He Lover of Death, page 9
Then the Prince roared: ‘So what’s this, then? Boots? And the sofa’s all creased up?’
There was a clatter as a chair fell over, or something of the sort.
‘You whore! You slut! Who is he? Who? I’ll kill him? Hiding, is he? Where?’
Well, Senka didn’t hang around after that. He closed the latch on the door, leapt up on the bowl, grabbed the chain, hauled himself up (ignoring the roar of the water), pushed open the window and dived out head first.
Behind him he heard a crunch and a crash as the door swung open, and then a bellowing voice: ‘Stop right now! I’m going to rip you to pieces!’
But Senka skidded down like a fish. With a hand from God, or somehow else, he managed not to break his neck. He tumbled awkwardly then darted off across the broken stone and brick towards the passage.
But he didn’t run very far. He stopped and thought: He’s going to kill her now, the Prince is. Kill her for nothing.
His feet carried him back, of their own accord. Then he stood under the windows and listened. It was quiet. Had he done her in already?
Senka rolled an old barrel to the window of the privy, stood it on end and began to climb back in. He didn’t know why he was doing it. He didn’t want to think about it. He had this stupid thought running round his head: you can’t kill Death. It wasn’t possible – or was it – to kill Death? And then he thought: I did enough running last night. I’m no hare, especially on broken bricks without boots.
When he got back in the closet, it was clear the Prince hadn’t killed her yet, and it didn’t look like he was about to.
Suddenly Senka didn’t feel so brave any more. Especially when, through the door, which was broken off its top hinge, he heard this: ‘Tell me, in God’s name. Nothing will happen to you, just say who it is.’
There was no answer.
Senka peeped out warily. Oh Lord, the Prince had a flick-knife and he was pointing it straight at Death’s chest. Maybe he would kill her after all?
He even said: ‘Don’t play games with me – I might just lose control. Killing someone’s like swatting a fly for the Prince.’
‘But I’m not just anyone, I’m Death. Go on, then, swat me. Well, what are you gawping at? Either kill me, or get out.’
The Prince flung the knife at the mirror and ran out. The front door slammed.
Senka craned his neck and saw that Death had turned away. She was looking at herself in the broken mirror, and the cracks in the mirror were like a cobweb stretched over her face. The way she was looking at herself was weird, as if there was something she couldn’t understand. She caught sight of Senka, swung round and said:
‘You came back? That was brave. And you said you were a sparrow. You’re not a hawk, I know, but you’re not a sparrow, more like a swift.’
And she smiled – the whole thing was water off a duck’s back to her. Senka sat down on the sofa and pulled on the boots that had caused the disaster. He was breathing hard; after all, he’d had a bad scare.
She handed him his shirt. ‘Look, I’ve put my mark on you. From now on you’ll be mine.’
Then he saw that she hadn’t just stitched up his torn shirt, she’d embroidered a flower on it while he was sleeping, a strange flower with an eye like hers, like Death’s eye, in the middle. And the petals were coloured snakes with forked tongues.
He realised she was joking about the sign. He put the shirt on and said, ‘Thanks.’
Her face was really close to his, and it had a special kind of smell, sweet and bitter at the same time. Senka gulped and his eyelids batted, his mind went blank and he forgot everything, even the Prince. She didn’t want to mess around with the Prince. Which meant she didn’t love him, right?
Senka took a small step closer, and felt himself swaying, like a blade of grass in the wind. But he didn’t have the nerve to move his hands and hug her or anything.
She laughed and tousled Senka’s hair. ‘Keep away from the flames, little gnat,’ she said. ‘You’ll singe your wings. I’ll tell you what you should do. You heard what the Prince said about the treasure? You know Siniukhin, the pen-pusher? He lives under Yeroshenko’s flophouse, in the Old Rags Basement. A miserable man with a red nose like a big plum. I went to Siniukhin’s place once, when his son was sick with scarlet fever –I took the doctor. Go and warn him to take his family and get out of Khitrovka fast. Tell him the Prince is going to pay him a visit tonight.’
A swift was all right, no offence taken, but Senka drew the line at that ‘gnat’. She understood, and started laughing even harder. ‘Stop sulking. All right, then, I’ll give you just one little kiss. But no nonsense.’
