by Boris Akunin
‘Ah, yes, I b-beg your pardon,’ said her chance acquaintance, bowing jokingly. ‘I meant to say Mr Prospero. Indeed, I was warned most strictly that it is not the d-done thing to use one’s own name here. So you must be Zemfira, say, or Malvina?’
‘I am Columbine,’ she replied coolly. ‘But who are you?’
Once he walked into the hallway he was able to see who it was that had opened the door for him. He recognised her, but gave no sign of being surprised.
‘Hello, mysterious stranger. Well, it’s a small world, as they say.’ Lucifer was dozing on the girl’s neck and he stroked the snake’s head. ‘Hello there, little one. Allow m-me to introduce myself, Mademoiselle Columbine. Mr Blago . . . that is, Mr Prospero and I agreed that here I will be known as Genji.’
‘Genji? What a strange name!’
She simply couldn’t understand what this mysterious appearance could mean. What had this gentleman with a stammer been doing at Avaddon’s flat? And what did he want here?
‘In olden times there was a Japanese p-prince by that name. A seeker of thrills such as myself.’
She rather liked the unusual name – Genji. Japonisme was so refined. So, it was not ‘Your Excellency’ but actually ‘Your Highness’. Columbine chuckled sarcastically, but she had to admit that the dandy really was remarkably like a prince, if not Japanese, then at least a European one, like in Stevenson.
‘Was your companion Japanese?’ she asked, struck by a sudden insight. ‘The one I saw on Basmannaya Street? Is that why he kept talking about samurais and cutting out stomachs?’
‘Yes, he is my valet and closest friend. By the way, you were wrong to call us cl-clowns.’ Genji shook his head reproachfully. ‘Masa has great respect for the institution of suicide. As, indeed, do I. Otherwise I would not be here, would I?’
She rather doubted the sincerity of that last assertion – the tone in which it was made was far too flippant.
‘You don’t look as if you were particularly keen to leave this world,’ Columbine said mistrustfully, looking into the visitor’s calm eyes.
‘I assure you, Mademoiselle Columbine, that I am a desperate man, c-capable of the most extreme, quite inconceivable actions.’
Once again he spoke in a way that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or joking. But then she suddenly remembered the Doge’s story about ‘a highly interesting character’. He wasn’t like any of the other aspirants. In fact, she had never seen anyone of his type before.
‘Well, now you’re here, let’s go,’ she said coolly, so that he wouldn’t get too high an opinion of himself. ‘You still have to pass the test.’
They entered the salon just as Gdlevsky was completing his recitation and Rosencrantz was preparing for his performance.
Telling the twins apart had turned out to be quite easy. Guildenstern spoke quite faultless Russian (he had studied at a Russian grammar school) and his disposition was noticeably more cheerful. Rosencrantz was always writing something down on a thick notepad and he sighed frequently. Columbine often caught his doleful Baltic glance on her, and although her own response was uncompromising, she enjoyed this silent adoration. It was a pity that the young German’s poetry was so appallingly bad.
This time he had taken up that solemn pose again: feet in position three, the fingers of the right hand spread out like a fan, his eyes fixed on Columbine.
The pitiless Doge interrupted him after the very first stanza.
‘Thank you, Rosencrantz. You can’t say “weeping with a sighfully pure tear” in Russian, but you did do a little better today. Ladies and gentlemen! Here is the candidate for Avaddon’s place,’ he said, introducing the newcomer, who had halted in the doorway and was surveying the drawing room and the people gathered in it with a curious glance.
Everyone turned towards the candidate and he gave a light bow.
‘It is our custom to hold a kind of poetic examination,’ the Doge told him. ‘I only need to hear a few lines of a poem written by a candidate and I can tell immediately if his way lies with us or not. You write verse that is unusual for our literature, with no rhymes or rhythm, and so it is only fair if I ask you to extemporise on a theme that I set.’
‘By all means,’ Genji replied, not disconcerted in the least. ‘What theme would you l-like to suggest?’
