He Lover of Death

HOW SENKA READ OTHER PEOPLE’S LETTERS

There was a big mirror in Erast Petrovich’s study. Well, not when they got there, but the engineer had a pier-glass set on top of the desk, and then he laid out all sorts of little bottles and jars and boxes in front of it, so it looked just like a hairdressing salon. In fact there were wigs there too, in every possible degree of hairiness and colour. When Senka asked what Mr Nameless needed all this for, he answered mysteriously that the fancy-dress ball season was about to begin.

At first Senka thought he was joking. But Senka was the first to make use of the facilities.

The day after the deduction and projection, Erast Petrovich sat Senka down in front of the mirror and started mocking the poor orphan something terrible. First he rubbed some nasty kind of muck into his hair, and that ruined the coiffure Senka had paid three roubles for. His hair was a nice golden colour, but that rotten grease turned it into a sticky, mousy-grey tangle.

Masa was watching this cruel abuse. He clicked his tongue in approval and said: ‘He need rice.’

‘You don’t need to t-tell me that,’ the engineer replied, concentrating on what he was doing. He took a pinch of something out of a little box and rubbed some little grains or pellets into the back of Senka’s neck.

‘What’s that?’

‘Dried lice. Fauna that every b-beggar has to have. Don’t worry, we’ll wash your hair with p-paraffin afterwards.’

Senka’s jaw dropped open and the dastardly Mr Nameless immediately took advantage of this to paint his golden crown a rotten colour, then stuck some thingamajig wrapped in gauze into Senka’s open mouth and arranged it between his gum and his cheek. It twisted Senka’s entire mug – his face, that is – over to one side. Meanwhile Erast Petrovich was already rubbing his victim’s forehead, nose and neck with oil that turned his skin a muddy colour, with wide-open pores.

‘The ears,’ the sensei suggested.

‘Won’t that b-be too much?’ the engineer asked doubtfully, but he rubbed his little stick inside Senka’s ears anyway.

That tickles!’

‘Yes, I think it really is b-better with suppurating ears,’ Erast Petrovich said thoughtfully. ‘Now, let us m-move on to the wardrobe.’

He took some tattered rags out of the cupboard, far tattier than anything Senka had ever worn in his life, even during the very worst times with Uncle Zot.

Senka looked at himself in the triple mirror and twirled this way and that. No doubt about it, he certainly made a fine beggar. And the important thing was, no one would ever recognise him. One thing was still niggling him, though.

‘The beggars have all the places divvied up between themselves,’ he started explaining to Erast Petrovich. ‘You have to deal with their head man. If I just turn up on the porch out of nowhere, they’ll send me packing, and they’ll give me a good thrashing too.’

‘If they try to d-drive you away, chew on this,’ said the engineer, handing him a smooth little ball. ‘It’s ordinary children’s s-soap, strawberry flavoured. A simple trick, but effective, I b-borrowed it from a certain remarkable t-trickster. Only when the foam starts p-pouring out of your mouth, don’t f-forget to roll your eyes up.’

But Senka still had his worries. He walked to the church of St Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on Podkopaevsky Lane, sat down on the very edge of the porch and rolled his eyes right up under his forehead straight off, just to be on the safe side. The hysterical old grandma and noseless old grandad who were begging near by started grumbling and grousing. Clear out, they said, we don’t know you, the takings is poor enough already, wait till Boxman comes, he’ll soon show you what’s what – and all sorts of other stuff like that.

But when Boxman did come and the beggars snitched on the new boy to him, Senka started forcing foam out through his lips and shaking his shoulders and whining in a thin little voice. Boxman looked at him, then looked again and said: ‘Can’t you bastards see he’s a genuine epileptical? Leave him alone, let him eat, and I won’t take any remunerations from you for him.’ That was Boxman for you – always fair. That was why he’d lasted twenty years in Khitrovka.

So the beggars stopped pestering Senka. He relaxed a bit, rolled his eyes back down from under his forehead and started flashing them this way and that. People really didn’t give very much, mostly kopecks and half-kopecks. Once Mikheika the Night-Owl walked past and out of sheer boredom (and to check how good his disguise was as well), Senka grabbed him by the flap of his coat and started whining: Give a poor cripple a coin or two. Night-Owl didn’t give him anything, and he called him foul names, but he didn’t recognise him. After that Senka stopped worrying altogether.

When the bells rang for mass and the women started walking into the church, Death appeared round the corner of Podkolokolny Street. She was dressed plainly, in a white shawl and a grey dress, but even so she lit up the lane like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud.

She glanced at all the beggars, but her eyes didn’t linger on Senka. Then she walked in the door.

Oh-oh, he thought. Has Erast Petrovich overdone it? How would Death know who to give the note to?

So when the worshippers started coming out after the service, Senka deliberately started whining through his nose and stammering – so that Death would realise who he was hinting at: ‘Good k-kind people! Don’t be angry with a c-crippled orphan for b-begging! Help m-me if you can! I’m not from these p-parts, I don’t kn-know anyone round here. Give me a c-crust of bread and a c-coin or two!’

She looked a bit more closely at Senka and started tittering. So she’d guessed all right. She put a coin in every beggar’s hand, and gave Senka a five-kopeck piece too, and a folded piece of paper to go with it.

Then she went off, covering her mouth with the edge of her shawl, because she found Senka’s disguise so amusing.

As soon as he’d hobbled his way out of Khitrovka, Senka squatted down by an advertisement column, unfolded the sheet of paper and started reading it. Death’s handwriting was regular and easy to read, even though the letters were really tiny:

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich. I’ve done everything you told me to. I hung the petal round my neck and he noticed it straight away. [What petal’s that, then, thought Senka, scratching his head. And who’s ‘he’? Never mind. Maybe that’ll get cleared up later.] He pulled a face and said you’re barmy. Hanging that rubbish round your neck and not wearing the presents I give you. He tried to find out if it was a present from someone. As we agreed I said it was from Speedy Senka. He started shouting. That snot-nosed little pup he said. When I get my handson him I’ll tear him apart. [So it was the Prince she meant! The crumpled piece of paper trembled in Senka’s hands. What was she up to? Why was she setting him up like that? Did she want to make sure the Prince did him in? He didn’t know anything about any petal! He’d never even seen it, let alone given it to her! After that he skimmed the lines more quickly.] It’s hard being with him. He’s drunk and gloomy all the time and keeps making threats. He’s very jealous of me. It’s a good thing he only knows about Speedy. [Oh, yeah, what could be better, thought Senka, cringing pitifully.] If he found out about the others blood would be spilled. I’ve tried asking him in all sorts of ways. He denies everything. He says I don’t know anything about who’s doing these shameless things, I only wish I did. When I find out I’ll tell you if you’re so interested. But I can’t work out if he’s telling the truth because he’s not the same man he was before. He’s more like a wild beast than a man. He’s always snarling and baring his teeth. And I wanted to say something about our last conversation too. Don’t reproach me for being immoral, Erast Petrovich. Some things are written into people when they are born and they are not free to change them. What is written from above can only be used for evil or for good. Do not talk to me like that again and do not write about this because there is no point.Death’

What was it she didn’t want him to talk or write about, then? It had to be her indecent goings-on with the superintendent and those other scoundrels.

Senka folded the note back into a little square, the way it was before, and took it to Erast Petrovich. He was dying to ask the clever Mr Nameless a couple of questions about why he’d decided to make the Prince even more furious with a poor orphan. What need was there for that? And what was this ‘petal’ that Senka was supposed to have given Death?

Only if he asked, he’d let slip that he’d stuck his nose in the letter.

But that came out anyway.

The engineer glanced at the piece of paper and shook his head reproachfully straight off:

‘That’s not g-good, Senya. Why did you read it? The l-letter’s not to you, is it?’

Senka tried to deny it. ‘I didn’t read nothing,’ he said. ‘What do I care what’s in it?’

‘Oh c-come now,’ said Erast Petrovich, running his finger along the folds. ‘Unfolded and folded b-back again. And what’s this stuck to it? Could it be a l-louse? I doubt that b-belongs to Mademoiselle Death.’

How could you hide anything from someone like that?

The next day Senka was given a letter from Mr Nameless, but it wasn’t just a sheet of paper – it was in an envelope.

‘Since you’re so c-curious,’ the engineer declared, ‘I am sealing my m-missive. Don’t t-try to lick it open. This is a patent American g-glue; once stuck, it stays stuck.’

He smeared the stuff on the envelope with a brush, then pressed the letter under a paperweight.

Senka was simply amazed: it was true what they said – even the wise were fools sometimes. The minute he was outside the door, he tore the little envelope open and threw it away. They sold five-kopeck envelopes like that, for love letters, at every kiosk. What was to stop him buying a new one and sealing it without any fancy glue? It didn’t say on the envelope who the letter was for in any case . . .

To read or not to read – the question never even crossed Senka’s mind. Of course he was going to read it! After all, it was his fate that was being decided!

The note was written on thin paper, and Erast Petrovich’s handwriting was beautiful, with fine fancy flourishes.

‘Hello, DearD.Please permit me to call you that – I cannot stand your nickname, and you will not tell me what you are really called. Forgive me, but I cannot believe that you have forgotten it. However, just as you please.Let me get to the point.Things are clear with the first individual. Now do the same with the second one, only lead him on to the subject indirectly. As far as I am able to judge, this individual is somewhat cleverer than the Prince. It is enough for him simply to see the object. And then, if he asks, tell him about SS, as we agreed. [Who’s this SS, then? Senka rubbed his soot-smeared forehead, and a couple of dried lice fell out of his hair. Hey, Speedy Senka, that’s who it was! What were they plotting to do with him?] Forgive me for returning to a subject that you find disagreeable, but I cannot bear the thought of your subjecting yourself to defilement and torment – yes, indeed, I am certain that it is torment for you – in the name of ideas that I cannot comprehend and which are certainly false. Why do you punish yourself so harshly, why do you immerse your body in the mire? It has done nothing to offend you. The human body is a temple, and a temple should be keptpure. Some may counter: A temple, is it? It’s just a house like anyother: bricks and mortar. The important thing is not to besmirch the soul, but the body is not important, God doesnot live in the flesh, but in the soul. Ah, but the divine mystery will never be accomplished in a temple that is defiled and desecrated. And when you say that everything is written into people at their birth, you are mistaken. Life is not a book in which one can only move a long the lines that someone else has written. Life is a plain traversed by countless roads, and one is always free to choose whether to turn to the right or to the left. And then there will be a new plain and a new choice. Everyone walks across this plain, choosing his or her own route and direction – some travel towards the sunset, towards darkness, others travel towards dawn and the source of light. And it is never too late, even in the very final moment of life, to turn in a direction completely opposite to the one in which you have been moving for so many years. Turns of this kind are not so very rare: a man may have walked all his life towards the darkness of night, but at the last he suddenly turns his face towards the dawn, and his face and the entire plainare illuminated by a different light, the glow of morning. And of course, there verse happens too. My explanation is confused and unclear, but some how I suspect you will understand me.E.N.’

Well, that wasn’t a very interesting letter. A grand idea that was, to go smearing someone with all sorts of rotten muck and sending him halfway across the city, all for the sake of a bit of philosophical jabbering.

He spent five kopecks on a new envelope and hurried on to St Nicholas.

Death’s shawl wasn’t white today, it was maroon, and it set her face aglow with flickering glimmers of heat. As she walked by into the church, she scorched Senka with a glance that made him squirm on his knees. He remembered (God forgive him – this was not the time or the place) the way she had kissed him and hugged him.

When she came back out, her eyes still had that same mischievous glint in them. As she leaned down to give him alms and take the letter, she whispered: ‘Hello there, little lover. I’ll reply tomorrow.’

He walked back to Spasskaya Street, reeling.

