HOW SENKA SAW A SCENE
FROM BOCCACCIO
Erast Petrovich, righteous man that he was, didn’t abandon the poor orphan to the mercy of fate. In fact, he told him to collect his things and took him off to his own apartment, the one on Asheulov Lane, where Senka had the unfortunate idea (or perhaps it wasn’t unfortunate at all, but the very opposite – how could you tell?) of nicking that bundle from the ‘Chinee’.
It was a queer sort of apartment, not like what normal people had.
In one room there wasn’t any furniture at all, just stripy mattresses on the floor and that was all. That was where Masa and his master did their renzu, Japanese gymnastics. Just watching it was frightening. The way they flailed away with their arms and legs, it was a miracle they didn’t kill each other. Masa tried to get Senka to join in and scrap with them, but he got scared and ran off into the kitchen.
The kitchen was interesting too. Masa was in charge there. There was no stove, and no barrels of pickled cabbage or cucumbers. But in one corner there was this big cupboard called a ‘refrigerator’, which was always as cold as an ice cellar on the inside, and there was raw fish in it, on plates. The two tenants cut the fish into pieces, sprinkled it with brown vinegar and ate it just like that, with rice. They tried to give Senka some for breakfast too, but he didn’t touch the heathen muck and just chewed a bit of rice. And he didn’t drink the tea, either, because it wasn’t right at all – a funny yellow colour, it was, and not sweet at all.
Senka was given a place to sleep in his sensei’s room – there weren’t even any beds there, nothing but mats on the floor, like in Kulakov’s dosshouse. Never mind, Senka thought, better to sleep on the floor than in the cold damp ground with a pen stuck in your side. We’ll stick it out.
The weirdest place of all was the master’s study. Well, that’s what it was called, but it was more like a mechanic’s workshop really. The books on the shelves were mostly technical, in foreign languages: the desk was heaped high with strange drawings (they were called ‘blueprints’, with lots of very complicated lines); there were different-shaped bits of metal lying round the walls, with springs, rubber hoops and all sorts of other stuff. That was because Erast Petrovich was an engineer, he’d studied in America. Even his name wasn’t Russian: Mr Nameless. Senka really wanted to ask him what he needed all these thingamajigs for, but on that first day of his life on Asheulov Lane, there was no time for that.
They slept until late, after the kind of night they’d had. When they woke up, Mr Nameless and Masa were off, leaping about on the mattresses and yelling, battering away at each other, then they ate some of their raw fish, and Senka took Erast Petrovich off to meet Death.
On the way they started arguing about what she – Death that is –was like, good or bad.
Erast Petrovich said she was bad. ‘Judging from what you have t-told me, Spidorov, this woman revels in her ability to m-manipulate men, and not just any men, but the most c-cruel and pitiless of criminals. She is aware of their atrocities and lives a c-comfortable life on stolen money, but she is not g-guilty of anything herself, as it were. I am familiar with this b-breed, it can be found in all countries and in all classes of society. These so-called femmes fatales or infernal women are absolutely immoral creatures, they p-play with people’s lives, it is the only game that brings them any pleasure. Surely you can see that she was just t-toying with you, like a cat with a mouse?’
And when he said that Erast Petrovich was really angry, not like himself at all, as if he’d really suffered at the hands of these infernal women and they’d torn his life apart.
Only Death wasn’t any kind of infernal woman and she wasn’t immoral either, she was just unhappy. She didn’t revel in anything, she was simply lost, she couldn’t find her way. Senka told Erast Petrovich that. And he didn’t just say it – he shouted it out loud.
Erast Petrovich sighed and smiled – sadly, not sneering. ‘All right, Spidorov,’ he said. ‘I didn’t wish to offend your f-feelings, only I’m afraid there’s a painful d-disappointment in store for you. Well then, is she really so very lovely, this Khitrovka C-Carmen?’
Senka knew who Carmen was, he’d gone to the Bolshoi Theatre to see her with George. She was a fat Spanish woman with a big, loud voice who kept stamping her big feet and sticking her hands on her fat hips. Erast Petrovich looked like a clever man but he didn’t understand a thing about women. He could do with a few lessons from his servant.
‘Your Carmen’s a swamp toad compared with Death,’ Senka said, and spat to emphasise his point.
At the turn from Pokrovsky Boulevard on to Yauza Boulevard, Senka half stood up in the cab, then ducked back down and pressed himself down into the seat.
‘That’s her house,’ he whispered. ‘Only we can’t go there now. See those two hanging about over there? That’s Cudgel and Beak, they’re from the Ghoul’s deck. If they see me, there’ll be trouble.’
