defeminized (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
defeminized) wrote2011-01-31 01:47 am
defeminized) wrote2011-01-31 01:47 am
Entry tags:
Jin and The Painting of St Basil’s Cathedral (And His Last Name is Holmes) [1/2]
Title: Jin and The Painting of St Basil’s Cathedral (And His Last Name is Holmes)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
simourva
Artist:ayuzak
Crossover: Shamelessly nabbed from Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: This is a product of a mind going through crack, but not enough crack to keep this on pure crack level. Apologies to the real Tchaikovsky the pianist; to my defense, I didn’t steal his name, Ueda did.
Type: Gen, AU, Crack-ish, Crossover
Word count: 15,817 ~
Characters/Pairings: Kame/Jin, appearances of Yamapi, Ueda’s alter ego, mentions of Nakamaru
Warnings: Very slight angst, female OCs with bizarre fetishes and the necessity to pretend that you can have names that combine elements from two different languages. Jin is eloquent. And smart. Kind of.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Jin ran off somewhere for two years and Kame was not happy. They try to make up. In the mean time, they solve mysteries.
Author’s Notes:
- This fic took me forever just to decide what to do with it. I went through loads of references in a hope that I could come up with something, but I didn’t and it kind of frustrated me to which I was even at the point of almost wanting to drop out. In the end I settled for something simpler and this is what came up.
- Even if you don’t like the story, please check outayuzak’s art. She’s the most awesome person and deserves the spams directed to her DA inbox because she’s that awesome.
- Thanks to these two amazing ladies who helped me look over the fic (and whack me when I’m being stupid, then whack me again when I’m being grammatically-blind):randomicicle and cease11. You guys are the Kame to my Nashi.
Link to Art Master Post: Here, and here, by the amazingayuzak. Seriously, amazing.
__
When I heard about him being back in Baker Street, I wasted no time in paying my dearest friend a visit, hoping for him to enlighten me with stories of his adventures. To my delight, I found him lurching around his dusty room, but to my displeasure, he was mumbling to himself, blissfully and completely unaware of my sudden and unannounced -albeit understandable- presence in the room. When his leg made an abrupt and undignified contact with a box, he pranced frantically and saw me at last, but continued pacing anyway. As both his long-time friend and occasional physician, I wasn't appreciative of his refusal to even pretend I existed.
"My dear friend Jin, it has been long!" I opened my arms wide to welcome him, in hopes that he could identify that my intentions were in fact less than friendly. It had been a good two years since I had last seen him, and it would be one of my greatest assurances to have him remember the way we were, even if he seemed to have lost the attentiveness usually -and sometimes unpleasantly- directed to me. To my utter dismay he had, rather regrettably, turned blind instead of oblivious. “Kame, my friend, when had you appear in front of my eyes? You are a welcoming sight I just can’t wait to embrace!”
“You might just be the last person I would want to embrace at the moment, to be quite – I’m sorry, let me put that more accurately - completely honest.” His stench suggested that he had not bathed in days.
I sighed and hanged my coat. “And since you’re back, please do prepare the answers for some of my impending questions. For example, what did you do in the two years you made the decision that London was uninteresting and bland and – I almost forgot – you needed a breath of fresh air?”
It was in reference to his unceremonious letter addressed to me –placed on top of his shelf almost nauseatingly headed by a neatly-written “Dear Kame”– detailing everything about where he had planned to go and nothing about why he had planned such an impulsive trip. Unless “needing a breath of fresh air” qualified as Jin explaining his “why”; but Jin’s “why” was never just “needing a breath of fresh air” and I knew that very well.
“Did you get to go to places and get to know people and, oh sorry, what else did you mention in your letter?” In all honesty, I remembered the letter well. I just thought that if Jin’s memory was not going to be at its peak, then there was no reason why mine should be.
“I need details, Jin,” his eyes were shifting, a rare occurrence that I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen it. “Details, details, details!” I drilled, almost aggressively. “I assume you know you owe me those for fabricating them, each one a bigger lie than the other.” Jin sneezed from the dust accumulated in his place, and I swiftly replied with a soft, whispery “Bless you!”
He rubbed his nose and spoke with a muffled voice. “Ve haf ar kays.” My face must have been wincing and twitching in the correct way, because he straightened his speech rapidly by coughing some air. “We have a case, Kame.”
This had sounded more like the good old days than the entire encounter had been.
“Alright.”
I sought for a place to sit.
__
“You are not serious about this.”
It was more of a question than a wishful statement, though I tried to make it sound as close to the latter as possible.
I could hardly believe what Jin had just said. It was not only incredibly unlike him to be saying anything doubt-ridden like “I suppose we can wave it this away, can’t we?” to a case, it was also highly unlikely of him to be proposing a cleaning session of his pile of haphazardly stacked boxes, covered with newspapers dated as far as the day he left London and thick layers of dust. Or, to be precise, I was to be the main player in the cleaning session of a mess I didn’t start.
“Jin, I hate to disappoint you just right after we meet each other. However, I believe that I had just suffered a greater degree of disappointment than that moment of your blatant ignorance of my presence. Did you just knowingly deemed me fit to clean your decorous house?”
I heard him sighing in a mixture of confusion and defeat, like one of those times when he had failed to subtly coerce me into doing what he had been unwilling to do. “That was me considering the best man for the job, and trust me, my friend, you’re more than just the best man. You’re the only man for the job.”
At that, I was promptly reminded of the very reason why Jin was who he was. “That was not a very subtle praise, Jin. And just in case you’re wondering, and if you’re still wondering why that is so, I hope you remember that I make a living out of dealing with human ailments instead of spatial disorders of inanimate subjects. Case in point, this.” I pointed to his room, and he sneezed right on cue. “Sadly, this is just not my area of expertise,” I added.
“London has not changed you, has she?” Aside from being appalled by Jin’s lack of attention towards the character details of other people, I was slowly and gradually losing my well-intentioned patience directed towards him, something even he in the past had had difficulties in doing. “Still that intensely impatient bloke with invariable opinions-“
“Have a nice evening, Jin.”
I abruptly took my coat and paced so quickly towards the door, I could had as well be teleported there.
“About the case, Kame!” Jin raised his voice, this time along with an exasperated heave. I couldn’t help but to relent, since he seemed to have finally acted like a person of his mind-reading calibre, and I was glad we had both reached a compromise, albeit mentally.
“Welcome home, Jin, my friend.” My arms were wide open again, this time sincerely glad that he was finally back.
“Tell me more about it.”
__
“So, it was a painting.”
Jin brushed the dust off the last box he had with an almost equally dusty piece of rag, forehead scrunched up in disgust and lips pursed with a slight but conspicuous apprehension. “Yes, Kame,” he said, voice stifled by the momentary stop in breath, “all the way from Moscow, about the renowned St Basil’s Cathedral. Stolen within a day – one single day - of its arrival in London, brought over by the very distinguished Lady Larisa of the renowned Petrov clan.” She was a long-time acquaintance of Sir Yamashita, who was one of the good friends Jin and I had had the fortune to befriend. Jin had apparently arranged a meeting with the lady the day after, a move that rather shocked me with its abruptness –he had, after all, just arrived back in London– rather than its thoroughness.
He held his chin for a moment; a signal that suggested that the train of thought processing within his mind would probably be released any moment now. I waited patiently. He had never disappoint when he was in his thinking mode, especially so when he was seriously contemplating his next tactical moves to counter even the most intelligent of perpetrators. There were times when he could be quietly assessing a situation and later came up with the most absurd plans to be put in motion or the silliest conclusions to end a case but always and consistently, logical solutions to problems at hand. He could be oblivious, but that didn’t change the fact that he had always been one of the most cognitively reliable person I ever had the pleasure to meet.
When he didn’t say anything, I waited again, thinking that Jin might have been away for so long, that he had needed some time to get back to being an intelligent, sharp and acute private eye.
“I’m hungry.”
I gave up.
__
All I had successfully gathered from Jin’s relatively uninteresting drawl about the new case was that other than being brought over by Lady Larisa, originated from Moscow and was about St Basil’s Cathedral, I also discovered that the painting was a priceless masterpiece by a mysterious and eccentric artist charismatically named Tchaikovsky Tatsuya1.
I was unaware about just how charismatic the painter named Tchaikovsky was, until I was invited to the residence of Sir Yamashita, who was hosting the Russian guests. Lady Larisa had a very haughty air around her; with her legs elegantly crossed and her fingers dainty, she looked nothing less than comfortable sipping her afternoon tea, dressed like she was about to attend a ball, hair tight in a bun with a few strands carefully slipped besides her ears. It didn’t take me long to conclude that she looked almost English.
“I’m sorry, my lady, Holmes has uhm,” I hesitated to explain Jin’s inability to show up on time. It was when I started uttering that I realized that I had yet to be able to recite Jin’s schedule straight from my memory. “He has to attend to something.” I used to be able to come up with plausible excuses for Jin’s tardiness and it would have been believable, because I alone would be able to know where he was probably at any given time of the day and there was never a more trustable source of Jin’s whereabouts than I myself.
Lady Larisa showed neither surprise nor disappointment, which in turn took me by a strange kind of surprise. “Let me apologize on his behalf-“
“I had expected that, Dr Watson,” and she spoke with highly-accented English, though enunciated just as well as any native speaker. “I have all afternoon, we can wait.”
Crouching in the corner of the hall was a man with a small frame and unkempt hair. I only managed to get a glimpse of him when he looked up to Lady Larisa, and caught a prominently-chiselled face and a strong jaw, though with a delicately shaped nose and lips, almost as though he could pass off as a woman if he had had longer hair. His face rather reminded me of Jin’s, though this Tchaikovsky had an ethereal overlay over his features, as though he was airily smoothened and protected by an invisible glass, or as something Jin would probably infer, simple lack of food. He was quite deeply absorbed with his work, and at that moment he was painting a pair of shoes. I didn’t question the action itself, though I had wanted to, because Lady Larisa didn’t seem to find it amusing even in the slightest. I couldn’t wait for Jin to finally make his appearance; besides being a potential tension-breaker, I could predict that he would definitely be enthusiastic in the unusual work and the eccentric nature of the artist we were helping.
