Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Senka’s heart suddenly felt lighter.

‘I can introduce you. But what’s going to happen to me, eh? You won’t give me away to the Prince, will you?’

Erast Petrovich, righteous man that he was, didn’t abandon the poor orphan to the mercy of fate. In fact, he told him to collect his things and took him off to his own apartment, the one on Asheulov Lane, where Senka had the unfortunate idea (or perhaps it wasn’t unfortunate at all, but the very opposite – how could you tell?) of nicking that bundle from the ‘Chinee’.

It was a queer sort of apartment, not like what normal people had.

In one room there wasn’t any furniture at all, just stripy mattresses on the floor and that was all. That was where Masa and his master did their renzu, Japanese gymnastics. Just watching it was frightening. The way they flailed away with their arms and legs, it was a miracle they didn’t kill each other. Masa tried to get Senka to join in and scrap with them, but he got scared and ran off into the kitchen.

The kitchen was interesting too. Masa was in charge there. There was no stove, and no barrels of pickled cabbage or cucumbers. But in one corner there was this big cupboard called a ‘refrigerator’, which was always as cold as an ice cellar on the inside, and there was raw fish in it, on plates. The two tenants cut the fish into pieces, sprinkled it with brown vinegar and ate it just like that, with rice. They tried to give Senka some for breakfast too, but he didn’t touch the heathen muck and just chewed a bit of rice. And he didn’t drink the tea, either, because it wasn’t right at all – a funny yellow colour, it was, and not sweet at all.

Senka was given a place to sleep in his sensei’s room – there weren’t even any beds there, nothing but mats on the floor, like in Kulakov’s dosshouse. Never mind, Senka thought, better to sleep on the floor than in the cold damp ground with a pen stuck in your side. We’ll stick it out.

The weirdest place of all was the master’s study. Well, that’s what it was called, but it was more like a mechanic’s workshop really. The books on the shelves were mostly technical, in foreign languages: the desk was heaped high with strange drawings (they were called ‘blueprints’, with lots of very complicated lines); there were different-shaped bits of metal lying round the walls, with springs, rubber hoops and all sorts of other stuff. That was because Erast Petrovich was an engineer, he’d studied in America. Even his name wasn’t Russian: Mr Nameless. Senka really wanted to ask him what he needed all these thingamajigs for, but on that first day of his life on Asheulov Lane, there was no time for that.

They slept until late, after the kind of night they’d had. When they woke up, Mr Nameless and Masa were off, leaping about on the mattresses and yelling, battering away at each other, then they ate some of their raw fish, and Senka took Erast Petrovich off to meet Death.

On the way they started arguing about what she – Death that is –was like, good or bad.

Erast Petrovich said she was bad. ‘Judging from what you have t-told me, Spidorov, this woman revels in her ability to m-manipulate men, and not just any men, but the most c-cruel and pitiless of criminals. She is aware of their atrocities and lives a c-comfortable life on stolen money, but she is not g-guilty of anything herself, as it were. I am familiar with this b-breed, it can be found in all countries and in all classes of society. These so-called femmes fatales or infernal women are absolutely immoral creatures, they p-play with people’s lives, it is the only game that brings them any pleasure. Surely you can see that she was just t-toying with you, like a cat with a mouse?’

And when he said that Erast Petrovich was really angry, not like himself at all, as if he’d really suffered at the hands of these infernal women and they’d torn his life apart.

Only Death wasn’t any kind of infernal woman and she wasn’t immoral either, she was just unhappy. She didn’t revel in anything, she was simply lost, she couldn’t find her way. Senka told Erast Petrovich that. And he didn’t just say it – he shouted it out loud.

Erast Petrovich sighed and smiled – sadly, not sneering. ‘All right, Spidorov,’ he said. ‘I didn’t wish to offend your f-feelings, only I’m afraid there’s a painful d-disappointment in store for you. Well then, is she really so very lovely, this Khitrovka C-Carmen?’

Senka knew who Carmen was, he’d gone to the Bolshoi Theatre to see her with George. She was a fat Spanish woman with a big, loud voice who kept stamping her big feet and sticking her hands on her fat hips. Erast Petrovich looked like a clever man but he didn’t understand a thing about women. He could do with a few lessons from his servant.

‘Your Carmen’s a swamp toad compared with Death,’ Senka said, and spat to emphasise his point.

At the turn from Pokrovsky Boulevard on to Yauza Boulevard, Senka half stood up in the cab, then ducked back down and pressed himself down into the seat.

‘That’s her house,’ he whispered. ‘Only we can’t go there now. See those two hanging about over there? That’s Cudgel and Beak, they’re from the Ghoul’s deck. If they see me, there’ll be trouble.’

Erast Petrovich leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Drive round the c-corner and stop on Solyanka Street.’ And to Senka he said: ‘Apparently there’s something interesting g-going on. I’d like to take a look.’

When they’d driven past the Ghoul’s men, Senka straightened up again. ‘A look’s not very likely, but you could have a listen.’

And he led Erast Petrovich to the house through the back alleys.

The barrel that Senka had rolled up to the window was still standing where he left it.

‘Can you get through there?’ Senka asked, pointing to the half-open window of the water closet.

Mr Nameless jumped straight up on to the barrel from where he was standing, without any run-up, then he jumped again, pulled himself up with his hands and wormed his way through the small square opening, without any real effort. His heels disappeared inside. Senka climbed in too – not as nimbly, but even so he was in the privy soon enough.

‘A strange way of g-getting in to see a lady’, Erast Petrovich whispered, helping Senka to climb down. ‘What is behind the d-door?’

‘The room,’ Senka gasped. ‘The sitting room, that is. We could open the door a crack, quiet like, only just a little bit.’

‘Hmm, I see you have already p-patented this method of observation.’

And that was the end of the conversation.

Erast Petrovich opened the door a little bit, just a hair’s breadth, and put his eye to the crack. Senka tried arranging himself this way and that way (he was interested too) and eventually found the right position: he squatted down on his haunches and pressed himself against Mr Nameless’s hip, with his forehead against the doorpost. That is, he took a seat in the stalls.

He couldn’t believe his eyes – there had to be something wrong with them!

Death and the Ghoul were standing in the middle of the room with their arms round each other, and that greasy-haired slug was stroking her shoulder!

Senka either sobbed or sniffed – he couldn’t tell which it was himself – and he got a quick slap round the back of the head from Mr Nameless.

‘Ah, my lovely’ the Ghoul purred in a slimy voice. ‘Now that’s real consolation, that sweetens life up a bit. Of course, I’m not the Prince, I can’t give you gemstones, but I’ll bring you a silk scarf, from India. Incredibly beautiful, it is!’

‘Give it to your moll,’ said Death, backing off.