She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin by Boris Akunin Page A

commit suicide?’
    ‘Unauthorised suicide is an escape from prison, a crime that is punishable by a new term of imprisonment. No, it is not permissible to flee from this life. But it is possible to earn pardon – that is, a reduction in the sentence.’
    ‘In what way, if I might enquire?’
    ‘Through love. One must love Death with all one’s soul. Entice and summon her to you, like your own dearly beloved. And wait, wait meekly for her Sign. When the Sign is manifested, you not only may, but should, die by your own hand.’
    ‘You speak of Death as “she”, as your dearly beloved, but there are both men and women among your followers.’
    ‘In Russian, Death is a feminine noun, but that is a convention of grammar. In German, as we know, the word is masculine – der Tod . For a man Death is the Eternal Bride. For a woman he is the Eternal Bridegroom.’
    Then I asked the question that had been bothering me from the very beginning of this strange dialogue: ‘When you talk it is clear that you have unshakeable confidence in the truth of what you say. How do you know all this, if Death has denied man any memory of his previous existence, that is – I beg your pardon – Non-existence?’
    The Doge replied with a triumphant air.
    ‘There are some people – rare individuals – from whom Death has decided to take away the gift of forgetting, so that they are able to perceive both worlds, Being and Non-being. I am one of these people. After all, a prison administration needs a steward from among the prisoners in the cell. It is the steward’s duty to keep an eye on those in his care, to instruct them and recommend those who deserve leniency to the Governor. That is all, no more questions. I have nothing more to say.’
    ‘Just one. The very last!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you have many wards in your “cell”?’
    ‘Twelve. I know from the newspapers that many times that number would like to join us, but our club only opens its doors to the select few. To become a Lover of Death is a precious lot, the highest possible reward for anyone alive . . .’
    I was blindfolded from behind and led towards the door. The conversation with the Doge, the high priest of the suicide sect, was over.
    As I was plunged into darkness, I could not help shuddering at the thought that I was descending forever into the Blackness so dear to the ‘lovers’.
    No, gentlemen, I thought to myself when I was back in the bright sunshine under the blue sky, I may be a condemned criminal, but I do not desire any leniency – I prefer to serve my ‘sentence’ to the end.
    But what would you prefer, dear reader?
    Lavr Zhemailo
Moscow Courier , 29 August
(11 September) 1900, p.2
     

II. From Columbine’s Diary
     
    Her slippers barely even touch the ground
     
Poor Columbine, brainless puppet, dangling in mid-air. Her satin slippers barely even touch the ground, and if the deft puppet-master pulls on the slim strings, the puppet throws up its arms or doubles over in a bow: sometimes crying, sometimes laughing.
I think about one and the same thing all the time now: the meaning of the words that he spoke; the tone in which he said them; the way he looked at me; why he didn’t look at me at all. Oh, my life is so full of strong feelings and experiences!
For example, yesterday he said: ‘You have the eyes of a cruel child.’ For a long time afterwards, I wondered if that was good or bad – a cruel child. From his point of view, probably good. Or bad?
I have read that old men (and he’s very old, he knew Karakozov, who was hanged thirty-five years ago) feel a burning passion for young girls. But he’s not lascivious at all. He’s cold and indifferent. Since that first, tempestuous union, when the trees outside the windows were bowing before the hurricane’s onslaught, he has only told me to stay once. That was the day before yesterday.
Without a single word, with only gestures, he ordered me to throw off my clothes, lie on the bearskin and not