by R. N. Morris
‘I would have thought that song would be to your taste, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry, as soon as the drozhki had deposited them. ‘The stirring tale of a rebel leader who murders his new bride to prove his devotion to the cause.’
‘I do not object to the song. It is the small matter of singing it in an open drozhki that I think indecorous. Particularly as we are magistrates engaged in a murder enquiry.’
‘Indecorous? Good Heavens! I didn’t realise that you radicals placed such store by decorum.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich, kindly refrain from referring to me in that way.’
‘In what way?’
‘You make light of my political convictions. You use the word “radical” as if it were some great joke. The joke is at my expense. That’s why you chose to sing that song, I suppose. You think that this is all very funny. Yet I will remind you, a man is dead. And we have come here in order to discover his identity. Furthermore, the political future of our great country is no laughing matter. If I have sincere convictions, it ill behoves you to mock them.’
Porfiry blinked out a face of bewildered innocence. ‘You are right, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he conceded, after a moment. ‘Please forgive me. I cannot explain why my mood is so strangely elated this morning. I will endeavour to conduct myself more . . . decorously from now on.’
‘You are still mocking me.’
‘I think I am not. Certainly, it is not my intention to mock you. Forgive me for saying so, Pavel Pavlovich, but perhaps the offence is all inside your head.’
‘That is another example of your psychology?’
‘As I am strangely elated, you are inexplicably prickly.’ Porfiry held a hooked finger to his lips thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if our contrasting moods might have a common cause. You have been put out since I showed you the article in The Russian Word yesterday, have you not? I believe my unseemly joviality dates from the same time.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
‘No?’
‘I am merely influenced by the gravity of the task in hand.’
‘And you are right to be. And I am entirely in the wrong. Once again, I crave your forgiveness.’
Dmitrovsky Lane was a residential back street between Kolokolnaya Street and Stremyannaya Street, tucked away behind Nevsky Prospect. The narrowness of the lane conspired with the height of the apartment blocks to exclude the seasonal light, which seemed tenuous and easily discouraged.
Porfiry located number 16 and strode off, humming ‘Stenka Razin’ under his breath.
‘Please, Porfiry Petrovich!’ implored Virginsky, hurrying to keep up with him.
Porfiry stopped dead.
‘You are still singing that tune.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had no idea. Still, it is a very rousing tune. Tell me, Pavel Pavlovich, do you think our modern-day Stenka Razins capable of such ruthlessness?’
Virginsky shook his head unhappily, not to answer the question, but to dismiss it.
‘Now, with one swift mighty motion,’ began Porfiry, speaking the words of the folk song. ‘He has raised his bride on high, and has cast her where the waters of the Volga roll and sigh. He killed her just to quell the doubts of his men. To show them that he was still a resolute, fearless fighter. That he had not, in the words of the song, become a woman, too.’
‘It’s just a song.’
‘But it makes you think, does it not, Pavel Pavlovich?’
The house porter, a military veteran with a missing arm and a compensatory beard, informed them that they would find Blagosvetlov’s apartment on the second floor. ‘At the front of the building!’ he added with evident disapproval. He seemed to look upon their arrival with a mixture of gratification and impatience, as if he was glad that they had arrived but wondered what had kept them so long.
The door to the apartment was open, revealing a cramped office rather than any kind of living space. A number of desks had been pushed together in a T formation, the surfaces piled high with papers and books. Bookcases lined the walls, allowing very little room to move around the central arrangement.
Both men and women were seated at the desks, industriously engaged in the various tasks of putting a magazine together. One man was working his way through a pile of correspondence. Another was reading a manuscript. Two young women were together checking a set of galley proofs. Others were busy writing.
Porfiry was impressed by the relative youth of the journal’s staff, but also by their universal attractiveness. But by God, these radicals are a good-looking lot! he thought facetiously. They were also, he noted, without exception intensely serious. No one spoke to another, each absorbed in his or her occupation. The women were dressed demurely, without ostentation, though their hair was carelessly tended, as if this was a fashion that they especially chose to follow. The men allowed their hair to grow long too, though it had not reached the waywardness of their female colleagues’. In general, the men’s suits were in a more parlous state than the women’s dresses. He had the sense that with them, threadbare elbows and frayed cuffs were badges of honour.
Porfiry smiled back at a roomful of myopically hostile faces. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am looking for Mr Kozodavlev. I trust I have come to the right place?’
Someone gasped. Perhaps more than one person. It was certainly very loud.
A strange look passed about the room. And settled on a young man at the head of the T’s stem. He rose to his feet, as if goaded by the glances of his fellows. ‘One moment, please. I will fetch Grigory Elampievich.’
It was now Porfiry and Virginsky’s turn to exchange a curious look.
The young man squeezed his way round the desks to slip through a door at the back of the office.
