She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin (22 page)

And then, glancing at the clouds at sunset, it is quite possible to see in them the silhouette of a gallows tree, as happened to sixteen-year-old F., who apparently had no connection with the ‘Lovers of Death’ (see the article ‘Death of a Schoolboy’ in our issue of 9 September); some listen with bated breath to the howling of the night wind in the chimney or shudder when they see a word that rhymes with death. Never before has the Old Capital known such an orgy of suicides as in recent days. Three yesterday, two the day before yesterday, four the day before that – and that does not include the ones who were saved, who probably number ten times more!

Five foolish young women have already poisoned themselves, following the example of Lorelei Rubinstein, who is unlikely to be lying easy in her grave as she is showered with curses by the unfortunate families of the girls who have died.

Yes, of course, in rational terms I understand very well that this is all a matter of the psychological malaise of modern society. But my God, how greatly I am tempted to repeat after the Prince of Denmark: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy!’

Indeed there probably are. For death, gentlemen, is no chimera or magic trick, but a scientifically established fact. From the point of view of physics it is an inexplicable loss of energy which, as far as I can recall from my grammar-school studies, directly contradicts the law of its conservation. Where does the vital energy really disappear to at the moment of death? Can it not return in some changed or transformed guise? What if there is some natural anomaly involved here? What if there is some invisible but entirely real cloud of death-dealing energy hovering over Moscow?

Has this really never happened before? Have not entire cities perished for reasons unknown, as if they were deprived of the very source of life? Ancient Babylon, Athens and Rome suffered decline and desolation. Historians blame a barbarian invasion, economic decline or spiritual crisis. But what if there is a different explanation for everything? Any ancient and populous city, in which hundreds of thousands and millions of people have left this life over the long centuries, is veritably choking in the tight embrace of graves and burial grounds. Dead bones are everywhere; in the graveyards, on the beds of the rivers, under the foundations of the houses, under the feet of people in the streets. The air is thick and oppressive with the final breaths of those who have died and the bursts of vital energy released. Does not the country dweller feel this asphyxiation when he first finds himself in the ancient capital and breathes in its vapours?

If we take all the inhabitants of Moscow over seven centuries, there will be far more dead than alive. You and I are in the minority, ladies and gentlemen. So is it really surprising that some, indeed, many of us feel drawn to join the majority? The focus of energy is there, not here.

Scientists will say that I am talking nonsense. Very possibly. But a hundred or two hundred years ago, invisible magnetism and electricity seemed like witchcraft to the precursors of our all-wise academics, and the sight of an automobile would have absolutely terrified them, not to mention X-rays or moving pictures. Who can tell, respected doctors and masters of science, perhaps the twentieth century will discover other forms of energy that our sense organs and imperfect instruments are not capable of detecting?

It is for the future to answer.

As for the modest reporter Zhemailo, who can see the future no more clearly than you can, you may rest assured, respected
Courier
readers, that your humble servant will remain on the trail of the ‘Lovers of Death’, and henceforth you will be the first to learn of all my new observations and discoveries.

Lavr Zhemailo
Moscow Courier
, 13 (26)
September 1900, p.2

II. From Columbine’s Diary

Unpredictable and capricious

I still do not know what he wants with me. He is certainly not trying to court me, and yet we spend quite a lot of time together. Supposedly I am helping him investigate the circumstances of poor Ophelia’s death and at the same time all the other mysterious events connected with our club.

But sometimes I have the feeling that he is simply taking care of me, like some simple-minded, stupid provincial girl who has suddenly found herself in the big city. Perhaps I am a provincial, but I am not stupid and certainly not simple-minded. I am no longer the person I used to be. I have come to understand perfectly well these ordinary, boring people with their ordinary, boring concerns, which means that I myself have ceased to be ordinary and boring.

And yet I am glad of his tutelage. I have nothing to busy myself with during the day, and the evening meetings do not last for very long: three or four volunteers try their luck at the roulette wheel, and that is the end of it. Since that first evening when Genji won, no one else has landed on the skull, although Caliban, for instance, never misses a single evening. I shall describe my own attempt of the day before yesterday. It took me a long time to prepare myself for it, and the six that I was granted was simply insulting, if you really think about it! Measured according to the values of a pack of cards, it means that for Death I am the lowest card of all. But the most monstrous thing (which I did not write about before) is that what I felt when I failed was not disappointment, but intense, keen, absolutely shameful relief. I am clearly not yet ready.

After the departure of the Lioness of Ecstasy, for a short while I was the only woman in the club. I have already described the two new female aspirants briefly, but it turns out that I was too indulgent towards them. They are absolute nonentities! And while Iphigenia is tolerable, because she understands her own limitations, the second one, Gorgon, is always acting like a queen, straining to be the centre of attention. She is often successful, but in a less flattering sense than she would wish.

Goat-hoofed Kriton, naturally, started paying his attentions to both of them immediately – I heard him pontificating to Iphigenia about the naturalness of nudity. But of course, it was Prospero who gathered the pollen from these young blossoms: three days ago he told Gorgon to stay, and yesterday the rosy-cheeked fool. What is really strange is that I did not feel even slightly jealous. I have come to the conclusion that matters of carnal sensuality are not really of interest to me. A further proof of this came the day before yesterday, when Prospero suddenly took me by the hand after the game and led me after him.

I went. Why not? Alas, the magic was not repeated. In general, the whole business turned out rather stupidly. He lay me down on the bearskin again, blindfolded me and spent a long time running a cold, wet brush over my body (it turned out later that he was drawing magical signs in Chinese ink – I barely managed to wash them off). It tickled, and several times I gave way and giggled. The physiological part of the ritual was completed very quickly.

