He Lover of Death (22 page)

‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ Death said. ‘Wondering if you were alive, if you were starving. Don’t stay here long. Someone might tell the Prince. That savage is furious with you.’

Senka had an answer ready. He looked at her through his flaxen strand and sighed. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye to you. I’m not going to get out of this alive anyway, they’ll find me and kill me. Let them kill me, I can’t bear to be involved in their murderous doings. It contradicts my principles.’

Death was really surprised: ‘Where did you pick up fancy words like that?’

Ah, he’d said it all wrong. This was no time to be clever and show off his learning, he had to play on her pity.

‘I’m famished, Death, from all this wandering around like a vagabond,’ Senka said, and he fluttered his eyelashes – could he coax out a tear? ‘My conscience won’t let me thieve and I’m ashamed to go begging. The nights have turned cold, it’s autumn already. Let me warm up a bit and have a bite to eat and I’ll go on my way.’

He was even moved to pity himself, he sobbed out loud. It had worked! Death’s eyes were wet and gleaming too. She stroked his hair and jumped up to put food on the table.

Even though Senka was full (before he came out, he’d put away a plate
of poulardes
and artichokes), he still guzzled the fine white bread with sausage and gulped the milk down noisily. Death sat there, resting her cheek on her hand. Sighing.

‘You’re really nice and clean,’ she said in a soulful voice. ‘And your shirt’s fresh. Who washed it?’

‘Who’d wash for me? I get by on my own,’ said Senka, looking at her with his eyes glowing. ‘In the evening I wash my shirt and pants in the river, and they’re dry by morning. ’Course, it’s a bit chilly with no clothes on, but I have to look out for myself. Only the shirt’s getting a bit shabby. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s a pity about your needlework.’ He stroked the flower sewn on his shirt and turned weepy. ‘Look, the shirt’s torn under my arm.’

Just like she was supposed to, Death said: ‘Take it off, I’ll sew it up.’

He took it off.

Mamselle Loretta, the one from the practical class, had said: You’ve got lovely shoulders, sweetheart, pure sugar, and your skin’s so soft and tender, I could just eat it. So now Senka straightened up his sugary shoulders and hugged his sides like a poor orphan.

Death’s needle flashed in and out, but she kept glancing at Senka’s creamy white skin.

‘There was only one moment in my whole miserable life, in all my wretched destiny,’ Senka said in a quiet, soulful voice. ‘When you kissed me, a poor orphan . . .’

‘Really?’ Death said in astonishment; she even stopped sewing. ‘That was such great happiness for you?’

‘There’s no words to say what it. . .’

She put down the shirt. ‘Lord,’ she said, ‘then let me kiss you again, what’s it to me?’

He turned all pink (that happened quite naturally).

‘Ah, then I won’t be afraid to snuff it

But he kept his hands to himself for the time being and just fluttered his eyes – timidly, not brazenly.

Death walked up to him and leaned down. Her eyes were tender and moist. She stroked his neck and his shoulder, then pressed her lips against Senka’s so tenderly, so kindly.

He felt like he’d been tossed into a hot stove, right into the flame. He forgot all about his sensei’s teachings and jerked upwards towards Death, hugged her as tight as he could and tried to keep kissing her, but in his passion, all he could do was breathe in the minty, dizzying scent of her hair – ah! ah! – and he couldn’t breathe it out, he wanted to keep it in.

And something happened, honest to God, it did! Not for long, only a few little seconds, but Death’s body responded, it was filled with the same heat, and her gentle, motherly kiss was suddenly firm, greedy and demanding, and her hands slipped round Senka’s back.

But those impossible seconds ended – she unhooked Senka’s arms and sprang back.

‘No,’ she said, ‘no. You little devil, don’t tempt me. It’s impossible, and that’s an end of it.’

She started shaking her head, like she was trying to drive away some kind of phantasmagorical vision (that was what people said when they saw something that wasn’t really there).

‘Ooh, you snake, only knee high to a grasshopper, and already as cunning as the devil. You’ll make the girls cry all right.’

But Senka was still in the stove, he still hadn’t realised it was over, and he reached out to hug Death again. She didn’t move away, but she didn’t respond either – it was just like hugging a statue.

‘Ah, so that’s who you do it with, you whore!’

Senka looked round and froze in horror.

