by R. N. Morris
But as this new thought sunk in, Virginsky found it strangely liberating. He turned the handle and stepped into the professor’s study.
Everything was as he remembered it: the vaulted ceiling that gave the room something of the feel of a grotto; the two arched windows hung with layers of elaborate drapes; the assortment of bookcases of varying sizes, fitted in willy-nilly, making the accumulation of knowledge seem like a haphazard venture, as perhaps it was; the same paintings and photographs hung on the wall; around them, the same dreary brown pattern of festoons, unchanged apart from being somewhat more faded; and at the centre of it all, the monumental desk, a great slab of mahogany on four square-set pedestals.
Tatiscev was seated at the desk, half-concealed by a console of low bookcases that rose from the front of it. His head was bowed over a large notebook in which he was writing. At last he looked up with a quizzical, distracted frown, half-impatient as if he were expecting a student. Virginsky felt an intense frisson of shock, caused not by how different Professor Tatiscev looked to the last time he had seen him, but how similar. He had always had something of the look of a Russian monk about him, yet he combined long flowing hair, and flat triangular blades of beard, with impeccable European tailoring, invariably from Kincherf’s. Now, that beard was streaked with grey, and the hairline began a little higher up a forehead that had gained in prominence. His figure was still trim and sprightly. His eyes burned with a quick, perceptive energy. He seemed to take in Virginsky’s presence without missing a beat. He did not even need to search his memory before exclaiming, with a jaunty stab of the finger: ‘Virginsky!’
‘That’s correct, sir. I was sure that you would not remember me.’
‘How could I forget you? You were my most . . . challenging student.’
‘I hope in a good sense?’
‘Well, I like to be challenged, so any sense is a good sense. But yes, I meant it in the best possible sense. Your questions kept me on my toes.’
Virginsky had the slight suspicion that his old professor had him muddled with someone else. ‘I . . . am flattered, sir.’
‘I see you have entered the service.’ Was there a note of disappointment in the question?
‘Yes, sir. I hope to reform it from within.’
This provoked a burst of deep, unrestrained laughter from Tatiscev. Virginsky felt himself blush. ‘Forgive me. I see you are in earnest.’ Tatiscev smiled indulgently. ‘Still and all, it is good to see that your radical spirit remains undimmed.’ He turned his crimped eyes on Porfiry Petrovich. ‘You have brought a friend with you, I see.’
‘This is my superior, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘I am honoured to meet you, Professor Tatiscev.’ Porfiry blinked pleasurably and bowed his head.
‘So, this is the great investigating magistrate, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Tatiscev rose from his seat and extended a hand.
‘You have heard of me?’
Virginsky tightened his lips in displeasure. To him, Porfiry’s astonishment seemed affected.
‘I am a professor of law,’ said Tatiscev, gesturing for his guests to sit down. ‘I make it my business to follow all the important cases passing through our courts. I think it’s fair to say that you have been associated with many of the most notable, not to say sensational.’
‘I have not deliberately courted sensation.’
‘I was particularly interested in a case of several years ago. That of the former student Raskolnikov. It interested me, amongst other reasons, because I had taught the fellow.’
Porfiry took in the news with two sharp blinks. ‘How interesting. I did not know.’
Tatiscev seemed to detect something recriminatory in Porfiry’s response. ‘In my defence, I would say that I have taught many students who did not go on to become murderers. In fact, by far the majority of those graduating from my classes show no signs of murderous inclinations whatsoever.’
‘So you do not consider yourself responsible for Raskolnikov’s misguided acts?’
‘In all conscience, I can say that I do not.’
‘There are some who would blame you for every crime committed in Russia.’ Porfiry’s tone was bantering. ‘Or perhaps you are not familiar with certain editorials appearing in a number of conservative publications.’
‘The number being two, both of which are edited by the same man. You are talking about Russian Era and Russian Soil, I take it?’
‘I am.’ Porfiry smiled.
Tatiscev dismissed the articles with a sweep of the hand. ‘Have you really come here to talk about libellous innuendo printed in those disreputable Slavophile gutter rags? And, I might add, written by a pseudonymous hack.’
‘Curiously, we have.’
‘We do not take them seriously, of course,’ put in Virginsky.
‘I hope I have made that clear,’ added Porfiry. ‘As far as I can see, there is no substance to the vitriolic attacks, which seem rather to have been prompted by a personal vendetta than any credible political opposition. What interests us is the identity of the author.’
‘I cannot help you there. I have no idea who wrote them.’
‘Oh, but we do.’
Professor Tatiscev gave Porfiry a startled glare. He quickly recovered his composure. ‘How interesting. Are you intending to prosecute him?’
‘I fear it may be too late to do so,’ said Porfiry.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We fear he may be dead. A body was found in the burnt-out wreck of his apartment. A definite identification is impossible. But it seems very likely that it is the man who wrote the attacks on you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Have you ever heard of a journalist called Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev?’
‘Kozodavlev? But Kozodavlev would not write for Trudolyubov. He despises everything that man stands for!’
‘So you do know Mr Kozodavlev?’