In general, I feel more and more persuaded that the ‘raptures of sensuality’ which Russian writers mention in such vague terms and
‘les plaisirs de la chair’
¹
which are described in much greater detail in modern French literature, are just one more piece of make-believe, invented by humanity to romanticise the onerous obligation to continue the race. It’s just like cognac. I recall, when I was little, I used to dream that when I grew up I would drink cognac too – Papa took such great pleasure in taking a glass before dinner in the evening. One day I plucked up my courage, moved a chair over to the sideboard, climbed up on it, picked up the carafe and took a sip out of it . . . I think that was the moment when I realised how much pretence there is in people. To this day I find the very sight of cognac revolting. How can anyone voluntarily drink that acrid muck? It would seem to be exactly the same with physiological love. I am sure that what gave Papa pleasure was not the cognac itself, but the ritual: Sunday, a grand dinner, the crystal carafe glinting, the anticipation of a leisurely, relaxed evening. The same applies to the act of love: everything that precedes it is so captivating that one can forgive the meaningless and shameful nature of the act itself, which fortunately does not last for long.

(I shall have to cross this paragraph out later – not because of the boldness of the ideas, that is really rather good – but it has turned out much too childish somehow. I shall dwell on the physiology in some other place, in greater detail and with less naivety.)

I think that Prospero noticed my disappointment – when we parted he had a thoughtful, perhaps even bewildered look. But his parting words were beautiful: ‘Go and dissolve into the night.’ I immediately felt like some creature of fantasy, a true phantom of the night. As I walked along the boulevard my steps were light and ethereal.

Even so, I am no longer a helpless puppet in his hands. Prospero’s power over me is no longer absolute, his enchantment has weakened.

But why am I trying to be cunning with myself ? It is not that the enchantment has weakened, it is just that Prospero no longer occupies my mind as much as he did before. It is not simply because I do not know how to keep myself occupied that I spend so much time with Genji. He intrigues me. Sometimes we say nothing for a long while, like yesterday in the coffee shop. But at other times we make conversation on the most surprising topics. Although he is taciturn, Genji is an engaging conversation partner. And a useful one, too, there are many things to be learned from him.

But what I really cannot stand about him is his vain male gallantry. Today I tried once again to make him accept the obvious: ‘How can you be so blind, with your stupid materialism and your attempts to find a rational explanation for everything? Our world is a little spot of light, surrounded on all sides by darkness. And a myriad eyes watch us keenly from out of that darkness. Mighty hands guide our actions, pulling on invisible strings. We will never manage to understand this mechanism. Your attempts to anatomise the Signs from the Beyond are simply laughable!’

Instead of replying, he said: ‘That is a very p-pretty dress, Mademoiselle Columbine, it suits you very well.’

The dress I was wearing really was rather good: light-blue silk with Brussels lace – at first glance entirely conventional, but with little bells sewn to the cuffs and bottom flounce, so that every movement is accompanied by a faint, gentle ringing sound – it is my own invention. However, this compliment paid so out of place made me angry.

‘Don’t you dare talk to me like some empty-headed idiot!’ I exclaimed. ‘What an appalling masculine manner!’

He smiled: ‘Those could be the words of a suffragette. But I thought you were giddy Columbine, a plaything in the hands of the wicked Harlequin.’

I blushed. I believe I did tell him something of the sort early in our acquaintance. How provincial! I would never utter such simpering banalities now. And yet only two weeks have gone by. Why have I changed so quickly?

Evidently the reason is that there is always someone dying close by, very close by. Death himself is circling round me smoothly and gracefully, and with every day the circles grow narrower. And Genji still talks about an investigation!

He is terribly secretive and tells me almost nothing. I don’t know his real name or what he does for a living. I think he’s an engineer – in any case he’s very interested in technical novelties and he becomes very lively when the subject of self-propelled carriages and motorbicycles comes up.

What do I really know about him? He has lived abroad for ten years, moving from one country to another. He makes only short visits to Russia – for some reason he is not on good terms with the Moscow authorities. He told me he had to change his flat because Masa spotted someone following them almost right in front of their very building. The Japanese dealt with the police agent rather roughly, because he cannot stand their kind ever since he was a bandit in his youth. They had to move out of Ascheulov Lane, which is only five minutes’ walk from Prospero’s house, to the Spassky Barracks on the other side of Sukharevka Street, where one of the officer’s flats happened to be free.

If I try to get any details out of him, he replies evasively, and I can never tell if he is talking seriously or making fun of me.

Columbine raised her eyes from her diary to look at the window and chewed thoughtfully on her pen. What would be the best way to describe today’s meeting in the café Rivoli?

She had arrived very late. That is, she had actually arrived before the agreed time and then strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. She had seen Genji go into the café, and then spent another half-hour inspecting the shop windows. Arriving for an engagement on time was
mauvais ton
, a provincial habit that had to be extirpated. Just to be on the safe side, she had kept her eyes on the door. If he got bored of waiting and decided to leave, she would have to walk up and pretend that she had only just arrived.

I suppose I must look rather strange, thought Columbine: an extravagantly dressed young woman just standing here with nothing to do, like Lot’s wife transformed into a pillar of salt. She looked around and noticed that she was indeed being stared at by a youth wearing a check jacket and a ridiculous straw boater with a silk ribbon. He licked his lips impertinently (a gold tooth glinted in his mouth). At least he didn’t wink. He had obviously taken her for a cocotte. Well, let him. If not for the persistent attention of the young pup, she would have kept Genji languishing for longer.

He didn’t appear to be languishing, though. He was sitting there quite calmly, reading the newspapers. He didn’t utter a single word of reproach to Columbine for being late and he ordered her a cup of hot chocolate and cakes. He himself was drinking white wine.