HOW SENKA SAT IN THE
PRIVY CUPBOARD
He began to recover his wits only on Arbat Street, when he was completely winded from running. He didn’t remember flying out of the Slavyanskaya Hotel, or running across the bridge, and then right across the empty Smolensky market.
And even on Arbat Street he still wasn’t himself. He couldn’t run any longer, but he didn’t think to sit down and take a rest. He staggered along the dark street like an old man, croaking and gasping. And he kept looking round, all the time; he still thought he could see the Kalmyk behind him, with his torn-open throat.
The way things had turned out, he was the one who killed the horse-trader and his man. It was all his fault. If he hadn’t wanted to impress the Prince, if he hadn’t pointed out the hiding place, the Kalmyks would still be alive. But he had to go and blab, didn’t he? He was Speedy the Bandit, was he not?
But by Theatre Square, Senka was asking himself another question: what kind of damn bandit are you? A lousy worm of a bandit, that’s what you are. Oh, Semyon Spidorov, you haven’t got the stomach for real man’s work now, do you?
He felt so ashamed for running away, he couldn’t bear it. As he walked along Maroseika Street, he called himself every name he could think of, abused himself something rotten, but as soon as he remembered the Kalmyks, it was clear as day: there was no way back into the deck now. The Prince and his gang might forgive him –he could lie and say his stomach was turned or make up something else, but he couldn’t lie to himself. If Senka was a businessman, a cow was a thoroughbred.
Oh, the shame of it.
Senka’s legs carried him to the Yauza Boulevard before he had any idea where he was heading.
He sat on a bench for a while and got frozen right through. Then he paced up and down for a while. It started to get light. And it wasn’t until he realised he was walking past Death’s house for the third time that he understood what pain was gnawing hardest at his heart. He stopped in front of the door and suddenly his hand reached out of its own accord, so it did, and knocked. Loudly.
He felt scared and wanted to turn and run. He decided he would just hear the sound of her footsteps, her voice. When she asked ‘Who’s there?’ he would scarper.
The door opened without a sound and without any warning. There were no footsteps, no questions.
Death appeared in the doorway. The loose hair flowing down over her shoulders was black, but all the rest of her was white: the nightshirt, the lacy shawl on her shoulders. And her feet – Senka was looking down at them – they were white too, the tips were peeping out from under the hem of her nightshirt.
Well, well, she never even asked who was knocking at that time in the morning. She was fearless, all right. Or was it all the same to her?
She was surprised to see Senka. ‘You? Did the Prince send you? Has something happened?’
He shook his hanging head.
Then she got angry: ‘What are you doing here at this unearthly hour? Why are you hiding your eyes, you little beast?’
All right, so he looked up. And then he couldn’t look down again –he was lost in wonder. Of course, the dawn played a little trick of its own, peeping out from behind the roofs with its pink glow, lighting up the top of the doorway and Death’s face and shoulders.
‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’ she said, frowning. ‘You look like a ghost. And your shirt’s torn.’
That was when Senka noticed that his shirt really was torn from the collar to the sleeve and it was hanging all askew. He must have snagged it on something when he was running out from the hotel.
‘What’s this, are you hurt?’ asked Death. ‘You’ve got blood on you.’
She reached out a hand and rubbed the spot of dried blood on his cheek. Senka guessed some of the spray must have hit him when the horse-trader’s blood came spurting out.
But Death’s finger was hot, and her touch came as such a surprise that Senka suddenly burst into tears.
He stood there, blubbing away, the tears streaming down his face. He felt terribly ashamed, but he simply couldn’t stop. He tried hard to force them back, but they kept breaking through – it was so pitiful, just like a little puppy whimpering! Then Senka started cursing like he’d never cursed before, with the most obscene words he knew. But the tears kept on flowing.
Death took his hand: ‘What’s wrong, what is it? Come with me . . .’
She bolted the door shut and dragged him into the house after her. He tried to dig his heels in, but Death was strong. She sat him down at the table and took hold of his shoulders. He wasn’t crying now, just sobbing and rubbing his eyes furiously.
She put a glass of brown stuff down in front of him. ‘Go on, get that down you. It’s Jamaican rum.’
He drank it. It made his chest feel hot, but otherwise it was all right.
‘Now lie down on the sofa.’
‘I’m not lying down!’ Senka snarled, and he looked away again.
But he did lie down, because his head was spinning. And the instant his head touched the cushions, everything went blank.
