It is not for nothing that these two stories are combined into one collection "Special Assignments" - as much as they are similar, so the tone of each work is different in color.

"Jack of Spades" is a white story, uncomplicated, simple, bright. Here you equally sympathize with both the criminal and his opponents.

"Decorator" is a black story, gloomy, viscous, gothic. The criminal sows fear and doubt in the hearts of the characters, even Fandorin at some point has a suspicion that the criminal is a person close to him.

The similarity of the stories is that according to the law it is almost impossible to punish the criminals of Momus and the Decorator, and when punishing according to the mind, it is necessary to sacrifice one's principles and conscience and pay a huge price for it.

Score: 9

A very good detective story. The plot of the two stories included in the collection differ from each other, like heaven and earth. The first is about adventurers, and the second is about Jack the Ripper.

The second story is really not for the faint of heart, but the story of a maniac cannot but be bloodthirsty.

Score: 9

Great detective story. I liked the "Decorator" less - it's a very gloomy atmosphere and too much dismemberment. But the plot is fascinating, until the end of the story it is not clear who the killer is.

And The Jack of Spades is an easy and enjoyable read. Confrontation between Fandorin and Momus. But not bloody and saturated with hatred - no. The characters seem to play with each other, trying to leave the enemy in the cold. And Momus is somewhat reminiscent of Ostap Bender - a "noble swindler" who robs the rich, you empathize with him when he gets into trouble. High-quality, good detectives.

Score: 6

Very entertaining stories that are very interconnected. Of course, at first glance it may seem, what is the connection between a monstrous maniac and a sophisticated swindler? But the connection is manifested in many ways, each of the criminals thinks that he is providing invaluable help to society, everyone thinks that he is elusive, everyone wants fame, everyone wants to commit their crimes beautifully, etc.

Beautiful stories filled with dynamism of events, which is typical for many of Akunin's works. If in the first story, all events take place easily and naturally, then in the second Fandorin faces huge problems.

In separate assessments, I gave both works a nine and, respectively, a 9.

Score: 9

I read “Special Assignments” back in 2001, but unlike the rest of Akunin’s books published at that time, very little remained in my memory from this collection - a reception on Sparrow Hills, Princess Sofiko Chkhartishvili, and a Moscow maniac who suddenly turned out to be Jack the Ripper. I have a similar story in the whole Fandorian only with the book “The whole world is a theater”, I also remember almost nothing from it. Even from the generally unsuccessful "Water Planet" there was a clear understanding of the plot. And now, re-reading "Special Assignments", I can say what the problem is. Painfully, they look like something previously read somewhere, only with Fandorin. Moreover, Fandorin is shown here through the eyes of Tyulpanov, and behind this filter of adoration and gratitude, it is impossible to feel a living person.

Of course, I understand that anything can be understood by “special assignments”, but the situation seems painfully fantastic when Fandorin alone, with little help from Anisiya, solves all Moscow problems from catching a maniac to cheating a swindler.

Score: 8

The book is divided into 2 stories "Jack of Spades" and "Decorator". Despite the crazy love for Erast Petrovich and his adventures, this book turned out to be very mediocre. It seems that these stories are collected from fragments of old novels - here are the villains mentioned earlier, and the tricks of Fandorin himself, which have already set the teeth on edge. From a historical detective story, the book turns into a fantasy one, when Jack the Ripper from London suddenly appears on the stage, and there Sherlock Holmes is just a stone's throw away. Boris Akunin's ambitions to become Conan Doyle were outlined from the very first book, but now they are simply striking in the eyes with undisguised imitation (Fandorin has his own Watson).

And if the first story "Jack" is still all right, then "Decorator" is an absolute failure. In the first Jack, this is an attempt to collect Ostap Bender and work in a picaresque genre, then the second with the "Ripper" is an obvious overkill

A new book by Boris Akunin about the adventures of Erast Petrovich in the 19th century.