He couldn’t believe it – he thought she was mocking a poor orphan. But even so, he pursed his lips up and pushed them out. But would she really kiss him?
She didn’t cheat, she touched his lips with hers, but then she started pushing him away.
‘Off you go to Siniukhin, run. You can see what a wild beast the Prince has turned into.’
As he walked away from her house, Senka touched his lips gingerly with his little finger – oh Lord, they were burning up! Death herself had kissed them!
HOW SENKA RAN AND HID AND
THEN GOT THE HICCUPS
It wasn’t Senka’s fault he didn’t get to the pen-pusher, there was good reason.
He made an honest effort, set straight out from Death’s house for Podkolokolny Lane, where Yeroshenkov’s flophouse was. It had apartiments with numbers upstairs – as many as a thousand people would snore away up there – and down below, under the ground, there were these massive deep cellars, and people lived there too: ‘diver-ducks’ who altered stolen clothes, paupers who had nothing, and the pen-pushers were the kind that settled there. Pen-pushers were a heavy-drinking crowd, but they tried not to overdo it, they needed to keep hold of a pen and set the words out right on paper. That was their trade, scribing letters for the unlearned: begging, weepy letters as often as not. They were paid by the page: one was five kopecks, two was nine and a half, and three was thirteen.
It wasn’t a long way from the Yauza Boulevard to the Yerokha (that was what Yeroshenko’s flophouse was usually called), but Senka never got to where he was heading.
When he turned the corner on to Podkolokolny Lane (he could already see the door of the Yerokha), Senka spotted something that stopped him dead in his tracks.
There was Mikheika the Night-Owl, and standing beside him, holding him tight by the shoulder was a short-arse in a check two-piece and bowler – the same Chinee Senka had nicked the green beads off the week before. Once you’d seen someone like that, you never forgot him. Big fat cheeks the colour of ripe turnips, narrow slits for eyes, a blunt little nose, but with a hook in it too.
Night-Owl was acting calm and grinning. What had he got to be afraid of? There were two Khitrovka lads standing behind the Chinaman (the pudding-head didn’t have a clue). Mikheika spotted Senka and winked: just you wait, the fun’s about to start.
Well, he couldn’t not watch, could he?
Senka came a bit closer, so he could hear, and stopped. The Chinee asked (the way he spoke was funny, but you could still make it out): ‘Night-Owr-kun, where your friend? The one who run so fast. Thin, yerrow hair, grey eyes, nose with freckurs?’
Well, well, so he’d remembered everything, the yellow pagan, even the freckles. But the question was, how had he managed to find Mikheika? He must have just wandered into Khitrovka and run into him by chance.
But then Senka spotted a battered old cap with a cracked peak in the Chinaman’s hand. Now, that was crafty! He hadn’t just barged in by accident, he’d come on purpose, to look for his beads. He’d twigged that the lads were from Khitrovka (or maybe the cabbies had given him the hint, they were an eagle-eyed bunch), come dashing over and nabbed Night-Owl. Mikheika didn’t know his letters, and he drew an owl on all his things so they wouldn’t get nicked. And now look where that had got him. The oriental titch must have walked around with the cap, which had been dropped on Sretenka Street, asking whose it was. And now he’d found out, he was in trouble. Old Slanty-eyes had made a big mistake, coming here and grabbing Night-Owl by the sleeve. That flat pancake face was in for a good battering.
Mikheika answered back: ‘What friend’s that? All those Chinese radishes must have gone to your head. I’ve never seen you before.’
Night-Owl was showing off in front of the lads, naturally.
The Chinaman waved the cap. ‘And what this? What bird this?’
And he jabbed his finger at the lining.
What was the point, though? The lads would fling a load of seventy-kopeck lead pellets in his face, and that was all he’d take home. Senka even felt sorry for the heathen. Pike, a smart lad from Podkopaevsky Lane, quick on his feet, had already gone down on all fours behind the gull’s back. Now Night-Owl would give Yellow-cheeks a shove and the fun would start. He’d leave with no pants, and they’d rearrange his teeth, and his ribs too.