Erast Petrovich leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Drive round the c-corner and stop on Solyanka Street.’ And to Senka he said: ‘Apparently there’s something interesting g-going on. I’d like to take a look.’
When they’d driven past the Ghoul’s men, Senka straightened up again. ‘A look’s not very likely, but you could have a listen.’
And he led Erast Petrovich to the house through the back alleys.
The barrel that Senka had rolled up to the window was still standing where he left it.
‘Can you get through there?’ Senka asked, pointing to the half-open window of the water closet.
Mr Nameless jumped straight up on to the barrel from where he was standing, without any run-up, then he jumped again, pulled himself up with his hands and wormed his way through the small square opening, without any real effort. His heels disappeared inside. Senka climbed in too – not as nimbly, but even so he was in the privy soon enough.
‘A strange way of g-getting in to see a lady’, Erast Petrovich whispered, helping Senka to climb down. ‘What is behind the d-door?’
‘The room,’ Senka gasped. ‘The sitting room, that is. We could open the door a crack, quiet like, only just a little bit.’
‘Hmm, I see you have already p-patented this method of observation.’
And that was the end of the conversation.
Erast Petrovich opened the door a little bit, just a hair’s breadth, and put his eye to the crack. Senka tried arranging himself this way and that way (he was interested too) and eventually found the right position: he squatted down on his haunches and pressed himself against Mr Nameless’s hip, with his forehead against the doorpost. That is, he took a seat in the stalls.
He couldn’t believe his eyes – there had to be something wrong with them!
Death and the Ghoul were standing in the middle of the room with their arms round each other, and that greasy-haired slug was stroking her shoulder!
Senka either sobbed or sniffed – he couldn’t tell which it was himself – and he got a quick slap round the back of the head from Mr Nameless.
‘Ah, my lovely’ the Ghoul purred in a slimy voice. ‘Now that’s real consolation, that sweetens life up a bit. Of course, I’m not the Prince, I can’t give you gemstones, but I’ll bring you a silk scarf, from India. Incredibly beautiful, it is!’
‘Give it to your moll,’ said Death, backing off.
He grinned. ‘Jealous? My Manka’s not jealous. I’m in here with you, and she’s round the corner, keeping watch.’
‘Then give it to her, for her trouble. I don’t want your presents. That’s not what I love you for.’
‘What is it, then?’ the Ghoul asked, smiling even more broadly (Senka winced – his teeth were all yellow and rotten). ‘The Prince is a real wild one, but I’m better, am I?’
She gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘No one’s better than you in my mind.’
The Ghoul stared at her and screwed his eyes up. ‘I can’t understand you . . . But then, no one has enough nous to understand you women.’
He grabbed her by the shoulders and started kissing her. In his despair Senka hit his head against the wooden door – loudly. Erast Petrovich smacked him round the head again, but it was too late.
The Ghoul swung round sharply and pulled out his revolver. ‘Who’ve you got in there?’
‘Well, aren’t you the nervous one, and you a businessman too,’ said Death, wiping her lips in disgust. ‘It’s the draught blowing through the house, slamming the doors.’
There was a sudden whistle. And from close by too – inside the hallway, was it?
A hoarse voice (that was Beak, the one with the collapsed nose) said: ‘Manka’s given the shout – the superintendent’s on his way from Podkolokolny. With flowers. Maybe he’s coming here?’
‘Walking through Khitrovka, on his own?’ the Ghoul asked, surprised. ‘With no coppers? That takes guts.’
‘Boxman’s with him.’
The Ghoul disappeared like a shot. Then he shouted – probably from the hallway: ‘All right, darling, we’ll talk later. Give my regards to the Prince – that stag has big horns!’
The door slammed and it went quiet.
Death poured some brown water out of a carafe (Senka knew it was Jamaica rum) and took a sip, but she didn’t drink it, just rinsed out her mouth and spat it back into the glass. Then she took a piece of paper out of her pocket, unfolded it and held it up to her nose. After she’d breathed in the white powder, she relaxed a little bit and started sighing.
But Senka didn’t have any cocaine, so he just sat there numb, as if he’d turned into a block of ice. So an honest young lad with sugar-sweet shoulders and a ‘mon ange’ didn’t suit her, she couldn’t do it with him! But she could with this sticky-lipped slimeball?
Senka moved – and the engineer’s fingers beat a warning tattoo on the top of his head: Sit still, it’s too soon to come out.
Oh Lord, it couldn’t be true! Only it was, she was a whore with no morals at all, Erast Petrovich was right . . .
But this was only the first shock for Senka.
A minute went by, or maybe two, and there was a knock at the door.
Death swayed on her feet and pulled her shawl tight across her chest. She shouted: ‘It’s open!’
There was a jangle of spurs, and a bold officer’s voice said: ‘Here I am, Mademoiselle Morte. I promised to come for your answer at exactly five, and as a man of honour, I have kept my word. You decide: this is a bunch of violets, and this is an order for your arrest. Choose for yourself.’
Senka didn’t understand at first what violets had to do with anything, but then Superintendent Solntsev – it was his voice – went on to say:
‘As I already told you, I am in possession of reliable information from my agents which demonstrates beyond all doubt that you are involved in a criminally culpable relationship with the bandit and murderer Dron Vesyolov, also known as the Prince.’
‘And why waste government money on paying your agents? Everybody knows about me and the Prince,’ Death answered in a casual voice, sounding almost bored.
‘It’s one thing to know, and another to have properly documented and signed witness statements and, in addition, photographic pictures taken secretly, according to the very latest method. That, Fräulein Tod, contravenes two articles of the Criminal Code. Six years of exile. And a good prosecutor will tack on aiding and abetting banditry and murder. That’s hard labour, seven years of it. It’s appalling even to think what the guards – and anyone else whose fancy you tickle – will do with a girl from a simple family like you. I don’t envy your beauty. You’ll come out a total ruin.’
Then Colonel Solntsev himself appeared in the crack of the door –smart and spruce, with that gleaming parting. He really was holding a bunch of Parma violets (‘cunning’ in the language of flowers) in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other.
‘Well, and what is it you want?’ Death asked, setting her hands on her hips, which really did make her look like the Spanish woman in the opera. ‘Do you want me to betray my lover to you?’
‘What the hell do I want with that Prince of yours!’ the superintendent exclaimed. ‘When the time comes, I’ll take him anyway! You know perfectly well what I want from you. I used to beg before, but now I demand. If you won’t be mine, then it’s penal servitude! On the word of an officer!’
A steely muscle in Erast Petrovich’s thigh twitched – Senka felt it with his cheek – and Senka’s own hands clenched into tight fists. What a rotten louse that superintendent was!
But Death only laughed. ‘My gallant knight, do you woo all the ladies this way?’
‘I’ve never wooed anyone,’ said Solntsev, and his voice was trembling with passion. ‘They come running after me. But you ... you have driven me out of my mind! What’s that criminal to you? Tomorrow or the next day, he’ll be lying in the gutter, shot full of holes by police bullets. But I’ll give you everything: full upkeep, protection from your former friends, the position you deserve. I can’t marry you –I won’t lie, and you wouldn’t believe me anyway. But love and marriage are quite different substances. When the time comes for me to marry, I won’t choose my bride for her beauty, and my heart will still belong to you. Oh, I have great plans! The day will come when you’ll be the uncrowned queen of Moscow, and perhaps even more! Well?’
Death didn’t answer straight away. She tilted her head, and looked at him as though he was some curious object.
‘Tell me something else,’ she said. ‘I just can’t make up my mind.’
‘Ah, so that’s the way!’ said the superintendent, flinging the bouquet down on the floor. ‘All’s fair in love and war. I won’t just throw you in prison, I’ll close down that damn orphans’ poorhouse you support. It runs on stolen money and it only raises more thieves! Don’t you forget, my word’s as tough as steel!’
‘Now that’s more like it,’ said Death, smiling at something. ‘That’s convincing. I agree. Tell me your terms and conditions, Innokentii Romanich.’
The colonel seemed rather taken aback by this sudden compliance, and he backed away a couple of steps, which took him out of view again.
But it didn’t take him long to recover. There was a creak of boot leather and a hand in a white glove reached down to pick up the bouquet.
‘I do not understand you, Señora Morte, but let that be, it is not important. Only bear in mind that I am a proud man and I will not be made a fool of. If you take it into your head to cheat me ...’ His fist clenched round the violets so tightly that all the stems snapped. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, that’s clear. Get to the point.’
‘All right, then.’ Solntsev reappeared in the crack. He was about to present her with the bouquet, but then he noticed that the flowers were limp and lifeless, and tossed them on to the table. ‘Until I take out the Prince, you will live here. I’ll come in secret, at night. And you’d better be affectionate! I don’t tolerate coldness in love.’
He took off his gloves, threw them on the table too and reached out for her.
‘And won’t you be afraid to come to me?’ Death asked. ‘Doesn’t it frighten you?’
The superintendent’s hands dropped. ‘That’s all right. I’ll bring Boxman with me. The Prince won’t dare stick his nose in with him around.’
