Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Erast Petrovich also moved, as if he wanted to keep some distance between them.

‘A wonderful t-tablecloth,’ he declared. ‘I have never seen such a marvellous d-design before. Who embroidered it? You? If you did, you have genuine t-talent.’

‘That’s not what you were talking about,’ she interrupted. ‘What makes you think the blood is shed because of me?’

‘The fact, Madame Death, that you have g-gathered around your good self the most d-dangerous criminals in the city. The Prince, a murderer and b-bandit, who supports you. A monster by the name of D-Deadeye, who supplies you with c-cocaine. The Ghoul, an extortionist and low scoundrel, whom you also seem to covet f-for some reason. What do you want with this c-cabinet of curiosities, this collection of aberrations?’

She said nothing for a long time. Senka thought she wasn’t going to answer at all. But then she did.

‘I suppose I need them.’

‘Who are you?’ Mr Nameless exclaimed angrily. ‘A g-greedy wealth-grubber? A vainglorious woman who likes to imagine herself as the q-queen of villains? A hater of men? A madwoman?’

‘I am Death,’ she declared quietly and solemnly.

He muttered in a barely audible voice: ‘Another one? Isn’t that t-too many for one city?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

He walked up close to her and said sharply, insistently: ‘What do you know about the m-murder of the Siniukhins and the Samshitovs? These c-crimes bear the signs of some strange satanic idolatry: either the eyes are p-put out, or every living thing is exterminated, even a p-parrot in its cage. A genuine b-banquet of death.’ His shoulders twitched.

‘I don’t know anything about that. Who are you, a policeman?’ She looked into his eyes. ‘No, they don’t have people like that in the police.’

He shook his head abruptly, in either annoyance or embarrassment.

‘I b-beg your pardon, I forgot to introduce myself. Erast Petrovich N-Nameless, engineer.’

‘An engineer? Then why are you interested in murders?’

There are two phenomena that n-ever leave me indifferent. The first is when evildoing g-goes unpunished and the second is a mystery. The f-former rouses an anger in my soul that will not allow me to breathe until j-justice has been restored. And the latter d-deprives me of sleep and rest. In this story both phenomena are evident: m-monstrous iniquity and a mystery – you. I have to s-solve this mystery.’

She smiled mockingly. ‘And how do you intend to solve me? In the same way as the other lovers of riddles?’

‘That has yet to be s-seen,’ he replied after a brief pause. ‘But you are quite right, there is a t-terrible draught.’

He swung round, walked straight towards Senka and closed the door; he even propped it shut with a chair. Now Senka couldn’t see a thing, and he could hardly hear anything that was happening in the room.

But he didn’t even want to hear any more anyway. He crawled out through the window, feeling sad. With a broken heart, you might say.

Senka was overwhelmed by total and complete disillusionment with human beings. Take this Erast Petrovich: he seemed like a serious man, very dignified, but he was the same kind of randy goat as all the rest of them. And the airs and graces he put on! Who could you trust in this world, who could you respect?

It went without saying that Mr Nameless would have her ‘solved’ now in a jiffy. Solving a floozie like that didn’t take any real effort, Senka thought, beating himself up. Oh, women! Cheap, treacherous creatures! The only one who was true was Tashka. She might be a mamselle, but she was honest. Or was that just because she was still young yet? Probably when she grew up, she’d be like all the rest of them.

Senka felt so sad and disillusioned, he just walked where his feet took him, gazing deep inside himself instead of looking around. And by force of habit his stupid feet took him out on to Khitrovka Square, the last place where Senka should be making a public show of himself. If anyone saw him, they’d whistle for the Prince, and then it would be farewell, Semyon Trifonich, that’s the last we’ll see of you.

When he realised where he was, he was terrified. He raised the collar of his jacket, pulled the boater down over his eyes and walked off rapidly towards Tryokhsvyatsky Lane – from there it was only a stone’s throw to places that were safe.

Then suddenly, talk of the devil, there was Tashka walking towards him. Not alone, though, with a client. He looked like a counter-clerk from a shop. Drunk, with a bright-red face. And one armed draped over Tashka’s shoulders – he could hardly even walk.

What a fool she was to be so proud! Why did she need to let herself get pawed and mauled like that for just three roubles? And there was no way of telling her it was a shame and a disgrace – she didn’t understand. Of course not, she’d lived in Khitrovka all her life. Her mother was a whore, her grandmother too.

Senka was going to go over and say hello. Tashka saw him too, but she didn’t nod, and she didn’t smile either. She just made big, round eyes at him and jabbed her finger at her hair. There was a flower in it, she must have put it there for an occasion like this. A red poppy – ‘danger’.

But who was the danger for, him or her?

He went across anyway and opened his mouth to speak, but Tashka hissed: ‘Clear off out of it, you fool. He’s after you.’

‘Who is?’

Then the counter-clerk stuck his oar in. He stamped his foot and started making threats. ‘What you doin’? Who are you? This little mamselle’s mine! I’ll rip your face off!’

Tashka punched him in the side and whispered: ‘Tonight... Come tonight, then I’ll tell you something really important ...’ and she dragged her admirer on down the street.

Senka didn’t like the way she was whispering. It wasn’t like Tashka to frighten him for nothing. Something must have happened. He’d have to go and see her.

He was thinking of waiting on the boulevard for night to come, but then he had a better idea.

Since he was already here, in Khitrovka, why not pay a visit to the basement and lay in a bit more silver? He had the other five rods hidden in his suitcase, wrapped up in his long-johns. It couldn’t hurt to have a few more. Who could tell which way fate would take him now? What if he suddenly had to leave his native parts in a hurry?

He took another four rods. So that made nine altogether. That was serious capital, no matter which way you looked at it. Ashot Ashotovich, may he rest in peace, wasn’t around any longer, but Senka would just have to hope that some other intermediary would turn up sooner rather than later. Thinking that way was a sin, of course, but the dead had their own interests and the living had theirs.

When he clambered out of the passage into the basement with the brick pillars (‘columns’ was the cultured word), Senka moved the stones back into place, took two of the sticks in each hand and set off through the dark basement towards the exit on Podkolokolny Lane.

He only had two more turns to make when something terrible happened.

Something heavy hit Senka on the back of the neck – and so hard that his nose smashed into the ground before he even had time to squeal. He still hadn’t realised how much trouble he was in when he was pinned to the floor, with a hobnailed boot to his back.

Senka floundered this way and that, gulping at the air. The rods went flying out of his left hand, jangling sweetly on the flagstones of the floor.

‘A-a-agh!’ poor Senka yelped, as steely fingers grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head so far back his neck-bones cracked.