He Lover of Death (31 page)

E.N.’

Well, that wasn’t a very interesting letter. A grand idea that was, to go smearing someone with all sorts of rotten muck and sending him halfway across the city, all for the sake of a bit of philosophical jabbering.

He spent five kopecks on a new envelope and hurried on to St Nicholas.

Death’s shawl wasn’t white today, it was maroon, and it set her face aglow with flickering glimmers of heat. As she walked by into the church, she scorched Senka with a glance that made him squirm on his knees. He remembered (God forgive him – this was not the time or the place) the way she had kissed him and hugged him.

When she came back out, her eyes still had that same mischievous glint in them. As she leaned down to give him alms and take the letter, she whispered: ‘Hello there, little lover. I’ll reply tomorrow.’

He walked back to Spasskaya Street, reeling.

Little lover indeed!

But there wasn’t any reply from Death the next day. She was nowhere to be seen. Senka spent the whole day on his knees until it was almost dark. He collected two roubles from his begging, but what a waste of time! Even Boxman, when he came round on his beat for the tenth, maybe fifteenth, time, told him: ‘You’re getting a bit greedy with the begging today, lad. Don’t you go overdoing it.’

Senka left after that.

On the fourth day, which was Sunday, Erast Petrovich sent him out again. The engineer didn’t seem surprised there was no reply to the last letter, he just seemed saddened.

As he sent Senka off to Podkopaevsky Lane, he said: ‘If she doesn’t come today, we’ll have to abandon the correspondence and think of something else.’

But she did come.

She didn’t even glance at Senka, though. As she gave him the money, she looked away, and her eyes were furious. Senka saw a silver scale on a chain round her neck – exactly like the ones from the treasure trove. He hadn’t seen Death wear anything like that before.

This time, instead of a piece of paper, Senka was left holding a silk handkerchief.

He walked across to a quiet spot and unfolded it. The note was inside. Senka started reading, taking great care to make sure nothing fell out of his hair and the folds in the paper didn’t get twisted.

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich.Ihaven’t found out anything from him, in fact I haven’t even tried asking him. He spotted my new trinket soon enough with those blank peepers of his, but he didn’t ask any questions. He muttered a poem to himself, that’s a habit he has. I remembered it word for word. We traded in damask steel silver and gold and nowitistimetotravel our road. I don’t what it means. Perhaps you will understand.
[That’s Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich, and what’s so hard to understand, Senka thought condescendingly. He’d read
The Tale of Tsar Saltan
only the day before. And he knew who she was talking about too, it was Deadeye. He just loved spouting poetry.]
And don’t you dare write to me again about the body or our correspondence is over. I wanted to break it off anyway. I didn’t go yesterday because I was angry with you. But today when he left I had a vision. I was lying in the middle of the plain you wrote about and I couldn’t get up. I lay there for along time, not just a day or two. And the grass and all sorts of flowers were growing up through me. I could feel them inside me– it wasn’t a bad feeling, it felt very good as they pushed through me towards the sun. And then it wasn’t me lying on the plain, I was the plain. Later I tried my best to embroider my vision onto a hand kerchief. Take it as a present.

Death’

Senka hadn’t taken a proper look at the handkerchief at first, but now he could see there really was something sewn on it: up at the top was the sun, and down below there was a girl, lying there naked, with all sorts of flowers and grass growing through her. Senka didn’t like this weird malarkey (or
allegory,
that was the cultured word for it) at all.

Unlike Senka, Erast Petrovich looked at the handkerchief first, and then opened up the letter. He looked at it and said: ‘Oh, Senya, S-Senya, what am I to d-do with you? You’ve been p-prying again.’

Senka fluttered his eyelids to bring out the tears. ‘Why are you always getting at me? You ought to be ashamed. Here I am slaving away, not a thought for myself. Serving faithfully . . .’

The engineer just waved his hand, as if to say: Go away, don’t bother me, damn you.

And the letter Erast Petrovich sent back to Death said this.

‘Dear D.

