He Lover of Death (42 page)

Authors: Boris Akunin

BOOK: He Lover of Death

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Senka thought about all this, so he wouldn’t have to think about Death. He didn’t even want to look in her direction.

When he did finally glance round, she was sitting propped up against the wall. Her eyes were closed and her face was white and stiff. Senka turned away again quickly.

The resounding silence gradually receded. Senka could hear Boxman hiccuping and Masa grunting as he pulled his magic star out of the Jack’s throat.

‘The ceiling didn’t collapse,’ Senka told the engineer in a trembling voice.

‘Why should it c-collapse?’ Erast Petrovich asked hoarsely, climbing out from under the constable’s heavy carcass. ‘The stonework here will st-stand for another thousand years. Oof, he must weigh three hundred p-pounds at least . . . Don’t just stand there, S-Senya! Help the l-lady up.’

So Mr Nameless hadn’t seen the superintendent stick his knife in her.

‘Won’t he come round?’ Senka asked, and pointed at the hiccuping Boxman – not because he was worried, just playing for time. He could pretend to himself that Death was just sitting there against the wall: she wasn’t dead, just sleeping, or maybe she’d fainted.

‘No, he won’t come round. That blow was “the talon of the dragon”, it’s fatal.’

Then Erast Petrovich got up, went over to the seated damsel and held out his hand to her.

Senka sobbed and got ready for the engineer to yell.

But Death wasn’t dead at all. She suddenly went and opened those big glowing eyes, looked up at Erast Petrovich and smiled.

‘What . . . what’s wrong?’ he asked, frightened.

He went down on his haunches, moved her fingers away and then – Senka had guessed right – he yelled.

‘Why did you do it, why?’ Mr Nameless muttered as he ripped open her dress and slip. ‘I had everything worked out! Masa dismantled the heap of rubble in advance and he was hiding in there, just waiting for the signal! Oh, Lord!’ he groaned when he saw the black cut below her left breast.

‘I know you would have managed without me,’ Death whispered. ‘You’re strong . . .’

‘Then why, why?’ he asked in a choking voice.

‘So that you can live. You can’t be with me . . . Now you’re immortal, nothing can touch you. I’m your Death, and I have died . . .’

And she closed her eyes.

Erast Petrovich yelled again, even louder than the last time, and Senka started blubbing.

But she wasn’t dead yet. No wonder they used to call her Lively before she was Death, people didn’t get their monikers for nothing.

She lived for a long time after that. Maybe even a whole hour. She breathed, she even smiled softly once, but she didn’t talk and she didn’t open her eyes. And then she stopped breathing.

She’s really beautiful
, thought Senka.
And in the coffin, if they wash the dust and dirt off her face and pack flowers round her
(orange blossom was what was needed, it meant ‘purity’, and a sprig of yew, for ‘eternal love’)
she’ll look a real treat. Her father and mother will collect her, because that’s their right, and they’ll bury her in the damp ground, and put up a big white stone cross over her, and carve what she used to be called on it, and underneath they’ll write: ‘Here lies Death
’.

HOW SENKA READ THE
NEWSPAPER

Once they set off, they tore along the high road for fourteen hours without a break, although they hadn’t agreed to do that in advance. They covered almost three hundred versts and only topped up the fuel tank with the can twice. And all that way not a single word was spoken between the driver and his assistant. Senka did what he was supposed to do: tooted the horn, waved the flag, hung out through the door on steep turns, watched to make sure the wheels didn’t come loose. The assistant was supposed to follow the route on a map too, but Senka didn’t manage that very well. The moment he put his head down, his nose started running, salty water started dripping from his eyes and he got a lump in his throat. He couldn’t see the map for his tears, it was just a mass of coloured blotches. But when he looked ahead, into the distance, and let the wind blow his hair about, it was all right, his eyes and his cheeks soon dried out then.

He couldn’t tell whether Mr Nameless was crying or not, because he could hardly even see the driver’s face under his protective goggles. The engineer’s lips were clamped firmly shut all the time, but Senka thought the corner of his mouth was trembling.

But straight after Vyazma the solid-cast tyre on the front wheel split. There was nothing for it, they had to push the three-wheeler back to the town – they couldn’t ride on two tyres, could they, it wasn’t a bicycle.

