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

gazed at the crude piece of metal and the tattered piece of hemp in awe. Lord, how pitiful, how wretched are the gates through which the soul escapes from the hell of life into the heaven of Death!
    ‘Be happy, Avaddon!’ she thought to herself and put the bouquet down on top of the skirting board.
    The Oriental came across and clicked his tongue disapprovingly: ‘Brue frowers no good! Brue for when drowned. When hanged, should be daisy.’
    ‘Masa, you ought to give the “Lovers of Death” lectures on how to honour suicides,’ Monte Cristo remarked with a serious air. Tell me now, what colour should the bouquet be, for instance, when someone has shot himself ?’
    ‘Red,’ Masa replied just as seriously. ‘Roses or poppies.’
    ‘And if he poisoned himself ?’
    The Oriental didn’t hesitate for a second.
    ‘Yerrow chrysanthemums. If no chrysanthemums, can be buttercups.’
    ‘And what if his stomach was slit open?’
    ‘White frowers – because white corow most nobur.’
    The Oriental folded his short-fingered hands as if in prayer and his friend nodded in approval.
    ‘A pair of clowns,’ Columbine exclaimed scornfully. She cast a final glance at the hook and walked towards the door.
    Who could have imagined that she would see the dandy from Avaddon’s flat again and, of all places, at Prospero’s house!
    He looked almost exactly the same as he had at their previous meeting: elegant, with a cane, only the frock-coat and the top hat were ash-grey instead of black.
    ‘Good evening, m-madam,’ he said with his characteristic slight stammer. ‘I’m here to see Mr Blagovolsky.’
    ‘Who? There’s no one here by that name.’
    In the semi-darkness he couldn’t make out Columbine’s face, but she recognised him immediately – there was a gas lamp burning under the canopy of the door. She was terribly surprised. Had he got the wrong address? What a very strange coincidence that would be!
    ‘Ah, yes, I b-beg your pardon,’ said her chance acquaintance, bowing jokingly. ‘I meant to say Mr Prospero. Indeed, I was warned most strictly that it is not the d-done thing to use one’s own name here. So you must be Zemfira, say, or Malvina?’
    ‘I am Columbine,’ she replied coolly. ‘But who are you?’
    Once he walked into the hallway he was able to see who it was that had opened the door for him. He recognised her, but gave no sign of being surprised.
    ‘Hello, mysterious stranger. Well, it’s a small world, as they say.’ Lucifer was dozing on the girl’s neck and he stroked the snake’s head. ‘Hello there, little one. Allow m-me to introduce myself, Mademoiselle Columbine. Mr Blago . . . that is, Mr Prospero and I agreed that here I will be known as Genji.’
    ‘Genji? What a strange name!’
    She simply couldn’t understand what this mysterious appearance could mean. What had this gentleman with a stammer been doing at Avaddon’s flat? And what did he want here?
    ‘In olden times there was a Japanese p-prince by that name. A seeker of thrills such as myself.’
    She rather liked the unusual name – Genji. Japonisme was so refined. So, it was not ‘Your Excellency’ but actually ‘Your Highness’. Columbine chuckled sarcastically, but she had to admit that the dandy really was remarkably like a prince, if not Japanese, then at least a European one, like in Stevenson.
    ‘Was your companion Japanese?’ she asked, struck by a sudden insight. ‘The one I saw on Basmannaya Street? Is that why he kept talking about samurais and cutting out stomachs?’
    ‘Yes, he is my valet and closest friend. By the way, you were wrong to call us cl-clowns.’ Genji shook his head reproachfully. ‘Masa has great respect for the institution of suicide. As, indeed, do I. Otherwise I would not be here, would I?’
    She rather doubted the sincerity of that last assertion – the tone in which it was made was far too flippant.
    ‘You don’t look as if you were particularly keen to leave this world,’