by Boris Akunin
Columbine was stung. So she only had an interesting silhouette, but he thought this snuffling Oriental was Tamerlaine? Genji also stared at his valet with a certain degree of amazement, but Masa wasn’t even slightly surprised – he merely turned sideways so that the artist could appreciate his flattened profile as well.
Genji cautiously took the artist by the sleeve: ‘Mr Stakhovich, we have not come here to p-pose for you. The yard keeper told me that on the n-night of the suicide you supposedly heard some unusual sounds on the other side of the wall. Try to describe them in as much detail as possible.’
‘That’s the sort of thing you don’t forget in a hurry. It was a foul night, the wind was howling outside, the trees were cracking, but I could still hear it.’ The artist scratched the back of his head as he remembered. ‘Well, it was like this. He came home just before midnight – he slammed the front door very loudly, which was something he never used to do.’
‘That’s right!’ Dashka-Dunya put in. ‘And I said to you: “He’s drunk. Now he’ll start bringing whores back.” Remember?’
Genji cast an embarrassed sideways glance at Columbine, which she found very amusing. Was he concerned for her morals now? It was already quite clear that Dashka spent the nights here as well as the days.
‘Yes, that was exactly what you said,’ the artist confirmed. ‘We go to bed late. I work and Dunya looks at the pictures in the magazines until I finish. He was dashing around on the other side of the wall, stamping his feet and muttering something. He burst out laughing a couple of times, and then started sobbing – in general, he seemed a bit upset. And then, well after midnight, it suddenly started. This howling – very sinister it was, and it came and went. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. At first I thought my neighbour had brought a stray dog home. But it didn’t sound like that. Then I imagined he’d gone barmy and started howling himself, but a man couldn’t have made sounds like that. It was a sort of deep, hollow sound, but at the same time it was articulate. As if it was chanting something, one word, over and over again. Two, three, four times in a row.’
‘O-o-o-oh!’ Dashka-Dunya howled in a deep bass voice. ‘Right, Sashura? Absolutely terrifying. O-o-o-oh!’
‘Yes, it was kind of like that,’ the artist said with a nod. ‘Only louder, and it was really weird. I’d say it wasn’t just “O-o-o-oh”, but more like “D-o-o-oh” or “K-o-o-oh”. It started with this vague, low sound, and then got louder and louder. Well, we make a bit of noise in here sometimes, so at first we put up with it. But when we went to bed – that was after three in the morning, we couldn’t take it any more. I banged on the wall and shouted: ‘Hey you, student, what kind of concert is that?’ But there was no answer. And it went on right until dawn.’
‘Just remembering it gives me goose pimples,’ the model complained to Masa, who was standing beside her, and he stroked her bare shoulder reassuringly, then left his hand where it was. Dashka-Dunya didn’t object.
‘Is that all?’ Genji asked pensively.
‘Yes,’ Stakhovich said with a shrug, observing Masa’s manoeuvres with amazement.
‘Thank you and g-goodbye. Madam.’
Genji bowed to the model and set off rapidly towards the door. Columbine and Masa went dashing after him.
‘Why didn’t you ask him about anything else?’ she asked him furiously, when they were already on the stairs. ‘He’d only just started talking about the most interesting part!’
‘He had already told us the most interesting part. That is one,’ Genji replied. ‘We wouldn’t have learned anything else interesting from him. That is two. Another minute and there could have been a scandalous incident, because someone was behaving with extreme impudence. That is three.’
After that he started speaking some kind of gibberish – it must have been Japanese, because Masa understood it very well and started gibbering away in reply. From his tone of voice he seemed to be making excuses.
Outside in the street Columbine suddenly felt as if she had been struck by lightning.
‘The voice!’ she cried out. ‘During the seance Ophelia mentioned some voice! Remember, when she was talking to Avaddon’s spirit!’
‘I remember, I remember. Don’t shout like that, p-people are looking at you,’ said Genji, the staid guardian of propriety. ‘But did you realise what that voice was singing? What it was calling on Avaddon to do? And in a way that left absolutely no room for doubt?’
