Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Senka had bad thoughts about the engineer and the slick way he had with other people’s property. Not a word of thanks for Senka’s unbelievable generosity and self-sacrifice. No, you’d never hear anything like that from him. He acted liked it all belonged to him. Invited the rats to dine at someone else’s table. Come on, dear guests, take as much as you fancy. And as for that someone else having his own idea, about that treasure, and even dreams, well a smarmy gent like Erast Petrovich obviously couldn’t give a rotten damn about that.

Because he felt so resentful, Senka was cool with the engineer. He told him all about delivering the letter and the conversation with the superintendent, but he expressed his insulted dignity by looking off to one side and curling up his bottom lip.

However, Erast Petrovich failed to notice this demonstration of feeling. He listened carefully to the story of how Senka was questioned and recruited. He seemed pleased with everything, and even said ‘well done’. That was too much for Senka, and he started hinting at the treasure, saying what a lot of smart-arses there were in the world who liked to make free with wealth that wasn’t theirs, but belonged to someone else. But that hint wasn’t taken either, he failed to stir the engineer’s conscience. Mr Nameless just patted Senka on the head and said: ‘Don’t be g-greedy.’ And then he said in a cheerful voice: ‘Tonight I conclude all my b-business in Moscow, there is no m-more time left. Tomorrow at midday is the start of the d-drive to Paris. I hope the F-Flying Carpet is in good order?’

Senka felt his heart sink. That was right, tomorrow was the twenty-third! What with all these harum-scarum adventures, he’d completely forgotten about it!

So, whatever happened, it was the end of everything. Three cheers for the cunning Mr Nameless! He’d got what he wanted from his mechanic (and for nothing, if you didn’t count the grub) – his automobile was looking real handsome, it was fine tuned and polished till it shone – but that wasn’t even the half of it. The worst thing was that he’d twisted a poor orphan round his little finger, robbed him blind, nearly got the orphan’s throat cut, and now he was going driving off to Paris like some fairy-tale prince. And it was Senka’s destiny to be left sitting all on his lonesome beside his broken tub. If he was even still alive tomorrow, that was ...

Senka’s lips started trembling, and the corners of his mouth crept down even lower than when he was just acting out insulted pride.

But the heartless Erast Petrovich said: ‘Wipe that l-lipstick off your mouth, it looks d-disgusting.’

As if Senka had put the lipstick on himself, just for a laugh!

He went off to get changed, stamping his feet angrily.

While Senka was gone he heard the telephone ring in the study, and when he went back a minute later – to tell Erast Petrovich a few home truths, straight out, no more pussyfooting around – the engineer wasn’t there.

Masa was off wandering somewhere too. Meanwhile the day was slipping unstoppably towards evening, and the darker it got outside, the gloomier Senka felt. What on earth would happen tonight?

To distract himself from his dark thoughts, Senka went out to the shed to polish the automobile, which was already shining brighter than the domes in the Kremlin. He wasn’t feeling angry now, just depressed.

Well, Erast Petrovich, as they say, may God grant you good luck and the record you’re dreaming of. Your three-wheeler is all set up in the finest possible fashion, don’t you worry on that score. You’ll remember your mechanic Semyon Spidorov with a grateful word more than once on the way. Maybe some day you’ll be smitten by a pang of conscience. Or at least a pang of regret. Though that’s hardly likely – who are we compared to you?

Just then there was a faint squeak from the louvres (they were kind of like cracks) in the engine cooler, and Senka froze. Was he hearing things? No, there it was again! But what could it be?’

He shone his torch into the engine. A little mouse had climbed inside!

Hadn’t he told Erast Petrovich the gaps should be smaller? It would be better if there were thirty-six of them, not twenty-four!

And now look! What if that little varmint gnawed through the fuel hose? What a shambles that would be!

While he took off the hood, drove the mouse away, disconnected the hose and connected it again (undamaged, thank God), night fell and Senka didn’t even notice. He went back into the house just as the clock struck twelve. The dirge echoed through the apartment and Senka suddenly found it hard to breathe. He felt so afraid and so homeless he could have howled like a stray dog.

Luckily Mr Nameless showed up soon after. Looking quite different from the way he was earlier on: not cheerful and contented now, but gloomy, even angry.

‘Why aren’t you ready? Have you f-forgotten you’re supposed to be playing Motya? P-Put on the wig, the skullcap and all the rest. I won’t m-make you up much, it’s dark in the b-basement. I’ll just g-glue on the nose.’

‘But it’s too early. We don’t have to be there till three,’ Senka said in a dismal voice.

Another urgent m-matter has come up and I have to d-deal with it. Let’s go on the M-Magic Carpet. It will be a f-final test before the race.’

Well, how about that? Senka had buffed it and polished it, and now all that work was all down the drain. Though one more trial run couldn’t do any harm ...

Senka put on his kike costume without any more fuss. It was better than being a mamselle.

Erast Petrovich put on a beautiful motoring suit: shiny leather, with squeaky yellow spats. What a lovely sight!

The engineer put his little revolver (it was called a ‘Herstal’, made to special order in the foreign city of Liège) in the pocket behind his back, and Senka’s heart skipped a beat. Would they live to see the start? God only knew.

‘You t-take the wheel,’ Mr Nameless ordered. ‘Show me what you c-can do.’

Senka put on a pair of goggles and squeezed his ears into his oversized skullcap so it wouldn’t fly off. At least he’d get a ride before it all ended!

‘To Samotechny B-Boulevard.’

They drove like the wind and were there in five minutes. Erast Petrovich got out at a small wooden house and rang the bell. Someone opened the door.

Of course, Senka couldn’t control his curiosity – he went to take a look at the copper plate hanging on the door. ‘F. F. Weltman, Pathological Anatomist, Dr of Medicine’. God only knew what a ‘pathological anatomist’ was, but ‘Dr’ meant ‘doctor’. Was someone ill, then? Not Masa, surely, Senka thought in alarm. Then he heard steps on the other side of the door and ran back to the machine.

The doctor was a puny little man, dishevelled and untidy, and he blinked all the time. He stared at Senka in fright and replied to his polite ‘good health to you’ with a shy nod.

‘Who’s this?’ Senka asked in a whisper when the titch climbed in.

‘Never m-mind,’ Erast Petrovich replied gloomily. ‘He’s someone from a completely d-different story, who has nothing to do with our j-job today. We’re going to Rozhdestvensky Boulevard. At the d-double!’

Well, once the motor starting roaring, there was no more conversation to be had.

The engineer told him to stop at the corner of a dark lane. ‘Stay in the c-car and don’t leave it.’

That went without saying. Everyone knew the kind of people who were out at that time of night. Before you could even blink, they’d have a nut or bolt unscrewed, for a fishing weight, or just out of plain mischief.

Senka put a spanner on the seat beside him – just let them try anything on.

He asked the doctor: ‘Is someone ill? Are you going to treat them?’