Columbine noticed that Prospero addressed him in a rather formal tone, which was unusual in itself. This formidable gentleman had obviously made quite an impression.
The chairman paused for a long moment. Everyone held their breath and waited: they knew that in a moment he would dumbfound the self-confident novice with some paradox or sudden surprise.
And so he did. Flinging back his lacy cuff (today the Doge was dressed as a Spanish grandee, which suited his beard and long hair very well), Prospero took a red apple out of a bowl and sank his firm teeth into it with a crunch. He chewed, swallowed and glanced at Genji.
‘There is your subject.’
They all looked at each other. What kind of subject was that?
Petya whispered to Columbine: ‘He did that on purpose. Now he’ll shoot him down, just you see.’
‘A b-bitten apple, or an apple in general?’ the probationer enquired.
‘That is for you to decide.’
Prospero smiled contentedly and sat on his throne.
With a shrug of his shoulders, as if this was all the merest of trifles, Genji recited:
The apple is beautiful,
Not on the branch or in the stomach
But in the moment of its fall.
Everybody waited for the continuation. But none came. Then Cyrano shook his head and Kriton giggled rather loudly, although Gdlevsky nodded approvingly and the Lioness of Ecstasy even exclaimed: ‘Bravo!’
Columbine had been about to pull a disdainful face, but instead she assumed a thoughtful air. If the two leading luminaries had seen something in Prince Genji’s outlandish composition, it couldn’t be entirely irredeemable. But of course, the important opinion was the Doge’s.
Prospero walked up to Genji and shook him firmly by the hand.
‘I was not mistaken in you. Precisely so: the essence lies neither in dreary existence nor in decay following death, but in the catharsis that transforms one into the other. Precisely so! And so terse, not a single superfluous word! So help me, the Japanese have something to teach us.’
Columbine squinted sideways at Petya. He shrugged – like her, he had clearly failed to find anything exceptional in the aphorism he had just heard.
The new aspirant strolled across the salon and declared in a tone of surprise: ‘I was certain that the interview with the high priest of the suicide club p-printed in the Courier was a stupid hoax. However, the description of the way the room is furnished was exact, and the worthy Doge himself seems to have been drawn from the life. Is such a thing really possible? Did you meet with a c-correspondent, Mr Prospero? But what for?’
There was an awkward silence for, without knowing it, Genji had touched on a sore point. The calamitous article, which had expounded Prospero’s views rather precisely and even directly quoted some of his favourite maxims, had caused a real storm in the club. The Doge had formally interrogated every one of them in an attempt to discover if one of his followers had been too open with outsiders, but he had failed to identify the informant.
‘I didn’t talk to any correspondent!’ Prospero said angrily and gestured round the aspirants. ‘There’s a Judas here, among my own disciples! Either out of vanity, or for a few silver pieces, one of them has held me and our society up to the mockery of the crowd. Genji, to be quite honest, I have special hopes for you. You impressed me with your remarkable analytical abilities. With only a few scattered crumbs of information to go on, you unerringly followed the trail to the “Lovers of Death” and identified me as the leader of the club. So perhaps you will assist me to expose the mangy sheep that has insinuated itself into my flock?’
‘I expect that will not be difficult
,’ said Genji, glancing round at the faces of the hushed ‘lovers’. ‘But first I shall have to g-get to know these ladies and gentlemen a little better.’
No one liked the sound of these words at all, they sounded far too menacing.
‘Only hurry,’ Kriton laughed. ‘The acquaintance might prove to be short, since we stand on the edge of a gaping grave.’
Cyrano wrinkled up his monumental nose and declaimed with a sneer:
Set the secret police to work
Make the cunning rogue confess
Send the rascal to the block
To edify and scare the rest.
Even prim, starchy Horatio, the bard of the anatomist’s art, who did not open his mouth very often, was outraged: ‘The last thing we need here is detectives and informers!’
Columbine suddenly felt afraid. This was a genuine revolt. Well, now the troublemakers would get what they deserved! Prospero would unleash the withering force of his wrath against the rebels.