The last time we met with Erast Petrovich Fandorin was when he applied his deductive method in the fight against Japanese crime. This was the novel "Diamond Chariot" and the story "Sigumo", which migrated to "Jade Rosary" from "Cemetery Stories". All other texts here are new. Their geography has expanded significantly: the action of stories and novels is transferred from Moscow to Siberia, from England to America. And even...

Leviathan
Akunin Boris

"Leviathan" (sealed detective) is the third book by Boris Akunin from the series "The Adventures of Erast Fandorin".

On March 15, 1878, a terrible murder was committed on the Rue de Grenelle in Paris. Lord Littleby and nine of his servants are killed. The offender did not take anything from the house, except for the figurine of the god Shiva and a colored scarf. The investigation leads Police Commissioner Ghosh to the luxury ship Leviathan bound for Calcutta. The killer on the ship, but who is it? Among the suspects, each of whom hides his secret, the English Ar...

Death of Achilles
Akunin Boris

The memory of the 19th century, when literature was great, faith in progress boundless, and crimes were committed and revealed with grace and taste.

Heaven's blessing
McNaught Judith

As if fate itself had fallen upon the beautiful aristocrat Elizabeth Cameron. Having dared, having a fiancé, to love another man, she lost everything: both her lover and the respect of society ... Two years of suffering, then short months of a happy marriage, and then again betrayal, loneliness and pain. Will Elizabeth ever be able to return her beloved and earn the BLESSING OF HEAVEN?...

Expansion - I
Semenov Yulian

The action of the new novel by the honored worker of arts, laureate of the State Prize of the RSFSR writer Yulian Semyonov, takes place at the end of the 40s, when an alliance between the Nazi criminals SD and the Gestapo and the CIA began to take shape. The author tells about the stay of the protagonist of the book Maxim Maksimovich Isaev (Stirlitz) in Francoist Spain....

State Councillor
Akunin Boris

"State Counselor" (political detective) is the seventh book by Boris Akunin from the series "The Adventures of Erast Fandorin".

1891 Minds are fermenting, revolutionary ideas are popular among the youth, revolutionary circles are springing up everywhere. But it's not just fashion for everyone.

A group calling themselves "B. G." works accurately and boldly. The Siberian governor-general was killed, the killer is the man who presented the documents of Erast Fandorin. Erast Petrovich accepts the challenge and takes on the investigation. Who is behind the letters "B. G....

Extracurricular reading. Volume 2
Akunin Boris

The most voluminous novel by B. Akunin! Five Fandorins in one novel!

Just as any mystery can be solved and told, the criminal mystery also needs to be guessed and a sophisticated train of thought.

The action of the new novel develops in parallel: in Last year reign of Catherine II and in our days. A seven-year-old child prodigy named Mithridates, by chance, becomes a witness to a conspiracy against the voluptuous empress. Saving Ekaterina from certain death, the boy puts his own...

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

In Moscow, unheard-of events are taking place - the police discover one after another women with their throats cut. All the victims have no signs of sexual violence, but the internal organs were removed and carefully laid out at the crime scene, forming a kind of "decoration", as the perpetrator himself calls it. On the face or neck of each murdered flaunts a bloody imprint of a kiss - the handwriting of the London Jack the Ripper. Has the serial killer moved to Moscow? The answer to this question will, of course, be left to the official for special assignments, Erast Petrovich Fandorin.

Boris Akunin

Special Assignments: Decorator

Bad start

April 4, Maundy Tuesday, morning

Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official for special assignments under the Moscow governor-general, a person of the 6th class, a holder of Russian and foreign orders, turned inside out.

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

Fandorin's assistant, Provincial Secretary Anisy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, nondescript young man of 23, had never seen the chief in such a miserable state. Tulipov himself, however, had a somewhat green face, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored chef, who was always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy in earnest.