I implore you, do not sniff any more of that beastly stuff. I have tried narcotics ononly one occasion, and that almost cost me my life. I will tell you the story some time. But it is not even a matter of the danger lurking within this stupefying poison. It is only needed by people who donot understand if they are really living in this world or just pretending. But you arealive and real. You do not need narcotics. Forgive me for preaching another sermon. It is not my usual manner at all, but such is the terrible effect that you have on me.

If the other two individuals notice the object, do not tell them about SS
[Well, thanks be for small mercies, Senka thought],
but aboutacertain new admirer, aman with greying temples and a stammer. This is best for the job at hand.

Yours, E.N.’

This time Death didn’t arrive angry, like the day before, she was in a jolly mood. As she bent down to take the letter, instead of five kopecks she handed him something big, round and smooth and whispered: ‘Here’s something sweet for you.’

When he looked, it was a chocolate medal! What did she take him for, a little kid?

On the last day of Senka’s begging career, which was the sixth, Death dropped a handkerchief as she walked by. As she bent down to pick it up, she whispered: ‘Someone’s following me. On the corner.’ She walked on into the church, leaving the letter on the ground beside Senka. He crawled over and pinned it down with his knee, then squinted at the corner Death had pointed to.

His heart started fluttering.

Prokha was standing at the turn-off from Podkolokolny Lane, leaning against a drainpipe with one elbow, chewing away. His eyes were riveted to the church door. Thank God, he wasn’t eying up the beggars.

Ah-ha, so that’s what’s going on!

The deductions started flitting through Senka’s head so fast, he could hardly keep up. That day when he was taking the silver rods to the jeweller, who was it he met right there on Maroseika Street? Prokha. That was one.

And then, on Trubnaya Square, near the boarding house, who was hanging around? That time the constable came running over? Prokha again. That was two.

Who knew about Senka’s friendship with Tashka? Prokha yet again. That was three.

And Prokha was spying on Death! That was four.

So that meant he was to blame for everything, the rotten slug! He’d done in the jeweller, and Tashka too! Not with his own hands, of course. He was stooging for someone, probably the Prince.

Now what was he going to do? What was the projection that followed from this deduction?

It was very simple. Prokha was following Death, so he would follow Prokha. See who he went to report to and pass on his
communiqué.

When Death came out of the church, she deliberately turned away and didn’t even give out any alms – she floated by like a swan, but she brushed Senka with the hem of her dress. That was no accident. She was telling him to look sharp and keep his eyes peeled.

He counted to twenty and then hobbled after her, limping with both legs at once. Prokha was walking a little bit ahead, not looking back – he obviously didn’t think anyone could be tailing him.

They reached the Yauza Boulevard, moving like a flight of storks: Death up at the front in the middle, then Prokha lagging a little bit behind her on the left, and Senka another fifteen paces back on the right.

Prokha loitered outside the door of the house for a bit and started scratching his head. It looked like he didn’t know what to do next, hang about or go away. Senka made himself comfy around the corner and waited.

Then Prokha tossed his bonce back (all right, all right, his head), stuck his hands in his pockets, spun round on his heels and set off back at a smart pace. To report to the Prince, Senka figured. Or maybe not the Prince, but someone else.

When Prokha trudged past, Senka turned his back and held his hands down to the baggy front of his pants, as if he was having a pee. Then he set off after his former friend.

Prokha kicked an apple core with the toe of his boot, whistled a smart trill at a flock of pigeons pecking on horse dung (they flapped their wings and fluttered up in the air) and then turned into a courtyard that was just a shortcut back onto Khitrovka Square.

Senka followed him.

The moment he came out of the passageway into the damp, dark yard, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, jerked him hard and swung him round.

Prokha! The pointy-faced bastard had twigged he was being followed.

‘Why are you sticking to me, rags and tatters?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’

He shook Senka so hard by the collar that Senka’s head bobbled up and down and the thingamajig that made his mug look so twisted came out of his cheek, so he had to spit the fancy dress trick out.

‘You!’ Prokha gasped, and his nostrils flared. ‘Speedy? You’re just the one I need!’

