The Cleansing Flames (27 page)

‘Perhaps then, you would allow us to have a look around? Just to reassure ourselves that your facilities are up to the task. There are certain minimum standards that every government department requires.’

‘Be my guest, though there isn’t much for you to see. I don’t have the press that I would use to do your work, as that depends on me getting the contract.’

‘Understood,’ said Porfiry, blinking suavely.

Virginsky frowned, as much to himself as for Porfiry’s benefit. He was not entirely sure what they were looking for. It was so long since Pseldonimov had been at the workshop that he doubted they would find any meaningful evidence relating to him. And as for assessing the print shop’s suitability as a supplier for the Ministry of Justice, he was hardly qualified to make a judgement on that.

None of this seemed to concern Porfiry, who gave every impression of being in his element. He wandered over to the nearest printing press and looked down at the growing pile of printed sheets, each bearing four pages of type, ready for folding and cutting into quartos. He gave a startled blink as each sheet jumped out from the jaws of the press. He soon appeared to be mesmerised by the action of the machine.

He turned to the foreman with a look of wonder. ‘What is this?’

‘We are printing a
lubok
.’

‘A
lubok
! How fascinating. Perhaps you know a gentleman called Rakitin. He is an author of
lubki
. Perhaps you have printed some of his work?’

‘We do not generally have dealings with authors.’

‘But he was a friend of Mr Pseldonimov’s, I believe.’

The foreman shrugged, as if this information was not of the least interest to him.

Porfiry gave a small bow to indicate that he had seen enough.

*

‘What now, Porfiry Petrovich?’ A small, blindingly white rupture in the clouds above Voznesensky Prospect drew Virginsky’s gaze. The rain had dried up. The air was clearing.

Porfiry took out a folded piece of paper and handed it over. ‘Pseldonimov’s last known address,’ he explained. ‘It came in after the file had gone off to the Third Section.’

‘Obvodni Canal Embankment, 157. You think we should go there?’

‘It’s not far. Just across the Fontanka and down Izmailovsky Prospect.’

‘Yes, but we are not supposed to be investigating this case any longer. What possible reason could we have for going to Pseldonimov’s lodgings?’

‘A citizen has only just now reported the theft of a valuable piece of equipment. Do you not think he would be grateful if we were able to recover it?’

Virginsky shook his head in begrudging admiration, his mouth cranked into an involuntary grin.

*

Number 157 was only one door away from a dosshouse, on the northern embankment of the Obvodni Canal. Facing the building, on the other side of the canal, was the Varshavsky Railway Station, and next to that the Cattle Yards. This was at the southern threshold of the city. There was a bleak, fragmented feel to the area, as if it barely cohered as a neighbourhood. It seemed an appropriate location for a night shelter for transients; equally fitting that the former lodgings of a murder victim should be next door.

They discovered that Pseldonimov had shared an apartment with six other men. That was nothing unusual for the Narvskaya District, of course, one of the poorest in the city. The yardkeeper who admitted them was a wily individual with cheeks so ruddy they seemed to be painted on and eyes that were little more than chisel slits in the hardened fabric of his face. The impression was superficially cheery, but if you looked into those permanently narrowed eyes, you saw reflected back at you an empty, instinctual cunning and a dark-hearted contempt. Pseldonimov’s vacated bunk had long ago been filled, of course, and the yardkeeper pretended to know nothing of any possessions that had been left.

A man with a liverish complexion lay on a plank bed, covered by a coarse blanket. He was either drunk or dying, and at that time of the day, the latter was more probable. He raised himself with difficulty onto one elbow and pointed a trembling finger at the yardkeeper. In a voice that was astonishingly clear and robust, he said, ‘He stole it all.’ He fell back on his plank and closed his eyes. He lay very still now, and it almost seemed as though this surge of effort had hastened his end.

‘He’s delirious,’ said the yardkeeper.

‘Of course,’ agreed Porfiry. ‘But still, it is a serious charge. For a yardkeeper, who holds a position of trust and responsibility, to be accused of such a crime . . . it must be investigated. You will have to come with us back to the police bureau. Unless, of course, it is all a misunderstanding? Perhaps you were simply looking after Mr Pseldonimov’s possessions until his relatives came to claim them? If that were the case, there would be no need for any investigation. It would be enough for you simply to show us the items and we could arrange for them to be collected and passed on to the parties concerned. I am sure there might even be a reward, if everything is found to be intact.’

