The Dead Princess

A foolish girl + a smart, rich uncle + a cheap motel = strange games.

Game No. 3 (The Lost Spring)

Genre: Cold, cold little fir trees in winter.

Behind the simple wooden door with No. 24 lay a strange, I would even say shocking, picture. Actually, this door led to an ordinary, inexpensive room in the most run-down hotel in the city. Remotely located, by the will of the planners, from the main city attractions by entire sprawling working-class districts, it—this hotel—never attracted foreigners; they preferred either the Intourist, the Pacific, or, as a last resort, the Pyramid. Extravagant northerners and spoiled Muscovites

were also seen here quite rarely. Its usual clientele consisted mainly of residents of Kuban, the central region, the Caucasus, and CIS countries, those who didn't have enough money, and, more importantly, enough demands for anything more.

People didn't stay here long, a day or two, a week at most; the Soviet-style service, the unpretentious cuisine, the drabness of the interiors didn't encourage a long stay. But the worst thing about it wasn't that, nor the bedbugs, with which they waged an eternal, and as the first epithet immediately shows, futile war, nor the cloned rooms, nor the interruptions with hot water and electricity. The worst thing about it was the view that opened from its windows. It was like a straitjacket: to the north, onto a noisy highway; to the west, onto the sky-piercing black chimneys of some eternally processing factory. A dreary picture. Sensitive natures would feel discomfort here, and for good reason, as if this very place was created for the development of some criminal intent.

The very atmosphere of the motel was conducive to this, just as a damp environment is conducive to the development of fungal bacteria on a forest log, so these cold walls seemed to invisibly attract something sinister. Anything could happen in these narrow, poorly lit corridors: murder, suicide, rape, or even a political conspiracy. Don't take the last one as a farce, because it is precisely in such, seemingly at first glance completely unsuitable places, that the most long-lasting conspiracies are most often conceived. And who were its inhabitants: all these plump ladies laden with large, baggy bags, scrawny individuals with paranoid tendencies, frail old men with burning lust in their eyes, and young girls whose manners are as vulgar as their appearance is promising. Who? Who knows.

I admit, in describing the motel I somewhat exaggerated, or rather, showed this closed-off little world from a certain angle, but I confess, I did it not out of malice, but only to create a pause, and to give you the opportunity to realize that behind that very notorious door, nothing good could be waiting for you. To tell the truth, that's exactly how it was.

The man was not much over fifty, of quite respectable appearance, in a good, expensive suit, with a silk tie tied around his neck; he resembled a politician, a businessman, or simply a person striving to show by his appearance that everything in his life was quite prosperous. He was sitting on a chair directly opposite the bed, where a young, naked body lay. One of his hands, with a dead, slightly trembling grip, clutched the cover of a deputy's ID; under the other, lifelessly hanging down, on the dusty bedside rug, rested a revolver black as pitch. A composition that could make anyone's heart shudder.

After my awkward joining, this terrible, silent scene, quite possibly worthy of Rembrandt's pen (he, by the way, loved to paint dramatic things), lasted two, three minutes, no more. After which happened what, at that moment, was the least expected. The supposed deceased simply blinked accidentally, and either realizing her pretense was discovered, or for some other reason, slid off the spot and wearily plopped down on the edge of the cot.

 — That's it, I can't do this anymore, Alexander Vasilyevich, I'm tired.

The man sitting opposite shuddered, came to life, swallowed, reached for the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out a handkerchief.

 — What can't you do… What are you tired of… Katyusha? — he said, having recovered a little, and began wiping his face, damp with sweat.

 — Playing dead. It's somehow strange, don't you think? Besides, every time you choose such intricate poses for me that after a few minutes of holding them, my limbs start to go numb, and I'm not a model, I'm a prostitute. And anyway, what's with all this masquerade. Why do you take them out, — the girl jabbed her index finger towards the ID and the revolver.

 — Well, because I'm a deputy of the regional duma. And do you know what the main duty of people's representatives is? Right. To pull out their ID in time. Without that, there's nowhere to go in our world, — Alexander Vasilyevich chuckled, not without irony in his voice. — And this revolver, it's not real, just a skillful imitation—a perfectly harmless lighter.

 — Weighing half a kilogram?

 — Half? So what.

 — Let it be as you say, but still, why?