‘Not personally,’ said Tatiscev quickly. ‘I know of him, of course. I am a great admirer of his work. I subscribe to a number of journals he contributes to. He would never write for Trudolyubov. It is inconceivable.’
‘And yet he did. Under the pseudonym of K.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It can be proven,’ said Porfiry wearily, as if he would rather Tatiscev did not call upon him to do so. He compromised with an appeal to Virginsky: ‘Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘It seems to be the case,’ confirmed Virginsky, heavily.
‘What interests us, and, frankly, why we are here, is the question of why Mr Kozodavlev took it into his head to pen these terrible and baseless attacks on you. Especially if, as you say, you did not know him personally, but only through his work – that is to say, the work he produced under his own name.’
‘I really have no idea.’
‘You described the attacks as libellous. Did you never think to seek redress in the courts? You are a lawyer, after all.’
‘Like you, I did not take them seriously. They were an irritant, but one that it was easy enough for me to ignore. In all honesty, I did not consider that they damaged my reputation, so much as that of the scoundrel who published them. The best action, I decided, was to take no action.’
‘At any rate, it appears that you need not concern yourself any more about the continuation of these articles.’
‘Are you suggesting that I had a motive for killing this man? But I had no idea he was behind it all. How could I? And I rather suspect that Trudolyubov will find some other hack to take up the cudgels against me.’
‘They call you the Devil’s Professor, you know.’
‘Do they really? I have no idea what they mean by that.’
‘It is an allusion to your atheism, I believe.’
‘But that really is absurd. Yes, I am an atheist. Which is to say, I do not believe in God. By the same token, neither do I believe in the Devil. An atheist cannot also be a Satanist. They have proven themselves to be imbeciles, as we always suspected.�
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‘Perhaps that was why Kozodavlev wrote the articles,’ said Virginsky suddenly. His former professor and his superior looked at him with interest. ‘Not to attack Professor Tatiscev, but to subvert Trudolyubov. By tricking Trudolyubov into publishing these ridiculous articles, he succeeded in bringing his newspapers into disrepute. Perhaps he was hoping to provoke Professor Tatiscev into pursuing a defamation charge.’ Virginsky addressed Tatiscev directly: ‘Which he was confident you would win, sir. What he could not bank on was your admirable restraint.’
‘If so, it was rather a subtle plan of his, and one which I rather wish he had not undertaken – at least not without consulting me first.’
‘But perhaps he did,’ said Porfiry, mischievously.
‘But I have already told you that I did not know this Kozodavlev.’
‘Oh, yes, you did, didn’t you!’ Porfiry grinned foolishly. ‘Sometimes it is difficult to retain all the essential elements of a case in one’s mind. Particularly as one gets on in years. Generally, I rely on Pavel Pavlovich to be my memory.’ Porfiry reached across and clasped Virginsky’s arm firmly. ‘He is a pillar of strength to me.’
Virginsky very much wanted to shake Porfiry off, but contented himself with glaring resentfully down at the hand on his arm.
Porfiry at last released his grip and leant back complacently in his chair. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Professor, you look to me very much like a man who ought to believe in God.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
‘You have the look of a mystic.’
Tatiscev gave a derisive snort. ‘If Kozodavlev had written that, then I would have sued for defamation, truly.’
‘Have you ever heard of Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov, a former professor of history, I believe?’
‘Lebezyatnikov? I have heard the name.’
‘He too was a victim of K.’s attacks.’
Professor Tatiscev shrugged. ‘Again, I do not know him personally. But of course, in this case, there is no reason why I should.’
‘In this case?’
‘I merely meant that with Kozodavlev, you might have expected our paths to cross, given our shared interest in radical politics.’
‘But you have never met Professor Lebezyatnikov?’
‘I cannot say that. There is a chance we may have encountered one another. Was he a professor here at the university?’
‘For a time. Perhaps one of your colleagues in the History and Philology Faculty will remember him?’
‘Perhaps.’
Porfiry brought both hands down on the arms of his seat. ‘We will take up no more of your time. Thank you very much for your help, Professor Tatiscev.’
‘But I fear I have been no help at all!’ There was a glimmer of desperation in the professor’s eyes.
‘It is always helpful to talk a case through, especially with a distinguished professor of law such as yourself.’
Virginsky was horrified to see his superior flutter his eyelids in a manner so insincerely sycophantic as to be insulting. He noted that Professor Tatiscev was by no means taken in. He regarded Porfiry Petrovich mistrustfully. It seemed he did not quite know what to make of him, and for that reason alone perhaps, reserved a small portion of fear amongst his evident contempt.
19
The pastry vendor
It took a moment for the genteel chatter of the confectioner’s to fall silent. But Salytov knew that the silence would come, to be broken only by gasps and the perilous clatter of silverware on china, as heavy-handled forks fell from involuntarily relaxed grips. It was the moment it took for everyone to notice him, for the full horror of his melded face to be absorbed.
