Boris Akunin - She Lover of Death

They parted at the corner of Staropansky Lane. Genji removed his top hat and kissed the thoughtful young lady’s hand. Before walking into the entrance, she glanced round. He was standing in the same place, under a streetlamp, holding the top hat in his hand while the wind ruffled his black hair.

As Columbine climbed the stairs, she imagined how everything would have been if she had met Genji earlier. And as she unlocked her door she was humming a song to herself.

But five minutes later she had shaken off all this maudlin folly and knew that none of the things Genji had spoken about had ever existed – life was not good and wise, there was no love. There was only one thing – a great magnet that was drawing her to itself like a little iron filing. It had already caught her, and it would never let her go.

What happened during those five minutes?

She sat down at the desk as usual, to write down all the events of the day in her diary, and then, suddenly remembering Gorgon’s mean joke, she angrily jerked open the drawer, grabbed the two little rectangles of cardboard and held a lighted match to them, in order to destroy the evidence of her shameful gullibility.

Less than a minute later, Columbine was convinced that the messages would not burn. She had used up several matches and singed the tips of her fingers. But the paper had not even darkened at all!

She grabbed her handbag in order to take out her cigarette case. She needed to smoke a papirosa and gather her thoughts. The handbag fell from her trembling hands, its contents scattered across the floor and Columbine’s eye was caught by a small piece of white card, exactly like the two previous ones. She picked it up and read the single word that was written on it:‘ Komm ’. 2

So there it was. Irrefutable.

Columbine sat there for a few minutes without moving, and thought. Not about the One who had sent her this summons, but about the Japanese prince. ‘Thank you, dear Genji,’ she thought, taking leave of him. ‘You are clever and handsome. You wished me well. I would certainly have fallen in love with you – everything was leading to that, but an even more impressive admirer than you has put in an appearance. Everything has finally been decided. It’s time for me to go.’

Enough of that.

All she still had to do was write the concluding chapter in her diary. The title simply wrote itself.

How tenderly Columbine departs from the City of Dreams

Tenderly, because tenderness is precisely the feeling that now suffuses the traveller’s entire being as her voyage approaches its brilliant conclusion. And this feeling is both sweet and sad.

Columbine sat at the desk for a long time as the three white candles on it slowly burned down. She thought about various ways in which she could make her departure, as if she were searching through the dresses in her wardrobe for one to wear at a ball, measuring them against herself, looking in the mirror, sighing and tossing each rejected outfit on to a chair. No good, no good. Somehow she did not really feel afraid. The three white cards, neatly laid out on the desk, radiated a calm strength that supported her. Columbine knew for certain that it would hurt a little bit at first, but after that everything would be very, very good: the vain girl was more concerned with something that was not really so important – how she would look when she was dead. But then, perhaps this was the most important problem that she still had to decide in her short life that was now rushing rapidly to its finale. After her departure she wanted to look like a beautiful doll laid out in an elegant box, so the quick means like a rope or a jump from the balcony were not suitable. The best way, of course, would be to take a sleeping draft – to swallow an entire crystal phial of opium, then wash it down with sweet tea and blackcurrant jam. Columbine had tea, and she had blackcurrant jam. But she did not have any soporific substances in her apartment, because she had never suffered from insomnia: as soon as she put her head on the pillow and parted her golden tresses to both sides, she immediately fell into a sound sleep.

Finally the difficult choice was made.

Fill the bath with warm water. Add a few drops of lavender oil. Anoint her face and neck with miraculous Lanoline cream – ‘the ideal way to preserve attractive skin’ – from the little tin tube (she only needed to preserve it for two or three days, until the funeral, after that she wouldn’t need attractive skin). Put on her white lace dress, which was a bit like a wedding dress. Tie back her hair with a scarlet ribbon that would match the colour of the water. Lie down in the bath, run a sharp knife across her veins (under the water, so that it wouldn’t hurt too much), and slowly go to sleep. Whoever found Columbine would say: She was like a white chrysanthemum floating in a glass of vin rosé .

Now there was one last thing she had to do: write a poem. And that would conclude the story of Columbine, who flew into the City of Dreams from the magical distance, spread her ethereal wings there for a short while and then darted from the light into the shadow.

No, that’s no good at all. The first line is from a poem by someone else, and God only knows what that last line means.

That’s no better. I simply can’t stand that third line, it makes me feel sick. ‘Travel’ – what sort of word is that for a poem? This is really hard. And the water’s getting cold. I’ll have to let it out and fill the bath again. Come on now!

No. It has to be less heavy, without any irony. Light and airy.

Will they realise that the falling water is the sound of the tap filling the bath? Ah, never mind if it’s not clear! I’ve wasted enough paper already. Whoever said that a farewell poem has to be long? Columbine’s will be short, absurd and break off when it has hardly begun, just like her short and absurd (but nonetheless beautiful, very beautiful) li . . .

Before Columbine could finish writing the word, the silence of the night was broken by the ringing of her doorbell.

Who could it be at this hour, after two in the morning?

At any other time she would have been afraid. Everyone knew that a doorbell rung in the middle of the night boded no good. But what should she be afraid of, when she had already settled her final account with life?

Maybe she shouldn’t answer? Let them ring away.

Lucifer was warming himself on her bosom: she settled his little head more comfortably in the hollow over her collarbone and tried to concentrate on her diary, but the continuous ringing would not let her.

All right, she would have to go and see what surprise life had in store for her just before it came to an end.

Columbine didn’t bother to turn on the gas lamp in the hallway. She had already guessed who had come to visit her so late – Genji, it couldn’t be anyone else. He had sensed something. Now he would start remonstrating with her again, trying to convince her. She would have to pretend that she agreed with everything, wait for him to go and then . . .