Little lover indeed!

But there wasn’t any reply from Death the next day. She was nowhere to be seen. Senka spent the whole day on his knees until it was almost dark. He collected two roubles from his begging, but what a waste of time! Even Boxman, when he came round on his beat for the tenth, maybe fifteenth, time, told him: ‘You’re getting a bit greedy with the begging today, lad. Don’t you go overdoing it.’

Senka left after that.

On the fourth day, which was Sunday, Erast Petrovich sent him out again. The engineer didn’t seem surprised there was no reply to the last letter, he just seemed saddened.

As he sent Senka off to Podkopaevsky Lane, he said: ‘If she doesn’t come today, we’ll have to abandon the correspondence and think of something else.’

But she did come.

She didn’t even glance at Senka, though. As she gave him the money, she looked away, and her eyes were furious. Senka saw a silver scale on a chain round her neck – exactly like the ones from the treasure trove. He hadn’t seen Death wear anything like that before.

This time, instead of a piece of paper, Senka was left holding a silk handkerchief.

He walked across to a quiet spot and unfolded it. The note was inside. Senka started reading, taking great care to make sure nothing fell out of his hair and the folds in the paper didn’t get twisted.

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich.Ihaven’t found out anything from him, in fact I haven’t even tried asking him. He spotted my new trinket soon enough with those blank peepers of his, but he didn’t ask any questions. He muttered a poem to himself, that’s a habit he has. I remembered it word for word. We traded in damask steel silver and gold and nowitistimetotravel our road. I don’t what it means. Perhaps you will understand. [That’s Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich, and what’s so hard to understand, Senka thought condescendingly. He’d read The Tale of Tsar Saltan only the day before. And he knew who she was talking about too, it was Deadeye. He just loved spouting poetry.] And don’t you dare write to me again about the body or our correspondence is over. I wanted to break it off anyway. I didn’t go yesterday because I was angry with you. But today when he left I had a vision. I was lying in the middle of the plain you wrote about and I couldn’t get up. I lay there for along time, not just a day or two. And the grass and all sorts of flowers were growing up through me. I could feel them inside me– it wasn’t a bad feeling, it felt very good as they pushed through me towards the sun. And then it wasn’t me lying on the plain, I was the plain. Later I tried my best to embroider my vision onto a hand kerchief. Take it as a present.Death’

Senka hadn’t taken a proper look at the handkerchief at first, but now he could see there really was something sewn on it: up at the top was the sun, and down below there was a girl, lying there naked, with all sorts of flowers and grass growing through her. Senka didn’t like this weird malarkey (or allegory, that was the cultured word for it) at all.

Unlike Senka, Erast Petrovich looked at the handkerchief first, and then opened up the letter. He looked at it and said: ‘Oh, Senya, S-Senya, what am I to d-do with you? You’ve been p-prying again.’

Senka fluttered his eyelids to bring out the tears. ‘Why are you always getting at me? You ought to be ashamed. Here I am slaving away, not a thought for myself. Serving faithfully . . .’

The engineer just waved his hand, as if to say: Go away, don’t bother me, damn you.

And the letter Erast Petrovich sent back to Death said this.

‘Dear D.I implore you, do not sniff any more of that beastly stuff. I have tried narcotics ononly one occasion, and that almost cost me my life. I will tell you the story some time. But it is not even a matter of the danger lurking within this stupefying poison. It is only needed by people who donot understand if they are really living in this world or just pretending. But you arealive and real. You do not need narcotics. Forgive me for preaching another sermon. It is not my usual manner at all, but such is the terrible effect that you have on me.If the other two individuals notice the object, do not tell them about SS[Well, thanks be for small mercies, Senka thought], but aboutacertain new admirer, aman with greying temples and a stammer. This is best for the job at hand.Yours, E.N.’

This time Death didn’t arrive angry, like the day before, she was in a jolly mood. As she bent down to take the letter, instead of five kopecks she handed him something big, round and smooth and whispered: ‘Here’s something sweet for you.’

When he looked, it was a chocolate medal! What did she take him for, a little kid?

On the last day of Senka’s begging career, which was the sixth, Death dropped a handkerchief as she walked by. As she bent down to pick it up, she whispered: ‘Someone’s following me. On the corner.’ She walked on into the church, leaving the letter on the ground beside Senka. He crawled over and pinned it down with his knee, then squinted at the corner Death had pointed to.

His heart started fluttering.

Prokha was standing at the turn-off from Podkolokolny Lane, leaning against a drainpipe with one elbow, chewing away. His eyes were riveted to the church door. Thank God, he wasn’t eying up the beggars.

Ah-ha, so that’s what’s going on!

The deductions started flitting through Senka’s head so fast, he could hardly keep up. That day when he was taking the silver rods to the jeweller, who was it he met right there on Maroseika Street? Prokha. That was one.

And then, on Trubnaya Square, near the boarding house, who was hanging around? That time the constable came running over? Prokha again. That was two.

Who knew about Senka’s friendship with Tashka? Prokha yet again. That was three.

And Prokha was spying on Death! That was four.

So that meant he was to blame for everything, the rotten slug! He’d done in the jeweller, and Tashka too! Not with his own hands, of course. He was stooging for someone, probably the Prince.

Now what was he going to do? What was the projection that followed from this deduction?

It was very simple. Prokha was following Death, so he would follow Prokha. See who he went to report to and pass on his communiqué.

When Death came out of the church, she deliberately turned away and didn’t even give out any alms – she floated by like a swan, but she brushed Senka with the hem of her dress. That was no accident. She was telling him to look sharp and keep his eyes peeled.

He counted to twenty and then hobbled after her, limping with both legs at once. Prokha was walking a little bit ahead, not looking back – he obviously didn’t think anyone could be tailing him.

They reached the Yauza Boulevard, moving like a flight of storks: Death up at the front in the middle, then Prokha lagging a little bit behind her on the left, and Senka another fifteen paces back on the right.

Prokha loitered outside the door of the house for a bit and started scratching his head. It looked like he didn’t know what to do next, hang about or go away. Senka made himself comfy around the corner and waited.

Then Prokha tossed his bonce back (all right, all right, his head), stuck his hands in his pockets, spun round on his heels and set off back at a smart pace. To report to the Prince, Senka figured. Or maybe not the Prince, but someone else.

When Prokha trudged past, Senka turned his back and held his hands down to the baggy front of his pants, as if he was having a pee. Then he set off after his former friend.

Prokha kicked an apple core with the toe of his boot, whistled a smart trill at a flock of pigeons pecking on horse dung (they flapped their wings and fluttered up in the air) and then turned into a courtyard that was just a shortcut back onto Khitrovka Square.

Senka followed him.

The moment he came out of the passageway into the damp, dark yard, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, jerked him hard and swung him round.

Prokha! The pointy-faced bastard had twigged he was being followed.

‘Why are you sticking to me, rags and tatters?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’

He shook Senka so hard by the collar that Senka’s head bobbled up and down and the thingamajig that made his mug look so twisted came out of his cheek, so he had to spit the fancy dress trick out.

‘You!’ Prokha gasped, and his nostrils flared. ‘Speedy? You’re just the one I need!’

And he grabbed Senka’s collar with his second hand too – no way he could get out of that. Prokha had a real strong grip. Senka knew he was no match for him when it came to strength and agility. He was the nimblest lad in all Khitrovka. If Senka tried to scrap, Prokha would batter him. If he tried to run, Prokha would catch him.

‘Right, you’re coming with me.’ Prokha chuckled. ‘Now don’t make a peep or there’ll be blood?’

‘Where to?’ Senka asked. He hadn’t recovered yet from the debacle of his carefully planned projection. ‘What did you grab me like that for? Let go!’

Prokhka lashed him across the ankle with the toe of his boot. It hurt.

‘Come on, come on. A nice man I know wants to have a little chat with you.’

