She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin (10 page)

‘You speak of Death as “she”, as your dearly beloved, but there are both men and women among your followers.’

‘In Russian, Death is a feminine noun, but that is a convention of grammar. In German, as we know, the word is masculine –
der Tod
. For a man Death is the Eternal Bride. For a woman he is the Eternal Bridegroom.’

Then I asked the question that had been bothering me from the very beginning of this strange dialogue: ‘When you talk it is clear that you have unshakeable confidence in the truth of what you say. How do you know all this, if Death has denied man any memory of his previous existence, that is – I beg your pardon – Non-existence?’

The Doge replied with a triumphant air.

‘There are some people – rare individuals – from whom Death has decided to take away the gift of forgetting, so that they are able to perceive both worlds, Being and Non-being. I am one of these people. After all, a prison administration needs a steward from among the prisoners in the cell. It is the steward’s duty to keep an eye on those in his care, to instruct them and recommend those who deserve leniency to the Governor. That is all, no more questions. I have nothing more to say.’

‘Just one. The very last!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you have many wards in your “cell”?’

‘Twelve. I know from the newspapers that many times that number would like to join us, but our club only opens its doors to the select few. To become a Lover of Death is a precious lot, the highest possible reward for anyone alive . . .’

I was blindfolded from behind and led towards the door. The conversation with the Doge, the high priest of the suicide sect, was over.

As I was plunged into darkness, I could not help shuddering at the thought that I was descending forever into the Blackness so dear to the ‘lovers’.

No, gentlemen, I thought to myself when I was back in the bright sunshine under the blue sky, I may be a condemned criminal, but I do not desire any leniency – I prefer to serve my ‘sentence’ to the end.

But what would you prefer, dear reader?

Lavr Zhemailo
Moscow Courier
, 29 August
(11 September) 1900, p.2

II. From Columbine’s Diary

Her slippers barely even touch the ground

Poor Columbine, brainless puppet, dangling in mid-air. Her satin slippers barely even touch the ground, and if the deft puppet-master pulls on the slim strings, the puppet throws up its arms or doubles over in a bow: sometimes crying, sometimes laughing.

I think about one and the same thing all the time now: the meaning of the words that he spoke; the tone in which he said them; the way he looked at me; why he didn’t look at me at all. Oh, my life is so full of strong feelings and experiences!

For example, yesterday he said: ‘You have the eyes of a cruel child.’ For a long time afterwards, I wondered if that was good or bad – a cruel child. From his point of view, probably good. Or bad?

I have read that old men (and he’s very old, he knew Karakozov, who was hanged thirty-five years ago) feel a burning passion for young girls. But he’s not lascivious at all. He’s cold and indifferent. Since that first, tempestuous union, when the trees outside the windows were bowing before the hurricane’s onslaught, he has only told me to stay once. That was the day before yesterday.

Without a single word, with only gestures, he ordered me to throw off my clothes, lie on the bearskin and not move. He covered my face with a white Venetian mask – a dead, stiff disguise. All I could see through the narrow eye-slits was the ceiling, looking light-coloured in the twilight.

I lay there for a long time without moving. It was very quiet, all I could hear was the quiet crackling of the candle flames. I thought: He’s looking at me, defenceless, with no covering, without even a face. This is not me, this is nameless female flesh, simply a rubber doll.

What did I feel?

Curiosity. Yes, curiosity and the sweet thrill of uncertainty. What would he do? What would his first touch be like? Would he press his lips to mine in a kiss? Or lash me with a whip? Would he scorch me with hot drops of candle wax? I would have accepted anything at all from him, but time passed and nothing happened.

I started feeling cold, my skin was covered with goose-pimples. I said plaintively: ‘Where are you? I’m frozen!’ Not a single sound in reply. Then I took off the mask and sat up.

There was no one else in the bedroom, and this discovery set me trembling. He had disappeared! This inexplicable disappearance set my heart beating faster than even the most ardent of embraces.

I thought for a long time about what this trick could mean. For a whole night and a day I searched desperately for the answer. What was he trying to tell me? What feelings did he have for me? Without a doubt, there was passion. Only not fiery, but icy, like the polar sun, which scorches no less for being cold.

I am only writing this in my diary now, because I have suddenly understood the meaning of what happened. The first time he possessed only my body. The second time he possessed my soul. The initiation is complete.

Now I am his thing. His property, like a key-ring or a glove. Like Ophelia.

There is nothing between them, I am sure of that. That is, the girl is in love with him, of course, but he only needs her as a medium. I cannot imagine any man being inflamed with passion for this sleep-walker. A strange, innocent smile constantly trembles on her face, her eyes have a gentle but abstracted look. She hardly ever opens her mouth – except during the seances. But during those minutes of communication with the World Beyond, Ophelia is completely transformed. As if somewhere deep inside her fragile little body a bright lamp suddenly lights up. Pierrot says that she is actually half-insane and she should be put in a clinic, that she lives in a dream. I don’t know. I think, on the contrary, that she is only alive and fully herself when acting as a medium.

I myself find it hard to distinguish dreams from reality now. The dream is getting up late in the morning, breakfast, all the shopping that has to be done. Waking life only begins as evening approaches, when I try to write poems and get ready to go out. But I only come fully awake after eight, as I walk quickly along Rozhdestvenka Street, with its bright streetlamps, towards the boulevard. The world bears me along on waves of energy, the blood pulses in my veins. My heels clatter along so quickly, so single-mindedly that people turn round to look at me as they walk by.

Evening is the culmination and the apotheosis of the day. Later, after midnight already, I come home and artificially prolong the magic by writing down the details of everything that happened in a Moroccan leather notebook.

