Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Senka hadn’t taken a proper look at the handkerchief at first, but now he could see there really was something sewn on it: up at the top was the sun, and down below there was a girl, lying there naked, with all sorts of flowers and grass growing through her. Senka didn’t like this weird malarkey (or allegory, that was the cultured word for it) at all.

Unlike Senka, Erast Petrovich looked at the handkerchief first, and then opened up the letter. He looked at it and said: ‘Oh, Senya, S-Senya, what am I to d-do with you? You’ve been p-prying again.’

Senka fluttered his eyelids to bring out the tears. ‘Why are you always getting at me? You ought to be ashamed. Here I am slaving away, not a thought for myself. Serving faithfully . . .’

The engineer just waved his hand, as if to say: Go away, don’t bother me, damn you.

And the letter Erast Petrovich sent back to Death said this.

‘Dear D.I implore you, do not sniff any more of that beastly stuff. I have tried narcotics ononly one occasion, and that almost cost me my life. I will tell you the story some time. But it is not even a matter of the danger lurking within this stupefying poison. It is only needed by people who donot understand if they are really living in this world or just pretending. But you arealive and real. You do not need narcotics. Forgive me for preaching another sermon. It is not my usual manner at all, but such is the terrible effect that you have on me.If the other two individuals notice the object, do not tell them about SS [Well, thanks be for small mercies, Senka thought], but aboutacertain new admirer, aman with greying temples and a stammer. This is best for the job at hand.Yours, E.N.’

This time Death didn’t arrive angry, like the day before, she was in a jolly mood. As she bent down to take the letter, instead of five kopecks she handed him something big, round and smooth and whispered: ‘Here’s something sweet for you.’

When he looked, it was a chocolate medal! What did she take him for, a little kid?

On the last day of Senka’s begging career, which was the sixth, Death dropped a handkerchief as she walked by. As she bent down to pick it up, she whispered: ‘Someone’s following me. On the corner.’ She walked on into the church, leaving the letter on the ground beside Senka. He crawled over and pinned it down with his knee, then squinted at the corner Death had pointed to.

His heart started fluttering.

Prokha was standing at the turn-off from Podkolokolny Lane, leaning against a drainpipe with one elbow, chewing away. His eyes were riveted to the church door. Thank God, he wasn’t eying up the beggars.

Ah-ha, so that’s what’s going on!

The deductions started flitting through Senka’s head so fast, he could hardly keep up. That day when he was taking the silver rods to the jeweller, who was it he met right there on Maroseika Street? Prokha. That was one.

And then, on Trubnaya Square, near the boarding house, who was hanging around? That time the constable came running over? Prokha again. That was two.

Who knew about Senka’s friendship with Tashka? Prokha yet again. That was three.

And Prokha was spying on Death! That was four.

So that meant he was to blame for everything, the rotten slug! He’d done in the jeweller, and Tashka too! Not with his own hands, of course. He was stooging for someone, probably the Prince.

Now what was he going to do? What was the projection that followed from this deduction?

It was very simple. Prokha was following Death, so he would follow Prokha. See who he went to report to and pass on his communiqué.

When Death came out of the church, she deliberately turned away and didn’t even give out any alms – she floated by like a swan, but she brushed Senka with the hem of her dress. That was no accident. She was telling him to look sharp and keep his eyes peeled.

He counted to twenty and then hobbled after her, limping with both legs at once. Prokha was walking a little bit ahead, not looking back – he obviously didn’t think anyone could be tailing him.

They reached the Yauza Boulevard, moving like a flight of storks: Death up at the front in the middle, then Prokha lagging a little bit behind her on the left, and Senka another fifteen paces back on the right.

Prokha loitered outside the door of the house for a bit and started scratching his head. It looked like he didn’t know what to do next, hang about or go away. Senka made himself comfy around the corner and waited.

Then Prokha tossed his bonce back (all right, all right, his head), stuck his hands in his pockets, spun round on his heels and set off back at a smart pace. To report to the Prince, Senka figured. Or maybe not the Prince, but someone else.

When Prokha trudged past, Senka turned his back and held his hands down to the baggy front of his pants, as if he was having a pee. Then he set off after his former friend.

Prokha kicked an apple core with the toe of his boot, whistled a smart trill at a flock of pigeons pecking on horse dung (they flapped their wings and fluttered up in the air) and then turned into a courtyard that was just a shortcut back onto Khitrovka Square.

Senka followed him.

The moment he came out of the passageway into the damp, dark yard, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, jerked him hard and swung him round.

Prokha! The pointy-faced bastard had twigged he was being followed.

‘Why are you sticking to me, rags and tatters?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’

He shook Senka so hard by the collar that Senka’s head bobbled up and down and the thingamajig that made his mug look so twisted came out of his cheek, so he had to spit the fancy dress trick out.

‘You!’ Prokha gasped, and his nostrils flared. ‘Speedy? You’re just the one I need!’

And he grabbed Senka’s collar with his second hand too – no way he could get out of that. Prokha had a real strong grip. Senka knew he was no match for him when it came to strength and agility. He was the nimblest lad in all Khitrovka. If Senka tried to scrap, Prokha would batter him. If he tried to run, Prokha would catch him.

‘Right, you’re coming with me.’ Prokha chuckled. ‘Now don’t make a peep or there’ll be blood?’

‘Where to?’ Senka asked. He hadn’t recovered yet from the debacle of his carefully planned projection. ‘What did you grab me like that for? Let go!’

Prokhka lashed him across the ankle with the toe of his boot. It hurt.

‘Come on, come on. A nice man I know wants to have a little chat with you.’

If they’d scrapped the proper Khitrovka way, with fists, or even belts, Prokha would have given him a good drubbing double quick. But Senka hadn’t completely wasted his time studying those Japanese fisticuffs now, had he?

When Masa-sensei realised Senka would never make a real fighter – he was too lazy and afraid of pain – he’d told him: Senkakun, I won’t teach you men’s fighting, I’ll teach you women’s fighting. This is a lesson for a woman to follow if some ruffian grabs her by the collar and tries to dishonour her. It all came back to Senka in his hour of need.

‘As simpur as boired turnip,’ the sensei had said.

The idea was to hit the shameless lout with the edge of your left hand, right on the tip of the nose, and as soon as he jerked his head back, smash the knuckles of your right hand into his Adam’s apple. Senka must have flailed at the air like that a thousand times. One-two, left-right, nose-throat, nose-throat, one-two, one-two.

So he did that old one-two now; half a second was all it took.

And as they wrote in the books, the result exceeded all his expectations.

The blow to Prokha’s nose wasn’t very strong, barely glanced it in fact, but his head jerked back and blood spurted out of his nostrils. And when Senka landed the ‘two’ right on the spot of the exposed throat, Prokha grunted and went down.