He was used to this. Every time he walked into a roomful of strangers, he experienced a similar reception. And yet it did not lessen his willingness to go abroad. He had no intention of turning himself into a recluse. On the contrary, it was with a certain pride that he held himself upright, thrusting his posture upwards against his cane, facing down the looks of shock and pity with angry contempt. He wanted to scream back at them, That’s right, look at me! I got this face for you, you ungrateful pigs!
Eventually, as happened now, the conversation would resume. Those who had stopped to stare at him would gradually tear themselves away from the freak show of his face, and turn their attention once again to their pastries and their companions. For Salytov, it was almost worse when they did. For in that moment he was left alone with his disfigurement.
The fat German woman avoided looking at him as he approached. No doubt, she would not recognise him from the last time he had visited the shop, before the bomb blast. Perhaps that was just as well, thought Salytov, without exploring his reasons for thinking that.
‘I am looking for Tolya.’
Recognition skittered wildly in her eyes at the sound of his voice. She looked up and stared searchingly into his eyes. ‘You?’
Salytov lifted the angle of his head disdainfully.
‘You have nerve, coming here.’
‘Tolya,’ insisted Salytov.
‘Master will not be happy to see you.’
‘Do you think I care? But I have not come to see your master. I have come for Tolya.’
‘Always Tolya. Still you persecute that boy. He is a good boy. You leave him alone.’
‘I merely wish to speak to him. He is not in any trouble. That is to say, he will not be in any trouble so long as he co-operates with me.’ After a moment, he added, ‘And is not found to have done anything criminal. If that is the case, then, naturally, he will feel the full force of the law come down upon him.’ Salytov rammed the tip of his cane against the floor to reinforce his point.
‘He is not here. Master let him go. After all the trouble.’ From the woman’s scowl, it was clear that she held Salytov responsible.
‘Where is Tolya now?’
The German woman’s nose wrinkled distastefully.
Salytov lifted his cane and slapped it threateningly into his spare hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want any trouble, like last time. Then your master had Tolya to blame. Now . . .’ Salytov pointed the tip of his cane at the woman.
‘I heard he sell pastries in Gostinny Dvor.’
As the door closed behind him, he sensed the explosion of relief, as the customers burst into conversation, far more garrulous and excitable than that which his entrance had quelled.
*
Everywhere Salytov looked, he saw a reflection of himself. He was standing on Sadovaya Street, facing the longest of Gostinny Dvor’s frontages. This stretch of the great bazaar, where the mirror sellers clustered, was known as ‘Glass Line’. Here, the windows of the vaulted arcade were given over to displays of looking glasses of every size and shape, fragmented walls of reflection that threw the observer’s image back in his face. It was not a comfortable place for Lieutenant Salytov to stand. And yet he did not, for the moment at least, turn away or move on.
There was no doubt a streak of masochism in his nature that kept him rooted there, confronting the multiple glimpses of his damaged flesh. It was as if he needed to remind himself what he had suffered, in order to understand who he had become. But however many mirrors he stood before, and however long he looked into them, he would never be able to relate the grotesque stranger he saw to his own sense of himself.
He thought of his wife. That woman never tired of looking into a glass. In her younger days, it was no doubt because she had been gratified by what she saw. She had once possessed a fresh, heedless prettiness that could trip his heart. The years, in which she had borne him seven children, had taken their toll on her looks. Now when she scoured the surface of a silver-backed glass, it was as if she was desperately seeking an image of herself that she knew must be in there somewhere, but which had somehow slipped out of sight. Or perhaps she was simply watchful, not trying to recapture her youthful looks but determined to track and capture every sign of their disintegration. There was something obsessive about her fasc
ination with her own face. It had acquired an added piquancy since Salytov’s accident. He had the feeling that his wife looked more intently into her own face now that she could no longer bear to look into his.
Salytov entered the market and pushed through the cluster of mirror sellers’ stalls. A tradesman in blue kaftan and cloth cap approached him from the side and accosted him with the usual spiel: ‘Step this way, sir . . . only the finest examples of the mirror-maker’s art . . . such a flawless reflection as you have never –’
Salytov waited until the man had got this far before turning his full face towards him. It was enough to silence him. He began to back off, one hand gyrating in confusion and apology, his face drawn in horror. ‘Halt,’ commanded Salytov. ‘Do you know a pastry seller by the name of Tolya?’
The stallholder continued to back away as he answered Salytov: ‘There’s a fellow I sometimes see wandering the lines. Could be a Tolya.’
‘Have you seen him yet today?’
‘He has not been this way yet, sir. He treads a well-worn route. There is a pastry cook who has a concession upstairs in the gallery, over on Linen Line side. By the name of Dasha. She should be able to tell you where to find this Tolya at any given time of the day. It could even be that Tolya works for Dasha, sir, if you see what I mean – taking her pastries abroad for her.’
Salytov gave a curt nod, which was as close as he came to expressing gratitude.
He left the arcade and stepped into the central court of the bazaar. The cries of stallholders vying for business echoed around him, at times drowned out by the squawks of the caged birds they kept hung around the entrances to their shops. From those who were busy came also the sharp clack of flying abacus beads; from those who sat idle, the clatter of dice in the cup and the click of backgammon pieces on the board.