‘Yes, that’s it. That’s what I was doing. Looking after them. I have them downstairs.’

They descended to the yardkeeper’s cellar, which was like a peculiar reversal of Aladdin’s cave, in which it seemed items of the least possible value had been hoarded: empty pomade jars, chipped cups, broken figurines, cracked lanterns, handleless pans, shattered mirrors, as well as piles of old newspapers. The only explanation was that the yardkeeper’s instinct to purloin was greater than his ability to discriminate.

The yardkeeper led them to the back of his one-room apartment. An olive-green drape hid a shapeless mass of further objects. Virginsky naturally imagined that these must be the items of genuine value secreted amongst so much dross. He pictured the mountains of jewels and precious metals, heaped coins and polished lamps that would be revealed when the drab cloth was lifted. The reality was inevitably disappointing. It did seem to be the case that these objects were more valuable than those on open display, but in truth that was not saying much.

The yardkeeper bent down and pulled out a cardboard box from under a table. ‘These belonged to Pseldonimov.’

It was a box of handbills, printed on cheap paper. Porfiry pulled one out and handed it to Virginsky.

‘God the Nihilist,’ read Virginsky.

‘My dear friend,’ said Porfiry to the yardkeeper, his voice heavy with foreboding. ‘This puts a rather different complexion on the affair. Here you are in possession of illegal manifestos. How do we know you are not intending to distribute them?’

‘No, no! It’s not like that. It’s as you said. I have been keeping them. Looking after them. The reward! Don’t forget the reward!’

‘I’m afraid it is no longer a question of a reward. This is a very serious matter. As a yardkeeper, you are in a position of great position and influence. Why, it is almost the same as if I, or my colleague here, as if we magistrates, had such material in our possession. The courts come down very heavily on yardkeepers and magistrates who stray. An example must be set. Besides, the new juries do not like us, you see. They take great pleasure in punishing us.’

‘But it need not come to court, your Excellency. I am sure I can persuade you to overlook this. What would it take?’

‘Be careful, my friend. Do not add attempted corruption to the already serious charges you face.’

‘But in all honesty, I didn’t know anything about it. I hadn’t looked inside that infernal box until just now. These were Pseldonimov’s handbills, not mine.’

‘Was there anything else of Pseldonimov’s that you have been taking care of?’

‘Just this box. That was all. If he had any other possessions, I don’t know where he kept them.’ Fear made the yardkeeper’s words convincing.

‘Very well. We will let the matter go this time. I will send a police officer to collect this illegal material.’

‘And what about the reward?’

‘Don’t push your luck, my friend.’ Porfiry nodded tersely to Virginsky and the two magistrates left the yardkeeper to his grubby trove.

*

The following day, a Sunday, Porfiry attended mass at the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary in Haymarket Square. Rumours passed through the congregation that Katya Mikhailovna Dolgorukaya had that day borne the Tsar a son, and that His Imperial Highness had given thanks to God. The news was indeed highly scandalous. Porfiry pretended to be affected by the general agitation, though in truth he was secretly pleased. After the ceremony, he was moved by the desire to visit old friends. In particular, he had long been troubled by a sense of estrangement that had entered his relations with Nikodim Fomich. He was greeted by the police chief and his wife like a prodigal son. That is to say, he was offered tea and honey-soaked
pirozhky
. The couple’s unmarried daughters entertained him with songs at the piano, performed with great exuberance and accomplishment. Fortunately, Porfiry was too old to feel obliged to choose between them. The afternoon was rounded off delightfully by a visit from the eldest daughter, accompanied by her husband and two small children. Porfiry was pressed to stay for dinner, but made his excuses in a private conversation with Nikodim Fomich in the latter’s study. There was one other call he wished to make that day, he explained.

Dr Pervoyedov was equally surprised, and delighted, to find the magistrate at the door of his Gorokhovaya Street apartment. He called excitedly to his wife, ‘Anya! Anya! Come and see! It’s Porfiry Petrovich!’