If they’d scrapped the proper Khitrovka way, with fists, or even belts, Prokha would have given him a good drubbing double quick. But Senka hadn’t completely wasted his time studying those Japanese fisticuffs now, had he?

When Masa-sensei realised Senka would never make a real fighter – he was too lazy and afraid of pain – he’d told him: Senkakun, I won’t teach you men’s fighting, I’ll teach you women’s fighting. This is a lesson for a woman to follow if some ruffian grabs her by the collar and tries to dishonour her. It all came back to Senka in his hour of need.

‘As simpur as boired turnip,’ the sensei had said.

The idea was to hit the shameless lout with the edge of your left hand, right on the tip of the nose, and as soon as he jerked his head back, smash the knuckles of your right hand into his Adam’s apple. Senka must have flailed at the air like that a thousand times. One-two, left-right, nose-throat, nose-throat, one-two, one-two.

So he did that old one-two now; half a second was all it took.

And as they wrote in the books, the result exceeded all his expectations.

The blow to Prokha’s nose wasn’t very strong, barely glanced it in fact, but his head jerked back and blood spurted out of his nostrils. And when Senka landed the ‘two’ right on the spot of the exposed throat, Prokha grunted and went down.

He sat down on the ground, holding his throat with one hand and squeezing his nose shut with the other, his mouth fell open and his eyes started rolling around. And there was blood, blood everywhere!

Senka felt frightened – had he hit him hard enough to kill him then?

He squatted down on his haunches:

‘Hey, Prokha, what’s up, not dying, are you?’

He shook him a bit.

Prokha wheezed: ‘Don’t hit me . . . Don’t hit me any more! Aah, aah, aah!’ He was struggling to catch his breath, but he couldn’t.

Before Prokha could come to his senses, Senka turned the screws hard: ‘Tell me who you’re stooging for, you bastard! Or I’ll give you a smack round the ears that’ll knock your peepers out! Well? It’s the Prince, isn’t it?’

He swung both of his fists back (that was another one of those simple moves – thumping a villain just below both ears at once).

‘No, it’s not the Prince ...’ Prokha fingered his bloody nose. ‘You broke it... You broke the bone . . . Oo-oo-oo!’

‘Who, then? You tell me!’

And Senka thumped him with his fist, smack in the middle of the forehead. It wasn’t a move the sensei had taught him, it just happened all by itself. Senka bruised all his fingers but it had the right effect.

‘No, it’s someone else, more frightening than the Prince, he is,’ Prokha sobbed, shielding himself with his hands.

‘More frightening than the Prince?’ Senka asked, and his voice shook. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know. He’s got a big black beard down to his belly. And black shiny eyes too. I’m afraid of him.’

‘But who is he? Where’s he from?’ Senka was feeling really frightened now. A beard right down to his belly and black eyes. That was terrifying!

Prokha squeezed his nose with his finger and thumb to stop the blood pouring out. He said: ‘I don’d dow where he’s frop, bud if you wand a look, I’ll show you. I’b beetink hib sood. Id the Yerokha basebedt...’

The Yerokha basement again. That damn place. Where the Siniukhins got their throats cut and Senka almost lost his own life.

‘What’s the meeting for?’ Senka asked, still undecided what to do. ‘Are you going to report back about following Death?’

‘That’s right.’

And what does your man with the beard want with her?’

Prokha shrugged and sniffed. His nose had stopped bleeding. That’s none of my business. Well, am I taking you or not?’

‘Yes,’ Senka decided. ‘And you watch out, or I’ll beat you to death with my bare fists. This magician I know taught me how.’

‘He must be quite some teacher, you can thrash anyone you want to now,’ said Prokha, the little brown nose. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Speedy, I’ll do whatever you say. I’m not tired of living yet.’

They walked to the Tatar Tavern, where the way into the Yerokha was. Senka thumped his prisoner in the side a couple of times to keep him frightened and said: ‘Just you try to bolt, and see what happens.’ To tell the truth, Senka was afraid himself – what if Prokha swung round and socked him in the breadbasket? But he needn’t have worried. His new Japanese tricks had made Prokha kowtow something rotten.

‘Nearly there, nearly there,’ Prokha said. ‘Now you’ll see for yourself what kind of man he is. I didn’t want to stooge for him, he puts the fear of God up me. If you could only help me get free of this butcher, Speedy, I’d be really grateful.’

In the basement they made one turn, then another. So now they were no distance at all from the hall with the entrance to the treasure chamber. And the corridor where Senka almost lost his life was pretty close too. Senka remembered that powerful hand tugging his hair and threatening to break his neck and he started trembling all over and stopped dead in his tracks. He’d set out in fine form to unravel the whole case, but his bravado was almost all gone now. Sorry, Erast Petrovich and Masa-san, everyone has his limits.

‘I’m not going any farther . . . You go and meet him . . . You can tell me all about it afterwards.’

‘Ah, come on,’ said Prokha, tugging at his sleeve. ‘We’re almost there. There’s this little cubbyhole, you can hide in there.’

But no way would Senka go any farther. ‘You go without me.’

He tried to turn back, but Prokha held him tight and wouldn’t let go.

Then he flung his arms round Senka’s shoulders and yelled:

‘Here he is, it’s Speedy! I’ve caught him! Run quick!’

The bastard had a tight grip. There was no way Senka could thump him or break free.

And then came the clatter of footsteps in the dark – heavy feet, moving fast.

The sensei had taught him: If a bad man grabs you round the shoulders, don’t try to be clever, just plant your knee in his privates, and if he’s standing so as you can’t swing your knee or reach him with it, then lean as far back as you can and smash your forehead into his nose.

He butted as hard as he could. Once, twice. Like a ram butting a wall.

Prokha yelled (his nose was already broken anyway) and covered his ugly mug with his hands. Senka took off like a shot. And he didn’t have a second to spare – someone managed to grab his collar from behind. The tattered old cloth gave, the rotten threads snapped, and Senka shot off into the darkness, leaving a piece of coarse shirt behind for Prokha’s friend.

He just dashed off without thinking, anything to get away. But when the sound of tramping boots fell behind a bit, it suddenly struck him: where was he running to? The hall with the brick columns was ahead of him now, and after that it was a dead end! Both ways out were cut off – the main one and the Tatar Tavern!

They’d catch him now, trap him in a corner, and that would be the end!

He had only one hope left.

When he reached the hall, Senka made a dash for that special spot. He dragged the two bottom stones out of the entrance to the passage, crept into the gap on his belly, then froze. And he opened his mouth as wide as he could, to keep his breathing quiet.

An echo came drifting under the low vaults as two men ran into the hall – one was heavy and loud, the other was a lot lighter.

‘He can’t go any farther!’ Prokha’s panting voice said. ‘He’s here, the louse. I’ll go along the right wall, you go along the left. We’ll catch him now for sure.’

Senka propped himself up on his elbows to wriggle farther in, but his first movement made the brick dust under his belly rustle. He had to stop, or he’d give himself away, and the treasure too. He had to lie there quietly and pray to God they wouldn’t notice the hole down by the floor. But if they had a lamp with them, then Speedy Senka’s number was up.

Only, to judge from that dry scraping sound he kept hearing, Senka’s pursuers didn’t have any kind of light but matches.

The steps kept getting closer and closer, until they were really close.

Prokha, that was the way he walked.

Suddenly there was a clatter and someone barked out a curse almost right above the spot where Senka was lying.

‘It’s all right, I hit my foot against a stone. It’s fallen out of the wall.’

Any moment now, right now, Prokha was going to bend down and see the hole and the bottoms of two shoes sticking out. Senka got ready to jump up on all fours and dart off along the passage. He couldn’t run very far, but it would put the end off for a while.

But the danger passed. Prokha didn’t spot his hiding place. The darkness had saved Senka, or maybe the Lord God had taken pity on the poor orphan: Ah, sod it, He’d thought, you can live a bit longer, I’ve got plenty of time to collect you.

He heard Prokha’s voice from the far end of the hall: ‘He must have squeezed up against the wall in the corridor, and we ran past him. He’s crafty, that Speedy. Never mind, I’ll find him anyway, don’t you ha ...’

Prokha gagged and didn’t finish what he was saying. And the person he was talking to didn’t say anything either. There was a clatter of footsteps moving away. Then it went quiet.

Senka was so frightened he just lay there for a while without moving a muscle. He wondered whether he ought to crawl farther into the passage – he could pay a visit to the treasure chamber and pick up a couple of rods.

But he didn’t.

For starters, he didn’t have any light. And apart from that, the thought of staying there any longer made him feel nervous. Maybe he ought to just leg it while the going was good? What if they’d gone to get lanterns? They’d spot the passage straight off then. And his own stupidity would be the end of him.

He scrabbled out backwards, moving like a crayfish. Everything seemed quiet.

Then he got to his feet, took off his battered old boots and set off towards the corridor on tiptoe, not making a sound. Every now and then he stopped and strained his ears to pick up any rustling or breathing from behind the columns.

Suddenly something crunched under his foot. Senka squatted down in fright. What was it?

He fumbled about and found a box of matches. Had those two dropped them, or was it someone else? No matter, they’d come in handy.

He took another two steps and spotted some kind of low heap on his right. Either a pile of rags, or someone lying there.

He struck a match and bent down.

And he saw Prokha. Lying on his back with his mug pointing up. But then he took a closer look and gasped. Prokha’s mug was staring up, but he was lying on his belly, not his back. A man’s neck couldn’t twist round back to front like that – not if he was alive, it couldn’t!

So they were Prokha’s matches – and only then did Senka cross himself like you were supposed to and start backing away. And the damn match burned his fingers too. So that was why Prokha gagged like that. Someone had wrung his neck – literally – and double quick. And that was just too much for Prokha, he’d kicked the bucket.

Senka wasn’t really sorry for him, he could go to hell. But what kind of monster was it that could do things like that to people?

And then Senka had another idea. Without Prokha there was no way to find this killer now. A beard right down to the belly was the kind of thing you couldn’t miss, of course, only Prokha was lying through his teeth (wasn’t he?), God rest his rotten soul. He was lying, sure as eggs is eggs.

After all his deduction and projection Senka had been left with nothing but a broken tub, like the greedy old woman in the fairy tale (Senka had read it, but he didn’t like it, the one about Tsar Nikita was better). He could have just told Erast Petrovich about seeing Prokha, couldn’t he? But he’d wanted to shine, and look how bright he was shining now. This time he was the one who’d snapped off the guiding thread.

*

Senka was so upset, he almost forgot to read Death’s letter. But he remembered by the time he got to Spasskaya Street.

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich. Yesterday evening the superintendent was here. He asked about the silver coin himself. Anew rival is it, he said. I won’t stand for it. Who is he? I did as you told me and said it was a rich man with pockets full of silver. Very handsome but not young with greying temples. Is aid he had as light stammer too. After that the superintendent forgot all about the gold and just kept asking about you. He asked if your eyes were blue. I said yes. He asked if you were tall. I said yes. He asked if you had a little scar on your temple. I said I thought you did. Then he started shaking he was so furious. He asked where you lived and all sorts of other things. I promised to find out and tell him everything. So now the two of us have tied a tight knot and I don’t know how to untie it. It’s time we met and talked things over. You can’t put everything in a letter. Come tonight and bring Senka with you. He knows all the back alleys in Khitrovka. He’ll get you away if anything happens. And I wanted to tell you I don’t let any of them near me, even though the super intendent made threats and swore at me yesterday. But now he wants you more than he wants me. I threatened not to ask you about anything and he left me alone. And I want to tell you I won’t let any of these bloodsuckers near me again because I can’t bear it any longer. Theres only so much anyone can take. Come tonight. I’m waiting.Death’

Senka was in a real tizzy. Tonight, he was going to see her again tonight!