She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin (31 page)

I don’t have to invent anything, it’s all very simple. How I shall look after I am gone is not important. The dream that is called life will be scattered like mist, and in its place I shall see a new dream, indescribably more beautiful.

Go out on to the balcony, into the darkness. Open the cast-iron gate. The sheet-metal roof of the building opposite gleams dully in the light of the moon and the stars. It is close, but too far away to jump on to. But anyway, walk back into the room, take a good run and go soaring out into empty space. It will be a breathtaking flight – straight into the embrace of the Eternal Beloved. I feel sorry for my mother and father. But they are far away. I see the little town – log-walled houses amid the white snowdrifts. I see the river – black water, with huge rafts of ice creeping along it. Masha Mironova is standing on one ice-floe and there is a tight bunch of people on another. The black crack between them grows wider and wider. The Angara is like a length of white cloth that has been cut crookedly along its length.

And here is the poem. No need to rack my brains – I just have to write it down.

My life has been sheared in half
Like a length of woven cloth.
The two halves have been torn apart
Now I cannot keep them both
.

Skewed the line that severed them
Though the knife was keen and sharp.
They can never be joined again.
The rent is too wide, the gap too far
.

Once the cloth was white as snow,
Now its weave is solid black.
Even if I should wish to go,
How can I ever jump back?

Overhead the Milky Way,
Below the dreadful dark abyss;
If I run hard and really try
Perhaps something will come of this?

But my foot will never reach
Across the yawning gap below.
I shall fall straight down from the sky,
Down into the homespun snow
.

That’s all. Now just run and jump.

To the publisher

I have no time to edit and transcribe this confused but honest story. I have only one request, please discard the lines that have been crossed out. Let the reader see me, not as I was, but as I wish to be seen.

M.M.

III. From the ‘Agents’ Reports’ File

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

Dear Lieutenant-Colonel,

You must be surprised that I am writing to you again after our meeting yesterday, which took place at your insistence and concluded with my curses, cries and shameful tears. Or perhaps you are not surprised, since you despise me and are convinced of my weakness. But let that be as you wish. Probably you are right about me, and I would never have escaped from your tenacious grasp if not for the events of the night just past.

Consider this letter an official document or, if you prefer, my formal testimony. But if this letter is not sufficient, I am willing to confirm my evidence to any agency of law-enforcement, even under oath.

I could not get to sleep last night, my nerves were strained after our discussion and – why should I pretend otherwise? – I was frightened. I am a man of an impressionable and hypochondriacal disposition, and your threat to have me exiled to Yakutsk, and also to inform the political exiles there that I had collaborated with the gendarmes, had unsettled my nerves completely.

And so I rushed about the room, tousling my hair and wringing my hands – in short, I was in a desperate, cowardly state. I even started sobbing once, I felt so terribly sorry for myself. If I did not detest suicide so fiercely as a result of my poor beloved brother’s death last year (he was so like the two young twins in our club!) I would certainly have seriously considered laying hands on myself.

However, you do not need to know about my nocturnal sufferings, and they are unlikely to be of any interest to you. Let me simply say that I had still not got to sleep at one in the morning.

Suddenly my attention was attracted by a terrible popping and rattling noise rapidly approaching the building. I glanced out of the window in fright and saw an outlandish three-wheeled carriage approaching the gates, moving without any horse to pull it. I could make out two figures on the high seat: one was wearing a suit of gleaming leather, a helmet and huge goggles that covered almost all his face; the other looked even stranger – he was a young Jew in a skull cap with side-locks, but also wearing immense goggles.

The man in leather climbed out of his ugly apparatus, walked up the steps on to the porch and rang the bell.

It was the Stammerer, looking very intense, pale and sombre.

‘Has something happened?’ I asked, surprised and alarmed by this nocturnal visit. This gentleman had never previously shown any interest in my person. I thought he had never even noticed that I existed. And how could he have found out where I live?

I could only assume that somehow the Stammerer had discovered that I had tried to follow him and had come to demand an explanation.

But when he spoke, it was about something completely different.

