She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin (16 page)

‘By this very thing, my dear sir! Explain them by this very thing! I have entered into single combat with the cruel, ravenous monster that has been abducting the purest and most precious of society’s children. In recent times how many people, mostly young and unspoiled, have been taking their own lives! This is a terrible degenerative disease of the soul, a gift to us from a jaded and faithless Europe. I do not destroy my disciples, as you imagined on the basis of external appearances. I do not kill tender young souls, I try to save them!’ He jerked his chin nervously. ‘Listen, would you not like to sit down? I have arthritis, it’s devilish uncomfortable for me to hold my head back all the time.’

‘You chose a strange way of saving delicate young souls,’ said the Stammerer, sitting down in the armchair.

‘Certainly it is strange! But effective, very effective. My club, the “Lovers of Death” is a kind of clinic for the mentally ill, and I am like the psychiatrist. After all, I do not accept as members romantically inclined youths who have succumbed to fashionable influences and simply wish to appear interesting to their friends, but only those who are genuinely obsessed with the idea of death, who have already set the revolver to their temple. I catch them at this dangerous moment, engage their morbid attention and try to lead them away from taking the fatal step. First of all, I free the potential suicide from his isolation and the feeling of his own infinite loneliness. A desperate man sees that there are many others like him and there are people whose suffering is possibly even worse than his own. This is extraordinarily important! That is the way we are all made – in order to survive we need to know that there is someone in the world who is less fortunate than ourselves. The second major component of my “treatment” is the resurrection of
curiosity
. The near-suicide has to stop being concerned only with himself and start looking in amazement at the world around him. To this end all means are good, even those that use quackery. I shamelessly dupe the seekers with all sorts of cunning tricks and impressive trumpery.’

The Doge pointed casually to his Spanish beret and medieval dagger.

The Stammerer nodded: ‘Oh yes, like lighting candles with a knife-blade that has been smeared with phosphorous. That’s an old trick.’

‘Or holding a burning coal on a hand that has been rubbed with a mixture of egg-white, resin and starch, which protects the skin from burning,’ the Doge put in. ‘Anything that impresses them and makes them submit to your will is useful . . . Oh, don’t smile in that shrewd fashion! You think I have given myself away by mentioning submission. Believe me, I am only too well aware of my weaknesses. Of course, apart from the main goal, I also derive a lot of pleasure from this game. I won’t try to pretend that I don’t enjoy having power over people’s souls, I find their adoration and boundless trust intoxicating, but I swear to you that I never use the power I have acquired for evil! I invent all these complicated and basically ludicrous rituals only in order to mesmerise the potential suicide, to distract him, to stimulate interest in the eternal mystery of existence! For my observations suggest that people most often arrive at the idea of self-destruction not out of grief or hopelessness, but out of a lack of any interest in life, out of boredom! But if the true cause of the suicidal impulse lies only in poverty (which also happens quite often), then I try to help the seeker concerned with money – as far as possible in some discreet way that is not humiliating for these morbidly proud individuals.’ At this point the Doge hesitated and spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. With one finger he caught the cover of a bronze inkwell in the form of a heroic Russian warrior, raised the helmet that had been lying open, and started stroking it nervously. ‘But I am not all-powerful. There are too many neglected, incurable cases. My disciples die one after another, and every one lost costs me years of my life. But still, I can see that some are close to being cured. You must have noticed from the way the seekers behaved today that some of them no longer wish to die at all. I shall not be surprised if some are frightened by the dispassionate roulette wheel and do not come here again, and that will be a genuine victory for me. I would have saved many more of my wards, if only . . .

‘If only what?’ the Stammerer asked, urging him on and getting up out of his chair. I believe he was just as astounded by what he had heard as I was. In any case, he had listened to the Doge very attentively, without interrupting.

But the Doge hesitated, and his face turned whiter and whiter before my very eyes. He seemed to be trying to decide if he could reveal himself completely to the other man.

Finally he made up his mind: ‘If only . . . Oh, do sit down!’ The Stammerer shook his head impatiently and the Doge started looking around. I saw that his face was contorted into a mask of genuine terror. ‘If only I had not failed to take into account . . . that Death really does exist!’

