Authors: Boris Akunin
‘Eh? Sorry, I mean, I beg your pardon? What tub’s that?’ asked Senka, who had been listening with bated breath.
All of a sudden Erast Petrovich turned angry: ‘I told you to b-buy a volume of Pushkin’s works and read the f-fairy tales at least!’
‘I did buy one,’ Senka said resentfully. ‘There were lots of different Pushkins. I picked this one.’
And to prove what he was saying, he took out of his pocket the small book that he’d bought two days earlier at a flea market. It was an interesting book, it even had pictures.
‘“The Forbidden Pushkin.
Verses and p-poems previously circulated in manuscript”,’ said the engineer, reading out the title. He frowned and started leafing through the pages.
‘And I read the fairy tales too,’ said Senka, even more offended by this lack of trust. ‘About the archangel and the Virgin Mary, and about Tsar Nikita and his forty daughters. Don’t you believe me? I can tell you the stories if you like.’
‘No n-need,’ Erast Petrovich said brusquely, slamming the book shut. ‘What a scoundrel.’
‘Pushkin?’ Senka asked in surprise.
‘No, not Pushkin, the p-publisher. One should never publish what an author d-did not intend for publication. Who knows where it will end? Mark m-my words: soon our gentleman of the publishing t-trade will start publishing intimate c-correspondence!’ The engineer flung the book on to the table angrily. ‘And b-by the way, correspondence is the very subject that I wanted to t-talk to you about, Senya. Since Death is being f-followed, I can’t show myself at her p-place any more. And it is not really f-feasible to keep the house under c-constant observation – any stranger would be sp-spotted straight away. So we shall have to c-communicate from a distance.’
‘How do you mean, from a distance?’
‘Well, by epistolary m-means.’
‘You mean we’re going to set up an ambush, with pistols?’ Senka asked. He liked the idea. ‘Can I have a pistol too?’
Erast Petrovich stared at him absent-mindedly. ‘What have p-pistols got to do with it? We are going to write l-letters to each other. I can’t visit Death any more. Masa can’t go – he’s too c-conspicuous. And it wouldn’t be a g-good idea for Senka Spidorov to show up there, would it?’
‘I’d say not.’
‘So the only thing we can d-do is write letters. This is what we agreed. She will go to St N-Nikolai’s church every day, for mass. You will sit on the p-porch, disguised as a b-beggar. Mademoiselle Death will give you her letters when she g-gives you alms. I am almost c-certain that the Treasure Hunter will show his hand. He has p-probably heard about the way you c-cuckolded the Prince.’
‘Who, me?’ Senka gasped in horror.
‘Why, yes. The whole of Khitrovka is t-talking about it. It even g-got into the police agents’ reports, an acquaintance of mine in the d-detective force showed me it: “The wanted b-bandit Dron Veselov (known as ‘the Prince’) is threatening to find and k-kill his lady friend’s lover, the juvenile Speedy, whose whereabouts and real n-name are unknown.” So, as far as they are all concerned, Senya –you are Death’s lover.’
HOW SENKA READ OTHER
PEOPLE’S LETTERS
There was a big mirror in Erast Petrovich’s study. Well, not when they got there, but the engineer had a pier-glass set on top of the desk, and then he laid out all sorts of little bottles and jars and boxes in front of it, so it looked just like a hairdressing salon. In fact there were wigs there too, in every possible degree of hairiness and colour. When Senka asked what Mr Nameless needed all this for, he answered mysteriously that the fancy-dress ball season was about to begin.
At first Senka thought he was joking. But Senka was the first to make use of the facilities.
The day after the deduction and projection, Erast Petrovich sat Senka down in front of the mirror and started mocking the poor orphan something terrible. First he rubbed some nasty kind of muck into his hair, and that ruined the coiffure Senka had paid three roubles for. His hair was a nice golden colour, but that rotten grease turned it into a sticky, mousy-grey tangle.
Masa was watching this cruel abuse. He clicked his tongue in approval and said: ‘He need rice.’
‘You don’t need to t-tell me that,’ the engineer replied, concentrating on what he was doing. He took a pinch of something out of a little box and rubbed some little grains or pellets into the back of Senka’s neck.
‘What’s that?’
‘Dried lice. Fauna that every b-beggar has to have. Don’t worry, we’ll wash your hair with p-paraffin afterwards.’
Senka’s jaw dropped open and the dastardly Mr Nameless immediately took advantage of this to paint his golden crown a rotten colour, then stuck some thingamajig wrapped in gauze into Senka’s open mouth and arranged it between his gum and his cheek. It twisted Senka’s entire mug – his face, that is – over to one side. Meanwhile Erast Petrovich was already rubbing his victim’s forehead, nose and neck with oil that turned his skin a muddy colour, with wide-open pores.
