Boris Akunin - She Lover of Death

The boy’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing, from which it was possible to conclude that the perspicacious Doge was not mistaken.

‘Well then, recite for us.’

Gdlevsky tossed his head, sending a strand of light hair tumbling down across his eyes and declared:

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This was Prospero’s commentary. ‘Your writing gets better and better. You should think less with your head, listen more to the voice sounding within you.’

After Gdlevsky no one else volunteered to recite a poem. The aspirants began discussing what they had heard in low voices, while Petya told his protégée about the other ‘aspirants’.

‘They are Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,’ he said, pointing to a pair of rosy-cheeked twins who kept together. ‘Their father is a confectioner from Revel and they are studying at the Commercial College. Their poems are never any good – nothing but “ herz ” and “ schmerz ”. They’re both very serious and thoroughgoing, they joined the aspirants out of some complicated philosophical considerations and they are sure to get what they want.’

Columbine shuddered as she imagined what a tragedy this Teutonic single-mindedness would produce for their poor ‘ mutti ’, but then immediately felt ashamed of this philistine thought. After all, only recently she had written a poem which asserted the following:

One of the other people there was a short, stout man with dark hair and a long nose that looked completely out of place on his plump face. He was called Cyrano.

‘He’s not particularly subtle,’ said Petya, pulling a face. All he does is copy the manner of Rostand’s Bergerac: “Into the embraces of she who is dear to me I shall fall at the end of this missive.” An inveterate joker, a buffoon. Absolutely desperate to get to the next world just as soon as possible.’

This last remark made Columbine look closely at the follower of the famous Gascon wit. While Caliban was declaiming his terrifying work about skeletons in a thundering bass, Cyrano had listened with an exaggeratedly serious expression, but when he caught the new visitor’s glance, he made a skull-face by sucking in his cheeks, opening his eyes in a wide stare and moving his eyes together towards his impressive nose. Taken by surprise, Columbine tittered slightly and the prankster bowed to her and resumed his air of intent concentration. Absolutely desperate to get to the next world? This jolly, tubby man was obviously not so very simple after all.

‘And that is Ophelia, she holds a special position here. Prospero’s main assistant. When we’re all dead, she’ll still be here.’

Columbine had not noticed the young girl until Petya mentioned her, but now she found her more interesting than the other members of the club. She took envious note of the clear white skin, the fresh little face, the long wavy hair which was so blonde that in the semi-darkness it appeared white. A perfect angel from an Easter card. Lorelei Rubinstein didn’t count – she was old and fat, and an Olympian figure in any case, but in Columbine’s opinion, this nymph was clearly superfluous. Ophelia had not uttered a single word the whole time. She just stood there as if she couldn’t hear the poems or the conversations and was listening to something completely different; her wide-open eyes seemed to look straight through the other people there. What sort of ‘special position’ could she have? the new visitor thought jealously.

‘She’s strange, somehow,’ said Columbine, delivering her verdict. ‘What does he see in her?’

‘Who, the Doge?’

Petya was about to explain, but Prospero raised his hand imperiously and all talking ceased immediately.

‘Now the mystery will begin, but there is a stranger among us,’ he said, without looking at Columbine (her heart skipped a beat). ‘Who brought her?’

‘I did, Teacher,’ Petya replied anxiously. ‘She is Columbine. I vouch for her. She told me several months ago that she is weary of life and definitely wishes to die young.’

Now the Doge turned his magnetic gaze to the swooning damsel and from feeling cold, Columbine turned feverish. Oh, how his stern eyes glittered!

‘Do you write poetry?’ Prospero asked.

She nodded without speaking, afraid that her voice would tremble.

‘Recite one verse, any will do. And then I shall say if you can stay.’

I’ll muff it straight away, I know I will, Columbine thought mournfully, batting her eyelids rapidly. What shall I recite? She feverishly ran through all of her poems that she could remember and chose the one she was most proud of – ‘The Pale Prince’. It was written on the night when Masha read Rostand’s Distant Princesses and then sobbed until the morning.

The ‘Pale Prince’ was Petya, the way he had seemed to her in Irkutsk. At that time she had still been a little bit in love with Kostya Levonidi, who had been planning to propose to her (how funny it was to remember that now!) and then Petya, her dazzling Moscow Harlequin, had appeared. The poem about the ‘pale prince’ had been written to make Kostya understand that everything was over between them, that Masha Mironova would never be the same again.

Columbine hesitated, afraid that one quatrain was not enough. Perhaps she should recite a little more, to make the meaning clearer? The poem went on like this:

But thank God that she didn’t recite that part, or she would have spoiled everything. Prospero gestured for her to stop.

‘The Pale Prince, of course, is Death?’ he asked.

She nodded hastily.

‘A pale prince with green eyes . . .’ the Doge repeated. ‘An interesting image.’

He shook his head sadly and said in a quiet voice: ‘Well now, Columbine. Fate has brought you here, and fate will not be gainsaid. Stay, and do not be afraid of anything. “Death is the key that opens the doors to true happiness.” Guess who said that.’

She glanced in bewilderment at Petya, who shrugged.

‘It was a composer, the very greatest all composers,’ Prospero prompted her.

Bach was the gloomiest of all the composers that Columbine knew, and so she whispered uncertainly: ‘Is it Bach?’ And then, remembering her unfortunate gaffe with Goethe, she explained: ‘Johann-Sebastian, wasn’t it?’

‘No, it was the radiant Mozart who said it, the creator of the Requiem ,’ the Doge replied and turned away.