by R. N. Morris
Somehow, he had fallen from grace. Perhaps it was because he had asked her about Totsky. Something like rage rose up in him. No – he was not to blame, or at least not solely. She had acted deceitfully to him. Not only that, she had shrugged off the lie in which she had been caught.
Their position, he realised, was entirely false, and that was what had changed between them. To be thrown together by the central committee in this sham marriage pre-empted whatever natural feelings might have developed. Furthermore, Tatyana Ruslanovna must have known of the central committee’s intentions when she gave herself to him, as was proven by the clothes she came to him wearing. Besides which, she was a member of the central committee. It was evidence of further deceit on her part. He couldn’t fathom what she had meant by that act but felt that there must have been more to it than he had first thought. It was not, in other words, a simple declaration of love, and there was no trust implied in it at all.
And then it struck him: she had wanted him simply because she believed he had killed a man. It was curiosity rather than love that had driven her, and now that her curiosity had been satisfied, there was no possibility of the act being repeated.
Had she been disappointed in the experience? Or had she simply got all that she wanted from him?
She must have noticed the unhappiness in his expression. ‘What is wrong, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Her question provoked him. ‘How long are we to remain living this lie?’
‘Until the central committee decides –’
He cut her off with an anguished, derisive cry.
‘Until the central committee decides,’ she resumed patiently, ‘that it is safe for you to be removed from Petersburg.’
‘So we must wait for the central committee to decide our fate?’
‘It is not a question of that. You placed yourself in their hands when you killed your colleague and declared it a revolutionary act.’
‘What do you mean? Of course it was a revolutionary act. What else could it be?’
‘Perhaps you had other reasons for wanting him dead. Please don’t take offence. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. You must trust the central committee.’ After a moment she added, ‘You must trust me.’
They came to a broad avenue, again unknown to Virginsky. The street was muddy, and occupied mostly by manufacturing premises and cheap restaurants. She led him across it to another narrow lane, overshadowed on both sides by the looming black walls of vast tenement buildings.
He followed her into the yard. The ground was swimming in waste matter. The yardkeeper, who had the physique of a young man, but the face of someone much older, was busy shovelling the filthy mud away to the sides. But it always seemed to settle back, covering the area he had just cleared. At the sight of the yardkeeper’s prematurely aged face, Tatyana Ruslanovna gripped Virginsky’s arm and pulled him to her. He felt the sinews of his heart ripple, as his misery slipped from him. It no longer mattered that it was a lie. All that mattered was that she was holding on to him.
*
The ‘rooms’ that had been taken for them turned out to be one room on the fourth floor. To be more precise, it was a partitioned area within a larger room, which was subdivided into four small rooms in total. But at least they had a door, and therefore the possibility of privacy. The room was surprisingly clean, although sparsely furnished. There was a narrow bed, a deal table with two chairs and a small wardrobe. One half of a large, ugly stove butted through the partition, like a prurient intruder. The only other items were an icon of a grey-bearded saint and the icon lamp before it.
The occupants of the other rooms, the tenants from whom the central committee had rented Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna’s lodging, were a couple of the merchant class. The husband – if indeed they were married – was much older than his wife, who had a submissive demeanour, as if she were in constant expectation of a beating. They greeted Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna in silence, only bowing to them and averting their eyes immediately. The couple kept a servant, an ancient hunchbacked woman who spent all her time slumbering on the massive stove. It seemed to be to everyone’s relief when Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna took themselves into their room.
Tatyana Ruslanovna opened the wardrobe, and closed the door on its emptiness immediately. Virginsky looked up at the icon.
‘How appropriate,’ said Tatyana.
Virginsky frowned.
‘St Nikolai. He is my favourite saint.’
‘I am surprised to hear that you have a favourite saint.’
‘Of course, it is all nonsense,’ said Tatyana, almost regretfully. ‘But as a child, a very young child, I was always attracted to St Nikolai. I was taken in by the stories, I suppose. The idea of his giving up his parents’ wealth and devoting his life to the poor and the sick struck a chord with me. It appealed to my undeveloped instincts for social justice.’ Tatyana Ruslanovna frowned. ‘Since then, I have learnt that the Church conspires in the oppression of the people and therefore no symbol or representative of the Church can truly stand for social justice. Still and all . . .’ She smiled self-consciously and blushed as she met his gaze. ‘Yes, still and all, it is hard to shake off these childhood associations. The movement must learn to make use of them, I believe. It is the only way to bring the people with us.’
There was the smell of cooking from the next room. Virginsky found himself distracted by it. ‘Have they provided any food for us?’
‘The old woman will cook for us.’
He nodded tersely. ‘You knew all about this, this morning . . .’
‘Yes, I knew. Does it matter?’
Virginsky shook his head, though without conviction. It was more as if he was shaking off his resentment than answering her. ‘All that matters is the cause,’ he said.
He looked down and saw that she was sitting on the bed, reaching out to him with both hands. ‘It’s not all that matters,’ she said.