‘The ears,’ the sensei suggested.
‘Won’t that b-be too much?’ the engineer asked doubtfully, but he rubbed his little stick inside Senka’s ears anyway.
That tickles!’
‘Yes, I think it really is b-better with suppurating ears,’ Erast Petrovich said thoughtfully. ‘Now, let us m-move on to the wardrobe.’
He took some tattered rags out of the cupboard, far tattier than anything Senka had ever worn in his life, even during the very worst times with Uncle Zot.
Senka looked at himself in the triple mirror and twirled this way and that. No doubt about it, he certainly made a fine beggar. And the important thing was, no one would ever recognise him. One thing was still niggling him, though.
‘The beggars have all the places divvied up between themselves,’ he started explaining to Erast Petrovich. ‘You have to deal with their head man. If I just turn up on the porch out of nowhere, they’ll send me packing, and they’ll give me a good thrashing too.’
‘If they try to d-drive you away, chew on this,’ said the engineer, handing him a smooth little ball. ‘It’s ordinary children’s s-soap, strawberry flavoured. A simple trick, but effective, I b-borrowed it from a certain remarkable t-trickster. Only when the foam starts p-pouring out of your mouth, don’t f-forget to roll your eyes up.’
But Senka still had his worries. He walked to the church of St Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on Podkopaevsky Lane, sat down on the very edge of the porch and rolled his eyes right up under his forehead straight off, just to be on the safe side. The hysterical old grandma and noseless old grandad who were begging near by started grumbling and grousing. Clear out, they said, we don’t know you, the takings is poor enough already, wait till Boxman comes, he’ll soon show you what’s what – and all sorts of other stuff like that.
But when Boxman did come and the beggars snitched on the new boy to him, Senka started forcing foam out through his lips and shaking his shoulders and whining in a thin little voice. Boxman looked at him, then looked again and said: ‘Can’t you bastards see he’s a genuine epileptical? Leave him alone, let him eat, and I won’t take any remunerations from you for him.’ That was Boxman for you – always fair. That was why he’d lasted twenty years in Khitrovka.
So the beggars stopped pestering Senka. He relaxed a bit, rolled his eyes back down from under his forehead and started flashing them this way and that. People really didn’t give very much, mostly kopecks and half-kopecks. Once Mikheika the Night-Owl walked past and out of sheer boredom (and to check how good his disguise was as well), Senka grabbed him by the flap of his coat and started whining:
Give a poor cripple a coin or two.
Night-Owl didn’t give him anything, and he called him foul names, but he didn’t recognise him. After that Senka stopped worrying altogether.
When the bells rang for mass and the women started walking into the church, Death appeared round the corner of Podkolokolny Street. She was dressed plainly, in a white shawl and a grey dress, but even so she lit up the lane like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud.
She glanced at all the beggars, but her eyes didn’t linger on Senka. Then she walked in the door.
Oh-oh, he thought. Has Erast Petrovich overdone it? How would Death know who to give the note to?
So when the worshippers started coming out after the service, Senka deliberately started whining through his nose and stammering – so that Death would realise who he was hinting at: ‘Good k-kind people! Don’t be angry with a c-crippled orphan for b-begging! Help m-me if you can! I’m not from these p-parts, I don’t kn-know anyone round here. Give me a c-crust of bread and a c-coin or two!’
She looked a bit more closely at Senka and started tittering. So she’d guessed all right. She put a coin in every beggar’s hand, and gave Senka a five-kopeck piece too, and a folded piece of paper to go with it.
Then she went off, covering her mouth with the edge of her shawl, because she found Senka’s disguise so amusing.
As soon as he’d hobbled his way out of Khitrovka, Senka squatted down by an advertisement column, unfolded the sheet of paper and started reading it. Death’s handwriting was regular and easy to read, even though the letters were really tiny:
‘Hello, Erast Petrovich. I’ve done everything you told me to. I hung the petal round my neck and he noticed it straight away
. [What petal’s that, then, thought Senka, scratching his head. And who’s ‘he’? Never mind. Maybe that’ll get cleared up later.]
He pulled a face and said you’re barmy. Hanging that rubbish round your neck and not wearing the presents I give you. He tried to find out if it was a present from someone. As we agreed I said it was from Speedy Senka. He started shouting. That snot-nosed little pup he said. When I get my handson him I’ll tear him apart.
[So it was the Prince she meant! The crumpled piece of paper trembled in Senka’s hands. What was she up to? Why was she setting him up like that? Did she want to make sure the Prince did him in? He didn’t know anything about any petal! He’d never even seen it, let alone given it to her! After that he skimmed the lines more quickly.]
It’s hard being with him. He’s drunk and gloomy all the time and keeps making threats. He’s very jealous of me. It’s a good thing he only knows about Speedy.