‘That is indeed a most important discovery,’ the Stammerer remarked demurely.

‘Don’t laugh! You understand perfectly well what I mean. And if you don’t, then you’re not as intelligent as you seem. Death exists, not only as the end of physical existence, but as an animated substance, as an evil force that has accepted my challenge and entered into battle with me for the souls of my disciples.’

‘Listen, Blagovolsky, keep all that for the Lioness of Ecstasy,’ the Stammerer said with a frown.

The Doge gave a bitter smile.

‘Oh, I used to be just as much a sceptic as you are. Only very recently.’ He suddenly leaned forward bodily and grabbed hold of the other man’s hand. He looked almost insane, and his voice dropped to a loud whisper. ‘Have you not heard about the Signs? It was I who invented this additional complication, so that the aspirants would not take poor Ophelia’s ululations too seriously. It was a clever idea: a summons from the spirits is not enough, you also have to receive a mystical summons from Death. And they did receive them!’ the Doge shouted out, so loudly that I banged my head against the door in surprise. Thank God the moment was too tense for the two talkers to pay any attention to that dull sound.

The Doge started jabbering deliriously: ‘They all received them, every one! Ophelia only had to name the next Chosen One and he immediately started receiving Signs!’

‘Nonsense,’ the Stammerer retorted. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Nonsense?’ The Doge laughed darkly and his bloodshot eyes glittered. ‘First there was Raven, a quiet drunk, a photographer by trade. One evening Ophelia named him as the Chosen One, and that night he jumped out of the window. I bought his farewell poem from the policeman, it talks in rather vague terms about “a vision, by means of which the call from beyond was reinforced”. It’s a terrible poem, simply appalling, but that’s not the point. What was that vision? Who can answer that now?’

‘Who knows what he might have thought he saw in his cups?’ the Stammerer objected quite reasonably. ‘No doubt after the spiritualist revelation your photographer celebrated his selection rather energetically.’

‘It’s possible, I won’t deny it!’ the Doge said, with a shake of his head, ‘I didn’t attach any importance to that line myself at first. But then, the letter had a postscript, addressed to me: “For P. No doubts remain! I am happy. Goodbye and thank you!” Thank you, eh? How do you think it felt for me to read that? But just listen to what happened next! A few days later Ophelia said in Raven’s voice: “Now it is the turn of the one for whom Death’s envoy will come swathed in a white cloak. Wait.” I immediately felt reassured – what damned envoy, I thought, where is he going to come from? But that very night, do you hear,
that very night
’ – the Master dropped his voice from a shout to a hiss again – ‘two of the searchers had a vision: someone in a white cloak came to them and summoned them to unite with Death. One was a student, a very gloomy character, a hypochondriac, who called himself Lycanthrope. The other was quite different – a wonderful, pure young girl – I thought that she would soon abandon this nonsensical obsession with suicide! Tell me, Doubting Thomas, how often does it happen that two entirely different people have the same dream at the same time?’

‘It can happen. If the mention of an envoy in a white cloak produces a strong impression on both of them . . .’

‘Too strong an impression!’ the Doge exclaimed, waving his arms in the air. ‘Lycanthrope and Moretta told us about their “good fortune” at the next meeting. I tried to dissuade them. They pretended to agree with me and said they were in no hurry to commit suicide, but they colluded with each other. They left this life together, but not out of love for each other – out of love for Death . . . Before he died, Avaddon heard the voice of some Beast. And what happened to Ophelia is a complete mystery. I was with her only shortly before her terrible end. Believe me, doing away with herself was the last thing she was thinking of. Quite the opposite . . .’

He cleared his throat in embarrassment. I have already told you that this old satyr is voluptuous and eagerly exploits the blind adoration of the female seekers – they are all in love with him. They say that the late Moretta was also acquainted with his bedroom. However, that has nothing to do with the matter at hand.

‘And our Lioness of Ecstasy!’ he continued. ‘Today this lady whispered to me that “Tsarevich Death” was courting her more gallantly than any of her numerous admirers, and sending her miraculous gifts. And this is a famous poetess, who has seen a great deal of the world, not some silly little girl who is ga-ga over decadence.’

