Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

‘On your luck?’ Kazbek asked. ‘As a thief?’

‘On my luck as a thief,’ the Prince confirmed, and ran his thumb across his throat, the way you were supposed to when you swore an oath. But Senka spotted another bit of cunning: the Prince held his left hand behind his back, and he had the thumb between his fingers –that meant his word as a thief wasn’t worth a bent kopeck. He’d have to tell Kazbek – that is, Erast Petrovich – about this villainous trick.

‘Good.’ The Abrek nodded and put his weapon away. ‘Come to the Yeroshenko basement tonight, to the hall that is a dead end. Just the two of you come, no more. At exactly a quarter past three. If you come earlier or later, there is no deal.’

‘We’ll come alone, but won’t your wolves take their knives to us?’ asked the Prince, narrowing his eyes.

‘Why go to the basement for that?’ Kazbek asked with a shrug. ‘If we wanted, we could slice you into kebabs anyway. I need faithful kunaks in Moscow, friends I can trust . . . You will be met in the basement and taken to the right place. When you see who meets you, you will understand: Kazbek could have given you nothing and just taken it for free.’

The Prince opened his mouth to say something (to judge from his fierce grin, it was something angry), but Deadeye put a hand on his shoulder.

‘We’ll be there at quarter past three in the morning, dear fellow. On my luck as a thief.’

The Jack swore without any tricks, both of his hands were out in the open.

‘So you’re not taking the mamselle?’ the Caucasian asked from the doorway.

Senka turned cold. Ai, Erast Petrovich, why are you trying to destroy me? Holy Saint Nicholas and the Virgin Intercessor, save me!

But the Prince, may God lop a thousand years off his torments in hell, just cleared his throat and spat on the floor.

Senka was saved.

Outside, once they’d got into the landau and driven off, Senka heaved a bitter sigh and said:

‘Thank you, Erast Petrovich, for taking such good care of me. That’s the way you treat a true friend, is it? What if the Prince had said “give me your mamselle”? Were you really going to hand me over to be tortured to death?’

‘Turn the corner and stop!’ the ungrateful engineer ordered the driver in his Caucasian voice. He answered the reproach when they got out of the carriage.

‘For the P-Prince only one woman exists. He won’t even l-look at any other. I needed you to look f-frightened, Senya – to make our little interlude m-more convincing. And you m-managed it very well.’

And then Senka realised that when Erast Petrovich was wearing fancy dress – as an old Yid or a wild mountain warrior – he didn’t stammer at all. That was amazing. And Senka remembered that the engineer had done the whole job on his own, without any help from his partner. He felt ashamed then, most of all for being such a coward and calling on the Virgin Mary and St Nicholas for help. But then, what was there to be ashamed of in that? He was a real person, wasn’t he, not some kind of stone idol like Mr Nameless. Erast Petrovich didn’t need to pray, Masa-sensei had told Senka that.

They walked along Pokrovka Street, past the Church of the Trinity in the Mud and the magnificent Church of the Assumption.

‘Don’t you ever pray to God, then?’ Senka asked. ‘Is that because you’re not afraid of anything at all?’

‘Why do you think I’m n-not afraid?’ Erast Petrovich asked in surprise. ‘I am afraid. Only p-people completely without imagination have no f-fear. And since I am afraid, I p-pray sometimes.’

‘You’re lying!’

The engineer sighed. ‘It would be b-better to say “I don’t believe you”, and best of all n-never to say such things unless it is absolutely n-necessary, because . . .’ He gestured vaguely with his hand.

‘... because you could collect a slap across the face,’ Senka guessed.

‘And for th-that reason too. And the p-prayer I say, Senya, is one I was t-taught by an old priest: “Spare me, Lord, from a slow, p-painful, humiliating death”. That is the entire prayer.’

Senka thought about it. The bit about a slow death was clear enough – who wanted to spend ten years just lying paralysed or withering away? The painful part was obvious too.

‘But what’s a humiliating death? Is that when someone dies and everyone spits on him and kicks him?’

‘No. Christ was b-beaten and humiliated too, but there was nothing shameful about his d-death, was there? All my life I’ve b-been afraid of something else. I’m afraid of d-dying in a way that people will f-find amusing. People don’t remember anything else about you after th-that. For example, the French p-president Faure will not be remembered for c-conquering the island of Madagascar and concluding an alliance with Russia, but for the f-fact that His Excellency expired on t-top of his lover. All that is left of the former l-leader of the nation is a d-dirty joke: “The president died in the p-performance of his duties – in every s-sense”. Even on his gravestone the p-poor fellow is shown embracing the b-banner of the republic. People walking by g-giggle and titter – that is the f-fate that I fear.’

‘That sort of cock-up couldn’t happen to you,’ Senka reassured the engineer. ‘You’re in sound health.’

‘If not that k-kind, then some other. Fate loves to j-jest with those who are too concerned for their own d-dignity.’ Erast Petrovich laughed. ‘For instance, you remember the way the t-two of us were sitting in the water closet, and the G-Ghoul heard a noise and p-pulled out his revolver?’

‘How could I forget that? It still gives me the shakes.’

‘Well then, if the Ghoul had started f-firing through the door, he would have left us b-both draped across the toilet bowl. What a beautiful d-death that would have been.’

Senka imagined himself and Erast Petrovich lying on top of each other across the china potty, with their blood flowing straight into the sewage pipe.

‘Not exactly beautiful, I’d say.’

‘Indeed. I wouldn’t want to d-die like that. A stupid weakness, I realise that, b-but I simply can’t help myself.’

Mr Nameless gave a guilty smile and suddenly stopped dead –right on the corner of Kolpachny Lane.

‘Now, Senya, this is where our ways p-part. I have to drop into the post office and s-send off a certain important letter. F-from here on you will act without me.’

‘How’s that?’ Senka asked warily. What torment had the sly Erast Petrovich got in store for him now?

‘You will g-go to the police station and deliver a l-letter to Superintendent Solntsev.’

‘Is that all?’ Senka asked suspiciously, screwing up his eyes.

‘That’s all.’

That was all right, delivering a letter was no big deal.

‘I’ll take off the tart’s rags and wash the paint off my mug,’ Senka growled. ‘I feel a right nelly.’

‘I feel embarrassed in front of people,’ the pernickety engineer corrected him. ‘There’s no t-time to get changed. Stay as you are. It will be s-safer that way.’

Senka felt a black cat scrape its claws across his heart. Safer? What exactly did that mean?

But Mr Nameless only made the vicious beast scrape away even harder.

‘You’re a b-bright young man,’ he said. ‘Act according to the s-situation.’

He took two envelopes out of his pocket, gave one to Senka and kept the other.

Senka scratched at his chest to stop that cat scraping so hard, but his hand ran into something soft – it was the cotton wool Erast Petrovich had stuffed under the dress to give it a woman’s curves.

‘Why don’t I run to the post office, and you go to the superintendent?’ Senka suggested without really feeling very hopeful.