Popov.

Popov Ch1 Death Waits

Chapter 1 Death Waits

Seated in the dark corner of a small parlour, where the light refused to enter further in than the window, sat a short man. He was observing the two women who stood beside a plain wood coffin set on trestles beside the empty hearth of the bare room. The murk was lessened around it by the fitful light of four cheap candles fixed to a shelf by their own wax. He pulled a faded maroon velvet window curtain about him and so sank back, unnoticeable in the gloom.

‘Do not give way to your tears so my dear sister.’

‘Oh Irina, to see him so.’

‘Well Sonya and were he my husband I would be glad to see him in his coffin at last. I tell you I am glad to see such a brother as he on his way to hell.’

‘Irina! He was not so bad.’

‘Pah! Did he spend his money wisely? Did he leave you well off? Was he practical? No. All the money he inherited from our papa was wasted in his failed schemes. He was no doctor or inventor or had any genius except for acting the fool and indulging in his wild impractical notions. Your children will get nothing; you will have to beg from your relatives. How can you defend him?’

‘He was my husband and a good father.’

‘If you mean that he loved his son and indulged his daughter, oh he was an excellent papa! The lavish parties he threw on their birthdays, the extravagant gifts at Christmas. Such wastes and failures, like the enormous kite launcher that was more like a siege catapult. He built it on the roof and then had to have the whole house retiled when it toppled off at the first firing. But did he provide for them? Where is Anya’s dowry? Who will take a penniless girl –’

‘Oh, but I thought she and Andre –’

‘You expect my son to marry without money? Sister, it would be the ruin of him. No, it was at their cradles that we spoke of that. Andre has long been engaged to princess Dmitrievna. Nail the lid shut and be done with the wastrel, it is too cold to stand my carriage horses for long waiting at the door. I have other appointments to make.’

            There was a bustle in the doorway of the dark room, two women entered and curtsied.

            ‘Madam Irina Kutuzov,’ they murmured with respect. ‘Sonya we have come to consol you over the loss of your Janovitz. Such a good man, we were so shocked to hear of it, what did the doctor say he died of?’

            ‘Too much potato soup,’ the man in the corner said in a low voice.

            ‘Too much potato soup carrion. Be off with you there are no fine linens and bed curtains for you to take here. This is a poor house despite the rumours that he hid his money under the floor boards. My sister here is ruined because he threw his money out the door at every passing fancy. There is not even a carpet. Every thing of any value has long since been taken to the pawnbrokers. A good man indeed!’ Irina hustled the two protesting women from the room.

            ‘Irina!’

‘No Sonya, he was my brother and I will say it. You cannot even afford a sheep’s head to eat now and time was when he spent five hundred roubles on a pig pen, six pigs and a dog just to see if the pigs would run clockwise or anticlockwise when chased. What happened? When the pigs just scattered he said they were they wrong type and gave them away. The dog however he kept because it reminded him of Peter the cobbler. The cobbler for heavens sake! No return from the pigs, just extra expense to keep the dog.

Then there was the time he drove all the way to St Petersburg for a new pair of shoes and came back without either them or his purse but with a rooster. At least that went in the pot, but he paid a thousand roubles for it because someone had told him it laid gold eggs. He had no sense!’

‘But sister Janovich always said that if the rooster did lay an egg it would be gold,’ Sonya said in a meek tone.

‘So would the egg laid by any other rooster I dare say but give me a hen to provide eggs any day. How could you listen to him Sonya?’

‘He made me laugh. You never saw the good in him, the joy of life he had. Your father was proud of him. Janovich cared for the old man, which is more than you did.’

‘Certainly, do you think my husband could consent to housing such a sentimental old fool under his roof? He has his position to think of. We could not afford to acknowledge papa or my idiot brother, we entertain Prince Vasili you know. Ah here is the priest at last. Come father wave your incense and mumble your doctrines so that I may return to my fireside this cold day.

Goodbye wastrel brother.’ Irina looked into the coffin once more and then swept from the room. The priest comforted Sonya with a touch on the shoulder and signalled in the undertakers to seal the lid. The coffin was lifted and carried from the room, Sonya followed it out in silence applying the worn hem of her apron to her eyes.

In the corner the short man rose with a small smile that soon turned to a wide grin. He hardly noticed a tall figure in a long hooded robe who appeared beside him.

‘I have allowed you the time to see what you wanted Janovich Popoviniskilowitz, now we must go,’ the man said.

‘Just call me Popov, your grimness.’

‘It matters not, follow me.’ The dark figure turned, his cloak billowed out, raising some dust as it did so.

‘Just a minute your Dreadfulness,’ Popov tugged at the long robe.

‘It is not a bell pull.’

‘Well – it’s just where are we going? I mean have I been forgiven, because I know I am a sinner.’ Popov hung his head at these last words, but glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see the reaction to these words.

‘If I were to be the judge of these things I would say that this little show of remorse is just that, a show, Popov. But it is not in my remit to judge, I merely collect. And here we are, arrivals.’

Popov was stunned to see he was in a large building with a high vaulted ceiling and a pink marbled floor. Ahead of him were queues of people facing towards a row of teak wood desks, with high ornate screens; behind which sat a row of, what Popov could only call, angels. Each was dealing with the person in front of them, either writing in a ledger with a huge quill pen or asking questions.

‘Little pink Cossacks!’ exclaimed Popov. ‘I’m in the post office!’

‘Your queue,’ the dark robed figure pointed to a long row at the far end of the hall, where people were reading as they waited and two children were playing with marbles. Popov looked around.

‘Couldn’t I join that queue?’ he asked pointing to a desk that only had three people in front of it.

‘Reincarnations only, you are not scheduled for that.’

‘Well that one then Inflexible one?’ Popov pointed to another that was short.

‘Nominated Guardian angels only.’

‘Ok that one then’ He pointed to another short queue.

‘Emergency services and armed forces personnel only.’ The reply was curt. ‘That is your queue Popov, there at the end. Misfits. Now go to it.’

Popov hung his head, ‘Yes insistant one.’ He said and began to shuffle off.

‘My name is Death Popov, just Death, nothing else.’ Came the sigh but when Popov turned to reply the robed figure had gone.