She tried howling quietly: ‘Do-o-o-oh! Ko-o-o-oh!’
She imagined it was the dead of night, with a storm outside the window, a flickering candle flame, a white sheet of paper with crooked lines of writing. Oh my God!
‘Go-o-o!, g-o-o . . . Oi!’
‘Yes, “oi!” indeed. Just imagine it, a terrible inhuman voice repeating over and over again “Go, go, go”, hour after hour. And just b-before that Avaddon had been openly named as the Chosen One. That’s more than enough. Just write your farewell poem and p-put the noose round your neck.’
Columbine stopped and squeezed her eyes tight shut in order to remember this moment for ever. The moment when the miraculous had entered her life with all the incontrovertibility of scientific fact. It was one thing to dream of the Eternal Bridegroom, without being completely sure that he really existed. It was quite another thing to know, to know for certain.
‘Death is alive, he sees and hears everything, he is here beside us!’ Columbine whispered. ‘And Prospero is his servant! It’s all absolutely true! It’s not just a fantasy, it’s not a hallucination! Even the neighbours next door heard it!’
The surface of the pavement swayed beneath her feet. The young lady squeezed her eyes shut again in fright and grabbed hold of Genji’s arm, knowing that afterwards she would be angry with herself for being so weak and impressionable. Why, of course Death was a thinking, feeling being, how could it be otherwise?
She recovered quite quickly. She even laughed as she said: ‘Isn’t it wonderful that there are so many strange things all around us?’
It was well-put, impressive, and she glanced at Genji in the right way, throwing her head back slightly and half-lowering her eyelashes.
It was just a pity that he was looking off to one side and not at Columbine.
‘Mmm, yes, there are certainly many strange things,’ he murmured, not really seeming to have heard what she said. ‘ “Go, go” is impressive enough. But there is another circumstance even m-more surprising.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It is strange, surely, that the voice carried on howling right until dawn?’
‘Why is it?’ Columbine asked after thinking for a moment.
‘Avaddon hanged himself no later than three o’clock in the morning. There was no answer when Stakhovich started hammering on the wall some time after three. And the results of the autopsy indicate that d-death occurred at about three. If the Beast was sent by Death to summon her lover, then why would it carry on howling until d-dawn, when the guest had already arrived?’
‘Perhaps the Beast was mourning him?’ Columbine suggested uncertainly.
Genji looked at her reproachfully.
‘From the Beast’s point of view, it ought to have been rejoicing, not mourning. And then, long after the man had died, the Beast was still wailing “Go, go”. Doesn’t Death’s emissary strike you as being rather stupid?’
Yes, this is a very strange and mysterious story, thought Columbine. And the greatest mystery of all is why you brought me with you, sir.
The look in the prince’s blue eyes was warm and friendly, but she could not sense any hidden motive.
In short, it was a puzzle.
She shook the crystal teardrop from her lashes
From Basmannaya Street they drove for a long time past places that looked like hospitals and barracks, then the buildings on the streets gradually shrank and changed from stone to wood, until eventually the landscape became entirely rural. Columbine, however, did not look around much, she was still under t
he impression of the revelation that had been granted to her. Her companions did not speak either.
But then the carriage halted in the middle of a dusty, unpaved street lined with small, single-storey houses. On one side she could see the steep bank of a small river or a narrow ravine through the gap between two wooden fences.
‘Where are we?’ Columbine asked.
‘On the Yauza,’ Genji replied, as he jumped down from the footboard. ‘According to the description, th-that house over there is the one we need. This is where Ophelia used to l-live. Or to use her real name, Alexandra Sinichkina.’
Columbine could not help smiling at the funny name. Alexandra Sinichkina was even worse than Maria Mironova. No wonder the girl had preferred to be called Ophelia.
It turned out that the oracle of the ‘Lovers of Death’ had lived in a tidy little house that had four windows with white shutters, embroidered curtains and flowers on the window-sills: behind the house there was a green, leafy apple orchard, and the branches of the trees were bowed under the weight of gold and red fruit.
