She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin (9 page)

Petya started shaking and his teeth chattered

‘So there must have been a Sign . . .’ Columbine whispered and raised her hand to cross herself (not out of piety, of course, but from childish habit), and only caught herself just in time. She had to pretend to tuck away a lock of hair.

‘Who can tell now?’ Petya asked with a fearful shudder. ‘The poem doesn’t say anything about a Sign.’

‘What poem?’

‘The death poem. It’s a custom of ours. Before you marry Death, you have to write a poem, it’s essential. Prospero calls it the “epithalamium” and also the “moment of truth”. He gave the constable fifty kopecks, and he allowed him to make a copy. I copied it out for myself too . . .’

‘Give it to me!’ Columbine demanded.

She grabbed the crumpled, tear-stained piece of paper out of Petya’s hands. At the top, in big letters, she read ‘A Riddle’. That was obviously the title.

But she simply couldn’t read the epithalamium with Petya there. He burst into sobs again and started telling the whole story for a second time.

So Columbine took hold of him by the shoulders, pushed him towards the door and said just one word: ‘Leave’.

She said it in exactly the same way as Prospero had to her the night before, after everything was over. Only she pointed with her finger for greater emphasis.

Petya looked at her imploringly, wavered on the spot for a while, sighed several times and walked out, like a beaten puppy dog. Columbine frowned. Surely she hadn’t looked as pitiful as that the night before?

Petya’s expulsion gave her a distinctly wicked pleasure. I definitely have what it takes to be a femme fatale, Columbine told herself, and sat down by the window to read the poem by the ugly individual who in life had borne the ugly name of Nikifor Sipyaga.

A Riddle

A nervous night, a hostile night,
The bed clatters its teeth,
Arching its back in wolfish spite.
I dare not sleep
.

I fear sleep. In my waking trance
The wall-eyed windows show
Blue ash-tree skeletons that dance.
They creak, they groan
.

I am still in this world, still here,
Warm, quivering, afraid.
The wind, knowing the Beast is near,
Taps on the pane
.

The sated Beast will still be here,
The wind will sob and sigh
But I shall not be in this world.
Oh where am I?

Columbine suddenly felt quite unbearably afraid – afraid enough to make her want to go running after Petya and ask him to come back.

‘Oh, dear mother,’ whispered the femme fatale. ‘What Beast is this?’

III. From the ‘Agents’ Reports’ File

To His Honour Lieutenant-Colonel Besikov
(Private and confidential)

Dear Lieutenant-Colonel,

Ever since our latest exchange of opinions I have been reproaching myself for failing to display the firmness of character required to answer you in the appropriate manner. I am a weak man, and you possess the strange ability to stifle my will. The most disgusting thing of all is that I experience a strange pleasure in submitting to you, for which I hate myself afterwards. I swear that I shall drive this base, voluptuous servility out of myself !

Alone with a sheet of paper, it is easier for me to say what I think of your outrageous demand!

I think that you are abusing my goodwill and my readiness to assist the authorities voluntarily and render entirely disinterested assistance in eradicating this deadly cancer that is consuming society. For after all, it was I who informed you about my family tragedy, about my dearly beloved brother who became obsessed with the idea of suicide. I am a principled opponent of evil, and not some ‘collaborator’ as you call paid informers in your department. And if I have agreed to write you these letters (do not dare to call them ‘reports’), it is not at all out of fear of being exiled for my former political views (as you once threatened), but only because I have realised just how truly malign spiritual nihilism is and come to fear it. You are absolutely right – materialism and inflated concern for the rights of the individual are not the Russian way, I am in complete agreement with you on that, and I believe I have already demonstrated quite adequately the sincerity of my enlightenment. It would appear, however, that you have decided to make it impossible for me to remain a decent human being! That is going too far.

I hereby declare categorically and irrevocably that I will not tell you the real names of the members of the club (in fact, I do not even know most of them), indeed, I will not even tell you the absurd aliases that they use among themselves, for that would be dishonourable and it smacks of simple informing.

Be merciful. I yielded to your insistent requests and agreed to find the secret society of potential suicides and insinuate myself into it, because you saw a political background to this sinister movement, like the medieval Arab order of assassins, fanatical killers who placed no value at all on human life – neither other people’s nor their own. You must admit that I carried out your difficult assignment quite excellently, and now you receive reliable first-hand information about the ‘Lovers of Death’. And I have had enough of you. Do not ask me to do anything more.

It has become absolutely clear to me that the Doge and his followers have no connection whatever with terrorists, socialists or anarchists. And what is more, these people have no interest whatever in politics and they despise all social concerns. You may put your mind at rest there – none of them will throw themselves under the wheels of the governor-general’s carriage with a bomb. They are the perverted and world-weary children of our decadent era – affected and sickly, but in their own way very beautiful.

No, they are not bombers, but for society, and especially for young, immature minds, the ‘lovers’ are very, very dangerous indeed – precisely because of their pale, intoxicating beauty. The ideology and aestheticism of the lovers of death undeniably contain a poisonously attractive temptation. They promise their followers an escape into a magical world far removed from the humdrum greyness of everyday life – the very thing for which exalted and sensitive souls yearn.

And the main danger, of course, is represented by the Doge himself. I have already described this terrible character to you, but his truly satanic grandeur is revealed more clearly to me every day. He is a ghoul, a vampire, a basilisk! A genuine fisher of souls who is so artful in subordinating others to his will that I swear to God even you cannot compare with him.

Recently a new member appeared – a funny, touching young girl from somewhere in Siberia. Naive and rapturous, with her head full of all sorts of foolishness that is fashionable among today’s young people. If she had not found her way into our club, in time she would have grown out of all this and become like everyone else. The usual story! But the Doge instantly snared her in his web and turned her into a walking automaton. It happened before my very eyes, in a matter of minutes.

