But the fog also contained within it the promise of another life, the life he was walking towards, street lamp by street lamp.
In the fog, anything seemed possible; everything was equally real and unreal. An idea, a vision, a hope, had as much substance as a factory wall. And a voice, like the voice suddenly heard now, owed its existence to no one, to nothing but the fog. The voice of the fog was singing to him. His heart tripped as he recognised its song:
Kalinka
!
Her
song, the one she sang to the children.
Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka maya
…
The street lamps led him towards it.
Under the pine, under the green pine
,
Lay me down to sleep
…
The ghostly shapes of two feathered horses stood in the beam of a carriage lamp. Mitka couldn’t see a driver behind the glaring light. The carriage itself glowed feebly from within, as if lit by the warmth of the voice that came from it.
Aida, Lyuli, Lyuli, aida, Lyuli, Lyuli
,
Lay me down to sleep!
As Mitka approached, the door to the carriage swung open. The steps were already down.
Something new escaped with the voice. A scent –
her
scent? – of cleanliness and flowers. Now that he could hear it more distinctly, he began to believe it
was
her voice, and that his Mother had come ahead to fetch him.
Beautiful maid, dear maid
,
Please fall in love with me
…
He climbed into the song and into the scent. The carriage hardly registered his presence as the door clicked shut behind him. The voice of the fog gave a final muted chorus of
Kalinka, Kalinka, Kalinka maya
, then ceased.
An ear-piercing shriek jolted Porfiry Petrovich from his reverie: the squeal of metal grinding on metal as the locomotive’s brakes were applied. The train juddered to a halt. Porfiry looked out of the window of his third-class compartment through the slanting rain. They had pulled up alongside a cemetery. The sight of the damp headstones and moss-covered monuments was so in keeping with the melancholic cast of his thoughts that it seemed he had summoned them. However, he recognised it as the Volkovksy Lutheran Cemetery, just south of St Petersburg. He was nearing the end of his journey.
For the first time since he had boarded the train he regretted his economy. Lifting his head to scan the graveyard, he felt a sharp twinge in his neck, and then a second duller, longer ache in the lower right of his back. He realised that he had been holding the same position since leaving Tver, a good ten hours ago.
He closed his eyes on the grey, rain-soaked scene. The image of Zakhar’s face came back to him. He remembered how it had seemed like the sculpture of a face, carved out of cork and covered with a waxy sheen. Strangely, in recollection, it seemed more real, more alive. He saw it just at the moment that his old servant had opened his eyes for the last time, showing whites tarnished with veins, a wan cloud dimming each iris. The eyes had swum with a desperate vitality, as the old man strained to
lean forward to address a stream of inarticulate grunts to his former master.
It had been left to Porfiry to close his eyes. At the still warm touch of Zakhar’s skin he had felt something steely enter him, like a shot of fortifying liquor.
He had picked up a bedbug from the dead man’s wrist, crushing it between his nails in a small explosion of blood. Was this humiliating incident the only memory of his faithful servant that he would retain?
He remembered the words he had said to the ancient woman who was Zakhar’s sister. ‘He was a good man. I shall miss him.’ But he had been thinking of another man as he said them, one long dead. For a moment he had once again been a grieving son, standing in need of consolation. Did that make the words a lie, the sentiment insincere? Or could the words apply to both Zakhar and his father?
Porfiry felt the train begin to move, but kept his eyes closed. He tasted again the smoke that had filled the tumble-down hut. He felt it tease the tears from his eyes, which he was forced to unclench.
The Lutheran church rang out the hour, its bell unexpectedly loud and resonant. Porfiry turned away and met the sympathetic and half-expectant gaze of a young man in a Swiss travelling cloak opposite.
‘It’s good to be home,’ said Porfiry, knuckling away his tears.
The young man’s face lit up. ‘Oh yes!’ he agreed, with an intense enthusiasm that seemed disproportionate to the platitude that Porfiry had uttered. ‘That’s precisely how I feel!’
There was something so sincere, and so open-hearted, about the young man’s response that despite its naivety, it could not fail to cheer Porfiry.
*
The black bulk of the Putilov locomotive, idling after its exertions, continued to hiss and vent steam. The surplus vapour curled along the platform, as if seeking out individuals to enshroud and obscure, before rising to disperse beneath the girder-meshed vault of the Nikolaevsky station.
Porfiry Petrovich, laden with valise, stepped down from the train with the awkward skip of a man discovering himself to be heavier and more unwieldy than he had imagined. He screwed up his face at the itchy scent of machine oil. He then blew out his cheeks in a pantomime of surprise and scanned the platform with a distracted air. He pretended not to notice the unusual number of gendarmes, officers of the notorious Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery, their bright blue uniforms lightly spotted with rain. They confronted the detraining passengers with scowls of importance beneath their kepis.
Some instinct drove Porfiry to stride into a shifting cloud. He enjoyed his brief concealment, although he had no reason to hide from them. It was a game without purpose.
When the steam cleared, he found himself face to face with an officer of the gendarmes – a very senior officer, judging by the sprawl of braid over his uniform. Porfiry noticed the oval badge of the Alexandrovskaya Military Academy of Jurisprudence on the right breast of his tunic. His heavily waxed moustaches stood out impressively beneath unexpectedly pink cheeks. There was a good humoured curve to his mouth, a wry, almost complicit smile. And yet his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he stared into Porfiry’s.
‘I know you.’
‘Do you?’ said Porfiry. ‘It’s perfectly possible. I am an investigating magistrate.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich.’ The officer smiled with self-satisfaction. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t remember your family name.’
‘Most people simply know me as Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘But you must have a family name?’
‘Must I?’
‘Don’t tell me
you’ve
forgotten it, too!’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I had. It is hardly ever referred to. Certainly not in polite circles.’
‘You are very droll. I remember now, you are known for that.’ The gendarme pretended to be suddenly alarmed. ‘But there must be other Porfiry Petroviches!’
‘I am unlikely to be confused with any other Porfiry Petrovich. I am Porfiry Petrovich, the Magistrate. It suffices.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich, the Magistrate. I will remember that, I’m sure.’
‘And your name?’ said Porfiry.
The gendarme held out a recriminatory finger, immaculately white-gloved. ‘Oh, you don’t get my name, if I don’t get yours! You’re not the only one who can play games, Porfiry Petrovich.’
The gendarme wagged his finger and moved away, still smiling. A moment later, his smile was gone and he nodded tersely to one of his junior officers.
‘No sign,’ reported the other man.
The senior gendarme looked back at Porfiry, who had set down his valise and was flexing the fingers of the hand that had been carrying it.
‘We will wait for the platform to clear, then search the train.’
The gendarme kept his eyes on Porfiry as he gave instructions to his subordinate.
Porfiry’s face lit up.
‘Pavel Pavlovich! I was looking for a porter and I found a friend! Have you come to meet me?’
The young man, clean-shaven and wearing a bottle-green service overcoat, gave a nervous smile under the scrutiny of the gendarmes. He carried a loosely furled umbrella, from which he shook the drops. ‘Yes, I have, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky avoided Porfiry’s gaze, as if he feared its penetrating capacity. ‘Allow me,’ said Virginsky, picking up Porfiry’s valise with his free hand.
‘That’s very kind. It is not very heavy. Nevertheless, I am happy enough to relinquish it.’
‘You must be tired. A trip such as the one you have undertaken affords no opportunity for refreshment.’
‘On the contrary. After the funeral, I returned to Tver by steamboat. I sincerely believe that if I had endured another carriage ride I would have been jounced to pieces. At any rate, the river cruise restored me. The Volga is magnificent there. And there is something about the pace of water that soothes the soul. Even so, too much soothing and one gets bored. I am glad to be back in Petersburg.’ There was something akin to hunger in the glint of Porfiry’s eyes.
Virginsky cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder. ‘What did he want?’ He spoke quietly.
Porfiry smiled as if he had been asked a completely different question. ‘He wanted to know my family name.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘It was just a silly little game we were playing. He would have been disappointed if I’d made it too easy for him.’
‘Don’t you worry that you might make an enemy of him?’
‘He was quite charming.’
‘That is when the Third Section is most to be feared. You know that, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘We are supposed to be on the same side, working together against the enemies of—’
Porfiry Petrovich became distracted by the sight of the gendarme detachment boarding the length of the empty train. They stormed it with the haste and vigour of an invading army.
‘Doesn’t it ever strike you, Pavel Pavlovich, that for a secret police force, gendarmes of the Third Section have a rather conspicuous uniform? I cannot help thinking that it would handicap some of their more clandestine operations.’
‘We Russians do love our uniforms.’
‘Do you know what they are looking for?’
‘There is some intelligence about a known agitator – an exile to the mines in Petrozavodsk who has gone missing. It is feared that he is returned to St Petersburg.’
‘And why are they searching this station? There are no trains from Petrozavodsk into here.’
‘There are trains from Moscow, however. One in particular, the imperial train. It is the next one due on this very platform.’
‘And in the meantime Count Shuvalov is taking no chances,’ said Porfiry.
The two men cleared the platform in silence.
‘It has come to something when the head of state is afraid to walk among his own people,’ remarked Virginsky.
‘The days are gone when all he had to fear was his immediate family.’ Porfiry halted to survey the crowded station concourse. A step or two ahead, Virginsky stopped to wait for him.
The throng was fluid and restless. The families of the well-to-do jostled with those of tradesmen and middle-ranking civil servants, all returning from dachas of varying grandiosity. Despite the disparities of their summer residences, and regardless of whether they had travelled first or third class, their voices now mingled into an egalitarian hubbub. All moved in a single direction, animated by the same impatience, out towards Znamenskaya Square and the city that awaited them.
‘Now then, Pavel Pavlovich,’ continued Porfiry. ‘Won’t you tell me what this is all about?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You. Here. At the station. Carrying my bag.’
Virginsky looked down sharply. ‘There is someone I want you to meet. This person is waiting for us now in a hired
karet
.’
The information stimulated Porfiry into a spate of blinking. ‘Waiting in a
karet
? But surely the proper place for any such interview is back at the Department? Unless this is to do with something other than our official duties?’
‘Not at all. I was merely acting in the interests of efficiency, out of a desire to save time. My informant just now called at the Department. Having heard the details of the case, I felt sure that it would interest you. I knew that your train was due in. I proposed to my informant that … we should hasten together to meet you.’
Porfiry narrowed his eyes at Virginsky. ‘I am very interested to meet this informant of yours. Where is your
karet
?’
Virginsky put down the valise and opened the umbrella, before leading the way out of the station into the light September rain.
It did not surprise Porfiry to discover that Virginsky’s informant was a young woman, whose face, though serious, was not without a certain gentle allure. It was not the face of a great beauty, rather one of quick intelligence and quicker sympathy. She was dressed staidly, in a dark woollen overcoat of almost severe plainness, in contrast to which her bright silver-grey eyes startled: their gaze was steady, both trusting and inspiring of trust. Her fine, oaten hair was pinned up beneath a simple bonnet. She was not, Porfiry ventured to judge, Virginsky’s usual type.
The two men took the seat opposite her in the four-seated
karet
as it lurched into movement.
‘Maria Petrovna,’ began Virginsky. ‘This is the gentleman I told you about, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘Good day to you, sir.’ Her voice was firm and confident. She had some experience, Porfiry hazarded, of a life outside the drawing room. She thrust forward her hand almost manfully. She was of good family it seemed, and yet by some miracle, her upbringing had produced something more than an accomplished marionette.
‘Maria Petrovna, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Porfiry gave a small bow of the head as he took her hand.
‘Please tell Porfiry Petrovich everything that you told me,’ prompted Virginsky. ‘There is no need to be afraid.’