Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Samshitov gave him a thousand, all right, didn’t even say a word.

So what it said in Judge Kuvshinnikov’s book, about the real price, was true.

The jeweller kept pouring the cognac. He thought the Khitrovka halfwit would get drunk and let something slip. He asked whether there would be more rods and when that might be.

Senka was cunning with him. ‘That’s the last rod for a thousand, there was only one. You put me in touch with the client, Mr Samshitov, perhaps then more will turn up.’

Ashot Ashotovich blinked his ink-black eyes and sniffed a bit. But he knew his days of taking Senka for a ride were over.

‘What about my commission?’ he asked.

‘The regular rate, twenty per cent.’

Ashot Ashotovich started getting agitated. Twenty’s not enough, he said. Only I know the real clients, you can’t find them without me. You have to give me thirty per cent.

They haggled and settled on twenty-five.

Senka left the jeweller his address, so he could send word when anything came up, and left feeling very pleased with himself.

Samshitov called after him: ‘So I can hope, Mr Spidorov?’

And the parrot Levonchik squawked: ‘Mr Spidorov! Mr Spidorov!’

He went back to the cab and changed into his decent clothes, but he didn’t ride home in the carriage, he walked. He was going to be prudent from now on. An extra half-rouble was no great expense, of course, but he had to stick to the principle.

On the corner of Tsvetnoi Boulevard he looked round – he had a strange feeling he was being watched.

And who was the figure under a street lamp but his old friend Prokha! Had he followed him from Khitrovka, then?

Senka went dashing over to Prokha and grabbed hold of him by the sides. ‘Give me back the timepiece, you louse!’

He’d been walking around for almost a week with a new timepiece, but Prokha wasn’t to know that. If you stole from your own, you had to answer for it.

‘You’re dolled up very handsome, Speedy.’ Prokha hissed, and pulled himself free with a jerk. ‘Looking for a poke in the mug, are you?’

He slipped his hand in his pocket – and Senka knew he had the lead bar in there, or something even worse.

Suddenly there was the sound of a whistle and tramping feet, and a constable came rushing towards them – to protect the decent young man from the urchin.

Prokha shot off up Zvonarny Lane, into the darkness.

That’s right, you ragged prole. This ain’t Khitrovka, this is a nice decent neighbourhood. He shuddered at the idea – ‘a poke in the mug’.

Of all the lessons taught by Masa, Senka paid the most avid attention to that supreme branch of learning – how to conquer the hearts of women.

The Japanese proved to be a genuine expert in this area, both in the language of courtship, and the actual horsing around. No, it would be better to put it this way: in theory and in practice.

For a long time Senka couldn’t understand why the slanty-eye Jap made Madam Borisenko go all bashful like that, why she was so fond of him. One time he came down to breakfast early, before the other guests arrived – and well, well! There was the landlady sitting on Masa’s knees, lavishing kisses on his thick neck, and he was just screwing his eyes up in pleasure. When she saw Senka, she squealed and blushed and darted out of the room like a young miss – but she must have been at least thirty.

Senka couldn’t resist it, so he asked Masa – that very day, during the break after the morning scuffle. Sensei, he said, how come you have such great success with women? Do a poor orphan the kindness of sharing your savvy.

Well, the Japanese read him an entire lecture, it was just like that time George took Senka to his institute. Only Masa was easier to understand than the professor, even if he was from foreign parts.

In summary, the wisdom came out like this.

In order to unlock a woman’s heart, you needed three keys, Masa taught. Confidence in yourself, an air of mystery and the right approach. The first two were easy, because they only depended on you. The third was harder, because you had to work out what sort of woman you were dealing with. This was called knowledge of the soul or, in scientific terms, psychology.

Women, Masa explained, were not all alike. They could be divided into two species.

‘Only two?’ Senka asked in amazement. He was listening very attentively, and really regretted that he didn’t have a piece of paper handy to take notes.

Only two, the sensei repeated gravely. Those who needed a father, and those who needed a son. The important thing was to determine the correct species, and without practice this was not easy, because women loved to pretend. But once you had determined this, the rest was simple. With a woman of the first species you had to be a father: not ask her about her life, and in general talk as little as possible –show her the strictness of a father. With a woman of the second you had to make sad eyes, sigh and look up at the sky all the time, so she would understand that you would be completely lost without her.

But if you did not want a woman’s soul, and her body was enough, the teacher continued, then it was more straightforward.

Senka exclaimed eagerly: ‘Yes, yes, that’s enough!’

In that case, Masa said with a shrug, you didn’t need words at all. Breathe loudly, make eyes like this, don’t answer clever questions. Don’t show her your soul. Otherwise it’s not fair – you don’t want the woman’s soul, after all. For her you must be a rittur animur, not a person.

‘Who?’ asked Senka, confused at first. ‘Ah, a little animal.’

Masa repeated the phrase with relish. Yes, he said, a rittur animur. Who will come running, sniff her under the tail and climb up on her straight away. Everybody wants women to be shy and seem virtuous – women get fed up of that. But why be shy of a little animal? It’s only an animal, after all.

The sensei spent a long time teaching Senka about this kind of thing, and even though Senka didn’t take notes, he remembered every last word.

And the very next day, an appropriate opportunity for a practical lesson came along.

George invited him to go to Sokolniki Park for a picnic (that was when you went into the woods and sat on the grass and ate with your hands, without making any fuss). He said he would bring along two girl students. He’d been after one of them for ages and, he said, the other will be just right for you (by that time they’d already drunk to Bruderschaft and were on intimate terms). A modern miss, he said, with no prejudices.

‘A tramp, is she?’ Senka asked.

‘Not exactly,’ George answered evasively. ‘But you’ll see for yourself.’

They got into a fancy gig, and off they went. Senka soon realised the student had bamboozled him. George’s girl was plump and jolly, and she kept laughing all the time, but he’d lumbered his comrade with some kind of dried fish with glasses and tight-pursed lips. And he’d done it on purpose, too, so this miserable specimen wouldn’t interfere with him trying to get off with her girlfriend.

While they rode along, Four-eyes yammered on about things Senka didn’t understand. Nietzsche-schmietzsche, Marx-schmarx.

Senka wasn’t listening, he was thinking about something else. According to Masa’s science of women, if you made the right approach, with psychology, you could get any woman, even a bighead like this one. What was it Masa had taught him? Simple women love gallant manners and clever words, but with the educated ones, on the contrary, you had to be simpler and rougher.

Maybe he should try it –just to check.