His wife came out from the kitchen to greet the magistrate with a shy smile, which was nonetheless illuminated by an ironic intelligence. She had never met Porfiry Petrovich before this day, a fact which seemed to have escaped her husband. But, in truth, he had talked so much about Porfiry over the years that she might have felt that she knew the magistrate as well as her husband seemed to assume she did. She smiled indulgently at Pervoyedov as he gabbled on; in her look, Porfiry detected a depth of love that for a moment exalted them all. The good doctor then insisted that Porfiry should be introduced to his son and demanded from his wife the boy’s whereabouts. She confessed that she hadn’t the least idea.

A search of the apartment was made and young Gorya was at last found, much to the adults’ delight, under the table in the dining room, completely hidden by the long fringed cloth that trailed the floor. He was coaxed out with offers of bonbons, and introduced to the magistrate whose hand he shook with appropriate solemnity. The little boy seemed in awe of the strange plump man, even frightened of him.

Porfiry dropped down onto his haunches with a grunt. ‘Close your eyes, Gorya.’

The little boy obeyed. Porfiry ducked under the table, disappearing behind the hanging tablecloth, with a wink to Dr Pervoyedov’s wife.

His parents’ laughter prompted Gorya to open his eyes. The stranger was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the first place he looked was under the table. Porfiry held a finger to his mouth, urging the boy to silence. Quick-witted Gorya played along, pretending that he had not seen the magistrate behind the tablecloth. The adults’ look of patronising amusement changed to confusion. They were forced to look for themselves, and seeing Porfiry with his hands over his face were only more bemused, until Gorya’s piping laughter told them that they had been taken in. Porfiry dropped his hands and leered triumphantly. After that, he and Gorya were firm friends.

This time he accepted the invitation to stay for dinner; indeed, an invitation was barely offered and it was simply assumed that he would eat with them. And it was hard to refuse as the
zakuski
were laid out on the table, dish after dish, all manner of pickled vegetables and salads topped with sour cream or served with vinaigrette, together with little dishes of smoked sturgeon, tender chicken roulade and rollmops of herring. The colours of the different
zakuski
delighted his eye. The table became a palette of dining, the rich reds of the tomatoes, beetroot, cranberries and red caviar giving way to the pinker hues of the boiled pork, and the gold of the carrots, smoked salmon and aspic, all contrasting with the white of the sour cream and potatoes. Porfiry could not help himself. But all this was just by way of an appetiser. The feast of
zakuski
merged into a second feast, of
pelmeni
, the little parcels of noodle dough stuffed with various fillings. Porfiry tasted meat
pelmeni
, fish and mushroom
pelmeni
, cabbage
pelmeni
and mashed potato
pelmeni
; all perfectly cooked, the soft mouthfuls melting away in explosions of salivation. But Porfiry discovered the most surprising filling of all when his teeth clamped down on something unexpectedly hard and resistant to biting. He pulled out a button and showed it to the company, to the amusement of everyone, especially little Gorya.

‘Ah, you’ve found the button!’ said Dr Pervoyedov, with an appreciative smile to his wife. He did not know how she had arranged it, but it was appropriate that the prize should have fallen to their guest. ‘That means good luck.’

‘I accept it. I am very much in need of some good luck,’ said Porfiry, pocketing the button, with a wink to Gorya.

Porfiry took his leave of Dr Pervoyedov at midnight, at the same time as he took his leave of the month. He held onto the doctor’s hand for an unusual length of time, as if he believed that in relinquishing it he would relinquish all hope of happiness. He pressed his friend, with a strange insistence, to call on him the following morning.

On the morning of Monday, 1 May, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky entered his superior Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers at nine thirty. He closed the door behind him. There was nothing unusual in this. Afterwards the head clerk, Alexander Grigorevich Zamyotov, would say that he had noticed Virginsky’s expression to be unusually strained that morning, his complexion noticeably pale.

There were few people in main receiving room of the police bureau at the time, and so Zamyotov was able to steal a few moments to listen at the door. He had no great expectation of hearing anything of interest, and assumed the role of eavesdropper more out of habit than mischief. It was almost as if he believed it was expected of him.