The Prince was standing in the doorway with his handsome mug all twisted out of shape and his eyes glittering. Of course – the street door wasn’t locked, so he’d just walked in, and they hadn’t heard anything.

‘Who’s this you’ve taken as a lover, you rotten bitch! A whelp! A lousy little tapeworm! Just trying to mock me, are you?’

He took a step towards Senka, grabbed his numb victim by the neck and jerked him up so that he had to stand on tiptoe.

‘I’ll kill you,’ he said. ‘I’ll wring your neck.’

And Senka could see he was going to wring it, there and then. At least there was one good thing about that, Senka wouldn’t suffer. The Prince could have done what he did with that huckster, cut off his ears and stuck them in his mouth, or even worse, gouged his eyes out.

Senka turned his eyes away so as not to see the Prince’s face – he was terrified enough without that. He decided it would be better to look at Death in his final moment, before his soul went flying out of his body.

And what he saw then was wonderful, miraculous: Death picking up the jug with the leftover milk and smashing it down on the bandit’s head.

The Prince was startled. He let go of Senka and sank to the floor. Holding his head in his hands, with blood and milk running through his fingers.

Death shouted: ‘Don’t just stand there! Run.’

And she pushed the shirt she hadn’t finished darning into his hand.

But Senka didn’t run. Someone else, like a second Senka, said from inside him: ‘You come with me. He’ll kill you.’

‘He won’t kill me,’ she answered, and so calmly that Senka believed her straight away.

The Prince turned his face towards Senka. His eyes were murky and wild. He jumped to his feet with a jerk, then staggered and clutched at the table – he hadn’t properly recovered his wits and his legs wouldn’t hold him. But he managed to wheeze out: ‘I’ll find you, if I have to turn Moscow upside down. Even underground, I’ll find you. I’ll rip your sinews out with my teeth!’

He was so terrifying Senka just screamed out loud. He shot off as fast as his legs would carry him, tumbled off the porch arse over tip, then dashed this way and that, wondering which way to run.

The second Senka, the one buried farther down, proved cleverer and stronger than the first. Go where the Prince told you to go, it said, go underground. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to
emigrate
from Moscow. The Prince would never calm down now until he’d done for the poor orphan.

And if that was how it was looking, he’d better put some money away.

He paid another visit to the treasure vault. And he took a fair lot this time, five rods. He’d decided not to haggle with the jeweller and let him have them for a thousand each. Ashot Ashotovich was welcome to his good fortune.

Only Samshitov never got the chance to relish Senka’s generosity.

When Senka came out on to Maroseika Street, he saw two constables in front of the jewellery shop and inside – he could see through the display window – there was a whole crowd of blue uniforms.

Oh blimey! Ashot Ashotovich had traded his last rod of government silver. Someone must have squealed on him. Or maybe Judge Kuvshinnikov was even sharper than he seemed. He’d found out which of the numismatists had picked up Yauza rods and enquired who they bought them from –just like that.

But then, that wasn’t so terrible, was it? Senka hadn’t given the judge his address. And apart from Senka, no one knew where the treasure was.

The coppers might as well try to catch the wind.

Ah, but no! He’d told the Armenian about Madam Borisenko’s boarding house. Big nose would give him away, he was bound to!

Senka didn’t hang about making himself obvious in the wrong place. He ran to get a cab.

He had to move out of the boarding house before he was nabbed.

The outlines had emerged of a tendency towards a deterioration in the conditions of Senka’s existence, or, to put it simply, things were totally loused up: the Prince was on his tail, so were the police, and there was no one to sell the rods to, but Senka was feeling so cock-a-hoop that he couldn’t care less.

The hoofs clip-clopped along the road, the horse twitched its tail, the headwind ruffled the final traces of
‘mon ange’
from his hair and, in spite of everything, life was wonderful. Senka bobbed along on the seat of the cab, feeling perfectly content.

Maybe not for long, only a few moments, but he
had
been Death’s lover, and almost for real.

HOW SENKA’S TONGUE
WAS LOOSENED

That very evening Senka changed his lodgings. He was going to say goodbye to George, but his teacher had gone off for a wander. And so Senka left English-fashion, like a perfect swine. The only one to see him off to the cab was Madam Borisenko, who had transferred part of her fond feelings for Masa to his pupil. She asked, dismayed: ‘And will Masaul Mitsuevich not be calling any more?’