Undoubtedly, an end must be put to all of this, but ordinary arrest will not suit here. Arrest will only make the Doge into a tragic figure, and it is frightening to think what a public trial would be transformed into! This man is picturesque, imposing, eloquent. Why, after his address to the court, ‘lovers’ would appear in every one of our district towns!

No, this monster has to be unmasked, trampled underfoot, displayed in a pitiful and monstrous light, so that his poisonous sting can be drawn once and for all!

And for what offence could you actually arrest him? After all, it is not a crime to set up poetry clubs. There is only one way out: I must uncover some
corpus delicti
in the Doge’s activities and prove that this gentleman, with deliberate intent and malice aforethought, encourages frail souls to commit the terrible sin of suicide. Only when I manage to obtain reliable evidence will I give you the Doge’s name and address. But not before then, not before.

Fortunately, I am not suspected of playing a double game. I deliberately make myself out to be a jester, and even derive a certain morbid satisfaction from the frankly scornful looks that certain of our smart alecks, including the Master himself, give me. Never mind, let them think me a pitiful worm, that is more convenient for my purposes. Or am I really a worm? What do you think?

Very well, let us leave that aside. The convulsions of my wounded vanity are of no importance. I am tormented by something quite different: after Avaddon’s terrible death we have another ‘vacancy’, and I am waiting anxiously to see what new moth will come flying to singe its wings on this infernal flame . . .

Yours affronted, but with genuine respect,

ZZ

28 August 1900

CHAPTER 2

I. From the Newspapers

Lavr Zhemailo Meets the High Priest of the ‘Lovers of Death’

And so, it has come to pass! Your humble servant has succeeded in infiltrating the holy of holies of the highly conspiratorial suicide club which set everyone talking after the recent death of S., a 23-year-old student at Moscow University. The story of how I managed to overcome all the cunning barriers and insuperable obstacles in order to attain my goal would make the plot of a thrilling novel. However, bound by my word, I shall remain silent, and let me state immediately for the benefit of the gentlemen of the police that
Lavr Zhemailo
will never, under any circumstances, even under threat of imprisonment, betray his helpers and informants.

My meeting with the high priest of the sinister sect of worshippers of death commenced in a dark and gloomy cellar, the location of which has remained a mystery to me since my
cicerone
delivered me there with a blindfold over my eyes. I could smell damp earth, several times cobwebs dangling from the ceiling brushed across my face and once a bat flew past with a loathsome squeak. After this prelude, I felt sure I would see some appalling vault with slimy walls, but when the blindfold was removed, there was a rather pleasant disappointment in store for me. I was standing in a spacious, superbly furnished room that resembled the drawing room of a rich house: a crystal chandelier, bookcases, chairs with carved backs, a round table like those that are used for spiritualist seances. The person I spoke to told me to call him ‘Doge’. Naturally, he was wearing a mask, so that I could see only his long, snow-white hair, small grey beard and exceptionally keen, or rather, I should say,
piercing
eyes. The Doge’s voice proved to be resonant and beautiful, and at times quite spellbinding. There can be no doubt that he is a talented and exceptional individual.

‘I know you, Mr Zhemailo, as a man of honour, and that is the only reason I have agreed to meet you.’ Thus did my mysterious companion begin the conversation. I bowed and promised once again that the ‘Lovers of Death’ need not fear any indiscretion or foul play on my part.

My reward for this promise was an extensive lecture, delivered by the Doge with such exceptional eloquence that I was enthralled even against my own will. I shall try here to convey the content of this eccentric sermon in my own words.

The venerable Doge asserts that man’s true native land is not the planet Earth or the condition which we call life, but in fact the absolute opposite: Death, Blackness, Non-existence. This is the true homeland of all of us. That is where we formerly dwelt, and where we shall soon return. For a brief, insubstantial moment, we are doomed to dwell in the light, in life, in existence. Precisely doomed, that is, punished, expelled from the bosom of Death.

All of the living, without exception, are winnowed chaff, dross, criminals condemned to the daily torment of life for some crime that we have forgotten, but which must be extremely grave. Some of us are less guilty and therefore condemned only to a short sentence. Such individuals return to Death when they are still infants. Others, who are guiltier, are condemned to hard labour for seventy, eighty or even a hundred years. Those who live to extreme old age are the most evil of wrong-doers and unworthy of any indulgence. But nonetheless, sooner or later, Death in its infinite mercy forgives everyone.

At this point your humble servant, unable to restrain himself, interrupted the orator.

‘A curious assertion. And so the length of our lives is not set by God, but by Death?’

‘Let it be God – use whatever name you wish. Only the judge whom people have called God is by no means the Lord Almighty, but merely an acolyte in the service of Death.’

‘What an appalling image!’ I exclaimed.

‘Not at all,’ the Doge reassured me. ‘God is stern, but Death is merciful. Out of benevolence Death has endowed us with the instinct of self-preservation, so that we will not feel oppressed by the walls of our prison and will fear any attempt to escape from them. And Death has also granted us the gift of oblivion. We have no memory of our true homeland, of our lost Eden. Otherwise not one of us would be willing to bear the torment of imprisonment and there would be a genuine orgy of suicides.’

‘What is so bad about that, from your point of view? After all, surely you actually exhort the members of your circle to commit suicide?’

‘Unauthorised suicide is an escape from prison, a crime that is punishable by a new term of imprisonment. No, it is not permissible to flee from this life. But it is possible to earn pardon – that is, a reduction in the sentence.’

‘In what way, if I might enquire?’

‘Through love. One must love Death with all one’s soul. Entice and summon her to you, like your own dearly beloved. And wait, wait meekly for her Sign. When the Sign is manifested, you not only may, but should, die by your own hand.’