There was a knock at the door. He turned from her open arms. It was the young merchant woman, who was now nestling a tiny baby, virtually a newborn, in the crook of one arm. Virginsky was disproportionately shocked by the sudden appearance of the baby, although the simple explanation must have been that it was sleeping out of sight when they arrived. He understood in a flash that the old man was not the girl’s husband, and indeed that their relationship and the existence of their child was in some way deeply problematic. He saw all this in the way her eyes steadfastly avoided his, and also in the uneasy, complicated gaze she bestowed on her child. ‘We are about to eat. Will you join us?’ Her voice trembled. It was almost as if she questioned her own right to speak.
Virginsky deferred to Tatyana Ruslanovna, her hands now folded demurely across her lap, apparently incapable of reaching out in longing to any man. Her nod was barely perceptible.
A meal of cabbage soup, beef and pirogi was laid out on a table in the main room. Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna murmured appreciative comments, which were ignored by the old merchant and seemed to pain the young woman, who gave a small wince whenever she was addressed. And so the company quickly lapsed into silence.
Virginsky watched the baby grope the air, fascinated by its perfect fingers and minuscule fingernails. The young mother seemed strangely unwilling to engage with her child. The gently curving hands restlessly sought out something to grip, and it would have been natural for her to slip a maternal finger into their reach. It was an inclination she resisted. The baby’s innocent animation was in contrast to the adults’ stiff constraint and seemed almost to offend the old man. When it began to cry, the merchant set down his cutlery with a disapproving clatter and looked sharply up into the corner of the room, averting his gaze as far as possible from the sound. The child’s mother took this as her cue to sweep the child away from the table, carrying it off into the couple’s bedroom. The old man continued his meal as if the child, and its mother, had never existed.
*
In the night she answered all his fears with
wordless consolations. And although their position was fraught with difficulties and deception, there was honesty in what they gave to one another in the darkness. And what they gave had a voice, a bleating presence ratcheting the infinite night, pulling it tighter around them, making a black blanket of the void.
Afterwards, he realised that the sound he had heard was the baby crying in the next room. He realised too that Tatyana Ruslanovna was also crying. He held her and was shocked by the tremors of her weeping, her tears damp on his chest. ‘What is it? What’s the matter, my darling Tanya?’
‘I’m afraid.’ Her voice was so small it was almost not there at all.
‘Don’t worry. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you.’ His eyes were wide open as he lied.
‘I’m afraid,’ she repeated. ‘What if . . . what if we are wrong?’
The bleating of the baby had become something inhuman and incomprehensible. The old man shouted something that Virginsky could not make out. ‘What do you mean?’ His murmur was for Tatyana Ruslanovna.
‘I was thinking of the children who died.’
He thought of the answer he ought to give, the argument of social utility, of a price that has to be paid, of sacrifices that have to be made.
It was almost as if she had heard his thoughts: ‘Oh, I know what Botkin would say. But what if Botkin is wrong? Men like Botkin frighten me.’ For a moment, she allowed the child’s cries to speak for her. ‘Men like you frighten me.’
‘I?’
‘It frightens me that we need murderers. Somehow it seems to undermine every argument we make that we must have men of blood to put them forward for us.’
Virginsky tensed. He felt a reciprocal tensing in her body. Beads of sweat began to break out between them. ‘But surely I don’t frighten you?’
She did not answer. He frowned in the darkness, his brows compressing around the idea that it was fear that had prompted her to give herself to him; that the sexual act was, for her, a way of overcoming her fear.
‘You know what they are planning next?’ she continued.
‘An atrocity of some kind?’
He felt her head move in anguished confirmation. ‘What if other innocents die?’
A shudder of revulsion was the only answer he could give.
‘Sometimes,’ she went on, ‘I cannot understand how it came to be that I am involved with such men.’ She clung onto him, and the feel of her nakedness and need against him was enthralling. It empowered him.
‘But you were in Paris, in the Commune?’
‘Yes, I was there. And what I saw terrified me. And what I did – what I saw I was capable of – terrified me even more.’ Her body shook with what could have been laughter, the bitterest. ‘I sometimes think the only reason I was there was to shock my parents. It was an act of childish rebellion. And look where it has got me!’
‘With me?’ His whispered consolation lacked conviction.
‘In the arms of a murderer. And now, you will betray me to the others. You will tell them of my fears, that I am losing heart, that I cannot be trusted. And so it will begin. They will come for me . . .’ She seemed to see her comrades closing in on her. Her voice brimmed with terror.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You need not be frightened of me. I am not like them. I am not a murderer.’
‘But you killed Porfiry Petrovich.’
He shook his head. ‘It was staged. I . . . I fired a blank cartridge. Porfiry is not dead.’
‘But they announced his death in the paper.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich has always been a great prankster.’
He sensed her relax in his arms. He had the impression that she fell asleep. He was alone with the crying of the baby, and the occasional incomprehensible barks of rage from the old man.
*
She was no longer in his arms when he awoke. It was morning. She was dressed and had opened the one low window to air the room, as if she wanted to dispel all trace of what had happened in the night. She seemed stubbornly reluctant to face him.