“P-go ahead…,” Erast Petrovich squeezed out, grimacing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The constant slight stuttering, the memory of a long-standing concussion, from a nervous breakdown noticeably intensified. “T-go there… Let the r-protocol, r-detailed… Photographic s-shots from all angles. And traces so as not to ... for ... trampled ...

He was again bent to death, but this time the outstretched hand did not tremble - the finger inexorably pointed to the crooked door of the wooden shed, from which a few minutes earlier the collegiate adviser had come out all pale, on buckling legs.

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

He took more damp April air into his chest (oh, he wouldn’t be muddied himself), crossed himself and - as if heading into a whirlpool.

A fair number of people gathered in the shack, used for storing firewood, and now, on the occasion of the imminent end of the cold weather, a fair amount of people gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective office, a private bailiff, a quarterly warden, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also a janitor Klimuk, who discovered the place of a monstrous atrocity - in the morning he poked his head for firewood, saw it, yelled as much as it was supposed to, and ran after the police.

Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed on the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman sobbed thinly and sniffled.

- Well, what do we have? purred the forensic expert Yegor Villemovich Zakharov with curiosity, picking up something porous, blue-purple from the floor with a rubber-gloved hand. - No spleen. Here she is, dear. Excellent, sir. In her bag, in her bag. Another womb, left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting every little thing ... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not a mesentery?

Anisy looked down, shied away in horror and almost stumbled over the prostrate body of the girl Andreichkina, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the craft of the deceased, was gleaned from a yellow ticket, neatly lying on a ripped open chest. There was nothing more neat in the posthumous appearance of the girl Andreichkina.

Her face, presumably, not visible during life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes popped out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a soundless scream. Looking down was even scarier. Someone slashed the poor body of the walking woman up and down, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spreading blood, and small patches of a dress that was either shredded or torn.

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

- Traces of intercourse?

- I'll describe it to you, blue, after. I will make a report, and I will display everything as it is. Here, you can see for yourself, the darkness of Egypt and the groan of the pitch.

Like any foreigner who perfectly mastered the Russian language, Yegor Villemovich liked to insert various intricate turns into his speech. Despite the quite common surname, there was an expert of British blood. A doctor’s father, also a doctor, came to the realm of the late sovereign, to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zakarayes, which was difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told on the road, as if in a cab. From it it is clear that he is not his brother a hare: lanky, thick, sandy hair, a wide mouth, lipless, mobile, constantly distilling a wretched hemp pipe from corner to corner.

This book is part of a series of books:

"Special Assignments" is the fifth book by Boris Akunin from the series "The Adventures of Erast Fandorin". The other four books I wrote earlier -,.

A little about the book I read:

The whole book is divided into 2 stories Jack of spades, Decorator.

Jack of spades

I'll start with the first in Moscow, a group or maybe not a group called "Jack of Spades" began its activities. They pull off daring scams and disappear without a trace from the scene of the crime. At the very beginning of the book, a little about the poor is told about Anisiy Tyulpanov, a poor and unfortunate man with whom fate seemed to have done badly. But soon, under completely random circumstances, Tyulpanov will be very lucky, he will work with Fandorin. And so Tyulpanov was sent to Fandorin, who was famous in some circles all over Moscow, Anisy respected him very much and considered it an honor to meet Erst so close. As I said earlier, under certain circumstances, Fandorin and Tulipov begin to work together. Their adventures began when the sassy Jack of Spades organization plays a good prank on several important people.

Fandorin and Tyulpanov play a good scene for the Jack of Spades, but he still slips away from them. To be honest, I really liked this story. Two meet here the most talented person in the skill of dressing which vryatli who can beat. The Jack of Spades was known in special circles for not only cheekily stealing from his victims, but also for being artistic, unpredictable, and good at acting. This story ends pretty well for the Jack of Spades and his beloved woman. And Fandorin, as always, remains alone. In general, read who has not read.