But the Doge did not cast any thunderbolts or wave his arms in the air. His face took on a sad expression and his head sank down on to his chest.
‘I know,’ Prospero said in a quiet voice. ‘I have always known. One of you will betray me.’
And with that he got up and walked out of the door without saying another word.
‘Teacher! As long as I’m here, you have nothing to fear!’ Caliban roared furiously and looked at Kriton, who was standing beside him, with an expression of such intense hatred that the goat-hoofed preacher of amorous passion recoiled in horror.
Columbine’s heart was aching with compassion. She would have gone dashing after Prospero, if only she dared. Then he would know that she at least would never betray him!
But the door slammed shut adamantly. Columbine knew only too well what lay beyond it: a sparsely furnished dining room, then a large study crowded with massive furniture, and after that – the bedroom that she dreamed about so often at night. You could get straight out of the study into the corridor and then into the hallway. That was the inglorious route that Columbine herself had followed twice as she left those sacred halls, crushed and confused . . .
‘Vill zere be no zeance?’ Rosencrantz asked, fluttering his white eyelashes. ‘But ze Toge said today voz a perfect evening for talking vith ze spirits of ze dead. A starry sky, a fat moon. It is a shame to miss zuch a shance!’
‘What do you say, dear?’ the Lioness of Ecstasy asked Ophelia gently, as if she were a little child. ‘After all, we really have been waiting so long for the full moon. What can you feel? Will we be able to establish contact with the World Beyond today?’
Ophelia smiled in confusion and babbled in her thin little voice: ‘Yes, today is a special night, I can feel it. But I can’t do it on my own, someone has to lead me. I need a calm, confident pair of eyes so that I don’t lose my way in the fog. Only Prospero has eyes like that. No, ladies and gentlemen, I simply can’t do it without him.’
‘So we’re going home then?’ asked Guildenstern. ‘That’s stupid. The time’s just been wasted. I’d have been better off studying. The exams are soon.’
Some people were already on their way to the door, but the new member walked over to Ophelia, took her by the hand, looked straight into her face and said quietly: ‘Well now, my d-dear young lady, look into my eyes. That’s right. Good. You can trust me.’
God only knows what Ophelia saw in his eyes, but she suddenly became calm, the wrinkles disappeared from her clear little forehead, and her smile was no longer confused, but radiant.
‘Yes,’ she said with a nod. ‘I trust you. We could try.’
Columbine almost choked on her indignation. A spiritualist seance without Prospero? Unthinkable! Just who did this svelte gentleman think he was? He was an impostor, an upstart, a usurper! And this would be an even worse betrayal of the Doge than careless talk with a newspaper reporter!
However, the others did not appear to share her sense of outrage, in fact they seemed intrigued. Even Caliban, the Doge’s devoted minion, asked Prince Genji in an almost obsequious voice: ‘Are you sure it will work? Will you be able to summon the spirits? And will they name the next Chosen One?’
Genji shrugged.
‘Why, naturally it will work. They’ll show up, as meek as lambs. And we’ll find out soon enough what they have to t-tell us.’
He calmly seated himself on the chairman’s throne and all the others rushed to take their places, with their fingers spread out wide.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Petya, turning to look at the outraged Columbine. ‘Sit down. Without you there’s a link missing.’
And so she sat down. It was hard to go against everyone else all on your own. And of course, she felt curious as well – would it really work?
Genji clapped his hands rapidly three times and it suddenly went very quiet.
‘Look only at me, Mademoiselle,’ he told Ophelia. ‘You must shut down the other f-four senses and leave only hearing. Listen to the silence. And you, gentlemen, do not distract the medium with extraneous sounds.’
Columbine looked at him in absolute amazement. How quickly this man, who had only just appeared in the club, had imposed his authority on all the others! No one had even attempted to dispute his leadership, and yet he hadn’t done anything special, and he had spoken no more than a few words. Then the recent grammar-school girl remembered how in one lesson their history teacher, Ivan Ferdinandovich Segiur (all the girls in seventh class were in love with him), had told them about the role of strong personalities in society.