“It is nice meeting you, Mr Tchaikovsky,” I made a small bow towards his direction. He gave me a small acknowledging nod, then went back to painting. He had a very gentle concentrated expression on his face, like he was stroking a small animal instead of a pair of shoes. I was intrigued. I had just been exposed to a form of artistry rather foreign to me, both in the artist’s origin and the concept. Jin burst out through the door just after I attempted a short interaction with the artist and I felt a tiny pang of regret from the lost opportunity.
“My apologies Larisa, I didn’t mean to disappoint you just a few days into your glorious visit to my beloved London. I assure you this is not how most Londoners behave.” I spotted an ostensible shot of glance thrown to my direction, and it was something I’d rather have not noticed. Lady Larisa, who was evidently aware of Jin’s redirected gaze, added a small teaspoon of sugar into her cup of tea and slowly stirred it.
“Why yes, Mr Holmes. I imagine that Dr Watson here would be a more accurate yardstick for an outsider like me to gauge the measure of an English gentleman.”
Jin quickly settled himself, despite the slight but conspicuous verbal challenge. “Of course, my lady, how wise you are. You’re just as witty as I had remembered you when I had the pleasure of visiting Moscow some time ago.”
I didn’t know that. “Jin, I wasn’t told of that.”
Jin stopped short, looking aghast with shock. “I swear I told you.” Aside from being randomly –and at times, annoyingly– tardy, it also appeared that Jin had also gotten rather absent-minded.
“Thank you, Jin. We definitely will need more time to catch up, my friend. You can be sure that I will be immensely happy at the tales of your vibrant adventures.”
Jin forced an unwilling smile at me, but turned to face Lady Larisa almost immediately. “Aren’t your subordinates being a little too careless to have lost the painting so soon into your visit here, my lady? I would have expected more from the celebrated Petrov clan. Have you exhausted the supplies or have you placed your own assets above the unfortunately stolen piece of paper you call the genius artistic production of the renowned Tchaikovsky?”
It was a nerve-wrecking moment of verbal spat, not unlike those of two generals on the war field right before charging right into each other. I was surprised that Lady Larisa didn’t seem like she was at all perplexed by the very discourteous Jin. She gracefully, with her face displaying an unyielding indifference, took another sip of her tea, and replied Jin with “Aren’t you a little too blunt for a gentleman? I hope you’re aware that the renowned Tchaikovsky who produced that genius artistic production is actually around to hear you speak about his unfortunate work.”
At that, Tchaikovsky stood up and revealed his half-painted shoes, throwing a rather displeased expression in Jin’s direction. He looked like he wanted to poison him, although I believe my eyes could have been exaggerating it. Tchaikovsky spoke thickly-accented English too, and his diction could be rather difficult to the untrained ears. “I don’t need you to appreciate my paintings,” he hissed in a low but clear voice. “You could just as well be invisible, since I doubt you know anything about paintings at all.”
Jin shrugged disinterestedly. “If you’re interested, we call that ‘incompatibility’ over here. I’m glad you get the impression at least. Just remember to not end up like Barma or Potsik2, there are still plenty of Ivan the Terribles in the world who might or might not have intended for your arts to feast their eyes and only their eyes.2”
Tchaikovsky grumpily left the hall. “I will be in my room should you need me, my lady.”
It sure didn’t look like we were headed towards a favourable investigative direction.
__
I tried to reprimand Jin. “Couldn’t you have acted at least a little friendly to our guests?” We were walking away from the Yamashita mansion and I was suffering from a suffocating embarrassment just by trying to mentally recollect the way he had been an insufferable conversationalist.
“But I know them and they are not strangers to me.” Jin’s reply told me that he was obviously not paying attention to what I said, or rather, what I had actually meant. I told him what had been bothering me ever since he and I reunited, and asked “Where were you this past year anyway?”
He looked like he was going to say something as he inhaled, then stopped dramatically. “I … have gone to many places.”
I couldn’t recall my exact emotion for this moment, but I definitely had remembered feeling like I could use anything in my hands just to hand him a piece of my mind. “Your mind works in a strange way now, Jin. Maybe you should restructure it into telling people what they might be interested to know instead of what they already know.”
“I have a feeling I’m being severely misunderstood,” Jin asserted with his eyes wide, looking like he was sure of something at last. “If you are interested to know, I have not been doing anything unlawful or illegal or anything that warrants me even a day in the lockup.” I sighed silently, knowing that it was perfectly true, and yet wishing that it was not and somehow Jin would end up being arrested so that he would spill things under the force of an authority of any form. At this moment acts of force seemed fitting for the purpose of unlocking coyness; perhaps deserving too.
I decided that maybe the prior separation was harder on me than I had imagined. More so when the nature of both separation and reunion were sudden as a splash of water made by runaway carts.
“Hey, watch it, won’t you?” Jin hollered at the cart rushing beside him in a fit of displeased fury, not at all grateful for the splash of water thrown to him, wetting his precious pair of pants in a moment of indiscrete dash that was no fault of his. I had to suppress a kind of schadenfreude at the sight of Jin’s drenched pants and his irritated face; it had been a situation crafted as though the streets were aligned with my thoughts. I would, much, much later, feel rather guilty at having ridiculed one of my most treasured friends the way I did.
__
On the next day Jin and I were informed that Lady Larisa’s visit to London was joined by a mutual acquaintance of Jin’s. That piece of news made Jin visibly uneasy and uncharacteristically fidgety, for reasons I didn’t bother asking.
“We should pay a visit to Tchaikovsky”, out came a suggestion from Jin I never thought I would ever hear.
And so a visit to Tchaikovsky we paid. Nevertheless, it was still less than friendly.
“What do you want, Detective Holmes?” The conversation still couldn’t start graciously. “Would you like me to add more to your titles? Maybe something like ‘The Stubborn Genius’?” Tchaikovsky said when Jin barely answered him. He was painting the walls this time; I had fully expected Jin to not question anything, thankfully he had at least the basic senses to keep his words in his throat. As I retreated to my oblivious state -which I obviously was not a fan of-, I assumed that he had seen most of Tchaikovsky’s quirks to be able to act so impervious to the strangeness of wall-painting,
Jin settled himself on the floor beside Tchaikovsky. “What is he doing here?”
“By ‘he’ you mean..?” I couldn’t help questioning.
“The man named Ivan, who has been after some priceless collection of Tchaikovsky’s master for quite a while.”
It was then I was told that Tchaikovsky was under the tutelage of a master named Alexandr Petrov, who happened to be Lady Larisa’s late father, and a very famous painter who had made a name for himself in Moscow as the “Painter of Paradise”. Alexandr Petrov had been a man renowned for his stoic demeanour and silent gesture, traits I observed to be also rather characteristic of Tchaikovsky when he wasn’t too busy bellowing insults at Jin.
“There was nothing magical about his painting” –Tchaikovsky was shooting raging illusionary daggers towards Jin– “or anything heavenly. In fact I had personally examined the most celebrated works of Alexandr Petrov and found them all rather humble. If he had done anything of merit it would probably be the simplicity in his works, drawing people into a world of plainness and ordinariness.” Jin stated matter-factly, carrying himself as some kind of figure of higher opinion because he had, in his own words, examined a collection of masterpieces by a famous deceased artist.
“You hardly know anything about art, I regret to say,” Tchaikovsky stopped painting on the walls. “The power of Alexandr Petrov doesn’t lie with the simplicity or plainness or the obituary-“
“You mean ordinary-“
Jin had always been prompt in noticing other people’s mistakes, and would never waste any time to correct them.
“Thank you Holmes.” Tchaikovsky continued speaking, probably blissfully unfazed by the implications of his mistakenly slurred word. “As I was saying, ordinariness. Alexandr Petrov affects people in more ways than just the splendour of art. It was the power in the message he relays and the techniques he amplify-“
“Employ.” Jin was probably enjoying himself in his various attempts at being deviously helpful in his unhelpfulness.
“No, this time I do mean amplify, Holmes,” Tchaikovsky stopped and interrupted himself to correct Jin, roles reversed this time. “As I was saying, Alexandr Petrov amplifies the power of the everyday and enters the minds of the people subtly with every stroke of his brush. It was a pity that what Alexandr Petrov could do is hardly translatable into words -though not undoable- and I had prayed hard that Holmes over there would be more articulate about describing the power of Alexandr Petrov’s works since he had personally been blessed with the raw-“
“Rare.”
“-rare chance to be bestowed with the wonders of a Petrov’s way of worshipping the subjects. It could be a woman, a street, a person, a child, anything. Alexandr Petrov portrays the strongest in humanity and colours it with the hues of life.”
Jin’s lips puckered up in disbelief, but shortly shrugged and continued where Tchaikovsky left off. “Alexandr Petrov died about two years ago, and that, my friend Watson, had caused the biggest trouble in the Russian artistic circle.”
“Inheritance?” I tried.
“Not his, but Petrov’s.” I was starting to be confused. “But we are talking about Alexandr Petrov.” Unless Russians suddenly adopted a patronymic system that was amended prior to the conversation, I assumed that we were still talking about the same person.
“The Petrov bloodline in Larisa does not come from Alexandr, it came from Larisa’s mother.”
I wondered why this fact, this very important fact, didn’t come earlier into the explanation. “Does that mean Alexandr married into the family?”
Jin snapped his fingers. “Precisely that!” He was getting excited, a sign I knew so well. “So, that will lead me to talk about this Ivan I had mentioned earlier, who is the son of Larisa’s uncle. Logically speaking, in current situation, that wouldn’t make him an heir, unless Larisa dies – and I assume that will be dubious at best. For many years, he had been fighting with Alexandr and his immediate family for the inheritance left by the senior Petrov, who died ten years prior to Alexandr’s, with various degrees of fruitlessness.”
I was still not seeing where this story would lead us. It was like watching a theatrical performance of a story about a war that derailed into the family politics of one of the generals. “Did he give up?”
“Yes, he did.” I was rather astounded that Tchaikovsky answered it.
Jin continued, making me amazed at how much he could gather within a few hours –then, I reminded myself that he had had a privileged headstart due to the familiarities between himself and the parties involved and I stopped feeling impressed by him. “Ivan then supported Lady Larisa in her pathway for the total inheritance, while spouting bulls about how the Petrov clan had turned matriarchal and will be worthless if Larisa should fail, but he secretly also planted another agenda into the ailing Alexandr’s mind. This, of course, happened during the years in between Petrov senior’s death and Alexandr’s.”
Tchaikovsky nodded to Jin; apparently he was going to continue from there. “Needless to say, the last few years of Alexandr’s life were filled with paranormal-“
“Paranoia.”
“Fine,” Tchaikovsky muttered angrily under his breath. “Paranoia, as I mentioned, and his work began to dwindle in quantity. In fact, and this is my biggest regret as his apprentice, after his father-in-law’s death, Alexandr Petrov only managed to complete one single painting.”
“One which Ivan has been trying to get his hands on.” Jin added.
“The one painting that is so priceless, it could turn a poor man rich upon purchase-“ Tchaikovsky couldn’t be bothered with Jin’s extra facts.
“And there were also possibilities of destructive agendas-“
“But in the end it was about this one painting that does not reflect his past works at all.
Despite the bickering, they both reached the same conclusion.“That very painting of St Basil’s Cathedral which was stolen.”
I felt my heart stopped for a fleeting moment.
“Are you trying to say that the stolen painting is actually an unreleased painting by Alexandr Petrov?”
Tchaikovsky nodded and flailed his arms rather frantically, as though he was unleashing all his anxiety at the loss of the painting, something that had been glaringly absent from the beginning of the case. “Yes, which is why this is a much bigger deal than what the public knows. And there is another reason why the painting should have never been stolen,” he said in an ominous tone.
Jin was strangely quiet. It was hard for me to decide if he was actually paying attention or if he was just spacing out in between conversations about things that he was either already in full knowledge of or not at all interested in. “No one else, other than Lady Larisa and I, should have the knowledge of the painting being drawn by Alexander Petrov,” Tchaikovsky continued.
I looked at Jin and asked, “Were you aware of this?”
He jumped slightly and immediately waved his hand in denial. “Of course I was! But it was only recently –I repeat, recently- that I obtained the privilege of this knowledge, if you must know.” He was probably trying to reassure me that he has yet to forget me as a friend, but I wouldn’t tell him that he failed rather spectacularly in that, even if his effort was commendable.
“It was not what I would have encouraged my lady, but Lady Larisa trusts him,” Tchaikovsky’s chin pointed to Jin. “Or else we would have handed him over. The last reason why the theft is suspicious, Dr Watson, is that the painting would have worth nothing even if we announce that it was Alexandr’s last work. The Russian public had thus far assumed that Alexandr Petrov left without so much as a goodbye, let alone a parting gift. That painting had departed so greatly with his previous works; nobody would have the goodwill to acknowledge the painting is actually from the great Alexandr Petrov. If someone does acknowledge it as his work, there will be accusations of fabrication and pro-pro-”
“Propaganda?” This time, it was me who helped.
“Propaganda, yes. Thank you Doctor Watson,” Tchaikovsky gave me an acknowledging small nod, and I could spot Jin frowning from the corner of my eyes. “As you can see, the Petrov clan had not planned to release it for public eyes, for fear of unfavourable publicity.”
I tried to make a wild guess. “Allow me to express my conjectures: to avoid any unflattering opinions of Alexandr, Lady Larisa sent you to London so that you can name yourself the dignified artist of the last work of Alexandr Petrov and therefore, evade the repercussions that come with the name and subsequently, the clan’s reputation.”
“It’s not like that, Kame.” Jin spoke almost right after I had finished my words.
“First of all, you forgot the part where there’s a possibility that Alexandr could have requested the painting to not be tied to him.”
Tchaikovsky nodded. “Yes, he had explicitly asked for it.”
“In fact, he had specifically requested that the painting to be credited under Tchaikovsky’s name, and be sold to England.”
It somehow didn’t make sense, but it was something I came to understand.
“Somehow, whoever stole the painting, knew that the painting was by Alexandr Petrov and knew that it wasn’t supposed to be credited to him and his main intention is to damage Alexandr Petrov’s legacy.”
Jin heaved a sigh of worry. “The probability is high.”
__
There was no one else around in the room - Jin had callously taken off a few minutes ago and headed somewhere against my better warning (that we had needed more information from Tchaikovsky), so I was left with no choice but to speak with the artist myself, who was now painting something on a pair of trousers. “I’m sorry,” I said as he spotted me staring -I couldn’t help it, it was as bizarre as watching an animal feeding against its nature- at him. “You are a very charismatic person; I was quite mesmerized by your intensity.”
“I’m used to it, don’t worry. You’re a very charismatic man too,” Tchaikovsky replied as his eyes darted back to his work. “Really, don’t worry about it in the slightest; I’m used to people thinking that I’m weird”
I settled in a seat next to him. “How was Alexandr Petrov like?”
“He was also weird, very much like myself, only he was weirder. Really, the very idea of that painting being produced by any of us would have been unacceptable, if I were allowed some boasting rights.”
“Because it didn’t represent him?”
“Because the painting was about Russia. Alexandr had always been about exploring the non-Russianness of himself.”
With that he took a piece of paper and began drawing the structure of a church I assumed to be St Basil’s Cathedral -with its many onion-shaped domes and colours that are reminiscent of what I have seen in quite a few artistic works– with a pencil available within a hand’s reach. “You see, Dr Watson-“
“For Russia, St Basil’s Cathedral is like the Eiffel Tower of France. It’s the symbol, the definitive history, the living representation of Russia’s native history and culture. It is perceived as the icon of Russia’s unique position in the world map –the bond between Europe and Asia.”
“Most monuments’ or buildings’ namesake were usually the ones building them, you see, but St. Basil played no part in the building process. In fact, the one who actually commissioned the building of St. Basil’s was the ruler that St. Basil was famously rebelling against, Ivan the Terrible. After the successful military campaign against the Mongolians, which occurred on the festival of the Intercession of the Virgin in 1552, Ivan the Terrible named it the Cathedral of the Intercession of the Virgin.”
Tchaikovsky was a passionate story-teller, I realized. And as he told me the story of a work of a master he so fiercely respected, his range of vocabulary magically widened.
“St Basil’s was named as Cathedral of the Intercession of the Virgin, and was later renamed after the man who roamed the Streets of Moscow in his attempt to woo converts during the reign of Ivan the Terrible. The Holy Fools, better known as the Fools in Christ, were itinerants’ ascetics who enjoyed massive popularity among the ordinary people in Russia. Many of these prophets were revered as Saints, and one of the most popular Holy Fools was the namesake of the Cathedral, Basil the Blessed,” he explained smoothly as he smoothened the outer lines of his sketches. I guessed that he probably had the history of St Basil’s Cathedral committed to his memory for easy explanation to the guests who would be questioning, and I swiftly began to harbour an increasing admiration for the artist before my eyes.
“Basil the Blessed, he was a well-loved public figure who was very dedicated in his crusade. In spite of the cruel, unforgiving weathers, where he had to brave the scorching heat of summer and endure the brutal winters, he usually conducted his crusade naked. He was also a fearless person, Doctor,” he paused to pick a sharper pencil, ”bless his soul, he was also famed as the one who openly denounced the Tsar and bravely opposed the cruelty of Ivan the Terrible. Basil the blessed died on the year that the Mongolians were captured and was buried in the chapel at the north-east corner of the cathedral,” he tapped the area in the painting that indicated the said corner of the Cathedral, ”no sooner, the name of the chapel became a name applied to the whole Cathedral.”
“What is that about Barma and Potsnik that Jin mentioned yesterday?”
“Oh, they are about the legendary architects who built the Cathedral –it might not be a tale as splendid as the cathedral’s commission. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
“St. Basil’s Cathedral was believed to have been built by two self-taught architects, Barma and Potsik, according to an old manuscript depicting St. Basil’s construction which was found in 1896. However, to this day, there were still speculations as to whom, and how many people actually built the Cathedral. Plus there was also the subsequent fate of the architects,” his hand stilled. “Legends has it that Ivan blinded the architects to prevent them from constructing such a masterpiece again. However, records from 1588 proved that this might be after all just a, well, legend because it indicated that both architects had built the chapel where St. Basils’ remains lay. Some historians however, dismissed the idea of two architects and insisted that Potsnik and Barma were just Barma alone, as he had Potsnik for a nickname.”
Tchaikovsky’s hand drew an outline surrounding the sketch of the cathedral, something I assumed to be the finishing touch. “Most people still hold on to the story about them being blinded, though we might never know for sure.”
The truth sent chills up my body.
“So Tchaikovsky, if Alexandr had drawn something about the Cathedral, what do you think he would have drawn instead of the one which got stolen?”
Tchaikovsky stopped drawing.
“It would be about the people.”
“People who walk to the Cathedral as they piously attend the services. People who hold hopes for a blessed life. People who had been a part of a family.”
“So he loves people most.”
It made me regret that I would never be given a chance to meet the amazing painter that was Alexandr Petrov.
__
“Open up, my friend!”
I knocked on Jin’s door that night, finding him rocking in his chair and crossing off a list of something I was standing too far away to see. He quickly tore it off as he realized my presence.
“Right, Jin. Be afraid of me. Be very afraid of me.”
He stood up, looking like he just heard himself accused for theft. “Oh Kame, loosen up that persona, you’re getting unbearable.”
I sighed at the irony. “Thank you, Jin, uhm well, very much. It would be fantastic to receive your advice on how I should be bearable to you.” I continued, not realizing that I went on verbal assault rampage to release the resentment that was bottled within me. “Maybe I should also place an emphasis on how you have not been behaving like your usual self. You even abandoned the logical decency to hear about the case from the actual person whose work has been stolen-“
“Does the actual person’s testimony have actual significance on the case?”
“Like how the significance of St Basil’s Cathedral is related to how Alexandr Petrov’s works are being viewed? The answer could only be a strict, firm yes.”
“I see you have yet to lose your investigative touch. I knew I had a reliable partner,” he answered, slightly but unknowingly withdrawing his prior assertions of Tchaikovsky’s testimony being unrelated to the actual case. “I simply didn’t find that interesting enough.”
“What would be interesting to you, I wonder?” I sounded rather harsh, but I didn’t stop to be concerned with basic courtesy.
He paced around, pointing his finger upwards like he does whenever he tried explaining something. “You see, Kame, I’ve realized that you placed more importance on Alexandr Petrov than is necessary. There is still this guy, Ivan in the equation and we have yet to pay enough –if any- attention to him.”
“No, Jin.”
He looked horror-struck, just like the instance earlier when I barged into his place.
“You haven’t been paying enough attention to anyone. How long has it been since you returned?”
“Wait, Kame, calm down, that’s not what you should-“
“How long has it been since we’ve actually had a drink or two and discussed?”
“No, you got it all wrong, you’re overthinking it, it is not-“
“Do you even consider me your partner anymore?”
“Aren’t you taking out on me a little-“
“I’m sorry Jin, but your actions have not made any sense and I don’t think I can work with you any longer.”
The silence that shrouded the both of us was excruciatingly alarming.
It could be something that I would regret ever saying, but to my defence, at that moment it felt like it was something Jin had needed to know and I’d risk anything to tell him that for reasons I had yet to be able to describe. Only that it felt rather good in a sickening way that I finally got those words out of my throat and into his head.
“Kame, listen, please don’t say it like that. I’m about to say –see, about to say, really say - something really embarrassing – very embarrassing - but please bear with me,” he began stuttering nervously.
“Alright, this is grating on my nerves, I’m sorry, I forgot what I was supposed to say -oh, no– Kame, see,” Jin stuttered less but he was speaking even more anxiously. “There was something I had needed to do for the past year, or I would have been back 2 months into my travels. If you feel like I’m imposing my issues to you, I’m sorry I didn’t see it apt to have a preset perception of your interests, though I was certain of your definite aid. I know 2 years was a long time, you’re free to leave this door if you want to –but that doesn’t mean I want you to- and I’m -”
He clenched and unclenched his fists and took a deep breath.
"My perceived interest for your cases is now a certified history, Jin. I'm surprised your current interests don't involve figuring that out." Perhaps I wasn’t ready to hear more of his explanation.
"That's not true, Kame. Your current perceived interest has more to do with your resentment towards me and less to do with my cases."
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, Kame!” He shouted as I closed the door knob. I didn’t bother replying nor looking back.
__
There was only one other instance in which we had an ugly verbal exchange, though it hardly warranted any reconciliation. It happened about 5 years ago and there was a lady named Jane involved, though rather unwillingly. It happened when I was briefly infatuated with her, and it had unfortunately caused the friendship between Jin and I a great London Bridge-sized rift.
I first met her in the town library, she was searching for Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein when she knocked right into me. I was searching for a book on insects, and was deeply intrigued by her interest in almost every book available in the library. She was a great conversationalist, and while she wasn’t of noble birth, she possessed the intellect of one.
Jin didn’t like her. I never got to learn why.
“No, you just didn’t like that I spend more time with her now,” I retorted. It wasn’t the first time that he had acted unreasonable with me. Before Jane there had been Ruth, Anne, Prudence, Gladys, and Catherine –all the great women who had walked into my life, walked past my life, and subsequently, walked away from my life because Jin wouldn’t leave me alone while I was in female companion. It irritated me because I had never been bothered with Jin’s share of women, and as an evidence to that, I never knew of the names of the ladies he had managed to talk to, precisely because I had never felt like I had needed to ask.
“No, because you would be abandoning our adventures and stop being my partner,” Jin argued, in an almost whiney tone, as always. “Do you even know who she is anyway? She could be coming to you at the orders from a potential criminal in order to spy on me-“
“Why would she want to spy on me to get to you? Has your booming fame gotten too much into your head that it has bloated like a balloon waiting to be burst?” At that time, Jin was getting a favourable reputation from the police for his contributions to the London crime scene, though –I was grimacing as I remembered this– it was almost thanks to my presence that he had even gotten himself heard. He had no trouble speaking, most definitely, but he had a way of getting on a person’s nerves that suggested, from his side, condescension and arrogance. At times, even disdain and disrespect.
“Remember Kame, I happen to be a very respectable investigator,” he patted his own chest. “And being a constant presence in my life just invites mendacity from people who are, well, not me.” He sure had a very inventive imagination, and I couldn’t help but applaud the way he blew his own trumpet.
I stopped the mental applause when I noted that he did not only use his imagination to expand his barely-there “reputations” but also to monitor my whereabouts.
I spotted him behind a book shelf when I was in the library, talking to Jane. We were discussing the mechanics of plant respiration, and there was a suspicious silhouette of a man dropping books behind us. I recognized Jin right away. And, of course, I wasn’t wrong.
“What are you looking for, my friend?” I asked jovially to avoid rousing unnecessary doubts from the very oblivious Jane.
He was wearing a set of clothes that would be ridiculous even for a disguise; with his hair unkempt and drawn facial hair all over, he had also put on a myriad of items on him that included sequins, feathers, fancy buttons, broken shredded pieces of curtains and tablecloths and, to my horrors, two pairs of spectacles on top of each other on his eyes.
He was even behaving ridiculously. “I was,” he looked around and at the ceiling, “answering to the callings of the Goddess of Knowledge. She had directed me here via the smell of old, termite-infested books.”
“Do you know him?” Jane asked curiously.
“He is a friend, Ms Jane,” I answered. “I’m sorry to be scaring you, he is usually more affable. I reckon he had not gotten his morning tea.”
Jane looked engrossed with Jin. “He’s a very interesting person. Are you close to him, Mr Watson?”
I couldn’t fathom how exactly interesting Jin was with that outlandish garb could be, but I thought I could humour Jane at least. “We are best friends, if you could call that,” I started after Jin left the library –because I threatened to poison him with arsenic– when she asked again. “We are what people usually refer to as a team, so when he’s there I am always with him. At times I wish he was not as dependent on me, but I have grown into accepting that best friends stand beside each other for as long as they could.” Jane’s eyes widened with not only interest, but also with twinkling awe.
“It could also be a man thing,” I continued. “Sometimes I could be so irritated at him, but he usually gives me great stories to tell.”
The second and the last time I caught Jin spying on me and Jane happened was when I accompanied Jane back to her hostel –she was a student librarian and was assisting an academician in her studies– and I caught a glimpse of Jin’s shadow, creeping behind us.
“I wasn’t following you,” he shrieked his response. “I swear to Her Majesty I wasn’t!” It was easier to believe him this time because he didn’t have an assortment of garbage all over him and he wasn’t wearing anything that was supposed to be correcting his sight.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jin,” I glared at him. “Please don’t be late for our appointment with the Chief Director. Remember how he was practically foaming at the mouth when you arrived in his office two hours after the agreed time?”
“Ah,” evidently he had forgotten about it. “Right, the appointment. With the Chief Director. He scheduled it last week. I should have remembered. Kame, you are my fairy godmother -no, godfather. What should I do without you?”
“I’m pretty sure you could do anything without me,” I replied. “You’re a man of superior intellects, you can handle anything.”
“No, Kame, you must not underestimate yourself!” Jin insisted, this time he joined his hands together in a praying motion. “You’re my saviour, my best friend, but most of the time, you’re like an extension of myself. It is like what they have been saying - there will be no Jin without Kame.”
I excused myself from Jane and went towards Jin, and firmly requested, “Go home, I’ll be there in a short while.”
“I wasn’t following you,” he repeated.
“I know,” I could feel my patience thinning. “But this is not the time,” I grabbed the front of his shirt. “Do you know what I went through trying to defend you in front of Jane? I had to fabricate your good points so at least she wouldn’t be freaked out by you. Remember all the ladies I was interested in? They have all ran away because you wouldn’t stop insisting that they would make me not care about you!” I whispered in a low voice.
“Fine, fine, I’m leaving! Sorry, I’m leaving, now please let me go?” He pled, eyes looking like he really was speaking the truth about accidentally bumping into us. I almost wanted to believe him, but the statistics showed the contrary.
It was then when we both took notice of Jane, who was a distance away, but couldn’t take her eyes away from the both of us. There was the same twinkling awe in her eyes, though it now looked like she was in a dazed state of bliss. We tried to discern if she was looking at something beyond us, but it turned out that she was really looking at the both of us.
“Am I disturbing anything?” She asked quizzically, as though someone had just snapped her out of something. “Please continue, I’m,” she shrugged nervously, “not here.”
Jane was the first woman that I had didn’t part with in bitter terms. But she was also the first woman who wasn’t driven away by Jin.
I shuddered at how it was just exactly the opposite.
__
Part 2
__
1Tchaikovsky Tatsuya is the persona Ueda had taken during the White Christmas making of, because Jin said he looked Russian.
2Barma and Potsnik, as would be explained, are the two architects who were allegedly blinded soon after they finished constructing the cathedral.
Author:
simourvaArtist:
ayuzakCrossover: Shamelessly nabbed from Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: This is a product of a mind going through crack, but not enough crack to keep this on pure crack level. Apologies to the real Tchaikovsky the pianist; to my defense, I didn’t steal his name, Ueda did.
Type: Gen, AU, Crack-ish, Crossover
Word count: 15,817 ~
Characters/Pairings: Kame/Jin, appearances of Yamapi, Ueda’s alter ego, mentions of Nakamaru
Warnings: Very slight angst, female OCs with bizarre fetishes and the necessity to pretend that you can have names that combine elements from two different languages. Jin is eloquent. And smart. Kind of.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Jin ran off somewhere for two years and Kame was not happy. They try to make up. In the mean time, they solve mysteries.
Author’s Notes:
- This fic took me forever just to decide what to do with it. I went through loads of references in a hope that I could come up with something, but I didn’t and it kind of frustrated me to which I was even at the point of almost wanting to drop out. In the end I settled for something simpler and this is what came up.
- Even if you don’t like the story, please check out
ayuzak’s art. She’s the most awesome person and deserves the spams directed to her DA inbox because she’s that awesome. - Thanks to these two amazing ladies who helped me look over the fic (and whack me when I’m being stupid, then whack me again when I’m being grammatically-blind):
randomicicle and cease11. You guys are the Kame to my Nashi. Link to Art Master Post: Here, and here, by the amazing
ayuzak. Seriously, amazing. __
When I heard about him being back in Baker Street, I wasted no time in paying my dearest friend a visit, hoping for him to enlighten me with stories of his adventures. To my delight, I found him lurching around his dusty room, but to my displeasure, he was mumbling to himself, blissfully and completely unaware of my sudden and unannounced -albeit understandable- presence in the room. When his leg made an abrupt and undignified contact with a box, he pranced frantically and saw me at last, but continued pacing anyway. As both his long-time friend and occasional physician, I wasn't appreciative of his refusal to even pretend I existed.
"My dear friend Jin, it has been long!" I opened my arms wide to welcome him, in hopes that he could identify that my intentions were in fact less than friendly. It had been a good two years since I had last seen him, and it would be one of my greatest assurances to have him remember the way we were, even if he seemed to have lost the attentiveness usually -and sometimes unpleasantly- directed to me. To my utter dismay he had, rather regrettably, turned blind instead of oblivious. “Kame, my friend, when had you appear in front of my eyes? You are a welcoming sight I just can’t wait to embrace!”
“You might just be the last person I would want to embrace at the moment, to be quite – I’m sorry, let me put that more accurately - completely honest.” His stench suggested that he had not bathed in days.
I sighed and hanged my coat. “And since you’re back, please do prepare the answers for some of my impending questions. For example, what did you do in the two years you made the decision that London was uninteresting and bland and – I almost forgot – you needed a breath of fresh air?”
It was in reference to his unceremonious letter addressed to me –placed on top of his shelf almost nauseatingly headed by a neatly-written “Dear Kame”– detailing everything about where he had planned to go and nothing about why he had planned such an impulsive trip. Unless “needing a breath of fresh air” qualified as Jin explaining his “why”; but Jin’s “why” was never just “needing a breath of fresh air” and I knew that very well.
“Did you get to go to places and get to know people and, oh sorry, what else did you mention in your letter?” In all honesty, I remembered the letter well. I just thought that if Jin’s memory was not going to be at its peak, then there was no reason why mine should be.
“I need details, Jin,” his eyes were shifting, a rare occurrence that I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen it. “Details, details, details!” I drilled, almost aggressively. “I assume you know you owe me those for fabricating them, each one a bigger lie than the other.” Jin sneezed from the dust accumulated in his place, and I swiftly replied with a soft, whispery “Bless you!”
He rubbed his nose and spoke with a muffled voice. “Ve haf ar kays.” My face must have been wincing and twitching in the correct way, because he straightened his speech rapidly by coughing some air. “We have a case, Kame.”
This had sounded more like the good old days than the entire encounter had been.
“Alright.”
I sought for a place to sit.
__
“You are not serious about this.”
It was more of a question than a wishful statement, though I tried to make it sound as close to the latter as possible.
I could hardly believe what Jin had just said. It was not only incredibly unlike him to be saying anything doubt-ridden like “I suppose we can wave it this away, can’t we?” to a case, it was also highly unlikely of him to be proposing a cleaning session of his pile of haphazardly stacked boxes, covered with newspapers dated as far as the day he left London and thick layers of dust. Or, to be precise, I was to be the main player in the cleaning session of a mess I didn’t start.
“Jin, I hate to disappoint you just right after we meet each other. However, I believe that I had just suffered a greater degree of disappointment than that moment of your blatant ignorance of my presence. Did you just knowingly deemed me fit to clean your decorous house?”
I heard him sighing in a mixture of confusion and defeat, like one of those times when he had failed to subtly coerce me into doing what he had been unwilling to do. “That was me considering the best man for the job, and trust me, my friend, you’re more than just the best man. You’re the only man for the job.”
At that, I was promptly reminded of the very reason why Jin was who he was. “That was not a very subtle praise, Jin. And just in case you’re wondering, and if you’re still wondering why that is so, I hope you remember that I make a living out of dealing with human ailments instead of spatial disorders of inanimate subjects. Case in point, this.” I pointed to his room, and he sneezed right on cue. “Sadly, this is just not my area of expertise,” I added.
“London has not changed you, has she?” Aside from being appalled by Jin’s lack of attention towards the character details of other people, I was slowly and gradually losing my well-intentioned patience directed towards him, something even he in the past had had difficulties in doing. “Still that intensely impatient bloke with invariable opinions-“
“Have a nice evening, Jin.”
I abruptly took my coat and paced so quickly towards the door, I could had as well be teleported there.
“About the case, Kame!” Jin raised his voice, this time along with an exasperated heave. I couldn’t help but to relent, since he seemed to have finally acted like a person of his mind-reading calibre, and I was glad we had both reached a compromise, albeit mentally.
“Welcome home, Jin, my friend.” My arms were wide open again, this time sincerely glad that he was finally back.
“Tell me more about it.”
__
“So, it was a painting.”
Jin brushed the dust off the last box he had with an almost equally dusty piece of rag, forehead scrunched up in disgust and lips pursed with a slight but conspicuous apprehension. “Yes, Kame,” he said, voice stifled by the momentary stop in breath, “all the way from Moscow, about the renowned St Basil’s Cathedral. Stolen within a day – one single day - of its arrival in London, brought over by the very distinguished Lady Larisa of the renowned Petrov clan.” She was a long-time acquaintance of Sir Yamashita, who was one of the good friends Jin and I had had the fortune to befriend. Jin had apparently arranged a meeting with the lady the day after, a move that rather shocked me with its abruptness –he had, after all, just arrived back in London– rather than its thoroughness.
He held his chin for a moment; a signal that suggested that the train of thought processing within his mind would probably be released any moment now. I waited patiently. He had never disappoint when he was in his thinking mode, especially so when he was seriously contemplating his next tactical moves to counter even the most intelligent of perpetrators. There were times when he could be quietly assessing a situation and later came up with the most absurd plans to be put in motion or the silliest conclusions to end a case but always and consistently, logical solutions to problems at hand. He could be oblivious, but that didn’t change the fact that he had always been one of the most cognitively reliable person I ever had the pleasure to meet.
When he didn’t say anything, I waited again, thinking that Jin might have been away for so long, that he had needed some time to get back to being an intelligent, sharp and acute private eye.
“I’m hungry.”
I gave up.
__
All I had successfully gathered from Jin’s relatively uninteresting drawl about the new case was that other than being brought over by Lady Larisa, originated from Moscow and was about St Basil’s Cathedral, I also discovered that the painting was a priceless masterpiece by a mysterious and eccentric artist charismatically named Tchaikovsky Tatsuya1.
I was unaware about just how charismatic the painter named Tchaikovsky was, until I was invited to the residence of Sir Yamashita, who was hosting the Russian guests. Lady Larisa had a very haughty air around her; with her legs elegantly crossed and her fingers dainty, she looked nothing less than comfortable sipping her afternoon tea, dressed like she was about to attend a ball, hair tight in a bun with a few strands carefully slipped besides her ears. It didn’t take me long to conclude that she looked almost English.
“I’m sorry, my lady, Holmes has uhm,” I hesitated to explain Jin’s inability to show up on time. It was when I started uttering that I realized that I had yet to be able to recite Jin’s schedule straight from my memory. “He has to attend to something.” I used to be able to come up with plausible excuses for Jin’s tardiness and it would have been believable, because I alone would be able to know where he was probably at any given time of the day and there was never a more trustable source of Jin’s whereabouts than I myself.
Lady Larisa showed neither surprise nor disappointment, which in turn took me by a strange kind of surprise. “Let me apologize on his behalf-“
“I had expected that, Dr Watson,” and she spoke with highly-accented English, though enunciated just as well as any native speaker. “I have all afternoon, we can wait.”
Crouching in the corner of the hall was a man with a small frame and unkempt hair. I only managed to get a glimpse of him when he looked up to Lady Larisa, and caught a prominently-chiselled face and a strong jaw, though with a delicately shaped nose and lips, almost as though he could pass off as a woman if he had had longer hair. His face rather reminded me of Jin’s, though this Tchaikovsky had an ethereal overlay over his features, as though he was airily smoothened and protected by an invisible glass, or as something Jin would probably infer, simple lack of food. He was quite deeply absorbed with his work, and at that moment he was painting a pair of shoes. I didn’t question the action itself, though I had wanted to, because Lady Larisa didn’t seem to find it amusing even in the slightest. I couldn’t wait for Jin to finally make his appearance; besides being a potential tension-breaker, I could predict that he would definitely be enthusiastic in the unusual work and the eccentric nature of the artist we were helping.
“It is nice meeting you, Mr Tchaikovsky,” I made a small bow towards his direction. He gave me a small acknowledging nod, then went back to painting. He had a very gentle concentrated expression on his face, like he was stroking a small animal instead of a pair of shoes. I was intrigued. I had just been exposed to a form of artistry rather foreign to me, both in the artist’s origin and the concept. Jin burst out through the door just after I attempted a short interaction with the artist and I felt a tiny pang of regret from the lost opportunity.
“My apologies Larisa, I didn’t mean to disappoint you just a few days into your glorious visit to my beloved London. I assure you this is not how most Londoners behave.” I spotted an ostensible shot of glance thrown to my direction, and it was something I’d rather have not noticed. Lady Larisa, who was evidently aware of Jin’s redirected gaze, added a small teaspoon of sugar into her cup of tea and slowly stirred it.
“Why yes, Mr Holmes. I imagine that Dr Watson here would be a more accurate yardstick for an outsider like me to gauge the measure of an English gentleman.”
Jin quickly settled himself, despite the slight but conspicuous verbal challenge. “Of course, my lady, how wise you are. You’re just as witty as I had remembered you when I had the pleasure of visiting Moscow some time ago.”
I didn’t know that. “Jin, I wasn’t told of that.”
Jin stopped short, looking aghast with shock. “I swear I told you.” Aside from being randomly –and at times, annoyingly– tardy, it also appeared that Jin had also gotten rather absent-minded.
“Thank you, Jin. We definitely will need more time to catch up, my friend. You can be sure that I will be immensely happy at the tales of your vibrant adventures.”
Jin forced an unwilling smile at me, but turned to face Lady Larisa almost immediately. “Aren’t your subordinates being a little too careless to have lost the painting so soon into your visit here, my lady? I would have expected more from the celebrated Petrov clan. Have you exhausted the supplies or have you placed your own assets above the unfortunately stolen piece of paper you call the genius artistic production of the renowned Tchaikovsky?”
It was a nerve-wrecking moment of verbal spat, not unlike those of two generals on the war field right before charging right into each other. I was surprised that Lady Larisa didn’t seem like she was at all perplexed by the very discourteous Jin. She gracefully, with her face displaying an unyielding indifference, took another sip of her tea, and replied Jin with “Aren’t you a little too blunt for a gentleman? I hope you’re aware that the renowned Tchaikovsky who produced that genius artistic production is actually around to hear you speak about his unfortunate work.”
At that, Tchaikovsky stood up and revealed his half-painted shoes, throwing a rather displeased expression in Jin’s direction. He looked like he wanted to poison him, although I believe my eyes could have been exaggerating it. Tchaikovsky spoke thickly-accented English too, and his diction could be rather difficult to the untrained ears. “I don’t need you to appreciate my paintings,” he hissed in a low but clear voice. “You could just as well be invisible, since I doubt you know anything about paintings at all.”
Jin shrugged disinterestedly. “If you’re interested, we call that ‘incompatibility’ over here. I’m glad you get the impression at least. Just remember to not end up like Barma or Potsik2, there are still plenty of Ivan the Terribles in the world who might or might not have intended for your arts to feast their eyes and only their eyes.2”
Tchaikovsky grumpily left the hall. “I will be in my room should you need me, my lady.”
It sure didn’t look like we were headed towards a favourable investigative direction.
__
I tried to reprimand Jin. “Couldn’t you have acted at least a little friendly to our guests?” We were walking away from the Yamashita mansion and I was suffering from a suffocating embarrassment just by trying to mentally recollect the way he had been an insufferable conversationalist.
“But I know them and they are not strangers to me.” Jin’s reply told me that he was obviously not paying attention to what I said, or rather, what I had actually meant. I told him what had been bothering me ever since he and I reunited, and asked “Where were you this past year anyway?”
He looked like he was going to say something as he inhaled, then stopped dramatically. “I … have gone to many places.”
I couldn’t recall my exact emotion for this moment, but I definitely had remembered feeling like I could use anything in my hands just to hand him a piece of my mind. “Your mind works in a strange way now, Jin. Maybe you should restructure it into telling people what they might be interested to know instead of what they already know.”
“I have a feeling I’m being severely misunderstood,” Jin asserted with his eyes wide, looking like he was sure of something at last. “If you are interested to know, I have not been doing anything unlawful or illegal or anything that warrants me even a day in the lockup.” I sighed silently, knowing that it was perfectly true, and yet wishing that it was not and somehow Jin would end up being arrested so that he would spill things under the force of an authority of any form. At this moment acts of force seemed fitting for the purpose of unlocking coyness; perhaps deserving too.
I decided that maybe the prior separation was harder on me than I had imagined. More so when the nature of both separation and reunion were sudden as a splash of water made by runaway carts.
“Hey, watch it, won’t you?” Jin hollered at the cart rushing beside him in a fit of displeased fury, not at all grateful for the splash of water thrown to him, wetting his precious pair of pants in a moment of indiscrete dash that was no fault of his. I had to suppress a kind of schadenfreude at the sight of Jin’s drenched pants and his irritated face; it had been a situation crafted as though the streets were aligned with my thoughts. I would, much, much later, feel rather guilty at having ridiculed one of my most treasured friends the way I did.
__
On the next day Jin and I were informed that Lady Larisa’s visit to London was joined by a mutual acquaintance of Jin’s. That piece of news made Jin visibly uneasy and uncharacteristically fidgety, for reasons I didn’t bother asking.
“We should pay a visit to Tchaikovsky”, out came a suggestion from Jin I never thought I would ever hear.
And so a visit to Tchaikovsky we paid. Nevertheless, it was still less than friendly.
“What do you want, Detective Holmes?” The conversation still couldn’t start graciously. “Would you like me to add more to your titles? Maybe something like ‘The Stubborn Genius’?” Tchaikovsky said when Jin barely answered him. He was painting the walls this time; I had fully expected Jin to not question anything, thankfully he had at least the basic senses to keep his words in his throat. As I retreated to my oblivious state -which I obviously was not a fan of-, I assumed that he had seen most of Tchaikovsky’s quirks to be able to act so impervious to the strangeness of wall-painting,
Jin settled himself on the floor beside Tchaikovsky. “What is he doing here?”
“By ‘he’ you mean..?” I couldn’t help questioning.
“The man named Ivan, who has been after some priceless collection of Tchaikovsky’s master for quite a while.”
It was then I was told that Tchaikovsky was under the tutelage of a master named Alexandr Petrov, who happened to be Lady Larisa’s late father, and a very famous painter who had made a name for himself in Moscow as the “Painter of Paradise”. Alexandr Petrov had been a man renowned for his stoic demeanour and silent gesture, traits I observed to be also rather characteristic of Tchaikovsky when he wasn’t too busy bellowing insults at Jin.
“There was nothing magical about his painting” –Tchaikovsky was shooting raging illusionary daggers towards Jin– “or anything heavenly. In fact I had personally examined the most celebrated works of Alexandr Petrov and found them all rather humble. If he had done anything of merit it would probably be the simplicity in his works, drawing people into a world of plainness and ordinariness.” Jin stated matter-factly, carrying himself as some kind of figure of higher opinion because he had, in his own words, examined a collection of masterpieces by a famous deceased artist.
“You hardly know anything about art, I regret to say,” Tchaikovsky stopped painting on the walls. “The power of Alexandr Petrov doesn’t lie with the simplicity or plainness or the obituary-“
“You mean ordinary-“
Jin had always been prompt in noticing other people’s mistakes, and would never waste any time to correct them.
“Thank you Holmes.” Tchaikovsky continued speaking, probably blissfully unfazed by the implications of his mistakenly slurred word. “As I was saying, ordinariness. Alexandr Petrov affects people in more ways than just the splendour of art. It was the power in the message he relays and the techniques he amplify-“
“Employ.” Jin was probably enjoying himself in his various attempts at being deviously helpful in his unhelpfulness.
“No, this time I do mean amplify, Holmes,” Tchaikovsky stopped and interrupted himself to correct Jin, roles reversed this time. “As I was saying, Alexandr Petrov amplifies the power of the everyday and enters the minds of the people subtly with every stroke of his brush. It was a pity that what Alexandr Petrov could do is hardly translatable into words -though not undoable- and I had prayed hard that Holmes over there would be more articulate about describing the power of Alexandr Petrov’s works since he had personally been blessed with the raw-“
“Rare.”
“-rare chance to be bestowed with the wonders of a Petrov’s way of worshipping the subjects. It could be a woman, a street, a person, a child, anything. Alexandr Petrov portrays the strongest in humanity and colours it with the hues of life.”
Jin’s lips puckered up in disbelief, but shortly shrugged and continued where Tchaikovsky left off. “Alexandr Petrov died about two years ago, and that, my friend Watson, had caused the biggest trouble in the Russian artistic circle.”
“Inheritance?” I tried.
“Not his, but Petrov’s.” I was starting to be confused. “But we are talking about Alexandr Petrov.” Unless Russians suddenly adopted a patronymic system that was amended prior to the conversation, I assumed that we were still talking about the same person.
“The Petrov bloodline in Larisa does not come from Alexandr, it came from Larisa’s mother.”
I wondered why this fact, this very important fact, didn’t come earlier into the explanation. “Does that mean Alexandr married into the family?”
Jin snapped his fingers. “Precisely that!” He was getting excited, a sign I knew so well. “So, that will lead me to talk about this Ivan I had mentioned earlier, who is the son of Larisa’s uncle. Logically speaking, in current situation, that wouldn’t make him an heir, unless Larisa dies – and I assume that will be dubious at best. For many years, he had been fighting with Alexandr and his immediate family for the inheritance left by the senior Petrov, who died ten years prior to Alexandr’s, with various degrees of fruitlessness.”
I was still not seeing where this story would lead us. It was like watching a theatrical performance of a story about a war that derailed into the family politics of one of the generals. “Did he give up?”
“Yes, he did.” I was rather astounded that Tchaikovsky answered it.
Jin continued, making me amazed at how much he could gather within a few hours –then, I reminded myself that he had had a privileged headstart due to the familiarities between himself and the parties involved and I stopped feeling impressed by him. “Ivan then supported Lady Larisa in her pathway for the total inheritance, while spouting bulls about how the Petrov clan had turned matriarchal and will be worthless if Larisa should fail, but he secretly also planted another agenda into the ailing Alexandr’s mind. This, of course, happened during the years in between Petrov senior’s death and Alexandr’s.”
Tchaikovsky nodded to Jin; apparently he was going to continue from there. “Needless to say, the last few years of Alexandr’s life were filled with paranormal-“
“Paranoia.”
“Fine,” Tchaikovsky muttered angrily under his breath. “Paranoia, as I mentioned, and his work began to dwindle in quantity. In fact, and this is my biggest regret as his apprentice, after his father-in-law’s death, Alexandr Petrov only managed to complete one single painting.”
“One which Ivan has been trying to get his hands on.” Jin added.
“The one painting that is so priceless, it could turn a poor man rich upon purchase-“ Tchaikovsky couldn’t be bothered with Jin’s extra facts.
“And there were also possibilities of destructive agendas-“
“But in the end it was about this one painting that does not reflect his past works at all.
Despite the bickering, they both reached the same conclusion.“That very painting of St Basil’s Cathedral which was stolen.”
I felt my heart stopped for a fleeting moment.
“Are you trying to say that the stolen painting is actually an unreleased painting by Alexandr Petrov?”
Tchaikovsky nodded and flailed his arms rather frantically, as though he was unleashing all his anxiety at the loss of the painting, something that had been glaringly absent from the beginning of the case. “Yes, which is why this is a much bigger deal than what the public knows. And there is another reason why the painting should have never been stolen,” he said in an ominous tone.
Jin was strangely quiet. It was hard for me to decide if he was actually paying attention or if he was just spacing out in between conversations about things that he was either already in full knowledge of or not at all interested in. “No one else, other than Lady Larisa and I, should have the knowledge of the painting being drawn by Alexander Petrov,” Tchaikovsky continued.
I looked at Jin and asked, “Were you aware of this?”
He jumped slightly and immediately waved his hand in denial. “Of course I was! But it was only recently –I repeat, recently- that I obtained the privilege of this knowledge, if you must know.” He was probably trying to reassure me that he has yet to forget me as a friend, but I wouldn’t tell him that he failed rather spectacularly in that, even if his effort was commendable.
“It was not what I would have encouraged my lady, but Lady Larisa trusts him,” Tchaikovsky’s chin pointed to Jin. “Or else we would have handed him over. The last reason why the theft is suspicious, Dr Watson, is that the painting would have worth nothing even if we announce that it was Alexandr’s last work. The Russian public had thus far assumed that Alexandr Petrov left without so much as a goodbye, let alone a parting gift. That painting had departed so greatly with his previous works; nobody would have the goodwill to acknowledge the painting is actually from the great Alexandr Petrov. If someone does acknowledge it as his work, there will be accusations of fabrication and pro-pro-”
“Propaganda?” This time, it was me who helped.
“Propaganda, yes. Thank you Doctor Watson,” Tchaikovsky gave me an acknowledging small nod, and I could spot Jin frowning from the corner of my eyes. “As you can see, the Petrov clan had not planned to release it for public eyes, for fear of unfavourable publicity.”
I tried to make a wild guess. “Allow me to express my conjectures: to avoid any unflattering opinions of Alexandr, Lady Larisa sent you to London so that you can name yourself the dignified artist of the last work of Alexandr Petrov and therefore, evade the repercussions that come with the name and subsequently, the clan’s reputation.”
“It’s not like that, Kame.” Jin spoke almost right after I had finished my words.
“First of all, you forgot the part where there’s a possibility that Alexandr could have requested the painting to not be tied to him.”
Tchaikovsky nodded. “Yes, he had explicitly asked for it.”
“In fact, he had specifically requested that the painting to be credited under Tchaikovsky’s name, and be sold to England.”
It somehow didn’t make sense, but it was something I came to understand.
“Somehow, whoever stole the painting, knew that the painting was by Alexandr Petrov and knew that it wasn’t supposed to be credited to him and his main intention is to damage Alexandr Petrov’s legacy.”
Jin heaved a sigh of worry. “The probability is high.”
__
There was no one else around in the room - Jin had callously taken off a few minutes ago and headed somewhere against my better warning (that we had needed more information from Tchaikovsky), so I was left with no choice but to speak with the artist myself, who was now painting something on a pair of trousers. “I’m sorry,” I said as he spotted me staring -I couldn’t help it, it was as bizarre as watching an animal feeding against its nature- at him. “You are a very charismatic person; I was quite mesmerized by your intensity.”
“I’m used to it, don’t worry. You’re a very charismatic man too,” Tchaikovsky replied as his eyes darted back to his work. “Really, don’t worry about it in the slightest; I’m used to people thinking that I’m weird”
I settled in a seat next to him. “How was Alexandr Petrov like?”
“He was also weird, very much like myself, only he was weirder. Really, the very idea of that painting being produced by any of us would have been unacceptable, if I were allowed some boasting rights.”
“Because it didn’t represent him?”
“Because the painting was about Russia. Alexandr had always been about exploring the non-Russianness of himself.”
With that he took a piece of paper and began drawing the structure of a church I assumed to be St Basil’s Cathedral -with its many onion-shaped domes and colours that are reminiscent of what I have seen in quite a few artistic works– with a pencil available within a hand’s reach. “You see, Dr Watson-“
“For Russia, St Basil’s Cathedral is like the Eiffel Tower of France. It’s the symbol, the definitive history, the living representation of Russia’s native history and culture. It is perceived as the icon of Russia’s unique position in the world map –the bond between Europe and Asia.”
“Most monuments’ or buildings’ namesake were usually the ones building them, you see, but St. Basil played no part in the building process. In fact, the one who actually commissioned the building of St. Basil’s was the ruler that St. Basil was famously rebelling against, Ivan the Terrible. After the successful military campaign against the Mongolians, which occurred on the festival of the Intercession of the Virgin in 1552, Ivan the Terrible named it the Cathedral of the Intercession of the Virgin.”
Tchaikovsky was a passionate story-teller, I realized. And as he told me the story of a work of a master he so fiercely respected, his range of vocabulary magically widened.
“St Basil’s was named as Cathedral of the Intercession of the Virgin, and was later renamed after the man who roamed the Streets of Moscow in his attempt to woo converts during the reign of Ivan the Terrible. The Holy Fools, better known as the Fools in Christ, were itinerants’ ascetics who enjoyed massive popularity among the ordinary people in Russia. Many of these prophets were revered as Saints, and one of the most popular Holy Fools was the namesake of the Cathedral, Basil the Blessed,” he explained smoothly as he smoothened the outer lines of his sketches. I guessed that he probably had the history of St Basil’s Cathedral committed to his memory for easy explanation to the guests who would be questioning, and I swiftly began to harbour an increasing admiration for the artist before my eyes.
“Basil the Blessed, he was a well-loved public figure who was very dedicated in his crusade. In spite of the cruel, unforgiving weathers, where he had to brave the scorching heat of summer and endure the brutal winters, he usually conducted his crusade naked. He was also a fearless person, Doctor,” he paused to pick a sharper pencil, ”bless his soul, he was also famed as the one who openly denounced the Tsar and bravely opposed the cruelty of Ivan the Terrible. Basil the blessed died on the year that the Mongolians were captured and was buried in the chapel at the north-east corner of the cathedral,” he tapped the area in the painting that indicated the said corner of the Cathedral, ”no sooner, the name of the chapel became a name applied to the whole Cathedral.”
“What is that about Barma and Potsnik that Jin mentioned yesterday?”
“Oh, they are about the legendary architects who built the Cathedral –it might not be a tale as splendid as the cathedral’s commission. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
“St. Basil’s Cathedral was believed to have been built by two self-taught architects, Barma and Potsik, according to an old manuscript depicting St. Basil’s construction which was found in 1896. However, to this day, there were still speculations as to whom, and how many people actually built the Cathedral. Plus there was also the subsequent fate of the architects,” his hand stilled. “Legends has it that Ivan blinded the architects to prevent them from constructing such a masterpiece again. However, records from 1588 proved that this might be after all just a, well, legend because it indicated that both architects had built the chapel where St. Basils’ remains lay. Some historians however, dismissed the idea of two architects and insisted that Potsnik and Barma were just Barma alone, as he had Potsnik for a nickname.”
Tchaikovsky’s hand drew an outline surrounding the sketch of the cathedral, something I assumed to be the finishing touch. “Most people still hold on to the story about them being blinded, though we might never know for sure.”
The truth sent chills up my body.
“So Tchaikovsky, if Alexandr had drawn something about the Cathedral, what do you think he would have drawn instead of the one which got stolen?”
Tchaikovsky stopped drawing.
“It would be about the people.”
“People who walk to the Cathedral as they piously attend the services. People who hold hopes for a blessed life. People who had been a part of a family.”
“So he loves people most.”
It made me regret that I would never be given a chance to meet the amazing painter that was Alexandr Petrov.
__
“Open up, my friend!”
I knocked on Jin’s door that night, finding him rocking in his chair and crossing off a list of something I was standing too far away to see. He quickly tore it off as he realized my presence.
“Right, Jin. Be afraid of me. Be very afraid of me.”
He stood up, looking like he just heard himself accused for theft. “Oh Kame, loosen up that persona, you’re getting unbearable.”
I sighed at the irony. “Thank you, Jin, uhm well, very much. It would be fantastic to receive your advice on how I should be bearable to you.” I continued, not realizing that I went on verbal assault rampage to release the resentment that was bottled within me. “Maybe I should also place an emphasis on how you have not been behaving like your usual self. You even abandoned the logical decency to hear about the case from the actual person whose work has been stolen-“
“Does the actual person’s testimony have actual significance on the case?”
“Like how the significance of St Basil’s Cathedral is related to how Alexandr Petrov’s works are being viewed? The answer could only be a strict, firm yes.”
“I see you have yet to lose your investigative touch. I knew I had a reliable partner,” he answered, slightly but unknowingly withdrawing his prior assertions of Tchaikovsky’s testimony being unrelated to the actual case. “I simply didn’t find that interesting enough.”
“What would be interesting to you, I wonder?” I sounded rather harsh, but I didn’t stop to be concerned with basic courtesy.
He paced around, pointing his finger upwards like he does whenever he tried explaining something. “You see, Kame, I’ve realized that you placed more importance on Alexandr Petrov than is necessary. There is still this guy, Ivan in the equation and we have yet to pay enough –if any- attention to him.”
“No, Jin.”
He looked horror-struck, just like the instance earlier when I barged into his place.
“You haven’t been paying enough attention to anyone. How long has it been since you returned?”
“Wait, Kame, calm down, that’s not what you should-“
“How long has it been since we’ve actually had a drink or two and discussed?”
“No, you got it all wrong, you’re overthinking it, it is not-“
“Do you even consider me your partner anymore?”
“Aren’t you taking out on me a little-“
“I’m sorry Jin, but your actions have not made any sense and I don’t think I can work with you any longer.”
The silence that shrouded the both of us was excruciatingly alarming.
It could be something that I would regret ever saying, but to my defence, at that moment it felt like it was something Jin had needed to know and I’d risk anything to tell him that for reasons I had yet to be able to describe. Only that it felt rather good in a sickening way that I finally got those words out of my throat and into his head.
“Kame, listen, please don’t say it like that. I’m about to say –see, about to say, really say - something really embarrassing – very embarrassing - but please bear with me,” he began stuttering nervously.
“Alright, this is grating on my nerves, I’m sorry, I forgot what I was supposed to say -oh, no– Kame, see,” Jin stuttered less but he was speaking even more anxiously. “There was something I had needed to do for the past year, or I would have been back 2 months into my travels. If you feel like I’m imposing my issues to you, I’m sorry I didn’t see it apt to have a preset perception of your interests, though I was certain of your definite aid. I know 2 years was a long time, you’re free to leave this door if you want to –but that doesn’t mean I want you to- and I’m -”
He clenched and unclenched his fists and took a deep breath.
"My perceived interest for your cases is now a certified history, Jin. I'm surprised your current interests don't involve figuring that out." Perhaps I wasn’t ready to hear more of his explanation.
"That's not true, Kame. Your current perceived interest has more to do with your resentment towards me and less to do with my cases."
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, Kame!” He shouted as I closed the door knob. I didn’t bother replying nor looking back.
__
There was only one other instance in which we had an ugly verbal exchange, though it hardly warranted any reconciliation. It happened about 5 years ago and there was a lady named Jane involved, though rather unwillingly. It happened when I was briefly infatuated with her, and it had unfortunately caused the friendship between Jin and I a great London Bridge-sized rift.
I first met her in the town library, she was searching for Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein when she knocked right into me. I was searching for a book on insects, and was deeply intrigued by her interest in almost every book available in the library. She was a great conversationalist, and while she wasn’t of noble birth, she possessed the intellect of one.
Jin didn’t like her. I never got to learn why.
“No, you just didn’t like that I spend more time with her now,” I retorted. It wasn’t the first time that he had acted unreasonable with me. Before Jane there had been Ruth, Anne, Prudence, Gladys, and Catherine –all the great women who had walked into my life, walked past my life, and subsequently, walked away from my life because Jin wouldn’t leave me alone while I was in female companion. It irritated me because I had never been bothered with Jin’s share of women, and as an evidence to that, I never knew of the names of the ladies he had managed to talk to, precisely because I had never felt like I had needed to ask.
“No, because you would be abandoning our adventures and stop being my partner,” Jin argued, in an almost whiney tone, as always. “Do you even know who she is anyway? She could be coming to you at the orders from a potential criminal in order to spy on me-“
“Why would she want to spy on me to get to you? Has your booming fame gotten too much into your head that it has bloated like a balloon waiting to be burst?” At that time, Jin was getting a favourable reputation from the police for his contributions to the London crime scene, though –I was grimacing as I remembered this– it was almost thanks to my presence that he had even gotten himself heard. He had no trouble speaking, most definitely, but he had a way of getting on a person’s nerves that suggested, from his side, condescension and arrogance. At times, even disdain and disrespect.
“Remember Kame, I happen to be a very respectable investigator,” he patted his own chest. “And being a constant presence in my life just invites mendacity from people who are, well, not me.” He sure had a very inventive imagination, and I couldn’t help but applaud the way he blew his own trumpet.
I stopped the mental applause when I noted that he did not only use his imagination to expand his barely-there “reputations” but also to monitor my whereabouts.
I spotted him behind a book shelf when I was in the library, talking to Jane. We were discussing the mechanics of plant respiration, and there was a suspicious silhouette of a man dropping books behind us. I recognized Jin right away. And, of course, I wasn’t wrong.
“What are you looking for, my friend?” I asked jovially to avoid rousing unnecessary doubts from the very oblivious Jane.
He was wearing a set of clothes that would be ridiculous even for a disguise; with his hair unkempt and drawn facial hair all over, he had also put on a myriad of items on him that included sequins, feathers, fancy buttons, broken shredded pieces of curtains and tablecloths and, to my horrors, two pairs of spectacles on top of each other on his eyes.
He was even behaving ridiculously. “I was,” he looked around and at the ceiling, “answering to the callings of the Goddess of Knowledge. She had directed me here via the smell of old, termite-infested books.”
“Do you know him?” Jane asked curiously.
“He is a friend, Ms Jane,” I answered. “I’m sorry to be scaring you, he is usually more affable. I reckon he had not gotten his morning tea.”
Jane looked engrossed with Jin. “He’s a very interesting person. Are you close to him, Mr Watson?”
I couldn’t fathom how exactly interesting Jin was with that outlandish garb could be, but I thought I could humour Jane at least. “We are best friends, if you could call that,” I started after Jin left the library –because I threatened to poison him with arsenic– when she asked again. “We are what people usually refer to as a team, so when he’s there I am always with him. At times I wish he was not as dependent on me, but I have grown into accepting that best friends stand beside each other for as long as they could.” Jane’s eyes widened with not only interest, but also with twinkling awe.
“It could also be a man thing,” I continued. “Sometimes I could be so irritated at him, but he usually gives me great stories to tell.”
The second and the last time I caught Jin spying on me and Jane happened was when I accompanied Jane back to her hostel –she was a student librarian and was assisting an academician in her studies– and I caught a glimpse of Jin’s shadow, creeping behind us.
“I wasn’t following you,” he shrieked his response. “I swear to Her Majesty I wasn’t!” It was easier to believe him this time because he didn’t have an assortment of garbage all over him and he wasn’t wearing anything that was supposed to be correcting his sight.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jin,” I glared at him. “Please don’t be late for our appointment with the Chief Director. Remember how he was practically foaming at the mouth when you arrived in his office two hours after the agreed time?”
“Ah,” evidently he had forgotten about it. “Right, the appointment. With the Chief Director. He scheduled it last week. I should have remembered. Kame, you are my fairy godmother -no, godfather. What should I do without you?”
“I’m pretty sure you could do anything without me,” I replied. “You’re a man of superior intellects, you can handle anything.”
“No, Kame, you must not underestimate yourself!” Jin insisted, this time he joined his hands together in a praying motion. “You’re my saviour, my best friend, but most of the time, you’re like an extension of myself. It is like what they have been saying - there will be no Jin without Kame.”
I excused myself from Jane and went towards Jin, and firmly requested, “Go home, I’ll be there in a short while.”
“I wasn’t following you,” he repeated.
“I know,” I could feel my patience thinning. “But this is not the time,” I grabbed the front of his shirt. “Do you know what I went through trying to defend you in front of Jane? I had to fabricate your good points so at least she wouldn’t be freaked out by you. Remember all the ladies I was interested in? They have all ran away because you wouldn’t stop insisting that they would make me not care about you!” I whispered in a low voice.
“Fine, fine, I’m leaving! Sorry, I’m leaving, now please let me go?” He pled, eyes looking like he really was speaking the truth about accidentally bumping into us. I almost wanted to believe him, but the statistics showed the contrary.
It was then when we both took notice of Jane, who was a distance away, but couldn’t take her eyes away from the both of us. There was the same twinkling awe in her eyes, though it now looked like she was in a dazed state of bliss. We tried to discern if she was looking at something beyond us, but it turned out that she was really looking at the both of us.
“Am I disturbing anything?” She asked quizzically, as though someone had just snapped her out of something. “Please continue, I’m,” she shrugged nervously, “not here.”
Jane was the first woman that I had didn’t part with in bitter terms. But she was also the first woman who wasn’t driven away by Jin.
I shuddered at how it was just exactly the opposite.
__
Part 2
__
1Tchaikovsky Tatsuya is the persona Ueda had taken during the White Christmas making of, because Jin said he looked Russian.
2Barma and Potsnik, as would be explained, are the two architects who were allegedly blinded soon after they finished constructing the cathedral.