Decorator

Very terrible crimes are taking place in Moscow, and all this on the eve of the arrival of a great and very important person. Naturally, Fandorin is entrusted with this business, who, together with Tulipov, step by step approach the mysterious Jack the Ripper. The investigation of crimes is conducted in complete secrecy and without publicity. Many corpses are disfigured in the most brutal way, and a bloody kiss is left on each of them. In the course of the book, to be honest, events spun so much that I didn’t even imagine such an outcome at the end of the story, until the very end I had absolutely no idea who this Killer was, who killed only poor and terrible women, according to him, he made them more beautiful , but this is an attack of madness. But all the crimes, with all their frightening cruelty, are described enough so that they do not turn inside out, as Erast did, although the image of Fandorin, it seems to me, does not suggest that such a hard person can turn out. As always, Erast Petrovich is left in a purely male team.
Boris Akunin's next book from the Fandorin series is

April, 4, great tuesday, morning

Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official for special assignments under the Moscow governor-general, a person of the 6th class, a holder of Russian and foreign orders, turned inside out.

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

Fandorin's assistant, Provincial Secretary Anisy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, nondescript young man of 23, had never seen the chief in such a miserable state. Tulipov himself, however, had a somewhat green face, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored chef, who was always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy in earnest.

“P-go ahead…” Erast Petrovich squeezed out his face, grimacing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The constant slight stuttering, the memory of a long-standing concussion, from a nervous breakdown noticeably intensified. “T-go there… Let the r-protocol, r-detailed… Photographic s-shots from all angles. And traces so as not to ... for ... trampled ...

He was again bent to death, but this time the outstretched hand did not tremble - the finger inexorably pointed to the crooked door of the wooden shed, from which a few minutes earlier the collegiate adviser had come out all pale, on buckling legs.

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

He took more damp April air into his chest (oh, he wouldn’t be muddied himself), crossed himself and - as if heading into a whirlpool.

A fair number of people gathered in the shack, used for storing firewood, and now, on the occasion of the imminent end of the cold weather, a fair amount of people gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective office, a private bailiff, a quarterly warden, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also a janitor Klimuk, who discovered the place of a monstrous atrocity - in the morning he poked his head for firewood, saw it, yelled as much as it was supposed to, and ran after the police.

Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed on the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman sobbed thinly and sniffled.

- Well, what do we have? purred the forensic expert Yegor Villemovich Zakharov with curiosity, picking up something porous, blue-purple from the floor with a rubber-gloved hand. - No spleen. Here she is, dear. Excellent, sir.

In her bag, in her bag. Another womb, left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting every little thing ... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not a mesentery?

Anisy looked down, shied away in horror and almost stumbled over the prostrate body of the girl Andreichkina, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the craft of the deceased, was gleaned from a yellow ticket, neatly lying on a ripped open chest. There was nothing more neat in the posthumous appearance of the girl Andreichkina.

Her face, presumably, not visible during life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes popped out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a soundless scream. Looking down was even scarier. Someone slashed the poor body of the walking woman up and down, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spreading blood and small patches of a dress that was either shredded or torn.

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

- Traces of intercourse?

- I'll describe it to you, blue, after. I will make a report and show everything as it is. Here, you can see for yourself, the darkness of Egypt and the groan of the pitch.

Like any foreigner who perfectly mastered the Russian language, Yegor Villemovich liked to insert various intricate turns into his speech. Despite the quite common surname, there was an expert of British blood. A doctor’s father, also a doctor, came to the realm of the late sovereign, to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zakarayes, which was difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told on the road, as if in a cab. From it it is clear that he is not his brother a hare: lanky, thick, sandy hair, a wide mouth, lipless, mobile, constantly distilling a wretched hemp pipe from corner to corner.

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

- What, Mr. Tyulpanov, is your boss still breathing air? And I said, they would have done very well without the governor's supervision. The picture is not for refined eyes, but we are people accustomed to everything.