The spare tyres and all the other parts were travelling in a horse-drawn carriage with Masa and his female companion, and the carriage had already fallen a long way behind the Flying Carpet. They’d be lucky if it trundled its way to Vyazma by tomorrow evening. So, like it or not, they had to stop over for a night and a day. That was all settled without words too. The sportsmen didn’t feel like taking supper and they went to their rooms to sleep.

In the morning Senka walked out of the hotel and shooed away the local kids hanging around the auto without answering any of their stupid questions – he wasn’t in the mood for that. Then he set off to the railway station to get a Moscow newspaper.

Right, then, had they printed it or not? He opened the
Gazette
straight off at page five, where they wrote about theatre and sport.

They’d printed it all right – they had to, didn’t they?

They’re off!

Despite the wind and rain, yesterday at noon devotees of automobile sport, that new religion which is still such an exotic novelty in the wide expanses of Russia, gathered at Triumfalnaya Square for the start of a long-distance drive to Paris. We have written about this event previously and intend to provide continuing comment by means of the telegraph. The spectators saw off the driver, Mr Nameless, and his youthful assistant with enthusiastic applause. The two sportsmen, who seemed quite emotional and preoccupied, avoided any contact with members of the press. Our wish for them is not the sailor’s traditional ‘seven feet under the keel’ (the potholes in the wide expanses of Russia are quite deep enough already), but rather, as the automobilists say, ‘firm tyres and a steady spark’.

Senka read the brief article about ten times and he even read the part about the ‘youthful assistant’ out loud.

After he’d already folded the
Gazette
neatly, he suddenly spotted a large headline on the front page.

WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT

The bloody drama in Khitrovka

We are now able to report certain details of yesterday’s events, which have been the subject of so much rumour and speculation.

On the night of 23rd September, a full-scale battle took place in the infamous Khitrovka slums between the forces of the law and local bandits. The police put an end to the criminal ‘careers’ of the rival leaders of Moscow’s two most dangerous gangs, the Prince and the Ghoul, who both preferred death to arrest. Also killed was an escaped convict, a former student by the name of Kuzminsky, who had figured on wanted lists throughout Russia for a long time.

Unfortunately, there were also casualties among the defenders of public order. The superintendent of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct, Colonel Solntsev, and Senior Constable Boxman died heroically while fighting to defend the citizens of Moscow. The former was still young and had shown great promise, the latter had only two years to go until he drew a well-earned pension. Eternal glory to the heroes.

The high police-master’s adjutant refused to give the press any further information, adding only that that a certain female individual killed in the shooting was the Prince’s lover (or ‘moll’ in the criminal jargon).

However, our correspondent has succeeded in establishing an interesting circumstance that is directly related to the Khitrovka tragedy.

See p. 3, the article ‘A noble deed’ in the ‘Events’ section

Why, the rotten lousy coppers!
Senka thought indignantly.
Lying and twisting everything like that!
There wasn’t a word about Erast Petrovich or Masa, even though Mr Nameless had left an envelope for the top police chief at the station, with everything described just the way it had been.

Some heroes
, he thought. He ought to write a letter to the editor, that’s what he ought to do. Let people know the truth. These newspapermen were all damned liars, anyway. They printed any old rubbish without bothering to check it!

Still fuming, Senka opened page three.

So what was this deed, then?

Aha, there it was.

A noble deed

According to information we have received from a confidential source the battle between the police and bandits in Khitrovka (see p. 1, the article ‘When thieves fall out’) resulted from an ambush arranged by the police of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct in a secret underground hiding place where old treasure of immense value was stored.

The day before yesterday the Justice of the Peace of the Tyoply Stan District of Moscow Province received a letter written on the instructions of the minor S. Spidorov, who had discovered a fabulous treasure of immense value in the subterranean depths of Khitrovka. Instead of simply appropriating these riches, as the majority of Muscovites would no doubt have done, the noble youth chose to entrust his discovery to the care of the municipal authorities. The where abouts of the treasure became known to bandits, and the police, having learned about this through their network of secret informers, proceeded to plan the bold operation which is the talk of the whole city today.

On behalf of the inhabitants of the old capital, we congratulate Mr Spidorov on the reward that is now due to him. And we may congratulate ourselves on the emergence of a wonderful new generation, to whom we can entrust the fate of the new-born twentieth century with no qualms or doubts.

¹Pushkin,
Yevgeny Onegin.

²Pushkin, 1830.