‘I don’t mean the Prince,’ she said quietly, moving closer. ‘Isn’t it a fearful thing to toy with Death? Have you never heard what happens to my lovers?’
He laughed. ‘Nonsense. Tall tales for ignorant proles.’
She laughed as well, but in a way that made Senka’s skin crawl. ‘Why, Innokentii Romanich, you’re a materialist. That’s good, I like materialists. Well then, let’s go to the bedroom, since you’re so very brave. I’ll give you the sweetest hugging I can.’
Oh, didn’t Senka just groan at that! To himself, of course, quietly, but that only made the groan all the more painful. What George said about women was right: ‘Moncher, essentially they are all bedspreads. They lay themselves out for whoever pushes the hardest.’
Senka thought the superintendent would go dashing into the bedroom after what she’d just said, but he jangled his watch and sighed. ‘I am ablaze with passion, but I cannot quench the flames now, I’ve been called to the police chief’s office to report at half past six. I’ll drop in late this evening. And mind now, no tricks!’
The brazen dog patted Death on the cheek and walked to the door, jingling his spurs.
Death took out her handkerchief and lifted it to her face, as if she was going to wipe her cheek, but she didn’t. She sat down at the table and sank her face into her crossed arms. If she had started to cry, Senka would have forgiven her everything, but she didn’t cry –her shoulders didn’t shake, and he couldn’t hear any sobbing. She just sat there like that.
Senka raised his head and gave Mr Nameless a rueful look: what a fool I am.
But he shook his head thoughtfully and moved his lips, and Senka guessed rather than heard what he said: ‘An interesting individual . . .’
Erast Petrovich winked at him, as if to say: don’t let it get you down. Then he signalled – the time had clearly come to get involved.
But more footsteps came – not crisp steps, like the superintendent’s, but heavy, plodding ones, with a bit of a shuffle.
‘Well then, begging your pardon,’ said a gruff bass voice.
Boxman! Senka grabbed Mr Nameless by the knee: Stop, you mustn’t go out! ‘His Honour forgot his gloves. He sent me, decided not to come himself.’
Death raised her head. No, there weren’t any tears on her face, but her eyes were blazing even brighter than they always did.
‘I should think not.’ She laughed. ‘Innokentii Romanich made such a grand exit. Coming back for his gloves would spoil the whole effect. Take them, Ivan Fedotich.’
She picked the gloves up off the table and threw them to him. But Boxman didn’t go straight away.
‘Oh, girl, girl, just look at what you’re doing to yourself! God gave you all that beauty, and you drag it through the mud, you mock God’s gift. That peacock came out of here gleaming like a fresh-polished boot. So you didn’t refuse him either. But that titch is nothing, he’s not even a peacock – he’s a wet chicken. And the Prince, your fancy man, is a festering pimple. Squeeze him, and he’ll burst. Is that the kind you really want? You’ve got fog in your head and a darkness in your soul. You need a straightforward, strong man with a huge fortune, something you can cling to while you catch your breath and get your feet on the ground.’
Death raised her eyebrows in surprise: ‘What’s this, Ivan Fedotich. Have you turned matchmaker in your old age? I’d be interested to know who you want to match me with. Who is this rich man you talk of?’
Just then an angry voice shouted from somewhere – could it have been the hallway?
‘Boxman, you idle good-for-nothing, what are you doing in there so long?’
Boxman finished his piece in a hurry: ‘I only want what’s good for you, you miserable fool. I have in mind a certain man, who would be your strength and protection and salvation. I’ll call in later and we’ll have a little talk.’
There was tramping of heavy boots, and the door slammed.
Death was alone again, but she didn’t sit down at the table this time. She walked to the far corner of the room, where the cracked mirror hung, stood in front of it and examined herself. She shook her head and even seemed to mutter something under her breath, but Senka couldn’t make it out.
‘Well now, Semyon Spidorov,’ Mr Nameless whispered. ‘Pardon the literary allusion, but this scene is straight from Boccaccio. Right, I’ll join in and try my luck. I bet my entrance will be even more impressive than the departure of Colonel Solntsev. And you climb back out, there’s nothing for you here. Through the window, at the double!’ And he pointed the way.
Senka didn’t argue. He stepped on to the china bowl (a ‘lavatory basin’, it was called, they had the same kind in the bordello, and there was another kind of bowl too, for women to rinse themselves off, that was called a ‘bidet’) and he pretended to be reaching up to the little window, only when Erast Petrovich knocked on the door and stepped into the room, Senka tumbled straight back down again. Resumed his observation post, so to speak.