Boris Akunin - She Lover of Death

In the tram, Petya told her in a low voice about the place where they were going.

‘There isn’t another club like it in the whole of Russia, even in St Petersburg,’ he said, tickling her ear with his breath. ‘Such people, you’ve never seen anyone like them in Irkutsk! We use special names, everyone invents his own. And some are given their names by the Doge. For instance, he christened me Cherubino.’

‘Cherubino?’ Columbine echoed in a disappointed voice, thinking that Petya really was more like a curly-haired page-boy than a self-confident, imperious Harlequin.

Petya misinterpreted the intonation of her voice and drew himself upright haughtily.

‘That’s nothing. We have more bizarre aliases than that. Avaddon, Ophelia, Caliban, Horatio. And Lorelei Rubinstein . . .’

‘What, you mean Lorelei Rubinstein herself goes there?’ the young provincial gasped. ‘The poetess?’

There was good reason to gasp. Lorelei’s sultry, shamelessly sensual poems had only reached Irkutsk after a considerable delay. Progressive young ladies who understood modern poetry knew them off by heart.

‘Yes,’ said Cherubino-Petya, nodding portentously. ‘Her alias in our group is the Lioness of Ecstasy. Or simply Lioness. Although, of course, everyone knows who she really is.’

Ah, what a sweet tightness she felt in her chest! Liberal-handed Fortune had flung open before her the doors into the most select possible society, and she looked at Petya far more affectionately now.

He continued. ‘The leader of the club is Prospero. There aren’t many men like him – not one in a thousand, or even a million. He’s already getting on, his hair is completely grey. But you forget that straight away, he has such strength in him, such energy and magnetism. In biblical times the prophets were probably like him. And he is a kind of prophet, if you think about it. He’s one of the old prisoners from the Schliesselburg Fortress; he spent a long time in a cell for revolutionary activity, but he never talks about his former views, because he has abandoned politics completely. He says politics is for the masses, and nothing of a mass nature can be beautiful, for beauty is always unique and inimitable. Prospero looks rather severe and he is often abrupt, but in actual fact he is kind and magnanimous, everybody knows that. He secretly helps those aspirants who need money. He used to be a chemical engineer before he was in the fortress, but now he has been left an inheritance and is rich, so he can afford it.’

‘Who are these “aspirants”?’ she asked.

‘That’s what the members of the club are called. We’re all poets. There are twelve of us, always twelve. And Prospero is our Doge. That’s the same thing as a chairman, only a chairman is elected, and in this case it’s the other way round: the Doge himself chooses who to accept as a member and who not.’

Columbine was alarmed.

‘But if there always have to be twelve of you, what about me? That makes me superfluous.’

Petya replied mysteriously: ‘When one of the aspirants marries, we can fill the place that is vacated with someone new. Naturally, the final decision is taken by Prospero. But before I take you into his home, you must swear that you will never tell anyone else what I have told you.’

Married? Vacated place? Columbine didn’t understand a thing but, of course, she immediately exclaimed: ‘I swear by sky, earth, water and fire that I shall say nothing!’

People on the seats nearby half-turned to look at her and Petya put one finger to his lips.

‘But what do you do there?’ asked Columbine, dying of curiosity.

The reply was triumphant.

‘We serve the Eternal Bride and dedicate poems to her. And some fortunate Chosen Ones offer up to her the supreme gift – their own life.’

‘And who is the Eternal Bride?’

His reply was a single short word, at the sound of which Columbine’s mouth immediately went dry.

‘Death.’

‘But . . . but why is death a bride? After all, some of the aspirants are women – Lorelei Rubinstein, for instance. Why should she want a bride?’

‘We just say that because in Russian “death” is a feminine noun. It goes without saying that for women Death is the Eternal Bridegroom. In general everything about the club is highly poetic. For the male aspirants Death is like La Belle Dame sans Merci, or the Beautiful Lady to whom we dedicate our poems and, if necessary our very lives. For the female aspirants Death is a Handsome Prince or an Enchanted Tsarevich, it’s a matter of taste.’

Columbine wrinkled up her brow in concentration.

‘And how is the rite of marriage performed?’

At that Petya glanced at her as if he were gazing at some wild savage with a bone through her nose. He narrowed his eyes incredulously.

‘You mean to say you’ve never heard of the “Lovers of Death”? Why, all the newspapers write about it!’

‘I don’t read the newspapers,’ she declared haughtily, ‘It’s too ordinary.’

‘Good Lord! So you don’t know anything about the Moscow suicides?’

Columbine shook her head cautiously.

‘Four of our people have already become wedded to Death,’ said Petya, moving closer, with his eyes gleaming. ‘And a replacement was found for each of them straight away! And I should think so – the whole city’s talking about us! Only no one knows where we are and who we are! If you came to Moscow to “write a full stop”, then you really have been incredibly lucky. You’ve drawn the lucky ticket, so to speak. Gone straight to the person who can really help you. We have a chance to leave this life without any vulgar provincialism, not to die like a sheep in slaughterhouse, but poetically, meaningfully, beautifully! Perhaps we might even depart together, like Moretta and Lycanthrope.’ His voice rang with inspiration. ‘It’s Moretta’s place that I want to propose you for!’

‘But who is this Moretta?’ Columbine exclaimed rapturously, affected by his agitation, but still not understanding a thing.

She was aware of this shortcoming in herself – a certain slowness of wit. No, she did not think of herself as stupid (she was cleverer than many, thank God), it was just that her mind worked rather slowly – sometimes even she found it irritating.

‘Moretta and Lycanthrope are the latest Chosen Ones,’ Petya explained in a whisper. ‘They received a Sign and shot themselves straight away, eleven days ago. Lycanthrope’s place is already taken. Moretta’s vacancy is the last one.’

Poor Columbine’s head was spinning. She grabbed hold of Petya’s arm.

‘Sign? What sign?’

‘Death gives his Chosen One a Sign. You must not kill yourself without the Sign – it’s strictly forbidden.’

‘But what is this Sign? What is it like?’

‘It’s different every time. There’s no way to guess in advance, but it’s quite impossible to mistake it . . .’

Petya looked keenly at his pale-faced companion. He frowned.

‘Are you frightened? You should be, we’re not playing games. Look, it’s still not too late to go. Only remember the oath that you swore.’

She really was frightened. Not of death, of course, only that now he might change his mind and not take her with him. Appropriately enough, she recalled the signboard for the Möbius insurance company.

‘I’m not afraid of anything with you,’ Columbine said, and Petya beamed.

Taking advantage of the fact that she herself had taken him by the arm, he started stroking her palm with his finger, and Columbine was overwhelmed by the infallible presentiment that it would definitely happen today. She responded to his grip. And they rode on like that through the squares, streets and boulevards. After a while their hands started sweating and Columbine, who regarded this natural phenomenon as vulgar, freed her fingers. However, Petya had grown bolder now and he triumphantly placed his hand on her shoulder and stroked her neck.