I indignantly reject your repeated offer to ‘pay my expenses generously’, although it is unlikely that any of your highly paid ‘collaborators’ demonstrates as much zeal and devotion to the cause as does your humble servant. However, my unselfish scrupulousness does not change the essence of the matter – you have in any case effectively transformed me from a principled opponent of nihilism and devilry into a vulgar spy!
Have you never entertained the thought, dearest Vissarion Vissarionovich, that perhaps you underestimate me? You regard me as a pawn in your game, whereas perhaps I am a piece of an entirely different calibre!
I am joking, only joking. How can we grains who have fallen between the millstones ever grow up to the heavens above? But even so, you should be more tactful with me, a little more formal. After all, I am a cultured man and also of European stock. Do not take this as an attack on yourself or an out-burst of Lutheran arrogance. I only wish to remind you that the fancy social graces mean more to a ‘pepper-and-sausage German’ than they do to a ‘Russak’. As it happens, you are not a Russak, you are a Caucasian, but that does not change the essence of the matter.
I have re-read what I have written and I feel sick with myself. How amusing you must find my rapid transitions from voluptuous self-abasement to unbending pride.
Ah, but it is not important, really it is not. The important thing is to remember that what is good for the Russian is death for the German.
And apropos of death.
From the latest instructions that I have received from you it is clear to me that you are no longer much concerned about the fate of the poor ‘Lovers of Death’, who dwell on the very edge of the precipice. You demonstrated far more interest in one of the members of the club, whom in previous reports I have dubbed the Stammerer. I have the feeling that you know far more about this man than I do. Why do you find him so intriguing? Do you really believe in the existence of a secret organisation called ‘Lovers of Life’? And who is this ‘very highly placed individual’ whose personal request you are carrying out? Which of your superiors has taken an interest in this man?
Whatever the answer might be, I have dutifully performed the strange assignment you set me, although you did not even condescend to tell me the reasons for it. I followed the Stammerer, and although I was not able to establish his place of residence, it was not, as you shall see, due to my own fault.
No, this really is absolutely outrageous! Why can you not set your own police agents to follow the Stammerer? You write that he is not a criminal ‘in the strict sense of the word’, but when has that circumstance ever been an obstacle for you and your kind? Or is your reluctance to attach official agents to the Stammerer explained by the fact that he has, as you informed me rather vaguely, ‘too many well-wishers in the most surprising places’? Surely not in the Department of Gendarmes too? Are you concerned that one of your colleagues might inform the Stammerer that he is being followed? Then who is this man after all, if even you are being so cautious? Why must I be left to wander in the dark? I absolutely demand explanations! Especially after the monstrous incident of which I, through your good services, have been the victim.
Nonetheless, I am presenting my report. I do not know if you will extract anything useful from it. I abstain from making any comments of my own, for I do not understand very much myself – I simply present the facts.
Tonight there was another game with the Roulette Wheel of Death, again without any result (we must assume that Blagovolsky has indeed installed a more powerful magnet). We have new members to replace the lost Ophelia and Lioness of Ecstasy. Since Lorelei Rubinstein’s suicide, the young maidens of Moscow have gone absolutely insane – the number of them wishing to join the mysterious club has increased several times over, for which we must thank the press’s fondness for carrion. The most persistent of these young persons attain their goal. This time Prospero introduced Iphigenia and Gorgon to us. The former is a plump student with bushy golden hair, very pretty and very stupid. She read a poem about a drowned child: ‘The little mite could not be saved, they lowered him into his grave’, or something of the kind. Why a foolish sheep like that is drawn to the embraces of death is a mystery. The latter is a nervous brunette with sharp features, she writes jerky and extremely indecent poems, although she herself is probably still a virgin. But then, our voluptuous Doge will soon put that right.
Gdlevsky read some new poems. Prospero is right, he is a true genius, the hope of the new Russian poetry. But then, you are not interested in poetry, I believe. Even so, there is something worthy of note here. Recently Gdlevsky has been in a constant state of excitement. I wrote you once that he is literally obsessed with the mystic nature of harmony and rhyme. He read in some spiritualist book that it is only possible to associate with the World Beyond on Friday, and therefore this day of the week is special. Every event that takes place on a Friday has a magical significance, it is a message, a sign, one only needs to know how to decipher it. And Gdlevsky is putting all his energies into deciphering these messages. It started last Friday, when he declared that he would tell his fortune from a rhyme. He took the first book that came to hand down off the shelf, opened it, jabbed his finger at the page and hit upon the word ‘breath’. He became indescribably agitated and started repeating ‘breath – death, breath – death’. Since today was also a Friday, as soon as he had greeted us, he grabbed a book that was lying on the table, opened it and – can you imagine – it happened to be Shakespeare, and it opened at the first page of Macbeth! Now the boy is absolutely certain that Death is sending him messages. He is waiting impatiently for the third Friday in order finally to make certain, and then he will feel perfectly entitled to do away with himself. Well, let him wait, coincidences like that don’t happen three times in a row.
We went home early, at half past nine – the entire ceremony lasted no more than twenty minutes. Blagovolsky effectively pushed everyone out of the door, leaving behind only Gdlevsky. He was obviously frightened for his favourite and wanted to distract him from his malign fantasy. It would be a pity if the new sun of Russian poetry were to be extinguished before it has even risen. Although, of course, there would be one more beautiful legend: Venevitinov, Lermontov, Nadson, Gdlevsky. The death of a young talent is always beautiful. But that does not interest you, so I shall proceed to my report proper.
As you requested, I followed the Stammerer, meticulously observing all the recommendations I had been given: proceeding on foot, I always remained on the opposite side of the street and maintained a distance of at least fifty paces; in a cab I increased the distance to two hundred paces; I diligently took notes in a notebook, not forgetting to include the time, and so forth.
And so.
On Rozhdestvensky Boulevard the Stammerer halted a cabby and told him to drive to the corner of Borisoglebskaya Street and Povarskaya Street. In the evening sounds carry a long way, and the cabby repeated the address very loudly, which made my task easier. I got into the next free carriage and told the driver to drive rapidly to the place, without bothering to follow the Stammerer, and therefore arrived there before him. I hid in a gateway, from where I had a good view of the entire crossroads. I only had to wait for two or three minutes.
The Stammerer (or, to follow the usual terminology in your spheres, the ‘mark’) knocked on a door and entered the wing of house number eighteen. At first I thought that he was lodging there, and the assignment you had set me was completed. But then after a little thought it seemed strange to me that a man would knock at the door of his own home. I decided to check. It was a single-storey wing, so it was not difficult to glance into the lighted windows, since at that late hour the street was already deserted and my manoeuvre would not attract any attention from passers-by. I picked up an empty box from outside a general shop, set it by the wall and peeped in through the gap between the curtains.