When Senka woke up it was day, and not early in the day either –the sun was shining from the other side, not from where the street was but from the yard. Lying under a blanket – which was light and fluffy with a blue-and-green check – he felt free and easy.
Death was sitting at the table, sideways on to Senka sewing something, or maybe doing her embroidery. She looked incredibly beautiful from the side, only she seemed sadder than when you saw her from the front. He didn’t open his eyes wide, just peeked out at her for a long time. He had to figure out how to behave after what had just happened. Why, for instance, was he lying there naked? Not completely naked, that is, he had his pants on, but no shirt and no boots. That had to mean she undressed him while he was asleep, and he didn’t remember a thing.
Just then Death turned her head and Senka shut his eyelids quickly, but even so she realised he wasn’t sleeping any more.
‘Are you awake?’ she said. ‘Are you hungry? Sit at the table. Here’s a fresh roll. And here’s some milk.’
‘I don’t want it,’ Senka muttered, offended by the milk. Why couldn’t she offer him a man’s drink – tea or coffee? But then, of course, what respect could he hope for after snivelling like a little kid?
She stood up, took the cup and bread roll off the table and sat down beside him. Senka was afraid Death would start feeding him by hand, like a baby, and he sat up.
Suddenly he felt so desperately hungry he started trembling all over. And he started gobbling down the bread and washing it down with milk. Death watched and waited. She didn’t have to wait for long, Senka guzzled it all in a minute.
‘Now tell me what the matter is.’
There was nothing else for it. He hung his head, scowled, and told her – briefly, but honestly, without keeping anything back. And this is how he finished: ‘So I’m sorry, I’ve let you down. You vouched for me to the Prince, and I turned out too weak, you see. What kind of bandit would I make? I thought I was a falcon, and I’m nothing but a mangy little sparrow.’
And as soon as he finished, he looked up at her. She seemed so angry that Senka felt really terrible.
They didn’t say anything for a little while. Then she spoke: ‘I’m the one who owes you an apology, Speedy, for letting you get anywhere near the Prince. I wasn’t myself at the time.’ Then she shook her head and said to herself, not to Senka: ‘Oh, Prince, Prince . . .’
‘It wasn’t the Prince, it was Deadeye,’ he said. ‘Deadeye killed the Kalmyks. I told you . . .’
‘What can you expect from Deadeye, he’s not even human. But the Prince wasn’t always that way, I remember. At first I even wanted . . .’
Senka never found out what it was she wanted, because at that very moment they heard a knock, a special one: tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, and then two more times, tap-tap.
Death started and jumped up: ‘It’s him! Talk of the devil. Come on, get up, quick. If he sees you, he’ll kill you. He won’t care that you’re just a kid. He’s so awfully jealous.’
Senka didn’t have to be asked twice – he was up off that sofa in a flash, he wasn’t even offended by that ‘kid’.
He asked in a frightened voice: ‘Which way? The window?’
‘No, it takes too long to open.’
Senka made for one of the two white doors at the back of the room.
‘You can’t go in the bathroom. The Prince is fussy about keeping clean, the first thing he always does is go and wash his hands. Go in there.’ And she nodded to the other door.
Senka didn’t care – he’d have climbed into a hot oven to get away from the Prince. He was knocking again now – louder than before.
Senka flew into a little room that was like a closet, or even a cupboard, only inside it was all covered in white tiles. On the floor by the wall there was a big vase or bowl – it was white too.
‘What’s this?’ Senka asked.
She laughed. ‘A water closet. A privy with flushing water.’
‘And what if he gets the urge?’
She laughed even louder: ‘Why, he’d burst before he’d go to the privy in front of a lady. He’s a prince, after all.’
The door to the closet slammed shut, and she went to open up. Senka heard her shout: ‘All right, I’m coming, I’m coming, no need for that racket!’
Then he heard the Prince’s voice: ‘What did you lock yourself in for? You never lock yourself in!’
‘Someone filched a shawl from the porch, crept in during the night.’
The Prince was already in the room. ‘That must have been a vagrant, passing through. No one in Khitrovka would dare do that. Don’t worry, I’ll put the word out, they’ll get your shawl back and find the thief – he’ll be sorry.’
‘Oh, never mind about the shawl. It was old anyway, I was going to throw it out.’
Then it went quiet for a while, something rustled and there was a slobbery sound.
She said: ‘Well, hello.’
‘They’re necking,’ Senka guessed.
