‘But who is this Moretta?’ Columbine exclaimed rapturously, affected by his agitation, but still not understanding a thing.
She was aware of this shortcoming in herself – a certain slowness of wit. No, she did not think of herself as stupid (she was cleverer than many, thank God), it was just that her mind worked rather slowly – sometimes even she found it irritating.
‘Moretta and Lycanthrope are the latest Chosen Ones,’ Petya explained in a whisper. ‘They received a Sign and shot themselves straight away, eleven days ago. Lycanthrope’s place is already taken. Moretta’s vacancy is the last one.’
Poor Columbine’s head was spinning. She grabbed hold of Petya’s arm.
‘Sign? What sign?’
‘Death gives his Chosen One a Sign. You must not kill yourself without the Sign – it’s strictly forbidden.’
‘But what is this Sign? What is it like?’
‘It’s different every time. There’s no way to guess in advance, but it’s quite impossible to mistake it . . .’
Petya looked keenly at his pale-faced companion. He frowned.
‘Are you frightened? You should be, we’re not playing games. Look, it’s still not too late to go. Only remember the oath that you swore.’
She really was frightened. Not of death, of course, only that now he might change his mind and not take her with him. Appropriately enough, she recalled the signboard for the Möbius insurance company.
‘I’m not afraid of anything with you,’ Columbine said, and Petya beamed.
Taking advantage of the fact that she herself had taken him by the arm, he started stroking her palm with his finger, and Columbine was overwhelmed by the infallible presentiment that it would definitely happen today. She responded to his grip. And they rode on like that through the squares, streets and boulevards. After a while their hands started sweating and Columbine, who regarded this natural phenomenon as vulgar, freed her fingers. However, Petya had grown bolder now and he triumphantly placed his hand on her shoulder and stroked her neck.
‘A snakeskin collar?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Very bon ton.’
He suddenly gave a quiet cry.
Columbine turned her head and saw Petya’s pupils rapidly expanding.
‘There . . . there . . .’ he whispered, unable to move a muscle. ‘What is it?’
‘An Egyptian cobra,’ she explained. ‘Live. You know, Cleopatra killed herself with one like that.’
He shuddered and pressed himself back against the window, clasping his hands against his chest.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Columbine. ‘Lucifer doesn’t bite my friends.’
Petya nodded, with his eyes fixed on the moving black collar, but he didn’t come close again.
They got off on a green street running up a steep incline, which Petya said was Rozhdestvensky Boulevard. Then they turned into a side street.
It was after nine and dark already, the streetlamps had been lit.
‘There, that’s Prospero’s house,’ Petya said in a quiet voice, pointing to a single-storey detached building.
All that Columbine could really make out in the darkness were six curtained windows filled with a mysterious reddish glow.
‘What have you stopped for?’ asked Petya, trying to hurry his companion along. ‘Everyone’s supposed to arrive exactly at nine, we’re late.’
But at that precise moment Columbine was overcome by an irresistible urge to run back on to the boulevard, and then down to the broad, dimly lit square, and on, and on. Not to that cramped little flat in Kitaigorod, to hell with it, but straight to the station and straight on to a train. The wheels would start to hammer, reeling the stretched thread of the rails back up into a ball, and everything would just be like it was before . . .
‘You were the one who stopped,’ Columbine said angrily. ‘Come on, take me to these “lovers” of yours.’
Columbine hears the voices of the spirits
Petya opened the street door without knocking and explained: ‘Prospero doesn’t hold with having servants. He does everything himself – it’s a habit from his time in exile.’
It was completely dark in the hallway, and Columbine couldn’t make anything out properly, apart from a corridor that led on into the house and a white door. The spacious salon located behind the door proved to be not much brighter. There were no lamps lit, only a few candles on the table and, a little to one side, a cast-iron brazier with coals glowing scarlet. Crooked shadows writhed on the walls, the gilded spines of books gleamed on shelves, and the pendants of an unlit chandelier twinkled up under the ceiling.
It was only after Columbine’s eyes had adjusted a little to the dim lighting that she realised there were quite a few people in the room – probably about ten, or even more.
The aspirants did not seem to regard Petya as a very significant individual. Some nodded in response to his timid greeting, but others simply carried on talking to each other. Columbine found this cool reception offensive, and she decided to maintain an independent line. She walked up to the table, lit a papirosa from a candle and, projecting a loud voice right across the room, asked her companion: ‘Well, which one here is Prospero?’
Petya pulled his head down into his shoulders. It went very quiet. But, noticing that the glances directed at her were curious, Columbine immediately stopped being afraid. She set one hand on her hip, just like in the advertisement for Carmen papiroses, and blew a stream of blue smoke up into the air.
‘Oh come now, lovely stranger,’ said a pasty-looking gentleman in a shantung cotton morning coat, with his hair combed across a bald spot in true virtuoso fashion. ‘The Doge will arrive later, when everything’s ready.’
He walked closer, stopped two paces away from her and began unceremoniously examining Columbine from top to bottom. She replied by looking at him in precisely the same way.
‘This is Columbine, I’ve brought her as a candidate,’ Petya bleated guiltily, for which he was immediately punished.
‘Cherubino,’ the new candidate said in a sweet voice. ‘Surely your mama must have taught you that you should introduce the man to the lady, and not the other way round?’
The man in the morning coat immediately pressed his hand to his chest, bowed and introduced himself: ‘I am Kriton. You have a quite insane face, Mademoiselle Columbine. It possesses a ravishing amalgam of innocence and depravity.’
The tone of his voice indicated that this was a compliment, but Columbine felt offended by the ‘innocence’.
‘Kriton – that’s something chemical, isn’t it?’ It was an attempt to mock, to show this shabby, well-worn individual that he was not dealing with some kind of ingénue, but a mature, self-confident woman. Unfortunately, it didn’t work, it was even worse than that time in the literature exam when she called Goethe Johann-Sebastian instead of Johann-Wolfgang.
‘It is from “Egyptian Nights”, the man in shantung cotton replied with a condescending smile. ‘Do you remember this?’
No, Columbine didn’t remember that at all. She couldn’t even remember who the Graces were.