‘Mass insanity?’ the Stammerer suggested with a frown. ‘Some kind of infectious disease? Such cases are known to psychiatric science. In that case your initiative with the club is harmful – it does not dissipate the illusion, it merely concentrates it.’

‘My God, what has illusion got to do with it? This is something far more terrible!’

The Doge jumped to his feet, but so clumsily that he knocked over the goblet standing on the desk with his broad sleeve – it fell on to the floor and shattered into pieces. This minor incident sent the conversation in a new direction.

Bending down and taking out his handkerchief, the Stammerer complained: ‘Your cyanide has splashed my gaiters.’ (I don’t recall if I told you that he is a serious dandy and dresses according to London fashion.)

‘Oh, there’s no cyanide,’ the Doge muttered absentmindedly, with a shudder. ‘Just an ordinary sleeping draft. Anyone who drank the malmsey would have slept the sleep of the righteous on the bench on the boulevard. Then I would have phoned, anonymously, for an ambulance. In the hospital they would have washed out his stomach, and that would have been that. All the aspirants, even you, would have thought it was just a stroke of bad luck, meddling by a jealous fate.’

It seemed to me that the Stammerer had still not entirely abandoned his suspicions, because I heard a note of caution in his voice again: ‘Let’s assume that you could have got away with it. Once. But what would you have done the next time someone landed on the skull?’

‘There wouldn’t have been any next time. And even this time I have absolutely no idea how the ball managed to land there. There’s a magnet under the next pocket, the number seven. The ball’s only covered with a thin layer of gold plate, it’s actually made of iron. You saw the way it landed on the skull and then suddenly jerked over on to the seven on Caliban’s turn? It’s strange the magnet didn’t work on your turn.’

‘There are only two explanations: either the magnet is too weak, or my luck is too strong . . .’ The Stammerer murmured, as if he were talking to himself, but then he turned back to the Doge: ‘What you say about an evil force sounds incredible, but I’ve lived in this world for a long time, and I know that incredible things sometimes happen. Carry on with what you’re doing, make the seekers write poems, titillate their nerves with the roulette wheel, only put in a stronger magnet, to make sure that today’s mishap is not repeated. And if you have no objections, I shall observe your “evil force”.’

The Doge folded his hands together prayerfully: ‘Not only do I not object, I implore you to help me. I feel as if I’m going insane!’

‘So, we are allies. Tell the others what you were going to say. That I drank the wine and fell asleep on the boulevard, and then some intrusive wellwisher called an ambulance.’

They shook hands, and I hurriedly retreated to the hallway, and from there into the street.

Need I explain the feelings that I am experiencing now? I am sure you will agree, Lieutenant-Colonel, that there is no need to arrest Mr Blagovolsky. On the contrary, he should not be hindered under any circumstances. Let him carry on with his good work. For now the ‘lovers’ are in good hands, but if they should each go their own way, they might do more than simply take their own lives – they might even start up their own suicide clubs.

As far as the ‘evil force’ is concerned, that is pure hysteria, Mr Blagovolsky’s imagination has become inflamed and his nerves are playing him false.

And I, naturally, will continue to keep an eye on this ‘Ward No. 6’. If Prospero is the head doctor, then I (ha-ha) am the inspector.

With assurances of my most sincere respect,

ZZ

Written on the night of 4 September 1900

1
. Probability

2
. A pity

CHAPTER 3

I. From the Newspapers

This is the Only Way?

In memory of Lorelei Rubinstein (1860–1900)

Hang your heads low, all you lovers of Russian literature. Your hearts will surely be filled not only with grief, but with the even more sombre feelings of bewilderment and despair. For a star that shone brightly in the firmament of Russian poetry in recent years has been tragically extinguished: it has fallen and, in falling, carved a bloody furrow across our hearts.

Suicide always has a terrible effect on those who are left behind. It is as though the person who leaves us spurns and rejects God’s world and all of us who dwell in it. We are no longer necessary or interesting to him. And it is a hundred times more unnatural when the person who acts in this way is a writer, whose bonds with the life of the spirit and society ought, one would think, to be especially strong.