‘He’ll turn up tomorrow morning for certain,’ Senka promised. He still hadn’t decided whether he was going to let the Japanese know about his change of address. Tell him that Semyon Spidorov said thank you for the trouble he took and wishes him the very best of health.’

Senka had to put as much distance as possible between him and the Prince. So he took off to the back of beyond, even farther west than the Presnya District, and moved into a hotel for railway workers. A good place: nobody knew anybody else, men just spent the night there and then carried on along their way.

And at the same time he changed his name, so no one could pick up his trail. At first he was going to call himself something ordinary, but then he decided that if he was going to change his name, it might as well be something grand, in keeping with his new life. He put himself down in the register of guests
Apollon Sekandrovich Schopenhauer, commercial traveller.

That night he dreamed of all sorts of things. Steamy scenes of passion (about Death), and frightening scenes of horror (the Prince climbing in through the window, a knife in his teeth, and Senka getting tangled up in the blanket so he couldn’t get out of bed).

At dawn Senka was woken by a loud knocking at the door.

He sat up and clutched at his heart, thinking the Prince and Deadeye had tracked him down. He was all set to scarper down the drainpipe – just as he was, wearing next to nothing – but then he heard Masa’s voice.

‘Senka-kun, open door!’

Phew! You can’t imagine how relieved Senka felt at that. He didn’t even wonder how the Japanese had found him there so quickly.

He opened the latch, and Masa walked quickly into the room, followed by (well, blow me down!) Erast Petrovich in person. They both looked gloomy and severe.

Masa stood by the wall, and his master took Senka by the shoulders, turned him to face the window (it was still early, morning twilight) and said briskly. ‘Now, Apollon Sekandrovich, no more p-playing the fool. I can’t afford to waste any more time on your m-mysterious personality. Tell me everything you know: about the m-murder of the Siniukhins and about the murder of the Samshitovs. This has to be stopped!’

The Sam . . . Samshitovs!’ Senka exclaimed, choking over the name. ‘B-but I thought

Now he’d started stammering too – was it infectious?

‘Get d-dressed,’ Erast Petrovich told him. ‘We’re leaving.’

And he walked out into the corridor without bothering to explain anything else.

As he pulled on his trousers and shirt, Senka asked his sensei: ‘How did you find me?’

‘Cab numba,’ Masa replied tersely, and Senka realised Madam Borisenko had remembered the cabby’s number, and he’d told them where he took his fare.

So much for keeping things secret and covering his trail. ‘And where are we going?’

‘To the scene of the clime.’

Oh Lord! What good will this do? But Senka didn’t dare argue. This pair would use force, drag him out by the scruff of his neck (we know, we’ve had a bit of that already).

Senka was feeling terribly nervous all the way to Maroseika Street. And the closer they came, the worse it got. So Ashot Ashotovich hadn’t been arrested after all? He’d been done in? Erast Petrovich had said ‘the Samshitovs’ – so that meant they’d killed his ever-loving wife? Who, robbers? And what did he, Senka Spidorov, have to do with it?

There were no police outside the shop, but there was a string with a seal across the door, and a light burning inside. The street was still empty, the shops hadn’t opened, or a crowd of people would have gathered for sure.

They went into the house from the yard, through the back entrance. A police official in a blue uniform was waiting for them –quiet, nondescript, wearing specs.

‘You took your time,’ he rebuked Erast Petrovich. ‘I asked you . . . I phoned you at midnight, and now it’s half past five. I’m taking a risk here.’

‘I’m sorry, Sergei Nikiforovich. We had to f-find an important witness.’

Even though Erast Petrovich had called him important, Senka still didn’t like the sound of that. What was he supposed to have witnessed?

‘Tell us about this killing,’ Erast Petrovich said to the official. ‘What was it p-possible to establish from an initial examination?’

‘Come this way, please,’ said Sergei Four-eyes, beckoning to them. They walked through from the hall into the rooms. ‘The jeweller had a kind of office here, at the back of the shop. The living space was upstairs. But the criminal didn’t go up there, it all happened down here.’ He glanced at his notepad. ‘The doctor believes that Nina Akopovna Samshitova, forty-nine years of age, was killed first, with a blow to the temple from a heavy object. Her body was lying just here.’