The Gentle Axe Paperback (7 page)

“My books!” exclaimed the student in delight.

“They are yours?”

“Yes. But how did you get them?”

“I have already told you. Don’t you remember?”

Virginsky frowned. “Now I do remember, I think. But it doesn’t make sense.” Virginsky rose from the bed and stood swaying before reaching out to the wall opposite. The room was so small that he could touch any side from this spot in the middle. He lifted a loose flap of wallpaper, revealing a large empty hole beneath. This discovery seemed to shock him. Then a wry downward smirk twisted his face, and he started laughing. There was a warmth and richness to his laughter now, unlike the frail spasm that had gripped him earlier. “That bastard Goryanchikov,” he said at last.

“Who is Goryanchikov?” asked Porfiry.

“Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov,” answered Virginsky. “The son of a whore who stole my pawn ticket. I kept it in here.”

“But why would anyone want to steal a pawn ticket? It amounts to the same thing as stealing a debt.”

“Oh, Goryanchikov would do it. Goryanchikov is capable of doing anything.” Now Virginsky picked up the books and scanned the spines. “I see they are all here,” he said, blushing as he got to
One Thousand and One Maidenheads.
“Thank you for returning them to me. I am grateful. You have saved me the expense of redeeming them myself.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you keep the books. At least not yet. They are evidence in an ongoing police investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to give me a description of this Goryanchikov.”

“Goryanchikov? Has he got himself into trouble? He’s a good fellow really, you know. All this, the pawn ticket, the books—I didn’t mean to accuse him. I’m sure it’s just one of his jests. I’ve warned him, but that’s what he’s like. He will have his jokes.”

“Please, I must press you for a description of your friend.”

“Yes, he is my friend. I know I insulted him, but he is my friend. If it’s a question of debts, I can write to my father. I wouldn’t do it on my own account, you understand, but for Goryanchikov.”

“The best way you could help him is to tell me what he looks like.”

“Well, he has dark hair and a scrawny beard. His eyes, if I remember rightly, are dark and set slightly wide in his face. You might justifiably describe his nose as prominent. He has a large mole on one of his wrists—his left, I believe.”

“And that is all?”

“Oh, no!” cried Virginsky, as if suddenly remembering. “One other thing. He is a dwarf.” Virginsky smiled, pleased with himself for the joke.

“Pavel Pavlovich, I believe I have some bad news for you. The body of such a gentleman was found in Petrovsky Park.”

“Body? What do you mean, body?”

“Circumstantial evidence would lead me to conclude that it is the body of your friend. The pawnbroker’s ticket was found on him.”

Virginsky dropped back onto the bed and sat with his head in his hands. “How?” he groaned through his hands.

“We believe he was murdered.”

“Oh no, please God, no!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I have warned him. I warned him so many times.”

“Of what did you warn him?”

“He takes pleasure—took pleasure,” Virginsky corrected himself. Then he rubbed his eyes as if to rouse himself from a dream. “He took pleasure in provoking people. Goading them. I knew it would end badly.”

“I see. He made enemies?”

“Oh, but surely no one!” Virginsky looked imploringly into Porfiry’s eyes. “God knows he has provoked me enough times. Once or twice I could have happily throttled him myself.”

“We will need someone to confirm—” Porfiry broke off.

“You revived me for this!”

“I’m sorry.”

Virginsky looked down, catching sight of the books on the bed. He picked up Büchner’s
Force and Matter
and stroked the cover absently. Then he dropped it on top of the others, as if it had suddenly become hot. “But these books can have nothing to do with his death, surely? It is a mere accident that he had the pawn ticket on him when he was murdered.”

Porfiry said nothing to confirm or contest this. “I have agreed with your landlady to settle your debts here. Will this cover it?” Porfiry presented the student with fifty rubles.

“Why would you do that for me?”

“Because I believe you have the potential for great good. But I fear that poverty and hunger may lead you into acts you will regret.”

“How can you know so much about me? You have only just met me.”

“But I have met someone very like you before.”

“Do you believe I killed Goryanchikov?”

“I should warn you, we found another body near where that of your friend was discovered. It may be that you can help us in identifying that person too. If it was someone known to Goryanchikov, there is a chance you knew him too.”

“Must we go now?”

“If you feel strong enough. In my experience it is better to get these things behind one as soon as possible.”

Virginsky nodded tersely and raised himself to his feet. His first attempt at a step sent him lurching forward. Porfiry was quick to catch him. With his face close to Virginsky’s, he breathed again the scent he had noticed when he first came into the room.

“How long have you known Lilya?” Porfiry murmured gently.

“Lilya?”

“She was here. Just now. She is a friend of yours?”

“Yes. Do you know her too?” There was a bitterness in Virginsky’s voice.

“Not really. Not in that way. She was brought in for questioning.”

“She is a good person.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Porfiry, picking up the books and holding them in one arm, so that he was able to support Virginsky with his other hand. He sensed a stiff resistance in the other man as they started walking.

T
HE HUNGER HAD GONE
, but now it was back. The city danced around him in the falling snow. There was a sense of finality to the snow. This was how it was going to be from now on. He was light-headed. It was the hunger, he told himself. But it was something else. He felt himself to be on the brink of something. How did he come to be in this jangling
drozhki,
sitting next to this stranger, this strangest of strangers? The plump little fellow with the blinking eyes lit a cigarette and watched him closely.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” he heard himself say.

“Yes?” said the man next to him, exhaling smoke.

“I’m cold,” he told the man.

The man nodded and rearranged the furs that lay over his lap. “We’ll soon be there.”

“Where?”

“The Obukhovsky Hospital. Don’t you remember?”

“Am I ill?”

“Possibly you are ill. There is a doctor there who will examine you. But that is not why we are going.”

Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky shivered and tried to think. “Why are we going?” he asked at last.

“You’re going to help me. You have a duty to perform. It’s not a pleasant duty, I’m afraid.”

He realized now where it came from, this feeling of being on the brink. “The city will never look the same to me again,” he said, as they glided over the frozen Fontanka between two lines of birch trees placed there to mark the route. Beyond the trees, men were loading a sled with blocks of ice hewn from the river.

Porfiry Petrovich did not answer.

“Are you a policeman?” asked Virginsky.

“I am an investigator. A magistrate.”

“And he is really dead?”

“I believe so.”

As the
drozhki
slowed, he caught sight of the bronze bust of Catherine II on the side of the hospital she had founded. He had the feeling she was waiting for him.

“Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Yes?”

“I’m cold.”

P
ORFIRY
,
still with the books under one arm, led Virginsky along the crowded corridors of the men’s hospital. Some men were slumped against the walls, others lay where they had fallen on the floor. A few paced. All were dressed in ragged and dirty clothing. The Obukhovsky was a free hospital.

Occasionally, one of the men turned toward them and watched them pass with a kind of hostile expectancy that stood in place of hope.

Virginsky experienced a heightened sensitivity. The sound of coughing resonated in the joints of his bones. He was aware of the smell of his own body and how it reacted with the other smells around him. He drifted in and out of physicality.

“It’s like a magnet, a great stone magnet, it draws them to it,” he murmured, in one of his lucid moments.

Porfiry met the observation with an expression of mild inquiry.

“This building. It’s like a magnet for their misery. And God knows there is enough of it.”

“You speak as if you’re not one of them.”

“I have no right to. I have been drawn here too. By my misery.”

“Your case is slightly different. It’s more a case of sorrow, I would think.”

“Does that imply less suffering?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps you have it in your power to end your suffering whenever you wish.”

“It’s not in my power.”

“You spoke of your father.”

“I don’t remember. I must be ill. It’s not like me to speak of my father.”

“Is he a landowner?”

“What’s that to me? He won’t give me a single kopek.” They approached an elderly man supporting himself with one hand on the wall. He was in the grip of a hacking cough. “And why should he help me?”

“Because he’s your father. He’s bound to you by blood.”

“There are other bonds, stronger, more important.”

“Such as?”

“Love.”

“Ah. Lilya,” said Porfiry gently.

“No,” said Virginsky quickly. “I mean, perhaps, I don’t know. It’s not…She has a child, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes.”

“Are you…the father?”

“Certainly not. There has never…There has never been anything like that between us.”

“Who is the father, do you know?”

“No. I don’t know. She’s never told me. Why are you interested?”

“There is quite a little mystery concerning your friend Lilya. A man, one Konstantin Kirillovich, family name unknown, accused her of stealing a hundred rubles. She says he gave it to her. She was brought in for questioning, but her accuser having disappeared, she was released.”

“I can tell you now, she is no thief.”

“I believe you. She didn’t want the money when it was offered to her. Have you ever heard her speak of this Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“No.”

“I should very much like to talk to Lilya again.”

Virginsky offered nothing in return.

“I believe I might pay her a visit. What was the name of the establishment she works at? Something German. Keller or Kellner. It was there on her license, I remember,” said Porfiry.

“Keller. The madam is a German woman.”

“Is that where you met her?”

Virginsky winced, as if in pain. He came to a stop. “Once, with a group of friends—no, not really friends, acquaintances. People from my school days. There had been a dinner. Drinking. I was taken to that establishment. She was there. Something about her touched me. I saw how young she was. I couldn’t go through with it. I gave her money and left. I—I met her again by chance in the street. It may seem unlikely to you, but we became friends.”

“On Sadovaya Street, isn’t it?”

“Beneath a milliner’s. These places usually are.”

“Can you remember anything else about it?”

Virginsky shook his head, and they continued in silence, until they came to a closed door that bore the sign
PATHOLOGY.

T
HE SMELL OF
formaldehyde overwhelmed everything else. The room was large, with high workbenches running its length. Virginsky had expected to see cadavers and body parts scattered about. But if there were any, they had been hidden away. The surfaces and instruments were gleaming. He saw jars and bottles of various sizes, as well as enamel basins and test tubes in racks. Microscopes were distributed regularly about, at some of which stood men in white laboratory coats. One of these, a young man with unruly hair, looked up. His face showed recognition, and he came toward them.

“Ah, Porfiry Petrovich! Our esteemed Porfiry Petrovich!” he cried, shaking Porfiry warmly by the hand.

“Dr. Pervoyedov, good day to you.”

“You were right, Porfiry Petrovich. There can be no doubt about it, you were right!” The physician beamed with excitement.

“You have finished your report?”

“No, no! You’ve seen the corridors? The beds are taken up with influenza victims. There’s no time for writing reports.”

“I understand. But I fear others may not.”

“The
prokuror
will get my report in due time. But don’t you want to know what I’ve discovered?”

“Of course I’m interested in your preliminary findings. However, there is a more pressing matter. This gentleman”—Dr. Pervoyedov bowed to Virginsky—“may be able to identify the victims for us.”

Dr. Pervoyedov’s face became grave. “I understand.” He addressed Virginsky directly: “What you are about to see…you must prepare yourself.”

“I am prepared,” said Virginsky.

Dr. Pervoyedov addressed the next question to Porfiry: “You have told him what to expect?”

“I have told him everything that’s necessary,” Porfiry answered with a flutter of his eyelids.

The doctor stared intently into Virginsky’s eyes. “I’ll get you a seat. It’s better if you sit down.” He dragged a stool over. “I’m afraid the pathology laboratory is not furnished for comfort.”

Porfiry took Dr. Pervoyedov to one side. “Do you think he’s up to this?”

“Will it make any difference to you, Porfiry Petrovich, if I say he is not?”

“Of course. I will postpone the identification.”

“Give me a moment.”

Dr. Pervoyedov returned to Virginsky, who was now perched unsteadily on the stool. He passed a hand in front of the student’s face, then said, “Open your mouth, please.” With a wooden spatula, he pulled back Virginsky’s lips and examined his teeth and gums. “Hold out your arms, please.” After a moment’s delay, Virginsky complied. “Could you bend your right arm?” The doctor gripped Virginsky’s bicep. Virginsky winced as he bent the arm. “That hurt?” asked Dr. Pervoyedov.

Virginsky closed his eyes on the pain.

“Any other joint pain?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. I hadn’t noticed. Not much. Sometimes.” Virginsky opened his eyes with a challenging look.

“Straighten your arm again, please. Keep it out in front of you. Now push up against my hand.”

Virginsky was unable to move the hand that the doctor had placed on top of his own.

“Relax now.” Dr. Pervoyedov’s expression for Porfiry was critical as well as concerned.

“Well?” asked Porfiry.

“There are signs of malnutrition. Slow reaction times. Joint pain. Muscular atrophy. Weakness. Really, I put no effort into holding down his hand. And dizziness, of course. You can see for yourself how he’s swaying. His teeth and gums are in a shocking condition.” After a pause the doctor added, “It’s the sort of thing I see every day.”

“He has eaten recently. I saw to it.”

“Then possibly it is the best we can hope for.”

“Pavel Pavlovich,” said Porfiry to Virginsky, “do you feel able to proceed?”

“What is the alternative?”

“We could come back. Another time.”

“But there is no escaping it.” He said this with fatality.

Even though it was not a question, Porfiry nodded.

“I’ll do it. Now.”

“I’ll get them then,” said Dr. Pervoyedov. The doctor crossed to the far end of the laboratory and returned pushing a trolley, on top of which were two large specimen jars. As the trolley got nearer, Virginsky saw the eyes in the first jar, staring out of a murky amber liquid.

His first impulse was to deny that this thing had any connection with him, even on the most basic level. It could not be what it seemed to be. It could not be a head, a human head. Then he saw the gaping mouth and the strands of hair and beard. But that was not hair or beard, there. That was something else trailing, something sinewy and dark. And what was that above the eyes? It seemed to be a second, cruder mouth set vertically in the forehead. He looked into the colorless pulp revealed there.

“Do you recognize him?” asked Porfiry.

Virginsky nodded.

“It is your friend Goryanchikov?” pressed Porfiry.

Virginsky could not take his eyes off the wound in the preserved head. He gazed at it with urgency, as if he hungered for the sight of it and was afraid that it would be taken from him. It was obscene, but like all obscenities it pulled at his soul. “It
was
him,” he said at last.

“I am very sorry,” said Porfiry. He nodded to Dr. Pervoyedov, who wheeled the trolley around so that the second specimen jar was at the front. “Do you recognize this man?”

Virginsky felt calm now. In fact, he was conscious of his calmness and astonished by it. He felt capable of the utmost callousness.

“It’s not a man. It’s a head,” he said.

“But do you recognize it?”

“It’s Borya.”

“Who is Borya?”

“It’s strange. If you look. Goryanchikov’s head fills its jar more completely. His head really was big. I always thought it an illusion, caused by the smallness of his body. Borya’s head is tiny in comparison.”

“Please, I need to know more about Borya.”

“He was not a great thinker, so perhaps it should not surprise us.” Virginsky began to giggle unpleasantly. “Goryanchikov, on the other hand, thought too much. As we can see, it has had an effect on his brain. What is the word for it when something grows too large? Hypertrophy?”

“He is delirious,” observed Dr. Pervoyedov.

“On the contrary, doctor. I have never felt more lucid. To see this, to be granted this, I thought it would sicken me. I find I am not in the least nauseous. My appetite, I have not lost my appetite at all. Should I be sad? Goryanchikov was a friend, I loved him as a friend, but he was a difficult man to like. And Borya, Borya—who could not love Borya?”

“He was a popular man?” asked Porfiry.

“I would call it a privilege. To be granted this, this vision. It is not given to everyone to see such wonders.”

“The two men were known to each other?”

“I’m not sad. Isn’t that strange? Not sad at all. I find myself feeling quite…almost, you might say, happy. No, not happy. I’m not happy. But I am glad. I shall say that much. What does it mean? Does it mean I have no soul? Does it mean I’m not a man?”

“Why are you glad, do you think?”

“I think I’m glad because it’s not my head pickled in one of those jars.” Virginsky began to shake. He could not stem the sudden flood of tears over his face. “I’m crying for myself, not for them,” he insisted. “I’m crying because I’m a man without a soul. Because I’m not a man. Because I can look at the severed heads of my friends and still live and still breathe and still rejoice to feel my heart beating. Because I’m a bastard, the bastard son of a bastard father, the last in a long line of worthless cowards, and knowing this doesn’t change a thing. I will eat and sleep and write a letter to my father, and one day perhaps I will marry. And looking at their pickled heads won’t change a thing. I’m not a great man. I have no greatness of soul. I’m not great enough to be enlarged by this. If anything, I will be shrunk by this.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know a thing about it!” snarled Virginsky.

“I know enough to recognize a man who is in deep shock. Would you not say so, doctor?”