Today many things happened.

From the very beginning he behaved quite differently from usual.

But no, I mustn’t write like that – always he, he. I am not writing for myself, but for art.

Prospero was not the same as always – he was lively, almost agitated. Nearly as soon as he joined us in the drawing room, he started talking.

‘Today a man approached me in the street. Handsome, elegantly dressed, very self-confident. He spoke strange words with a slight stammer: “I know how to read faces. You are the one I need. Fate has s-sent you to me.”

‘ “But I can read nothing in your face,” I replied hostilely, since I cannot bear undue familiarity. “I am afraid, sir that you have made a mistake. No one can send me anywhere, not even fate.”

‘ “What is that you have there?” he asked, taking no notice of my harsh words and pointing to my coat pocket. “What is m-making that bulge? A revolver? Give it to me.”

‘You know that I never leave home without my Bulldog. The stranger’s behaviour was beginning to intrigue me. Without further words I took the weapon out and handed it to him – to see what would happen.’

At this point Lorelei exclaimed: ‘But he is obviously insane! He could have shot you! How reckless you are!’

‘I am used to trusting in Death,’ Prospero said with a shrug. ‘She is wiser and kinder than we are. And then, tell me, good Lioness, what would I have lost if the mad stranger had put a bullet through my forehead? It would been an elegant conclusion . . . But listen to the rest.’

And he went on with his story: ‘The stranger opened the revolver and shook out four bullets into the palm of his hand, leaving the fifth in the gun. I observed his actions with curiosity.

‘He spun the drum hard, then suddenly put the barrel against his temple and pressed the trigger. The hammer clicked loudly against an empty chamber, and not a single muscle twitched in the amazing gentleman’s face.

‘ “Now will you talk to me seriously?” he asked.

‘I didn’t answer, I was rather shaken by this performance. Then he spun the barrel again and set the gun against his temple again. I tried to stop him, but I was too late. The trigger clicked again – and again he was lucky.

‘ “Enough,” I explained. “What is it that you want?”

‘He said: “I want to be with you. You are the person I t-take you to be, are you not?”

‘Apparently he had been searching for the “Lovers of Death” for a long time in order to become one of them. Naturally, he had not guessed who I was from my face – that had been said simply for the sake of effect, in order to make an impression on me. In actual fact, he had pursued a cunning investigation that had led him to me. What do you make of that? He is an extremely interesting individual – I know people. He composes poetry, in the Japanese style. You will hear it, it is quite unlike anything else. I told him to come today. After all, Avaddon’s place is still free.’

I envied this unknown gentleman who had managed to make such an impression on our impassive Doge, although I was not listening to the story very carefully, because something else was bothering me. I was going to read a new poem that I had worked on throughout the previous night and I was hoping that I had finally managed to get it right, and that Prospero would criticise this cry from the soul less severely than my previous efforts, which . . . Never mind, I have already written about that more than once, I will not repeat myself here.

When my turn came, I read out:

You’ll forget her, won’t you,
This doll with hempen curls
And eyes of misty blue
Enchanted by your spells?

‘It’s clear you do not care
That she is a martyr
To the doting worship
Of her celluloid heart
.

‘Then should I pray to God,
Offer up this drama?
The former touch-me-not
Weeps quietly: ma-ma!

There was another stanza, which I particularly liked (I even shed a few teardrops over it) – about how a puppet has no god but the puppet-master.

But heartless Prospero waved his hand dismissively for me to stop, and frowned as he said: ‘Stodgy semolina!’

My poems do not interest him at all!

Afterwards Gdlevsky, whom Prospero always praises exorbitantly, read his verse, and I quietly left the room. I stood in front of the mirror in the hallway and started to cry. Or rather, I started howling. ‘Stodgy semolina!’

It was dark in the hallway, and all I could see in the mirror was my own stooped figure with a stupid bow in my hair, which had slipped right over to the left. Lord, how unhappy I felt! I remember I thought: If only the spirits would summon me today, I would gladly leave you all and go to the Eternal Bridegroom. But there was not much hope. Firstly, just recently the spirits had either not appeared at all or had simply babbled some sort of nonsense. And secondly, why would Death choose such a worthless, untalented woodlouse for a bride?

Then there was a ring at the door. I hurriedly straightened my bow, dried my eyes and went to open it.

There was a surprise in store for me.

Standing on the doorstep was the same gentleman I had seen when I took the forget-me-nots to Avaddon.

The appearance of Prince Genji

On that day when the tearful Petya-Cherubino had shown up at the small flat under the roof and frightened its occupant with the news of Avaddon’s death, and then with the Chosen One’s final poem, Columbine had sat in the armchair for a long time, reading the mysterious lines over and over again.

She had cried a little bit, of course. She felt sorry for Avaddon, even if he was a Chosen One. But then she had stopped crying, because what point was there in crying if someone had been granted what he was yearning for? His wedding with his Eternal Betrothed had been celebrated. In such cases one should not sob and weep, but feel glad.

And Columbine had set out to the newly-wed’s flat to congratulate him. She had put on her very smartest dress (white and airy, with two silver streaks of light sewn along the bodice), bought a bouquet of delicate forget-me-nots and gone to Basmannaya Street. She had taken Lucifer with her, only not on her neck, like a necklace (black would not have been appropriate on a day like this) but in her handbag – so that he would not be bored at home alone.

She found the Giant company’s building – a new, five-storey stone structure – with no difficulty. She had been planning simply to leave the flowers at the door of the flat, but the door was not sealed, in fact it was even half-open. She could hear muffled voices inside. If other people can go inside, then why can’t I, the bearer of congratulations, she reasoned, and walked in.