Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

He grinned. ‘Jealous? My Manka’s not jealous. I’m in here with you, and she’s round the corner, keeping watch.’

‘Then give it to her, for her trouble. I don’t want your presents. That’s not what I love you for.’

‘What is it, then?’ the Ghoul asked, smiling even more broadly (Senka winced – his teeth were all yellow and rotten). ‘The Prince is a real wild one, but I’m better, am I?’

She gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘No one’s better than you in my mind.’

The Ghoul stared at her and screwed his eyes up. ‘I can’t understand you . . . But then, no one has enough nous to understand you women.’

He grabbed her by the shoulders and started kissing her. In his despair Senka hit his head against the wooden door – loudly. Erast Petrovich smacked him round the head again, but it was too late.

The Ghoul swung round sharply and pulled out his revolver. ‘Who’ve you got in there?’

‘Well, aren’t you the nervous one, and you a businessman too,’ said Death, wiping her lips in disgust. ‘It’s the draught blowing through the house, slamming the doors.’

There was a sudden whistle. And from close by too – inside the hallway, was it?

A hoarse voice (that was Beak, the one with the collapsed nose) said: ‘Manka’s given the shout – the superintendent’s on his way from Podkolokolny. With flowers. Maybe he’s coming here?’

‘Walking through Khitrovka, on his own?’ the Ghoul asked, surprised. ‘With no coppers? That takes guts.’

‘Boxman’s with him.’

The Ghoul disappeared like a shot. Then he shouted – probably from the hallway: ‘All right, darling, we’ll talk later. Give my regards to the Prince – that stag has big horns!’

The door slammed and it went quiet.

Death poured some brown water out of a carafe (Senka knew it was Jamaica rum) and took a sip, but she didn’t drink it, just rinsed out her mouth and spat it back into the glass. Then she took a piece of paper out of her pocket, unfolded it and held it up to her nose. After she’d breathed in the white powder, she relaxed a little bit and started sighing.

But Senka didn’t have any cocaine, so he just sat there numb, as if he’d turned into a block of ice. So an honest young lad with sugar-sweet shoulders and a ‘mon ange’ didn’t suit her, she couldn’t do it with him! But she could with this sticky-lipped slimeball?

Senka moved – and the engineer’s fingers beat a warning tattoo on the top of his head: Sit still, it’s too soon to come out.

Oh Lord, it couldn’t be true! Only it was, she was a whore with no morals at all, Erast Petrovich was right . . .

But this was only the first shock for Senka.

A minute went by, or maybe two, and there was a knock at the door.

Death swayed on her feet and pulled her shawl tight across her chest. She shouted: ‘It’s open!’

There was a jangle of spurs, and a bold officer’s voice said: ‘Here I am, Mademoiselle Morte. I promised to come for your answer at exactly five, and as a man of honour, I have kept my word. You decide: this is a bunch of violets, and this is an order for your arrest. Choose for yourself.’

Senka didn’t understand at first what violets had to do with anything, but then Superintendent Solntsev – it was his voice – went on to say:

‘As I already told you, I am in possession of reliable information from my agents which demonstrates beyond all doubt that you are involved in a criminally culpable relationship with the bandit and murderer Dron Vesyolov, also known as the Prince.’

‘And why waste government money on paying your agents? Everybody knows about me and the Prince,’ Death answered in a casual voice, sounding almost bored.

‘It’s one thing to know, and another to have properly documented and signed witness statements and, in addition, photographic pictures taken secretly, according to the very latest method. That, Fräulein Tod, contravenes two articles of the Criminal Code. Six years of exile. And a good prosecutor will tack on aiding and abetting banditry and murder. That’s hard labour, seven years of it. It’s appalling even to think what the guards – and anyone else whose fancy you tickle – will do with a girl from a simple family like you. I don’t envy your beauty. You’ll come out a total ruin.’

Then Colonel Solntsev himself appeared in the crack of the door –smart and spruce, with that gleaming parting. He really was holding a bunch of Parma violets (‘cunning’ in the language of flowers) in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other.

‘Well, and what is it you want?’ Death asked, setting her hands on her hips, which really did make her look like the Spanish woman in the opera. ‘Do you want me to betray my lover to you?’

‘What the hell do I want with that Prince of yours!’ the superintendent exclaimed. ‘When the time comes, I’ll take him anyway! You know perfectly well what I want from you. I used to beg before, but now I demand. If you won’t be mine, then it’s penal servitude! On the word of an officer!’

A steely muscle in Erast Petrovich’s thigh twitched – Senka felt it with his cheek – and Senka’s own hands clenched into tight fists. What a rotten louse that superintendent was!

But Death only laughed. ‘My gallant knight, do you woo all the ladies this way?’

‘I’ve never wooed anyone,’ said Solntsev, and his voice was trembling with passion. ‘They come running after me. But you ... you have driven me out of my mind! What’s that criminal to you? Tomorrow or the next day, he’ll be lying in the gutter, shot full of holes by police bullets. But I’ll give you everything: full upkeep, protection from your former friends, the position you deserve. I can’t marry you –I won’t lie, and you wouldn’t believe me anyway. But love and marriage are quite different substances. When the time comes for me to marry, I won’t choose my bride for her beauty, and my heart will still belong to you. Oh, I have great plans! The day will come when you’ll be the uncrowned queen of Moscow, and perhaps even more! Well?’

Death didn’t answer straight away. She tilted her head, and looked at him as though he was some curious object.

‘Tell me something else,’ she said. ‘I just can’t make up my mind.’

‘Ah, so that’s the way!’ said the superintendent, flinging the bouquet down on the floor. ‘All’s fair in love and war. I won’t just throw you in prison, I’ll close down that damn orphans’ poorhouse you support. It runs on stolen money and it only raises more thieves! Don’t you forget, my word’s as tough as steel!’

‘Now that’s more like it,’ said Death, smiling at something. ‘That’s convincing. I agree. Tell me your terms and conditions, Innokentii Romanich.’

The colonel seemed rather taken aback by this sudden compliance, and he backed away a couple of steps, which took him out of view again.

But it didn’t take him long to recover. There was a creak of boot leather and a hand in a white glove reached down to pick up the bouquet.

‘I do not understand you, Señora Morte, but let that be, it is not important. Only bear in mind that I am a proud man and I will not be made a fool of. If you take it into your head to cheat me ...’ His fist clenched round the violets so tightly that all the stems snapped. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, that’s clear. Get to the point.’

‘All right, then.’ Solntsev reappeared in the crack. He was about to present her with the bouquet, but then he noticed that the flowers were limp and lifeless, and tossed them on to the table. ‘Until I take out the Prince, you will live here. I’ll come in secret, at night. And you’d better be affectionate! I don’t tolerate coldness in love.’