‘Maria Mironova, whom you knew under the name of Columbine, has jumped out of her window,’ the Stammerer informed me, without any greeting or apology for the late intrusion. I don’t know why I continue to call him by the nickname that I myself invented. There is no longer any point to this ludicrous trick, and in any case you know more about this man than I do. I do not know what he is really called, but in our club he was known by the strange name of Genji.

Not knowing what to say to this dismal news, I simply muttered: ‘How terrible. I hope at least she didn’t suffer before she died.’

‘Fortunately, she is still alive,’ Genji declared impassively. ‘A fantastic piece of luck. Columbine did not simply throw herself out of the window, for some reason she t-took a run and jumped – a very long way. That is what saved her. Of course, even though the side street is narrow, she could not possibly have jumped to the other side, but luckily for her, directly opposite her balcony there is an advertising sign – a tin angel. Columbine’s hem caught on the angel’s hand and she was l-left hanging there. Her dress was made of incredibly strong material – the same as my driving suit. It didn’t tear. The poor girl was stuck ten sazhens above the ground, unconscious and dangling head down, like a doll. And she was there for a long time, because no one noticed her in the dark. It was very difficult to get her down, they had to call the fire brigade to help. The young lady was taken to hospital, and when she recovered consciousness and was asked for the address of a relative, she gave them my telephone number. They phoned me and asked: “Does Mr Genji live here?”.’

I realised that he was not really speaking impassively, but making an immense effort to control his powerful agitation. The longer I listened to my late visitor, the more I wondered why he had come to me. What did he want? Genji is not the kind of man who needs someone to talk to after he has suffered some kind of shock. And in any case, I was not suited to playing the role of his confidant.

‘Have you come to me as a doctor?’ I enquired cautiously. ‘Do you want me to visit her in the hospital? But the young lady must have been examined already. And then, I am not a general practitioner, I’m an anatomist. My patients have no need of medical assistance.’

‘Miss Mironova has already been released from hospital, there is not a single scratch on her. My valet took her to my apartment, gave her hot Japanese vodka and put her to bed. Columbine will be p-perfectly all right now,’ said Genji, removing his gigantic goggles, and the gaze of his steely eyes made me feel uneasy. ‘I need you, Mr Horatio, not as a doctor, but in a different capacity. Your capacity as a collaborator.’

I raised my eyebrows in puzzlement, trying to pretend that I did not understand the term, but I turned cold inside.

‘Don’t waste your time, I saw through your cover a long time ago. You were eavesdropping on my conversation with Blagovolsky when I d-declared my purpose in joining the club. The door was slightly open and I saw a glint of light on glass through the crack. You are the only aspirant who wears spectacles. At the time, I admit, I thought
you
were the ubiquitous reporter Lavr Zhemailo. But the death of the journalist made it clear that I was mistaken. Then I asked my servant, with whom you are slightly acquainted, to take a look at you, and he confirmed my second hypothesis – you were the person who tried to t-trail me. On my instructions, Masa then proceeded to trail you. The gentleman in the check jacket whom you met yesterday on First Tverskaya-Yamskaya Street serves in the Gendarmes Department, does he not?’

I shuddered and asked: ‘What do you want with me? I’ve done you no harm, I swear it! The story of the “Lovers of Death” is over and done with, and the club has been disbanded.’

‘The club has been disbanded, but the story is not yet over. From the hospital I went to Columbine’s flat, and there I found this.’ Genji took a sheet of odd-looking marbled paper out of his pocket. Through the marbling I could see the words
Ich warte
. ‘This is the reason why Columbine jumped out of the window!’

I gazed at the paper in confusion and asked: ‘What does this mean?’

‘It means that my conclusions were erroneous because I accepted answers that were too facile and closed my eyes to a number of details and circumstances that didn’t fit the overall picture,’ Genji replied. ‘And that very nearly led to the death of a young woman whose life matters to me. You, Horatio, are going to come with me. You will be an official witness, and afterwards you will report what you have seen and heard to your gendarme b-bosses. For certain reasons that it is not necessary for you to know, I myself prefer not to meet the Moscow police. And I shall not be staying in the city for long. It would delay my record attempt.’