 — Ah, my dear, — the man was clearly coming to his senses, — it's all about nuances, you see, if you were an intelligent person, if you had, like me, two higher educations, you would surely understand me. Nuances are what can even turn shit into candy. They are necessary in any business, in any process, in any game; they envelop, captivate, immerse; they create the right atmosphere for me, a certain charm, — you understand.

 — The prostitute looked dumbly, silently, at this strange, but not devoid of a certain, albeit specific, charisma, man.

 — And what do you mean you can't — Alexander Vasilyevich continued after lighting a cigarette, — people are different, some are given one thing, others another, each of us has our own calling: mine, for example, is to press the right button when asked—that's a metaphor—yours is to portray my once and forever lost Spring, and in this matter you are a star, you are unique. Before you, I had many girls who, like you, fulfilled some of my innocent wishes, Svetlana, Natasha, Alina, I can't even remember all the names. There was even one Chinese girl, with a hard-to-pronounce name, by the way, a very sweet and conscientious girl. But none of them ever got two hundred bucks from me at a time. And do you know why.

 — Why, — the prostitute drawled drearily.

 — Very simple. Because none of them were worth that kind of money. And you are. You are worth even twice as much money.

 — Really?

Alexander Vasilyevich smiled, reached for his wallet, pulled out four greenish bills, continued:

 — I'm not Fellini, nor Burton, and not even Mikhalkov, I'm a simple Russian guy who just got a little lucky in life, but believe my experienced eye, the first, the second, and the third, if they saw your small, but each time brilliantly played role, would approve you for the script without hesitation.

 — Joking again?

 — Not at all. — The man laid the money on the edge of the bed.

 — Actually, once, Goshik offered me to film with the Dutch, but there were supposed to be girls and boys too; and I'm very squeamish about such things, just imagining a boy doing… to another boy…

 — You see, even Goshik saw an acting calling in you, — the man interrupted the girl. And who is this Goshik of yours, — a scumbag, a creep, you'd have to look hard to find another, but he saw it. But you're right, you shouldn't do that. That's what some primitives do with other primitives, so that third ones don't get bored, but exercise, — the man made a rather original gesture, and in the only way possible for himself, — ordinary, devoid of elementary taste, filth. I'm not like that, and you're not like that at all. I have taste, and you have your talent and looks. You and I are a great pair, Katya, and I'm sorry that sometimes you don't understand that. Remember, have I ever hurt you.

Alexander Vasilyevich fell silent. Katya shifted her gaze from him to the enticing money. On her beautiful, well-defined face, wrinkles of some mysterious reflections appeared; she was thinking about the Dutch, and about Goshik, and about the deputy's words, and even about what, contrary to the established stereotype, a prostitute by her nature generally cannot think about. Finally, having apparently answered herself—yes, no—to all the questions that arose before her, she looked decisively at the client, and as if responding to the expression of agonizing expectation that was so clearly imprinted on his face, nodded.

Climbing back onto her previous spot, she spread her arms and legs to the sides and, after turning a little in place, suddenly froze in the most fantastic way. Alexander Vasilyevich shuddered. Apparently, the girl really possessed an amazing ability to somehow deceive time. At the very least, her imitation of death looked extremely convincing.

As if not believing his eyes—and it really was hard to believe—the man rose from his seat, hesitantly approached the beautiful body, leaned over it. Having examined Katya from head to toe, he seemed to be seeking confirmation of the misfortune that had befallen her, was ready at any moment to engage his sense of smell. But suddenly he swayed from side to side like a drunk, and he would surely have sprawled on the floor if the timely, saving armrests of the chair hadn't caught him. Breathing heavily, he still managed with difficulty to sit back down.

As time passed, his face took on the expression of a pale, rubber mask. Nervous strain was affecting his muscles. From the side, it might have seemed that something foreign, sinister, and greedy was devouring this solid man from the inside: his broad forehead was again gleaming with sweat; his eyes bulged from their sockets; and his lips trembled as happens with a plastic ball inserted into the narrow and uncomfortable space between a paddle and a ping-pong table, until, after about half an hour, from these very lips, agonizingly and protractedly, finally burst forth that very phrase that had given Alexander Vasilyevich no peace for so long.

This dangerous game, this mystification, continued for about a year and a bit, regardless of the weather and other circumstances outside the tightly curtained windows of No. 24, until the life of the inhabitants of the unremarkable, inexpensive hotel was disturbed by a revolver shot. As all the regional publications later wrote—an absolutely accidental shot.