‘If only what?’ the Stammerer asked, urging him on and getting up out of his chair. I believe he was just as astounded by what he had heard as I was. In any case, he had listened to the Doge very attentively, without interrupting.
But the Doge hesitated, and his face turned whiter and whiter before my very eyes. He seemed to be trying to decide if he could reveal himself completely to the other man.
Finally he made up his mind: ‘If only . . . Oh, do sit down!’ The Stammerer shook his head impatiently and the Doge started looking around. I saw that his face was contorted into a mask of genuine terror. ‘If only I had not failed to take into account . . . that Death really does exist!’
‘That is indeed a most important discovery,’ the Stammerer remarked demurely.
‘Don’t laugh! You understand perfectly well what I mean. And if you don’t, then you’re not as intelligent as you seem. Death exists, not only as the end of physical existence, but as an animated substance, as an evil force that has accepted my challenge and entered into battle with me for the souls of my disciples.’
‘Listen, Blagovolsky, keep all that for the Lioness of Ecstasy,’ the Stammerer said with a frown.
The Doge gave a bitter smile.
‘Oh, I used to be just as much a sceptic as you are. Only very recently.’ He suddenly leaned forward bodily and grabbed hold of the other man’s hand. He looked almost insane, and his voice dropped to a loud whisper. ‘Have you not heard about the Signs? It was I who invented this additional complication, so that the aspirants would not take poor Ophelia’s ululations too seriously. It was a clever idea: a summons from the spirits is not enough, you also have to receive a mystical summons from Death. And they did receive them!’ the Doge shouted out, so loudly that I banged my head against the door in surprise. Thank God the moment was too tense for the two talkers to pay any attention to that dull sound.
The Doge started jabbering deliriously: ‘They all received them, every one! Ophelia only had to name the next Chosen One and he immediately started receiving Signs!’
‘Nonsense,’ the Stammerer retorted. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘Nonsense?’ The Doge laughed darkly and his bloodshot eyes glittered. ‘First there was Raven, a quiet drunk, a photographer by trade. One evening Ophelia named him as the Chosen One, and that night he jumped out of the window. I bought his farewell poem from the policeman, it talks in rather vague terms about “a vision, by means of which the call from beyond was reinforced”. It’s a terrible poem, simply appalling, but that’s not the point. What was that vision? Who can answer that now?’
‘Who knows what he might have thought he saw in his cups?’ the Stammerer objected quite reasonably. ‘No doubt after the spiritualist revelation your photographer celebrated his selection rather energetically.’
‘It’s possible, I won’t deny it!’ the Doge said, with a shake of his head, ‘I didn’t attach any importance to that line myself at first. But then, the letter had a postscript, addressed to me: “For P. No doubts remain! I am happy. Goodbye and thank you!” Thank you, eh? How do you think it felt for me to read that? But just listen to what happened next! A few days later Ophelia said in Raven’s voice: “Now it is the turn of the one for whom Death’s envoy will come swathed in a white cloak. Wait.” I immediately felt reassured – what damned envoy, I thought, where is he going to come from? But that very night, do you hear, that very night’ – the Master dropped his voice from a shout to a hiss again – ‘two of the searchers had a vision: someone in a white cloak came to them and summoned them to unite with Death. One was a student, a very gloomy character, a hypochondriac, who called himself Lycanthrope. The other was quite different – a wonderful, pure young girl – I thought that she would soon abandon this nonsensical obsession with suicide! Tell me, Doubting Thomas, how often does it happen that two entirely different people have the same dream at the same time?’
‘It can happen. If the mention of an envoy in a white cloak produces a strong impression on both of them . . .’
‘Too strong an impression!’ the Doge exclaimed, waving his arms in the air. ‘Lycanthrope and Moretta told us about their “good fortune” at the next meeting. I tried to dissuade them. They pretended to agree with me and said they were in no hurry to commit suicide, but they colluded with each other. They left this life together, but not out of love for each other – out of love for Death . . . Before he died, Avaddon heard the voice of some Beast. And what happened to Ophelia is a complete mystery. I was with her only shortly before her terrible end. Believe me, doing away with herself was the last thing she was thinking of. Quite the opposite . . .’
He cleared his throat in embarrassment. I have already told you that this old satyr is voluptuous and eagerly exploits the blind adoration of the female seekers – they are all in love with him. They say that the late Moretta was also acquainted with his bedroom. However, that has nothing to do with the matter at hand.
‘And our Lioness of Ecstasy!’ he continued. ‘Today this lady whispered to me that “Tsarevich Death” was courting her more gallantly than any of her numerous admirers, and sending her miraculous gifts. And this is a famous poetess, who has seen a great deal of the world, not some silly little girl who is ga-ga over decadence.’
‘Mass insanity?’ the Stammerer suggested with a frown. ‘Some kind of infectious disease? Such cases are known to psychiatric science. In that case your initiative with the club is harmful – it does not dissipate the illusion, it merely concentrates it.’
‘My God, what has illusion got to do with it? This is something far more terrible!’
The Doge jumped to his feet, but so clumsily that he knocked over the goblet standing on the desk with his broad sleeve – it fell on to the floor and shattered into pieces. This minor incident sent the conversation in a new direction.
Bending down and taking out his handkerchief, the Stammerer complained: ‘Your cyanide has splashed my gaiters.’ (I don’t recall if I told you that he is a serious dandy and dresses according to London fashion.)
‘Oh, there’s no cyanide,’ the Doge muttered absentmindedly, with a shudder. ‘Just an ordinary sleeping draft. Anyone who drank the malmsey would have slept the sleep of the righteous on the bench on the boulevard. Then I would have phoned, anonymously, for an ambulance. In the hospital they would have washed out his stomach, and that would have been that. All the aspirants, even you, would have thought it was just a stroke of bad luck, meddling by a jealous fate.’
It seemed to me that the Stammerer had still not entirely abandoned his suspicions, because I heard a note of caution in his voice again: ‘Let’s assume that you could have got away with it. Once. But what would you have done the next time someone landed on the skull?’
‘There wouldn’t have been any next time. And even this time I have absolutely no idea how the ball managed to land there. There’s a magnet under the next pocket, the number seven. The ball’s only covered with a thin layer of gold plate, it’s actually made of iron. You saw the way it landed on the skull and then suddenly jerked over on to the seven on Caliban’s turn? It’s strange the magnet didn’t work on your turn.’
‘There are only two explanations: either the magnet is too weak, or my luck is too strong . . .’ The Stammerer murmured, as if he were talking to himself, but then he turned back to the Doge: ‘What you say about an evil force sounds incredible, but I’ve lived in this world for a long time, and I know that incredible things sometimes happen. Carry on with what you’re doing, make the seekers write poems, titillate their nerves with the roulette wheel, only put in a stronger magnet, to make sure that today’s mishap is not repeated. And if you have no objections, I shall observe your “evil force”.’