And he grabbed Senka’s collar with his second hand too – no way he could get out of that. Prokha had a real strong grip. Senka knew he was no match for him when it came to strength and agility. He was the nimblest lad in all Khitrovka. If Senka tried to scrap, Prokha would batter him. If he tried to run, Prokha would catch him.

‘Right, you’re coming with me.’ Prokha chuckled. ‘Now don’t make a peep or there’ll be blood?’

‘Where to?’ Senka asked. He hadn’t recovered yet from the
debacle
of his carefully planned projection. ‘What did you grab me like that for? Let go!’

Prokhka lashed him across the ankle with the toe of his boot. It hurt.

‘Come on, come on. A nice man I know wants to have a little chat with you.’

If they’d scrapped the proper Khitrovka way, with fists, or even belts, Prokha would have given him a good drubbing double quick. But Senka hadn’t completely wasted his time studying those Japanese fisticuffs now, had he?

When Masa-sensei realised Senka would never make a real fighter – he was too lazy and afraid of pain – he’d told him: Senkakun, I won’t teach you men’s fighting, I’ll teach you women’s fighting. This is a lesson for a woman to follow if some ruffian grabs her by the collar and tries to dishonour her. It all came back to Senka in his hour of need.

‘As simpur as boired turnip,’ the sensei had said.

The idea was to hit the shameless lout with the edge of your left hand, right on the tip of the nose, and as soon as he jerked his head back, smash the knuckles of your right hand into his Adam’s apple. Senka must have flailed at the air like that a thousand times. One-two, left-right, nose-throat, nose-throat, one-two, one-two.

So he did that old one-two now; half a second was all it took.

And as they wrote in the books, the result
exceeded all his expectations.

The blow to Prokha’s nose wasn’t very strong, barely glanced it in fact, but his head jerked back and blood spurted out of his nostrils. And when Senka landed the ‘two’ right on the spot of the exposed throat, Prokha grunted and went down.

He sat down on the ground, holding his throat with one hand and squeezing his nose shut with the other, his mouth fell open and his eyes started rolling around. And there was blood, blood everywhere!

Senka felt frightened – had he hit him hard enough to kill him then?

He squatted down on his haunches:

‘Hey, Prokha, what’s up, not dying, are you?’

He shook him a bit.

Prokha wheezed: ‘Don’t hit me . . . Don’t hit me any more! Aah, aah, aah!’ He was struggling to catch his breath, but he couldn’t.

Before Prokha could come to his senses, Senka turned the screws hard: ‘Tell me who you’re stooging for, you bastard! Or I’ll give you a smack round the ears that’ll knock your peepers out! Well? It’s the Prince, isn’t it?’

He swung both of his fists back (that was another one of those simple moves – thumping a villain just below both ears at once).

‘No, it’s not the Prince ...’ Prokha fingered his bloody nose. ‘You broke it... You broke the bone . . . Oo-oo-oo!’

‘Who, then? You tell me!’

And Senka thumped him with his fist, smack in the middle of the forehead. It wasn’t a move the sensei had taught him, it just happened all by itself. Senka bruised all his fingers but it had the right effect.

‘No, it’s someone else, more frightening than the Prince, he is,’ Prokha sobbed, shielding himself with his hands.

‘More frightening than the Prince?’ Senka asked, and his voice shook. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know. He’s got a big black beard down to his belly. And black shiny eyes too. I’m afraid of him.’

‘But who is he? Where’s he from?’ Senka was feeling really frightened now. A beard right down to his belly and black eyes. That
was
terrifying!

Prokha squeezed his nose with his finger and thumb to stop the blood pouring out. He said: ‘I don’d dow where he’s frop, bud if you wand a look, I’ll show you. I’b beetink hib sood. Id the Yerokha basebedt...’

The Yerokha basement again. That damn place. Where the Siniukhins got their throats cut and Senka almost lost his own life.

‘What’s the meeting for?’ Senka asked, still undecided what to do. ‘Are you going to report back about following Death?’

‘That’s right.’

And what does your man with the beard want with her?’