I did not understand the comment about a record attempt, but I decided not to ask. Still looking me in the eye, Genji added: ‘I know you are not an irredeemable scoundrel. You are simply a weak man, a victim of circumstances. Your case is not entirely hopeless. As it says in the scriptures: “Out of the weak shall come forth the strong.” Let’s go.’

His tone was peremptory and I could not resist. And, indeed, I did not wish to.

We drove to Rozhdestvensky Boulevard in the motor. I sat between Genji and his strange companion, clutching the handrail with both hands. The nightmarish device was driven by the young Jew, and on the corners, he cried out: ‘Pull, my beauties!’ We were moving so fast and jolting so hard that the only thought in my mind was how to avoid being thrown out of my seat.

Genji told the driver to stop at the corner. ‘We’ll go on from here on foot,’ he said. ‘The engine makes too much noise.’

The youth stayed to watch the auto and the two of us walked up the side street.

Despite the late hour, there was light in the windows of the familiar house.

‘The spider,’ Genji muttered, pulling off his gauntlets with immense cuffs. ‘Sitting there rubbing his feet together. Waiting for a moth to get caught in his web . . . When I have finished, you will summon the police by t-telephone. Give me your word that you will not try to detain me.’

‘I give you my word,’ I muttered obediently, although I still did not understand a thing.

The Doge opened the door to us without bothering to ask who had come to see him in the middle of the night. He was wearing a velvet dressing gown that looked like an old-fashioned caftan, with a white shirt and tie visible between the lapels. Prospero looked at us for a moment without speaking, laughed and said: ‘An interesting pair. I didn’t know that you were friends.’

I was astounded to see that he looked quite different from the way he had been at our last meeting – not pitiful and bewildered, but confident, even triumphant. Just like in the old days.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this late visit from such sullen guests?’ the Doge asked in the same derisive tone of voice, as he showed us through into the drawing room. ‘No, don’t tell me, let me guess. The suicides are continuing? The dissolution of the pernicious club has had no effect? And what did I tell you!’ He shook his head and sighed.

‘No, Mr Blagovolsky,’ Genji said in a quiet voice, ‘the c-club is no longer active. But there is just one final formality to be settled.’

Before he could say another word, the Doge leapt backwards spryly and pulled his Bulldog revolver out of his pocket. I gasped in surprise and dodged to one side.

Genji, however, was not perturbed in the slightest. He flung a heavy gauntlet into Blagovolsky’s face, at the same moment raising one foot in a brown shoe and gaiter and kicking the revolver with incredible agility.

The weapon was sent flying before it could be fired. I quickly picked it up and handed it to my companion.

‘May I consider this a confession?’ Genji asked in cold fury. His usual stammer had completely disappeared. ‘I could shoot you, Blagovolsky, this very moment, and it would be legitimate self-defence. But let us do everything according to the law.’

Prospero had turned pale and his recent scornful manner had disappeared without trace.

‘What confession?’ he muttered. ‘What law are you talking about? I don’t understand any of this. I thought you had gone insane, like Caliban, and come here to kill me. Who are you really? What do you want from me?’

‘I can see this is going to be a long conversation. Sit down,’ said Genji, pointing to a chair, ‘I knew you would try to deny everything.’

The Doge squinted warily at the revolver.

‘All right, all right. I’ll do whatever you say. But let’s go to the study. There’s a draught here and I’m feeling chilly.’

We walked through the dark dining room and sat down in the study: our host at the writing desk, Genji facing him in a huge armchair for visitors, and I at one side. The wide desk was in a state of great disorder, covered with a jumble of books with bookmarks and sheets of paper covered with writing. At the very centre there was an impressive inkstand of gleaming bronze in the form of several heroes from Russian folktales, and at one edge there was the familiar roulette wheel, which had been exiled from the drawing room and found sanctuary at the very heart of the house. No doubt the Wheel of Fortune was meant to remind our host of his days of former glory.