38
Virginsky’s destiny
The intimacy of the first night was never repeated.
He dreamt one night that the merchant couple’s baby was dead. When he looked down, he saw that one of his hands was over the baby’s face. An atmosphere of unspeakable guilt pervaded the dream.
When he woke in the morning after the dream, he strained to listen for the baby’s cries. Instead he heard voices in the room outside. He sat up and pulled on his trousers, throwing the blankets onto the bed. Almost as soon as he had done so, there was a violent knocking on the door. Tatyana Ruslanovna admitted Botkin, Totsky and, to Virginsky’s surprise, Professor Tatiscev. Totsky was carrying a small suitcase made of polished steel, which he seemed reluctant to let out of his hands. The room was cramped with five people in it, and Botkin’s customary stench, of petrol and masculinity, was a sixth unwelcome presence, crowding them out.
Totsky and Virginsky remained standing, confronting one another across their rivalry for Tatyana Ruslanovna. Botkin pushed one of the chairs against the door and sat on it. Tatiscev took the other chair and Tatyana Ruslanovna sat on the bed.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ began Virginsky. He glanced nervously towards Tatyana Ruslanovna, whose expression had become peculiarly set. ‘All of us here like this?’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Tatiscev quickly.
For a moment, no one spoke. Virginsky found the brisk determination of the men ominous; he picked up subtly unnerving signals in the glances that passed between them. He felt that he ought to have been frightened on Tatyana Ruslanovna’s behalf, but a strange fixity had come over her face that was more chilling than anything he saw on the men’s. She was the first to speak, and the flitting of her eye just before she did so told him that he would do better to be frightened on his own account.
‘It’s as we suspected. It was all a pretence.’ She tilted her head dismissively towards Virginsky. ‘He fired a blank cartridge. He is here to spy on us.’
Virginsky felt as if a cannonball had dropped inside him, forcing the wind out as it bounced into his solar plexus. She turned to face him with a look of brazen contempt.
Tatiscev merely nodded. Nothing Tatyana Ruslanovna had said seemed to surprise him.
Botkin leant forward in his chair, his heavy axe-shaped head looming towards Virginsky dangerously, as if even his consideration was something to be afraid of.
Totsky’s face lost what small amount of colour it had. His mouth was pinched into a disapproving dot. His hand tightened around the handle of his steel suitcase.
Tatiscev produced a small glass bottle from the inside of his jacket. He handed it to Botkin, who looked into it with an unseemly hunger, flashing a mocking grin towards Virginsky. ‘Come now, take your medicine like a good boy.’ Botkin took the stopper out and rose to his feet.
There was nowhere for Virginsky to go. Botkin was coming towards him, blocking the only way out. He climbed onto the bed. Botkin climbed up next to him. The mattress dipped and bounced like a stretch of river ice on the brink of cracking.
Tatyana Ruslanovna looked up at him. Her look was poised and finely balanced: some ravaged, pathetic part of him thought he detected a residue of love; but, of course, quite opposite emotions were also evident. Her expression seemed to fluctuate between one that believed in him and one that held him in utter contempt. He could not say in which manifestation she appeared more beautiful. All he knew was that her contempt cut him like a long blade driven beneath his fingernails.
He tried to struggle against Botkin’s grip but the man’s hand was locked around the back of his head, pulling him forward to the open bottle. The fumes rushed into him like wolves breaking cover. His head was the prey they ripped apart, tossing sloppy gobbets of his consciousness around the room. An expanding nothingness took over his insides. His limbs evaporated.
*
The emptiness inside him was being tightened, squeezed so much that it solidifi
ed into pain. His sides ached. His chest ached. Even his head ached, though there was no tightness there, just the dull pounding of a hangover. He did not want to be where the pain was. Perhaps if he opened his eyes he would escape it, but he could not be sure. There was always the possibility that he would open his eyes to even more pain.
He could hear voices, murmuring.
The voices sickened him. If he opened his eyes, he would have to face the voices. The more he listened to them, the more nauseated he felt. If he opened his eyes, he would be sick. The voices would draw the vomit out of him. Out of his eyes and his ears, as well as his mouth. He imagined the vomit pouring out of every opening in his body, so pervasive was his nausea.
Now it became important to him to keep his eyes closed.
But the voices were saying his name, calling his name. And one of the voices was hers.
He squeezed his eyes tightly, forcing back the nausea. Then, without realising that he would, he simply opened his eyes. So easy was it, in the end, to pass from one mode of being to another.
He saw the face of his old professor frowning at him. He felt inordinately saddened because it seemed that he had disappointed Professor Tatiscev. But then he heard a voice that matched the face say, ‘Good.’ The word seemed to come to him from far away, reverberating through an endless corridor that reminded him of his university days. The association brought with it an idiotic happiness that swept over him and lifted him to his feet.
It surprised him how far away his feet were, so far away that looking down at them brought on a wave of vertigo. He was surprised also to see that he was now fully dressed. He did not remember putting on the unbelted kosovorotka shirt he was wearing.