Nothing prepared him for what he heard.

The explosive discharge of a gun threw him away from the door. A moment later, there was the clatter of something heavy and metallic falling to the floor and then Virginsky burst through, now flushed in the face. He stared into Zamyotov’s eyes, as though he were an acquaintance he had not seen for many years whose name he was struggling to remember. Gathering his wits, the junior magistrate bowed politely and began walking away from Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers. Looking back on the moment, it seemed strange to Zamyotov that Virginsky did not at any point break into a run, but merely walked calmly out of the bureau. But at the time, it was the junior magistrate’s calmness that went a long way to persuading Zamyotov that nothing untoward had happened at all, and that he must have been mistaken in thinking he had heard a gunshot.

But as soon as Virginsky was out of sight, it was as if Zamyotov was released from a spell. He rushed into Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers, where he found the magistrate clutching a hand to his chest, high up, to the left, just below the shoulder. The clerk was horrified to see blood seeping through the magistrate’s fingers. He noticed that there was blood on the magistrate’s cheek too. It seemed strange to him that the blood coming from the chest appeared darker than the blood on his face.

Porfiry Petrovich was breathing hard. ‘Get Dr Pervoyedov,’ he rasped into Zamyotov’s anxious face. ‘Only Dr Pervoyedov. No one else. Keep this. Quiet. No panic. Do you understand, Alexei? Go softly.’

‘What about Nikodim Fomich?’

‘Yes. Get him too. Quickly. But Pervoyedov is the only doctor I will allow to look at me.’ Porfiry Petrovich closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat. His face relaxed into something that for a moment resembled contentment, as if he welcomed the wound and held onto it jealously. But that impression was not long-lasting. The shift in his position seemed to take its toll on Porfiry, tightening his face into a wince of manifest pain.

‘Do not stir yourself, Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Zamyotov. ‘I shall return with a doctor forthwith.’

‘Pervoyedov,’ groaned Porfiry. ‘Only Pervoyedov.’

Zamyotov shook his head as he ran out of the chambers. Clearly, the old man was delirious. God only knew why he had got it into his head to insist on that eccentric. Zamyotov hated to go against him but this was a matter of life or death. To send to the Obukhovsky Hospital for Dr Pervoyedov would waste valuable time. The crucial thing was to get a doctor to Porfiry Petrovich as quickly as possible. Any delay might prove fatal. And if there were an inquest, how could he justify sending for Pervoyedov when there were other doctors just as capable closer at hand?

And yet Porfiry Petrovich had been strangely insistent.
Perhaps
, thought Zamyotov,
I had better talk it over with Nikodim Fomich first
.

But, of course, there would be no time for that.

It had been many years since Zamyotov had prayed in earnest, not since his boyhood, in fact. He and religion had gone their separate ways long ago. But now he closed his eyes tightly, fervently, and mustered all the sincerity of which his soul was capable. He opened himself up to an idea of God that, without his knowing, still resided within him. To that God he made all manner of rash promises, which perhaps he would not be able to keep. But at the time he made them, he was sincere and that is all that counts in these matters.
Just save Porfiry Petrovich
, was the burden of his prayers.
Just save Porfiry Petrovich and I will live a different life
.

It is a frightening thing, to open your eyes from prayer and see the answer to your prayers before you. It is not something you can ever be prepared for. And when you have made the answering of those prayers conditional upon nothing less than a wholesale upheaval of your being, you do not necessarily welcome such a sight. Indeed, it may inspire in you as much dread as joy.

Zamyotov opened his eyes to see the miracle of Dr Pervoyedov himself, walking towards Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers, as calmly as Virginsky had walked away from them.

‘Doctor! Thank God you’re here! Something terrible has happened.’ Zamyotov’s startling cry, equally laden with panic and relief, changed the tenor of the day for good: ‘He has been shot! Porfiry Petrovich has been shot!’

*

Virginsky rapped urgently on the door. As soon as he had done so, he regretted not using the coded sequence of knocks that he had witnessed the last time he had visited the apartment.

