives in the Western sense. What, after all, is a harem, gentlemen? You imagine the soft murmuring of a fountain, semi-naked odalisques indolently consuming Turkish delight, the tinkling of coin necklaces, the heady aroma of perfume, and the whole scene veiled in a dense haze of debauchery.'
'And in the middle of it all the lord and master of this henhouse, wrapped in his robe, with a hookah and a blissful smile on his bright red lips’ Zurov mused dreamily.
'I am afraid I must disappoint you, Mister Captain. In addition to the wives, a harem is also poor female relatives, a throng of children, including other people's, countless female servants, old female slaves living out their final days and God knows what else. And this entire horde has to be fed and supported by the breadwinner, the man. The richer and more powerful he is, the more dependants he has and the heavier the burden of responsibility that he bears. The system of the harem is not only humane, it is the only possible system in the conditions of the East - without it many women would quite simply have starved to death.'