[Oh, yeah, what could be better, thought Senka, cringing pitifully.]
If he found out about the others blood would be spilled. I’ve tried asking him in all sorts of ways. He denies everything. He says I don’t know anything about who’s doing these shameless things, I only wish I did. When I find out I’ll tell you if you’re so interested. But I can’t work out if he’s telling the truth because he’s not the same man he was before. He’s more like a wild beast than a man. He’s always snarling and baring his teeth. And I wanted to say something about our last conversation too. Don’t reproach me for being immoral, Erast Petrovich. Some things are written into people when they are born and they are not free to change them. What is written from above can only be used for evil or for good. Do not talk to me like that again and do not write about this because there is no point.
Death’
What was it she didn’t want him to talk or write about, then? It had to be her indecent goings-on with the superintendent and those other scoundrels.
Senka folded the note back into a little square, the way it was before, and took it to Erast Petrovich. He was dying to ask the clever Mr Nameless a couple of questions about why he’d decided to make the Prince even more furious with a poor orphan. What need was there for that? And what was this ‘petal’ that Senka was supposed to have given Death?
Only if he asked, he’d let slip that he’d stuck his nose in the letter.
But that came out anyway.
The engineer glanced at the piece of paper and shook his head reproachfully straight off:
‘That’s not g-good, Senya. Why did you read it? The l-letter’s not to you, is it?’
Senka tried to deny it. ‘I didn’t read nothing,’ he said. ‘What do I care what’s in it?’
‘Oh c-come now,’ said Erast Petrovich, running his finger along the folds. ‘Unfolded and folded b-back again. And what’s this stuck to it? Could it be a l-louse? I doubt that b-belongs to Mademoiselle Death.’
How could you hide anything from someone like that?
The next day Senka was given a letter from Mr Nameless, but it wasn’t just a sheet of paper – it was in an envelope.
‘Since you’re so c-curious,’ the engineer declared, ‘I am sealing my m-missive. Don’t t-try to lick it open. This is a patent American g-glue; once stuck, it stays stuck.’
He smeared the stuff on the envelope with a brush, then pressed the letter under a paperweight.
Senka was simply amazed: it was true what they said – even the wise were fools sometimes. The minute he was outside the door, he tore the little envelope open and threw it away. They sold five-kopeck envelopes like that, for love letters, at every kiosk. What was to stop him buying a new one and sealing it without any fancy glue? It didn’t say on the envelope who the letter was for in any case . . .
To read or not to read – the question never even crossed Senka’s mind. Of course he was going to read it! After all, it was his fate that was being decided!
The note was written on thin paper, and Erast Petrovich’s handwriting was beautiful, with fine fancy flourishes.
‘Hello, DearD.
Please permit me to call you that – I cannot stand your nickname, and you will not tell me what you are really called. Forgive me, but I cannot believe that you have forgotten it. However, just as you please.Let me get to the point.
Things are clear with the first individual. Now do the same with the second one, only lead him on to the subject indirectly. As far as I am able to judge, this individual is somewhat cleverer than the Prince. It is enough for him simply to see the object. And then, if he asks, tell him about SS, as we agreed.
[Who’s this SS, then? Senka rubbed his soot-smeared forehead, and a couple of dried lice fell out of his hair. Hey, Speedy Senka, that’s who it was! What were they plotting to do with him?]
Forgive me for returning to a subject that you find disagreeable, but I cannot bear the thought of your subjecting yourself to defilement and torment – yes, indeed, I am certain that it is torment for you – in the name of ideas that I cannot comprehend and which are certainly false. Why do you punish yourself so harshly, why do you immerse your body in the mire? It has done nothing to offend you. The human body is a temple, and a temple should be keptpure. Some may counter: A temple, is it? It’s just a house like anyother: bricks and mortar. The important thing is not to besmirch the soul, but the body is not important, God doesnot live in the flesh, but in the soul. Ah, but the divine mystery will never be accomplished in a temple that is defiled and desecrated. And when you say that everything is written into people at their birth, you are mistaken. Life is not a book in which one can only move a long the lines that someone else has written. Life is a plain traversed by countless roads, and one is always free to choose whether to turn to the right or to the left. And then there will be a new plain and a new choice. Everyone walks across this plain, choosing his or her own route and direction – some travel towards the sunset, towards darkness, others travel towards dawn and the source of light. And it is never too late, even in the very final moment of life, to turn in a direction completely opposite to the one in which you have been moving for so many years. Turns of this kind are not so very rare: a man may have walked all his life towards the darkness of night, but at the last he suddenly turns his face towards the dawn, and his face and the entire plainare illuminated by a different light, the glow of morning. And of course, there verse happens too. My explanation is confused and unclear, but some how I suspect you will understand me.