There were two types of strong personalities: the first was full of energy, highly active, he would out-shout anyone, override and bedazzle them and drag them after him, even against their own will; the second was taciturn and at first glance seemed rather inactive, but he conquered the crowd with an aura of calm, confident power. The strength of leaders of this kind, wise Ivan Ferdinandovich had asserted, with the glint of his pince-nez fascinating the female pupils, derived from a natural psychological defect – they felt no fear of death. On the contrary, everything they did seemed intended to tempt or summon death to them: quickly, come and take me. Grammar-school girl Mironova’s breast had heaved under her white apron and her cheeks had blazed bright red, she found what her teacher said so exciting.
Now, thanks to Segiur, she realised why a person like Prince Genji had wanted to join the ‘Lovers of Death’. He really must be an exceptional personality, truly desperate and capable of acting in extreme ways.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked Ophelia.
She was already in a trance: her eyelashes were drooping, her face was blank, her lips were moving faintly.
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ she replied, still speaking in her normal voice.
‘What was the n-name of the last Chosen One, the one who hanged himself?’ Genji asked quietly, turning to Guildenstern, who was sitting beside him.
‘Avaddon.’
Genji nodded and said to Ophelia: ‘Summon the spirit of Avaddon.’
For about a minute nothing happened. Then Columbine felt the familiar cold breeze that always took her breath away blow over the table. The flames of the candles fluttered and Ophelia threw her head back as if it had been pushed by some invisible force.
‘I’m here,’ she said in a hoarse, muffled voice that sounded very like the voice of a man who had hanged himself. ‘It’s hard to talk. My throat’s crushed.’
‘We won’t torment you for long.’ It was strange, but as he talked to the spirit, Genji stopped stammering completely. ‘Avaddon, where are you?’
‘Between.’
‘Between what and what?’
‘Between something and nothing.’
‘Ask what he’s feeling now,’ the Lioness whispered excitedly.
‘Tell me, Avaddon, what feelings are you experiencing now?’
‘Fear . . . I’m afraid . . . very afraid . . .’
Poor little Ophelia started shaking all over, her teeth even started chatte
ring, and her pink little lips turned purple.
‘Why did you decide to leave this life?’
‘I was sent a Sign.’
Everybody held their breath.
‘What Sign?’
The spirit didn’t answer for a long time. Ophelia opened and closed her mouth without making any sound, her forehead wrinkled up as if she was trying very hard to listen to something, her nostrils distended. Columbine felt afraid now that the medium would start talking meaningless gibberish, as she had during all the latest seances.
‘Howling . . .’ Ophelia exclaimed hoarsely. ‘A terrible, eerie howling . . . A voice calling me . . . It’s a Beast . . . She has sent a Beast for me . . . I can’t bear it! One more line, just write the last line, and then no more, no more, no more. Oh, where am I? Oh, where am I? Oh, where am I?’
After that the words became unintelligible. Ophelia was shaking all over. She suddenly opened her eyes, and there was such inexpressible horror in them that several people cried out.
‘Go back! Go back immediately!’ Genji exclaimed abruptly. ‘Go in peace, Avaddon. And you, Ophelia, come to me. This way, this way . . . Calmly now.’
She gradually came round. She shuddered and started sobbing. The Lioness hugged her, kissed her on the top of her head and murmured something reassuring.
But Columbine sat there, overwhelmed by the blood-chilling revelation. A Sign! The Sign of the Beast! Death had sent a Beast to Avaddon, her Chosen One! ‘The Beast is near!’ ‘The sated Beast!’ It wasn’t a metaphor, not just a figure of speech!
At that moment she glanced round and saw Prospero standing in the doorway that led from the drawing room into the hallway and watching everyone who had taken part in the seance. There was a strange, lost expression frozen on his face. She suddenly felt so sorry for him – no words could have expressed it! In Christ’s twelve disciples, there had only been one Judas, but here every one of them had betrayed and abandoned their teacher.