There were gawkers grinning at the sight from the square and the lane. Boxman set off along the edge of the market, with an open newspaper in his hands – he stopped, looked over the top of the grey page, yawned and tramped on. Nothing unusual, just another gull getting what he had coming.
‘Oh, oh, don’t frighten me, mister, or I’ll wet me pants,’ Night-Owl mocked. ‘But thank you most kindly for the cap. Please accept my regards, and this too, out of the generosity of my heart.’
And he smashed his fist into the Chinaman’s teeth!
Or, rather, he aimed for the teeth, only Slanty-eyes bobbed down, Night-Owl’s fist flailed at empty air, and the swing of it spun him right round. Then the Chinaman lashed out with his right hand and left leg, at the same time: his hand caught Mikheika round the back of the head (only gently, but Mikheika dived nose first into the dust then didn’t move), and his heel smacked into Pike’s ear. Pike went flat out too, and the third lad, a bit older than Pike – Drillbit, his moniker was – tried to hit the nimble heathen with his brass knuckles, but all he caught was empty air, too. The Chinee leapt sideways and smacked Drillbit on the chin with the toe of his boot (how could he fling his legs up that high?), and Drillbit fell flat on his back.
So before the gawkers could even drop their jaws, the three lads who’d tried to fleece the pagan gull were stretched out on the ground, and not getting up in a hurry.
People shook their heads in wonder and went on their way. But the Chinee squatted down beside Mikheika and grabbed his ear.
‘Ver’ bad, Night-Owr-kun,’ he said. ‘Ver’, ver’ bad. Where beads?’
Mikheika started shaking all over. And for real – he wasn’t putting it on. ‘I don’t know about no beads! On me mother’s grave! In the name of Christ!’
The Chinaman twisted his ear a bit and explained what he wanted. ‘Littuw green baws, on thread. They were in bunduw.’
Then didn’t Night-Owl go and yell: ‘That wasn’t me, it was Speedy Senka! Ow, my ear! That hurts! There’s Senka, over there!’
Why, the Judas! Couldn’t even stand a simple ear-twist. He needed a bit of training from Uncle Zot!
The Chinaman swung round to where Night-Owl was pointing, and saw Senka. Then the heathen got up and walked towards him –moving softly, like a cat. ‘Senka-kun,’ he said, ‘don’ run. Today I have soos, not geta – I catch you.’
And he pointed to his half-boots. As if to say: not sandals, like the last time.
But of course Senka ran away. He’d sworn never to kick up his heels again, but it seemed like that was his destiny now, to keep scampering off like a hare. Crack the whip and give ’em the slip.
And Senka had to run a lot harder now than he had a week ago. First he dashed right along Podkolokolny Lane, then down Podkopai Lane, and then Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, along Khitrovka Lane, across the square, and turned back onto Podkolokolny again.
Senka galloped so fast it was a wonder the heels didn’t fly off his boots, but the Chinaman kept up, and the fat-faced blubber-bag even tried to reason as he ran: ‘Senka-kun, don’ run, you faw and hurt yourserf.’
He wasn’t even panting, but Senka was almost out of breath already.
It was a good thing Senka decided to turn on to Svininsky Lane, where the Kulakovka was – the biggest and rottenest dosshouse in Khitrovka. It was the Kulakovka’s cellars that saved Senka from the heathen Chinee. They were an even trickier maze than the Yerokha, no one knew every last inch of them. They’d dug so many tunnels and passages down there, the devil himself would never find you, and a Chinaman had no chance.
Senka didn’t go in very far – if you didn’t know the place, you could easily get lost in the dark. He just sat there and smoked a papyrosa. When he stuck his head out, the Chinee was squatting on his haunches beside the entry, squinting in the sunlight.
What could he do? He went back into the cellars and walked to and fro, to and fro again, smoked a bit more, spat at the wall (that was boring – you couldn’t see what you hit in the dark). Folks who lived in the Kulakovka flitted past like shadows. No one asked him why he was hanging about. They could see he was one of them, a Khitrovkan, and that was good enough for them.
