‘Destiny,’ his brother explained.
‘Yes, yes, destiny! Let things be as zey vill.’
‘It is not very likely that Cyrano gave the secret away,’ said Kriton, supporting the young man. ‘Why would he kill the chicken that was laying his golden eggs?’
Simple-minded Iphigenia fluttered her eyelids and said what was on everybody’s mind: ‘Gentlemen, we’re better off together, aren’t we? You can see, Death plays by his own rules. He takes whoever he wants. It’s frightening to sit at home alone with no one to talk to, but here we can all keep each other company . . .’
The ‘lovers’ looked at each other and there was a pause. We are like accomplices in a crime or condemned prisoners awaiting execution, thought Columbine.
‘But where’s Prospero?’ Petya asked plaintively, glancing round at the door. ‘What does he think?’
Genji moved to a seat in the corner, to smoke a cigar. He calmly released thin streams of bluish smoke into the air, taking no part in the conversation. Caliban also remained silent, listening to the arguers with a condescending smile.
The bookkeeper had been behaving strangely in general this evening. What had happened to the habitual brash impatience with which he had always waited for the spiritualist seance or the ‘Wheel of Death’?
Caliban only spoke when the Doge entered the salon, dressed in a black judge’s robe. The most fanatical of Death’s champions walked out into the centre of the room and shouted: ‘Stop talking rubbish! Listen to me instead! It’s my turn to celebrate now! I’ve been chosen! I’ve been sent a message too!’ He waved a piece of paper in the air. ‘See, you can check for yourselves. I’m not hiding anything. It’s a fact, not some foolish fantasy.’
The last remark was accompanied by a contemptuous glance, directed at Columbine.
Everyone crowded round the bookkeeper. The small rectangle, one eighth of a standard sheet of writing paper, was passed from hand to hand. It bore three words written in block capitals: ‘TESTED, APPROVED, DRAFTED’.
‘And I certainly have been tested!’ Caliban explained excitedly. ‘For patience and fidelity. Now it’s clear why she made me suffer for so long. She was testing my constancy. And I passed the test. You see – “approved”! And “drafted”! I came to say goodbye and wish you all the same good fortune, and to apologise for being so gruff sometimes. Try to remember Savely Papushin, the most detestable of all sinners on this earth, with kind thoughts. That’s my real name, there’s no point in hiding it any more – they’ll write it in the newspapers in any case. Amnestied with a free pardon! Congratulate me, ladies and gentlemen! And I’d like to thank you, dear Teacher.’ He grabbed Prospero’s hand with heartfelt feeling, ‘If not for you, I’d never have got out of the asylum, I’d still be rolling around on the floor and howling like a dog. You gave me hope and you made it real! Thank you!’
Caliban wiped away a tear with his huge red hand and blew his nose.
‘Let me see that please.’ Prospero took the piece of paper with a sceptical air and turned it over in his hands.
‘Well, let us test this,’ he said thoughtfully and suddenly held the paper over a candle. The message immediately caught fire, turning into a curl of black ash. The bookkeeper howled wildly: ‘What have you done? That’s a message from the Eternal Bride!’
‘You’ve been tricked, poor Caliban,’ said the Doge, shaking his head. ‘Why would any of you play such a cruel joke, ladies and gentlemen?’
Caliban’s eyes started out of his head in horror.
‘How . . . how could you, Teacher?’
‘Calm down,’ Prospero told him sternly. ‘This message was sent by a human being, not Death. The ancient books state quite definitely that a letter from the Beyond will not burn in fire.’
Then the Doge suddenly turned to Columbine: ‘You say that Death has already written to you twice. Tell me, have you tested the notes to see if they will burn?’
‘Of course I have,’ Columbine replied quickly, but inwardly she cringed.
A trick! A shabby trick! One of the aspirants had slipped these notes to her and Caliban so that he or she could mock and sneer! The trickster must think they were the two most stupid members of the club!
The scorching realisation came to her immediately. The victim of deceit cast a withering glance at Gorgon to see if she was laughing. Gorgon responded with a gaze charged with even greater hostility. Aha, she had given herself away!
Never mind, the rotten bitch wouldn’t dare own up – Prospero would throw her out of the club in disgrace if she did.
Columbine looked Gorgon straight in the eye and said defiantly: ‘I tried with a match and a candle – they don’t burn. And my cobra’ – she took hold of Lucifer by the neck, just as he was about to dive into her décolleté to find a warm spot, and showed everyone his small rhomboid head – ‘sank his fangs into the paper and recoiled in terror.’
If she was going to lie, she might as well do it properly.
‘I asked you not to bring that vile creature here,’ said Prospero, gazing at the snake in disgust. He had taken a dislike to the poor snake ever since that first night when it had snapped at his finger.
Columbine was about to defend her pet, but Caliban interrupted her.
‘Hers didn’t burn, but mine went up in flames?’ he groaned, heartbroken, and shouted so loudly that the candle flames flickered. ‘That’s not fair! It’s unjust!’
The brawny bookkeeper burst into tears, just like a little child.
While everyone was comforting him, Columbine quietly slipped out and set off in the direction of the boulevard. She felt like crying herself. What a vile, blasphemous joke! What a bitter taste was left now after the mystical rapture of the last few days, that special, sweet thrill of being chosen!
Revenge, her soul was thirsting for revenge! The best thing would be to whisper to Caliban which member of the club had been having fun writing notes. Caliban was no gentleman, he wouldn’t go easy on Gorgon. He’d flatten her foxy little face for her. And it would be good if he broke her nose or knocked a tooth out, Columbine thought hardheartedly.
‘Mademoiselle C-Columbine!’ a familiar voice called out behind her. ‘Will you permit me to accompany you?’
Apparently Prince Genji, with his preternatural astuteness, had discerned the storm raging in her soul. When he caught up with Columbine, he glanced with apparent unconcern into the false Chosen One’s red face, then started talking to her, not about the notes or Caliban’s fit of hysterics, but something quite different, and his voice didn’t have its usual slightly mocking humour, it was very serious.
‘Our sessions remind me more and more of a f-farce, but I do not feel like laughing. There are too many dead bodies. I have been coming to this absurd club for three weeks now, with no result whatsoever. No, what am I saying! There has been a result, b-but a negative one. Ophelia, Lorelei, Gdlevsky and Cyrano have died under my very nose. I failed to save them. And now I can see this black whirlpool sucking you in!’
Ah, if only you knew, Columbine thought, but she didn’t give herself away – on the contrary, she knitted her brows mournfully. Let him worry a bit, let him try to persuade her.
Genji really did seem to be worried – he kept talking faster and faster, and gesturing with one gloved hand when he couldn’t find the right word straight away: ‘Why, why urge death on, why make her task any easier? Life is such a fragile, defenceless jewel, it is already threatened by a myriad dangers every minute of the day. You will have to die anyway, that cup will not pass you by. Why leave the theatre without watching the play to the end? Perhaps this play – in which, by the way, everyone p-plays the leading role – will yet astonish you with some surprising twist of the plot? Indeed, it is sure to astonish you more than once, and perhaps in the most delightful fashion!’