The Prince said: ‘I’ll go and wash my hands and face. I’m all dusty.’
Water started running on the other side of the wall, and the sound went on for a long time.
Meanwhile Senka looked around in the privy cupboard.
There was a pipe sticking out over the bowl, and higher up there was a cast-iron tank with a chain dangling from it – he had no idea what it was for. But then Senka had no time for idle curiosity – he had to scarper while he was still in one piece.
And right up by the ceiling was a bright little window – not very big, but he could get through it. If he stood on the china bowl, grabbed hold of the chain, and then the tank, he could reach it all right.
He didn’t waste any time on second thoughts. He climbed up on the bowl (oh, don’t let the damn thing crack!) and grabbed the chain.
The bowl stood the test all right, but that chain played him a shabby trick: when he tugged on it, the pipe started roaring and water came gushing out!
Senka almost fainted, he was so afraid.
Death stuck her head in: ‘What are you doing? Have you lost your wits?’
And just then the next door slammed as the Prince came out of the bathroom. So Death swung round towards him, as if she’d just finished her business.
She closed the door behind her, firmly.
Senka stood there for a while with his hand on his heart while he gathered his wits. Once he’d recovered a bit, he squatted down on his haunches and started wondering how beautiful women did the necessary. It was nature, they had to, but it was impossible to imagine Death doing anything like that. And where could you do it in here? Not in this snow-white china bowl! It was beautiful, the sort of thing you could eat fruit jelly off.
So Senka still wasn’t sure – he found it easy to imagine that specially beautiful women had everything arranged in some special kind of way.
Once he got comfortable in the closet, he wanted to know what was going on outside.
He pressed his ear against the door and tried to listen, but he couldn’t make out the words. He tried sticking his ear here and there and finally crouched down on all fours, with his ear on the floor. There was a crack under the door, so he could hear better that way.
He heard her voice first: ‘I told you – I’m not in the mood for fooling around today.’
‘But I brought you a present, a sapphire ring.’
‘Put it over there, by the mirror.’
Footsteps. Then the Prince again, angry (Senka cringed):
‘Seems like you’re not in the mood very often. Other women can’t wait to get on their back, but you’re as prickly as a hedgehog.’
She said (real reckless!): ‘If you don’t like me, then clear off, I won’t try to stop you.’
He said (even angrier): ‘Get off your high horse! You owe me an apology. Where did you find that snot-nosed kid Speedy?’
Oh, Lord in Heaven, thought Senka!
‘Why, don’t you like him?’ Death asked. ‘They told me he saved your life.’
‘He’s a bright enough lad, only he’s too wet. If you see him, tell him this: once you’re in my deck, there’s only two ways you leave the Prince – the coppers put you away or you go into the cold damp ground.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s done a runner, that’s what.’
She said: ‘Let him go. It’s my mistake. I thought he’d be useful to you. But clearly he’s not made of the right stuff.’
‘I won’t let him go,’ the Prince snapped. ‘He’s seen everyone, he knows everything. You tell him: if he doesn’t show up, I’ll hunt him down and bury him. Anyway, that’s enough of that nonsense. Last night, Death, my little darling, I picked up a fine load of loot, more than three thousand, and today I’m going to take even more, I’ve got a really grand lead. You know Siniukhin, the pen-pusher, lives in Yeroshenko’s basement?’
‘I know him. A drunk, used to be a clerk in the civil service. Has he given you a lead, then?’
The Prince laughed. ‘Ah – it’s not from him, it’s about him.’
‘But how can you get anything out of a miserable wretch like him? He can hardly feed his wife and children.’
‘I can, Death, my little darling, I most certainly can! A certain little person whispered to Lardy, and Lardy whispered to me. The pen-pusher found old treasure somewhere underground, heaps and heaps of gold and silver. He’s been drinking vodka for three days now, with salted mushrooms and salmon. He’s bought his old woman dresses, and boots for the kids – Siniukhin, who never had more than ten kopecks to his name! He sold Hasimka the Fence some old money, a whole handful of silver coins, then he got drunk in the “Labour” and boasted he was not much longer for Khitrovka, he was going to live in an apartment of his own, like before, dine off fancy food on a white tablecloth. I’m going to have a little chat with Siniukhin tonight. Let him spread his good luck around a bit.’
Suddenly the room went quiet, but it wasn’t just quiet, it was creepy. Senka pressed his ear hard up against the crack – he could tell there was something wrong.
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!