The first thing that struck Porfiry about Grigory Elampievich, when he appeared, was the unusual sensitivity of his eyes. It lent his expression a certain hesitancy, which was accentuated by a slightly weak chin. And yet there was also a burning energy kindling in those eyes. Here was a man, the face suggested, quick to take offence and also, perhaps, quick to act: as the chin receded, the rest of the face was projected forward. With its intensely dark moustache and brows, the face retained a youthfulness that was belied by a sweeping mane of silver hair. It was a handsome face, striking even, certainly holding its own in the roomful of radicals. Indeed, placing the man’s age at around fifty, Porfiry decided that he was looking at an archetypal elder of the radical movement, smartly dressed in an immaculate suit and neatly tied bow.
The conflicting hesitancy and energy that Porfiry discerned in Grigory Elampievich’s face was also evident in his gait. He came into the room as though he expected to be beaten back, and yet was ready to resist the onslaught.
‘You were asking after Kozodavlev?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do not know?’
‘Evidently not.’
‘He is dead. That is to say, we believe he is dead. There was a fire at his building the night before last. He was due in the office for a meeting yesterday but did not appear. We became concerned. Kozodavlev is normally extremely reliable. He would always send word if he was unable to make an appointment. We were especially concerned when we heard about the fire. It appears that it was centred on his floor. His apartment was thoroughly destroyed. You may have read about it. A number of people died. Six, in fact. Five of the unfortunates were children. We believe he was the one adult. We have yet to receive any official confirmation, however.’
Porfiry found himself unable to speak.
‘We are hoping that our fears may prove groundless,’ continued the elder radical. ‘But each day that goes by increases the likelihood of his death. We did not see him again today. I have been round to his apartment building. His floor is completely closed off. If he is still alive, he would have approached one of us, his comrades, for somewhere to stay. Naturally, we have made enquiries with the authorities, as journalists as well as friends. It seems that a body was recove
red from Kozodavlev’s apartment.’
‘I did read about the fire,’ said Porfiry at last. ‘I did not know that it was Mr Kozodavlev’s building.’
‘You are friends of his? I do not believe we have ever met. I am Grigory Elampievich Blagosvetlov.’ The editor of Affair held out his hand.
‘I have never met him,’ admitted Porfiry. ‘He once wrote about me – I think in favourable terms. The day before yesterday I believe he wrote to me anonymously, requesting a meeting. If it was him, he did not keep our appointment – with good reason, it would seem.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Blagosvetlov. ‘I do not quite understand. How do you know the letter was from him if it was anonymous? And why should Demyan Antonovich have written anything anonymously? Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev is not a man to write anonymously. He would put his name to whatever he wrote, even if it resulted in him spending the rest of his days in the Peter and Paul Fortress.’
‘I am a magistrate,’ said Porfiry. ‘An investigating magistrate. Demyan Antonovich claimed to have information pertaining to a case I am investigating.’
‘Demyan Antonovich? An informant? Impossible. You are mistaken. This letter was not from him.’
‘You are familiar with Demyan Antonovich’s handwriting?’
Blagosvetlov reluctantly conceded that he was.
Porfiry took out the letter and handed it to him.
As he read, the fiery energy of his eyes prevailed, flooding out in a rush of colour over his cheeks. He thrust the note back at Porfiry in disgust.
‘Do you recognise the handwriting? Is it Mr Kozodavlev’s?’
It was a question that Blagosvetlov declined to answer.
‘Do you know anything about the body recovered from the Winter Canal two days ago?’ wondered Porfiry.
‘Only what I have read in the newspapers.’
Porfiry turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, will you kindly show Grigory Elamievich the copy of the poster?’
Virginsky took out and unfolded the erroneous Wanted poster.
‘Please ignore the wording. There was a misunderstanding over the text. However, that is the body in question.’
‘My God,’ murmured Blagosvetlov. ‘It’s . . . grotesque!’
‘Yes, well, the water has reacted with the tissue in certain places. But you will note the heavy pockmarking of the face, and the distinctively small eyes. Oh yes, and he appears to have been a Jew. Does that description, coupled with the photograph, bring to mind anyone – any associates of Mr Kozodavlev’s, for example?’
‘He does not look human.’
‘Be assured, he was . . . human.’
Blagosvetlov shook his head. ‘I don’t know all Kozodavlev’s friends.’
Porfiry smiled. ‘Of course not. You are not his keeper, after all. Neither his brother nor his keeper.’ Porfiry signalled to Virginsky to retrieve the poster then turned back to Blagosvetlov. ‘Tell me, do you have any theories about these fires? My colleague here, Pavel Pavlovich – I am Porfiry Petrovich, by the way – Pavel Pavlovich is of the view that the fires may not have been started by disaffected students and radical elements, as many commentators are suggesting, but they may rather be due to the general combustibility of our city. Do I have that right, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky merely frowned.
‘He is of the opinion, I believe, that the blame must be laid at the door of the regime. In short, it is all the Tsar’s fault. That’s Pavel Pavlovich’s theory, anyway. Do you have one?’
Blagosvetlov regarded Virginsky with interest. ‘You are an investigating magistrate also?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Virginsky with a slight nod, possibly constrained by embarrassment.
‘Oh, we have radicals in the department too, you know,’ continued Porfiry brightly. ‘So, what do you think, sir? About the fires, if I may press you.’
‘You may discover my opinions easily enough,’ said Blagosvetlov. ‘By subscribing to our journal.’