Despite that oversight, the door was opened. The woman who had served tea to the guests, Varvara Alexeevna, appeared to be on her way out, with a shawl pulled up over her head and a large cloth bag in one hand. She clearly recognised Virginsky, but made no move to admit him. ‘Kirill Kirillovich is not here.’

‘I will wait for him.’

‘He will not return until this evening. And I must go out. I have been called away. I am a midwife, you know.’ Varvara Alexeevna volunteered this information with a self-important tilt of the head. ‘I was just about to leave when you knocked.’

‘You must let me in. I have nowhere else to go. And . . .’

Varvara Alexeevna cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

Virginsky scanned the landing nervously. ‘I think I have just killed a man.’

‘You think?’

‘I did not stay to find out for certain.’

‘And you believe this will incline me to let you in?’

‘I did it for the cause. For them. I have put myself in a position of extreme . . .’ Virginsky broke off, as if unable to define the position in which he had in fact put himself. ‘I have nowhere else to go,’ he said simply.

Varvara Alexeevna nodded and stepped to one side.

‘Do you know how to contact Alyosha Afanasevich?’ asked Virginsky. ‘Or Tatyana Ruslanovna?’

‘There will be time for that later. Stay in the apartment and do not answer the door to anyone. Kirill Kirillovich will know what to do.’

With that, she was gone. And if Virginsky had ever felt lonely in his life before, it was nothing compared to this.

*

When Kirill Kirillovich appeared at around four that afternoon, his face had already assumed the look of sour disappointment that seemed to come most naturally to it. ‘Why did you come here?’

‘Where else was I to go? The police will be watching my apartment.’

‘You acted without authorisation.’

‘It was what we talked about at the meeting. Alyosha Afanasevich called for action. You agreed. You all agreed.’

‘We were talking about general principles. No order was given. How could it have been? We do not generate our own orders. We must wait for them to come from the central committee. It had not even been definitely decided that you were to be accepted into the group.’

‘I trust there will be no doubt about that now?’

‘I would not be so certain. You have revealed yourself to be a highly unreliable and dangerous individual. A volatile character. You place us all at risk.’

‘As soon as you become involved in political activity, you place yourself at risk. You must have the courage of your convictions. You cannot call for the overthrow of the Tsar and then baulk at the assassination of a magistrate.’

‘You took matters into your own hands. That is ill disciplined.’

‘To me, it was clear what was called for at the meeting on Friday. I was called upon to use my position within a government department to carry out an act of singular daring. Those were the very words Tatyana Ruslanovna used.’

‘Yes, yes, that was what was discussed. But it goes without saying that we would have to wait for confirmation from the central committee before any action was taken. That is the way things are done.’

‘I believe there was one there who was authorised to speak for the central committee. And yet no voice was raised calling for delay.’

‘Nonsense. No one speaks for the central committee.’ Kirill Kirillovich’s expression became even sourer as he assessed and somehow dismissed Virginsky. ‘At any rate, you cannot stay here.’

Virginsky looked around. The apartment seemed large without the presence of the name-day guests. He also saw that it was more comfortably furnished than he remembered, even luxuriously so, as if some objects of value had been removed for that last occasion. This was either as a precaution against damage, or because Kirill Kirillovich and his wife had not wanted their guests to see that they possessed such items. One article in particular caught Virginsky’s eye. ‘I see that you have an icon in the corner.’

‘Why not? It is for form’s sake. Our neighbours expect us to be devout Russians. It does no harm.’

‘It was not in place last Friday.’

‘Naturally. There was no one present who needed to be deceived as to our true convictions.’

Virginsky frowned distractedly as he considered Kirill Kirillovich’s explanation. ‘You can’t kick me out. Not until the central committee have decided what to do with me.’

There was a knock at the door, the coded knock that signalled one of ‘our people.’ It was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, his face illuminated by a wild excitement. He held a newspaper in front of him. ‘You fiend! You are a veritable fiend! That’s what we will have to call you from now on!’

‘Just as they call you Hunger?’ remarked Virginsky, raising one sardonic eyebrow. ‘May I see that?’

It was a late edition of the
Police Gazette
. Virginsky read on the front page: