Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

And that was when Senka spotted that the eyes had been gouged out of all the saints on the icons, and the Saviour on the Cross had little knives sticking out where there ought to be nails.

Deadeye took another knife out of his sleeve and flung it into the eye of the Infant Jesus, as he lay in Mary’s arms. And after that he turned to look at Senka, who was stupefied.

‘Well, what do you want, kid?’

Senka walked up to him, glanced round at the other lad, who was hanging about by the door, and said quietly, just like he’d been told to:

‘Death’s waiting, she’s desperate.’

Once he’d said it, he felt scared. What if Deadeye didn’t understand? What if he asked: ‘What’s she waiting for?’ Senka didn’t have a clue.

But Deadeye didn’t ask anything of the kind; instead he said to the other lad in a low, polite voice: ‘Mr Sprat, would you please be so good as to conceal your face behind the door.’

Senka realised that he’d told the other lad to push off, but Sprat didn’t seem to twig, and just stood there.

So Deadeye launched another falcon – a knife, that is – out of his right sleeve and it stuck in the doorpost, thwack, just an inch from Sprat’s ear. Then, the lad disappeared in a flash.

Deadeye examined Senka through his specs. The eyes behind the lenses were as pale and cold as two little lumps of ice. He took a square of folded paper out of his pocket and held it out. Then he said in a polite voice: ‘There you are, kid. Say I’ll call round tonight at about eight o’clock . . . No, wait.’

He turned towards the door and called: ‘Hey, Mr Sixer, are you still here?’

Sprat stuck his head back in through the door. So he had two nicknames, then, not just the one?

He sniffed and asked warily: ‘You won’t do that again with the knife, will you?’

Deadeye’s reply was impossible to understand: ‘I know the pen of gentle Parni is not in fashion in our day [1] Pushkin, Yevgeny Onegin. When is our rendezvous, by which I mean the meet with the Ghoul?’

Sprat-Sixer understood, though. ‘At seven,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ the odd man said with a nod. Then he turned to Senka. ‘No, I can’t make it at eight. Say I’ll be there at nine, or maybe not till ten.’

Then he turned away and started gazing at the icons again. Senka realised the conversation was over.

On his way back, cutting through the yards and alleys of Khitrovka to shorten the way, he thought: They’re the real thing, all right! It was no wonder the Prince was Moscow’s number-one bandit with eagles like that in his gang. He thought there was nothing he wouldn’t give for the chance to hang out in the den with them, like one of the boys.

Once he was past Khitrovka Lane, where the labourers were kipping in lines, Senka stopped under a withered poplar tree and unfolded the little package. He was curious to see what was so precious that Death was willing to hand over a fiver to get it.

White powder, it looked like saccharine. He licked it – sweetish, but it wasn’t saccharine, that was a lot sweeter.

He was so distracted, he didn’t see Tashka come walking up.

‘What’s this, Senka,’ she said, ‘are you doing candy cane now?’

That was when Senka finally twigged. Of course, it was cocaine, why hadn’t he guessed? That was why Death’s pupils were blacker than night. That was it, and that meant. . .

‘You don’t lick it, you sniff it up your nose,’ Tashka explained.

It was still early, so she wasn’t dolled up or wearing make-up, and she had her purse in her hand – she must be going to the shop.

‘Don’t do it, Senka,’ she said. ‘You’ll rot your brains away.’

But he still took a pinch anyway, stuck it in his nostril and breathed in as hard as he could. Why, it was disgusting! The tears streamed out of his eyes, and he sneezed and sneezed until his nose started running.

‘Well, you ninny, happy now?’ asked Tashka, wrinkling up her nose. ‘Chuck it, if you know what’s good for you. Why don’t you tell me what I’ve got here?’

And she pointed to her head. She had a daisy and two flowers that Senka didn’t recognise in her hair.

‘A meadow for cows, that’s what.’

‘It ain’t a meadow, it’s three messages. The marjoram signifies “I hate men”, the daisy signifies indifference and the silver-leaf signifies “cordially inclined”. Say I’m going with a customer who makes me feel sick. I stick the marjoram in my hair to show I despise him, and the thickhead’s none the wiser. Or I’m standing here with you, and I have the silver-leaf in my hair, because we’re mates.’

She took the other two out and left just the silver-leaf to make Senka feel happy.

‘And what do you use the indifference for?’

Tashka’s eyes glinted and she ran her tongue over her cracked lips. ‘That’s for when someone falls in love with me and starts giving me sweets and beads and stuff. I won’t send him packing, because maybe I like him, but I still have to keep my pride. So I stick on the daisy, let him suffer

‘Who’s the admirer?’ Senka snorted, wrapping up the cocaine the way it was before. He stuck it in his pocket, and something in there clicked – the green beads he’d lifted off the Chinee. So, since they were on the subject anyway, he said: ‘How would you like me to give you some beads without any courting?’

He took them out and waved them under Tashka’s nose. She lit up.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘they’re really lovely. And my favourite colour, “esmerald”, it’s called! Will you really give them to me?’

‘Yes, take them, I don’t mind.’

So he gave them to her – seventy kopecks was no great loss.

Tashka put the beads round her neck straight away. She gave Senka a quick peck on the cheek and legged it off home, as quick as she could – to get a look in the mirror. And Senka ran off too, to the Yauza Boulevard. Death was probably tired of waiting by now.

He showed her the little packet, keeping her at arm’s length, then put it back in his pocket.

She said: ‘What are you doing? Give it here, quick!’

Her eyes were all wet and watery, and her voice was shaking.

Senka said: ‘Ah, but what did you promise me? You write the Prince a note, so he’d take me into his gang.’

Death dashed at him and tried to take it by force, but she was wasting her time – Senka ran round the table to get away from her. After they’d played catch for a while, she begged him: ‘Give me it, you fiend, don’t torture me.’

Senka suddenly felt sorry for her: she was so beautiful, but so unhappy. That rotten powder was no good for her. And then it occurred to him: maybe the Prince wouldn’t listen to what a mamselle thought about important business, not even the lover he truly adored. Ah, but no, the lads had told him the Prince could never refuse her a thing.

While he was wondering whether to give her the cocaine or not, Death suddenly went limp and dropped her head. She sat down at the table and propped her forehead on her hands, like she was really, really tired, and said:

‘Oh, to hell with you, you little beast. You’ll grow up into a big bad wolf anyway.’

She gave a quiet moan, as if she was in pain. Then she took a scrap of paper, wrote something on it in pencil and tossed it to Senka.

‘Here, may you choke on it.’

When he read the note, he could hardly believe his luck. The sprawling handwriting said:

‘Prince,take this youngster on. He’s just the kind you need. Death.’

‘I need you, do I? What good are you to me?’

The Prince rubbed the dimple in his chin furiously and gave Senka a scorching glance from his black eyes. Senka cringed, but this was no time to be shy.