‘Ah! Very good! I like that! Never miss the opportunity to recruit a new subscriber, and why not. I dare say Pavel Pavlovich subscribes already. Perhaps he will bring some of his back copies into the department. Will you, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘If you wish.’
‘Well then, I look forward to reading your views,’ said Porfiry with a smile that suggested he was happy to let the matter drop. ‘I wonder, does Mr Kozodavlev have a desk here in the office?’
‘We all share desks.’
‘Of course. That’s precisely what I would expect!’ cried Porfiry delightedly. ‘You share desks. But each person must have somewhere to keep their own papers, the material they are working on from day to day? Did Mr Kozodavlev keep any papers here?’
Blagosvetlov bristled. The fire came back to his eyes.
‘I understand your reluctance to co-operate with the authorities,’ began Porfiry, speaking apparently to Blagosvetlov but in reality addressing them all. ‘But I would ask you to bear in mind that I have come here today openly, in good faith, asking honest questions. I have not engaged in subterfuge or any of the filthy tricks to which other departments resort. I come in my service uniform, not in disguise. I have not sent spies or agents provocateurs. It is not my wish, or my intention, to close down your journal. On the contrary, I personally believe that the open airing of all shades of opinion is vital if Russia is to progress – as she must. I may not share your opinions, but I wish to hear them, and I wish others to hear them too. In short, I am not here to suppress you. I am here solely in my capacity as an investigating magistrate looking into the death of an unidentified man. I believe that your friend Kozodavlev knew something about that man. I believe also that he wished to share that knowledge with me. You may now condemn him as a police informant, and consider him a discredited comrade. However, before you do so, I ask you to remember the Kozodavlev you knew, to remember his principles and integrity, and ask yourself, would he have written this note unless he had good reason? I can only assume that what was a good reason for Kozodavlev will be a good reason for you too.’
The plea was met with silence, their faces sealed off in resentful misery.
‘We were talking about the fires,’ resumed Porfiry. ‘Well, here is a theory for you. The fire in Kozodavlev’s building was started deliberately with the sole purpose of killing Kozodavlev – or perhaps of incinerating his already-dead body. The other five victims were merely incidental. Collateral damage, we might say. The murderer’s sole intention was to prevent Kozodavlev from going to the authorities with what he knew about the dead man in the Winter Canal. In which case, if that theory is true, then I am here investigating not only the death of the unknown man retrieved from the Winter Canal but also that of Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev, your friend, your colleague. Your comrade. Please, I beg you, look deep into your heart before you wilfully obstruct me.’
‘The heart is merely a physical organ pumping blood around the body,’ put in a young man seated along one of the arms of the T of desks. Someone else sniggered.
Porfiry regarded the speaker with interest, taking note of his intensely dark, almost black eyes. There was an arrogance to his hostility that was lacking in most of the others, a self-conscious sneer that disfigured his good looks.
‘And you must be Mr Bazarov,’ said Porfiry, with a sarcastic smile.
The young man snorted derisively at the reference to Turgenev’s archetypal nihilist. ‘Bazarov is a fictional construct. A distorted character from a failed novel written ten years ago by a superfluous writer.’
‘An interesting judgement, my friend. But am I correct in thinking that you believe all writers to be superfluous? That is the position of the radical youth, is it not? If it’s a choice of Pushkin or a boot, you would take the boot.’
‘Naturally. If a man has any talent for writing, he should devote himself to propaganda and publicity. For the cause, I mean. Utilitarian writing is the only kind that can be countenanced.’
‘You are talking about man
ifestos?’
‘Are you trying to entrap me?’
‘I wouldn’t dare. To have such a dangerous beast as you in my trap would surely earn me a savaging. I am simply interested in learning the opinions of young people today. If the human conscience does not reside in the heart – as natural science insists it cannot – where then would you place it? Or would you deny the very existence of human conscience?’
‘What we experience as conscience, our moral outlook if you like, arises from the conditions of our upbringing, and from the norms of the society in which we are born. It is a mental construct, and therefore it resides in the brain.’
Porfiry considered for a moment. ‘So conscience is relative, is that what you are saying? Different societies, different upbringings, will create different moral outlooks. There is no absolute right and wrong?’
‘Amongst cannibals, it is perfectly acceptable to eat people.’
‘And God? There is no room for God in this?’
The young man merely gave another derisive snort, by which he meant to repay Porfiry for the insult to his intelligence.
‘And if a society with norms – is that the word you used?’ Porfiry waited for the young man’s dismissive nod before continuing. ‘And if a society with norms that prohibit a certain act is changed to one that allows that same act, what happens to the conscience of those living in that society? Are they able to transform their consciences as easily as the society was transformed?’
‘Those living at the time of the transformation will have to be retrained so that their consciences are brought in line with the new norms. All future generations who are brought up, once the transformed society has been established, will naturally have consciences that correspond to its norms.’
‘I see. Thank you. I understand now. And if we go back to a time before the transformation has been effected, when it is in the process of being brought about, before its norms are established . . . this I would imagine would be a time of great turmoil and confusion for the human conscience?’