The knock at the gate was answered by a neat old woman of about forty-five, dressed in black.
‘Her mother,’ Genji explained in a low voice as the old woman walked towards them. ‘A provincial secretary’s widow. She and her daughter lived alone.’
When Ophelia’s mother came closer, her eyes proved to be as bright and clear as her daughter’s, but the eyelids were red and swollen. That was from crying, Columbine guessed, and she felt a sharp tingling in her nose. How could you explain to the poor woman that what had happened was not a misfortune at all, but the greatest possible blessing? She would never believe it.
‘Good afternoon, Serafima Kharitonovna,’ Genji said with a bow. ‘P-pardon us for disturbing you. We knew Alexandrovna Ivanovna . . .’
He hesitated, evidently uncertain how to introduce himself. After all, he wasn’t really a Japanese prince. But he was spared the need.
The widow opened the wicket gate and sobbed.
‘So you knew my Sashenka? She did have some friends after all? Thank you for coming to see me, I’ve been sitting here all on my own, with no one at all to talk to. The samovar’s all ready. We don’t have any relatives, and the neighbours don’t call, they turn their noses up. Of course, a suicide is a disgrace to the entire street.’
Their hostess led them into a small dining room where there were embroidered covers on the chairs, a portrait of some bishop on the wall and an old-fashioned clock ticking in the corner. She obviously really was in desperate need of company, because she started talking immediately and carried on with hardly a pause. She poured tea, but didn’t drink any herself, just ran her finger round the rim of the full cup.
‘While Sashenka was alive, we had plenty of lady visitors, everyone needed my daughter. They wanted her to read the candle wax, or cure a headache, or turn away the evil eye. Sashenka could do everything. Even tell if someone’s betrothed was still alive in a faraway country. And she did it all out of the goodness of her heart, she didn’t accept any gifts, she said that was wrong.’
‘Was it a talent that she was born with?’ Columbine asked sympathetically.
‘No, dear young lady, she wasn’t born with it. She was a weak child, always ailing. The Lord didn’t grant me children for long. He gave them to me for a year or two, or four at the most, and then took them back again. I buried six of them, and Sashenka was the youngest. I was so happy that she stayed in this world. She was sickly, but she was still alive – at five, and six, and seven. Every extra day was like a holiday for me, I praised God for it. And on Whit Sunday, when Sashenka was just eight, God worked a genuine miracle . . .’
Serafima Kharitonovna stopped talking and wiped away a tear.
‘Miracuw? What sort of miracuw?’ asked Masa, who was listening closely – he even stopped slurping from his saucer and put down his honeycake with a bite taken out of it.
‘Lightning struck the tree where she and two of the neighbours’ children were sheltering from the rain. The people who saw it said there was a loud crack and blue smoke, and the little boys dropped down dead, but my Sashenka just stood there without moving, with her fingers stretched out and sparks flying off her fingertips. She was unconscious for three days, and then she suddenly came round. I sat by her bed and all that time I didn’t eat or drink a thing, all I did was pray for the Holy Virgin’s intervention. Sashenka opened her eyes, and they were as bright and clear as a holy angel’s. And she was all right, she got up and started walking. And she wasn’t just alive, she was never ill again, never. But even that gift wasn’t enough for the Lord. In His mercy he decided to make Sashenka someone really special. At first I was frightened, but then I got used to it. I knew that when my daughter’s eyes turned transparent, it meant she was in her special state – she was hearing and seeing things that ordinary people couldn’t. At moments like that she could do all sorts of things. The year before last a little three-year-old boy went missing from round here and no one could find him. But Sashenka just sat for a while, then she moved her lips and said: “Look in the old well”. And they found him, alive, only he had a broken arm. That’s what she was like. And always talking about miracles and mysteries. She has a whole cupboard full of books in her room. Fairytales and fortune-telling and novels about all sorts of fairies and enchantresses.’
Ophelia’s mother glanced at Columbine.
‘And you were her friend? Such a fine-looking girl. And you dress modestly, not like these modern girls. Don’t you cry. I cried a bit myself, but then I stopped. What’s the point of crying? Sasha’s in heaven now, no matter what Father Innokentii might say about suicides.’
At that Columbine started crying in earnest. She felt so sorry for Ophelia and her wonderful gift that had been lost, she just couldn’t stand it.
Never mind, the whimpering worshipper of death told herself, hiding her red eyes from Genji and blowing her nose into a handkerchief. I’ll describe everything differently in the diary. So as not to seem like a fool. Like this, for example: ‘A crystal teardrop glinted in Columbine’s eyes, but the giddy girl shook her head and the teardrop flew off. There is nothing in the world that is worth feeling sad over for more than a minute. Ophelia did what she thought was right. The crystal teardrop was not dedicated to her, but to the poor old woman.’ And she could write a poem too. The first line simply wrote itself:
She shook the crystal teardrop from her lashes
‘Tell me, what happened that night?’ Genji asked, tactfully turning away from Columbine. ‘Why d-did she suddenly run off and drown herself ?’
‘Why, it didn’t happen like that at all,’ said the widow, holding up her hands. ‘She came home late, later than usual. My Sashenka lived as she liked. I knew she wouldn’t get up to anything bad. She often came back late, almost every day, but I always waited up for her, and I never pestered her with questions about where she’d been and what she’d been doing. I knew she’d tell if she wanted to. She was special, not like the other girls. I used to sit here, with the samovar all ready. Sashenka didn’t eat much, she was like a bird, but she liked her tea, with lime flowers . . . Well, I heard a cab drive up, and then a minute later she came in. Her face was really glowing, I’d never seen her like that before. I couldn’t help myself, I just had to find out why: “What’s happened to you? Another miracle? Or have you fallen in love?” “Don’t ask, mama,” she said. But I know her, and I wasn’t born yesterday. I could tell she’d been meeting a lover. It made me feel afraid, but happy too.’
Columbine shuddered when she remembered that evening and the way Prospero had told Ophelia to stay after the seance. Oh, tormentor! Oh, tyrant of poor helpless puppets! But what point was there in feeling jealous of a dead woman? And in any case, jealousy was a banal and unworthy feeling. If you had a lot of rivals, it meant you had chosen a worthy object for your love, she told herself, and suddenly wondered who actually was the object of her love – Prospero or Death? It didn’t really matt
er. She tried to picture the Eternal Bridegroom, and he appeared to her, not as a young Tsarevich, but as a wise, hoary-haired old man with a stern face and black eyes.
‘She only drank one cup of tea,’ the provincial secretary’s widow continued. ‘Then she stood right here, in front of the mirror, which she’d never done before in her life. She turned round this way and that way, laughed quietly and went to her room. But she came back less than a minute later, she hadn’t even changed her shoes. And her face was still the same, special. But her eyes were transparent, like two pieces of ice. I was frightened. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happened?” She said: “Goodbye, mama, I’m leaving now.” She wasn’t here any more, she was far away, she wasn’t looking at me. “I’ve been given a Sign,” she said. I dashed over to her and held her hand, I couldn’t make sense of anything. “Where are you going in the middle of the night? And what sort of sign do you mean?” Sashenka smiled and said: “The kind of sign you can’t mistake. Like King Balthazar’s. It’s meant to be. It’s fate. I’m used to listening to fate. Let me go. There’s nothing to be done.” She turned towards me and gave me a sweet look. “It’s only goodbye until we meet again. We will definitely meet again.” She said it very calmly. And like a fool, I let go of her hand. Sashenka kissed me on the cheek, put on her shawl and walked out of the door. I should have kept her here, stopped her, but I wasn’t used to gainsaying her when she was in that special state . . . I didn’t follow her outside. Later I followed the tracks of her heels and I saw she’d gone straight into the orchard, down to the river and into the water . . . without even stopping once. As if someone was waiting for her there.’
Genji asked quickly: ‘When she went out, d-did you go into her room?’
‘No, I sat here until the morning, waiting.’
‘And in the morning?’