It is clear that Leonty Andreevich is dissatisfied, he is jealous. It's no joke - Fandorin himself was assigned to look after the investigation. What investigator would like that.

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

“God forbid you get used to this,” muttered the senior policeman Pribludko in an undertone, an old and experienced campaigner, known to Anisius from one third-year case.

So after all, it was not the first time I had to work together with Leonty Andreevich. The unpleasant gentleman is twitchy all over, constantly chuckles, and his eyes are prickly. Dressed to the nines, collars as if made of alabaster, cuffs and even whiter, he clicks everything on his shoulders, knocks down motes. Ambitious, makes a great career. Only now, at the last Epiphany, he had a hitch with an investigation into the spiritual merchant Sitnikov. The case was noisy, partly even affecting the interests of influential people and therefore not tolerating delay, well, His Excellency Prince Dolgoruky asked Erast Petrovich to help the prosecutor's office. And from the boss it is known what kind of assistant - he took it and unraveled the whole thing in one day. No wonder Izhitsyn is furious. He foresees that he will again remain without laurels.

“Looks like everything,” the investigator announced. - So, so be it. The corpse is in the police morgue, on Bozhedomka. Seal the barn and put up a policeman. Agents to interrogate all the surrounding residents, but stricter. Have you heard or seen anything suspicious? You, Klimuk, went in for firewood for the last time at eleven o'clock, right? Leonty Andreevich asked the janitor. “Did death occur no later than two in the morning?” (This is for expert Zakharov). Therefore, to be interested in the interval from the beginning of the eleventh hour to two in the morning. - And again Klimuk. - You, maybe, with whom you have already spoken from here? Didn't say what?

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

“Not at all, your highness. Something we don't understand. He propped up the barn door and ran to Mr. Pribludko. And they wouldn’t let me in from the neighborhood until the bosses arrived. The inhabitants, they know nothing. That is, of course, they see that the police have come in large numbers ... That the gentlemen of the police have deigned to arrive. And about this passion (the janitor timidly glanced towards the corpse) is unknown to the inhabitants.

“That’s what we’ll check,” Izhitsyn chuckled. “So the agents are back to work. And you, Mr. Zakharov, take away your treasures. And so that by noon a complete conclusion, in all form.

“Gentlemen of the agents, I ask you to stay where you are,” came the soft voice of Erast Petrovich from behind. Everyone turned around.

How did the collegiate counselor enter, when? And the door didn't creak. Even in the twilight it was clear that the boss was pale and upset, but his voice was even and his manner of speaking was always reserved, courteous, but such that you would not want to object.

“Mr. Izhitsyn, even the janitor understood that one should not b-talk about the incident,” Erast Petrovich said dryly to the investigator. - I, in fact, was sent for this, to ensure the strictest secrecy. No polls. Moreover, I ask and even oblige all those present to keep complete silence about the circumstances of the case. To explain to the residents that ... a prostitute hanged herself, laid hands on herself, a common thing. If rumors about what happened spread around Moscow, each of you will fall under an official investigation, and whoever is guilty of disclosure will be severely punished. Sorry, gentlemen, but t-those are the instructions I received, and there are reasons for that.

At a sign from the doctor, the policemen were about to take a stretcher standing by the wall in order to put the corpse on them, but the collegiate councilor raised his hand:

- W-wait.

He crouched over the dead woman.

- What's on her cheek?

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

- A stain of blood. Here, as you can see, blood is plentiful.

But not on the face.

Erast Petrovich carefully rubbed the oval spot with his finger - a trace remained on the white glove husky. With what seemed to Anisy an extraordinary excitement, the collegiate adviser (and for Tyulpanov, just a "boss") muttered:

“No cut, no bite.

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

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

- A trace of lips! God, that's a kiss mark! There can be no doubt!

- What's the point of killing yourself? - quipped Leonty Andreevich. “There are scarier marks here. - He swung the toe of his shoe towards the open chest and gaping pit of the abdomen. - You never know what comes into the head of a madman.

“Oh, how bad,” the collegiate councilor muttered to no one.

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

- God, is it really going to start in Moscow...

* * *

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

Let. Let the Prince of Denmark, an idle and blazed creature, not care about a person, but I do! The bard is half right: there is little angelic in human deeds, and it is blasphemy to liken the understanding of a man to God, but there is nothing more beautiful than a man in the world. But what are deeds and understanding - deceit, chimera, vanity, truly the quintessence of dust. Man is not a thing, but a body. Even plants that caress the eye, the most magnificent and intricate of flowers, cannot be compared with the magnificent structure of the human body. Flowers are primitive and simple, the same inside and out: turn the petal like that, that way. Looking at flowers is boring. Where are their greedy stalks, shabby geometric inflorescences and pathetic stamens to the purple of elastic muscles, the elastic of silky skin, the silvery mother-of-pearl of the stomach, the graceful twists of the intestines and the mysterious asymmetry of the liver!

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

I had to fast for too long, since Shrove Tuesday. My lips dried up, repeating: “Revitalize my accursed heart with a passion-killing fast!” The Lord is kind and merciful, He will not be angry with me for not having the strength to endure six days until the Bright Resurrection. After all, April 3 is not just a day, it's the anniversary of the Illumination. Then it was also April 3rd. What is in a different style - it does not matter. The main sound, the music of the words: third ap-re-la.

I have my post, my own and Easter. Already a conversation, so a conversation. No, I won't wait until tomorrow. Today! Yes, yes, have a feast. Don't get fed up, but get fed up. Not for my own sake, but for the glory of God.

After all, it was He who opened my eyes - taught me to see and understand true beauty. More than that, reveal it and show it to the world. And revealing it is the same as creating it. I am an apprentice of the Creator.

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

I close my eyes and see.

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

I go and dream about death, about meeting Him, but I know: I can’t die, it’s too early, my mission has not been fulfilled.

Voice from the darkness: "Let me have half a dat." Jittery, drunk. I turn around and see the most vile and ugliest of human beings: a slumped whore - drunk, ragged, but at the same time grotesquely painted with whitewash and lipstick.

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

You, of course, are not to blame. Soulless cruel society dumped you in the mud. But I will clean you up and save you. The heart is light and joyful.

Who knew it would turn out like this. I had no intention of breaking the fast - otherwise my path would not have been through these miserable slums, but through the stinking nooks and crannies of Khitrovka or Grachevka, where abomination and vice nest. But magnanimity and generosity overwhelm me, only slightly tinged with impatient thirst.

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

I'm in a man's dress, and the witch thinks there's a buyer for her rotten wares. She laughs hoarsely, shrugs her shoulders: “Where are we going? Listen, do you have any money? Feed at least, but better bring it. Poor, lost sheep.

I lead her through the dark yard to the sheds. Impatiently I pull one door, another, the third is unlocked.

Lucky breathes into the back of my head with moonshine fumes, giggles: “Look, you lead me to the barn. Look, you're impatient."

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

Liberation is not given without pain, it's like childbirth. The one whom I now love with all my heart is in a lot of pain, she wheezes and gnaws at the gag, and I stroke her head and console her: "Be patient." Hands quickly and cleanly do their job. I do not need light, my eyes see at night no worse than during the day.

I open the defiled, dirty shell of the body, the soul of my beloved sister soars upward, but I freeze in awe of the perfection of the divine mechanism.

When I bring the hot bun of the heart to my face with a gentle smile, it still trembles, still beats with the caught goldfish, and I gently kiss the wonderful fish in the open lips of the aorta.

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

Take the same flower. Its true beauty is not visible on the lawn or in the flower bed, oh no! A rose is regal in a corsage, a carnation in a buttonhole, a violet in the hair of a charmer. The triumph of a flower comes when it is already cut, its real life is inseparable from death. The same is with the human body. While it lives, it is not given to it to reveal itself in all the splendor of its delightful device. I help the body to reign. I am a gardener.

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

I am not a gardener, I am a decorator.

Further we go, worse it becomes

April 4, Maundy Tuesday, noon

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

chief police chief major general of the retinue of his imperial majesty Yurovsky;

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

chief of the detective police, State Councilor Eichmann;

official for special assignments under the governor-general, collegiate adviser Fandorin;

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

“The weather, what is the weather like, you bastard,” Vladimir Andreevich opened the secret meeting with these words. “That’s bullshit, gentlemen. Cloudy, windy, slushy, muddy, and worst of all, the Moskva River overflowed more than usual. I went to Zamoskvorechye - a nightmare and horror. The water rose three and a half fathoms! It flooded all the way to Pyatnitskaya. Yes, and on the left bank is a mess. Do not drive along Neglinny. Oh, shame on you gentlemen. Dolgoruky will be dishonored in his old age!

All those present sighed anxiously, only one investigator for the most important cases showed some astonishment on his face, and the prince, who was distinguished by rare powers of observation, found it possible to explain:

- I see you, young man ... uh ... I think Glagolev? No, Bukin.

- Izhitsyn, Your Excellency, - the prosecutor suggested, but not loudly enough - in the seventy-ninth year of his life, the Moscow Viceroy (they called the all-powerful Vladimir Andreevich, and so) became hard of hearing.

“Excuse me, old man,” the governor spread his hands good-naturedly. - So, Mr. Pyzhitsyn, I see that you are in the dark ... Probably, you are not supposed to be in your position. But since the meeting ... So, - the long face of the prince, with a drooping chestnut mustache, acquired solemnity, - on the bright Easter of Christ, the Mother See will make His Imperial Majesty happy with the arrival. They will arrive without pomp, without ceremony - to bow to Moscow shrines. Muscovites were ordered not to notify in advance, because the visit was planned as if impromptu. 2
improvised (fr.).

That, however, does not relieve us of responsibility for the level of the meeting and the general condition of the city. For example, gentlemen, this morning I receive a message from His Eminence Ioannikius, Metropolitan of Moscow. Vladyka complains, writes that in confectionery shops before Holy Pascha there is a uniform disgrace: shop windows and counters are completely lined with candy boxes and bonbonnieres depicting the Last Supper, the Way of the Cross, Golgotha ​​and other things of the kind. This is blasphemy, gentlemen! If you please, dear sir, - the prince turned to the chief police chief, - today issue an order to the police so that such indecencies are most strictly suppressed. Destroy the boxes, transfer the contents to the Orphanage. Let the orphans feast on the holiday. And the shopkeepers should also be fined so that they don’t let me down under the monastery before the royal arrival!

The governor-general excitedly straightened his curly wig, which had slightly moved to one side, wanted to say something else, but coughed.

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

Vedischev quickly dripped some medicine from the flask into a silver cup, gave the prince a drink, and just as quickly disappeared in the opposite direction, without looking at anyone.

- Shpashibo, Frol, shpashibo, dove, - the governor-general mumbled after the confidant, moved his chin so that his jaws fell into place, and continued without any whispering. - So let Erast Petrovich deign to explain what caused the urgency of this meeting. You, my soul, know very well that every minute counts for me today. Well, what happened to you there? Have you made sure that rumors about this dismemberment mischief do not spread among the townsfolk? This was just not enough on the eve of the highest arrival ...

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

“Measures to preserve the t-secret have been taken, Your Excellency,” Fandorin began to report. - All those who were involved in the inspection of the crime scene were warned of responsibility, a non-disclosure signature was taken from them. The janitor who discovered the body, as a person prone to immoderate drinking and not vouching for himself, was temporarily placed in a special k-cell of the Gendarmerie Administration.