He stuck his head out for another look, later, when the lantern by the entranceway was lit. The lousy Chinee was still sitting there, he hadn’t budged. The yellow race were a really stubborn lot!
This was starting to get Senka down. Was he going to hang about in the Kulakovka cellars for the rest of his life? He had cramps in his belly, and he had serious business to attend to – he had to warn that pen-pusher.
He went back down and started scouring the collidor (if you could call it a collidor – it was more like a cave really). The walls were slimy stone in some places, bare earth in others. There had to be another way out, right?
When the next Kulakovkan loomed out of the darkness, he grabbed him by the arm.
‘Is there another way out, mate?’
The man pulled his arm away and gave Senka a mouthful of abuse. At least he didn’t take a knife to him – you could expect that sort of thing in the Kulakovka.
Senka leaned back against the wall, and started wondering how he could get out of this miserable dive.
Suddenly this black, damp hole opened up right in front of where he was standing, and a shaggy head emerged and smacked Senka’s knee.
He yelled: ‘Lord, save me,’ and jumped out of the way.
But the head started barking: ‘What do you mean, by spreading yourself right across the burrow like that? Clumsy oafs all over the place, blocking the way!’
That was when Senka realised this was a ‘mole’ who had climbed out of his den. Underground, Khitrovka had this special class of ‘moles’, who stayed underground in the daytime, and came out only at night, if at all. People said they minded the secret hiding places for stolen goods, and the fences and dealers paid them a small share for food and drink, and they didn’t need proper clothes – what good were clothes underground?
‘Uncle Mole!’ Senka called, dashing after him. ‘You know all the ways in and out of this place. Take me out, only not through the door, some other way.’
‘You can’t get out any other way,’ said the mole, straightening up. ‘The only way out of the Kulakovka is on to Svininsky. If you hire me, I can take you to a different basement. The Buninka’s ten kopecks, the Rumyantsevka’s seven, the Yerokha’s fifteen . . .’
Senka was delighted. ‘The Yerokha’s the one I want! That’s even better than getting back outside!’
Siniukhin lived in the Yerokha.
Senka rummaged in his pockets – there was a fifteen-kopeck coin, his last one.
The mole took the money and stuck it in his cheek. He waved his hand: follow me now. Senka wasn’t worried he’d run off with the money and dump him in the dark. Everyone knew the moles were honest, or why would anyone ever trust them with their swag?
But he had to mind not to fall behind. It was all right for the mole, he was used to it, he could see everything in the dark, but for Senka it was hit or miss, feeling his way round the bends one step at a time.
At first they went straight and downhill a bit, or that was how it felt. Then his guide went down on all fours (Senka guessed only from the sound he made) and scrambled through a hole on the left. Senka followed him. They crawled along for maybe fifty feet, then the ceiling got higher. They left the passage and turned to the right. Then to the left again, and the stone floor changed to soft earth that was boggy in places and squelched under their feet. Then they turned left and left again into a place just like a cave, and he could feel a draught. From the cave they walked up some steps, not very far, but Senka still missed his footing and bruised his knee. At the top an iron door clanged open and behind it there was a collidor. After the passage they’d crawled though on all fours, it seemed quite light in here to Senka.
‘There, that’s the Yerokha,’ said the mole – the first time he’d spoken since they had set out. ‘From here you can get out either through the Tatar Inn or on to Podkolokolny. Where do you want to go?’
‘I want to go to the Old Rags Basement, Uncle, where the pen-pushers live,’ Senka said, and then, just to be safe, he added a lie: ‘I want a letter written to my father and mother.’
The underground man led him to the right, through a big stone cellar with high, round ceilings and fat-bellied brick columns, then along another collidor and through another big cellar till they came out in a collidor a bit wider than the others.
‘Ah-ha,’ said the mole as they turned a corner.
When Senka followed, the mole had disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. There was grey light round the corner – the way out on to the street wasn’t far – but it wasn’t likely the mole had dashed out that way, he must have ducked into a burrow.
‘Are we here, then?’ Senka shouted, although there was no one there to hear.
The echo bounced off the ceiling and the walls: ‘eerthen-eerthen-eerthen’.
And the hollow answer seemed to come from under the earth: ‘Ah-ha’.
