by R. N. Morris
‘I wonder, madam, if you will assist me in a psychological experiment. I take it you wish to see the young lady recover from the debilitating condition to which she is in thrall?’
Porfiry’s eyes held and compelled the princess.
‘I have no knowledge of psychology,’ she protested, though in truth it was more a surrender of will than a protest.
‘There is no need to worry about that. We are all in some degree psychologists, are we not? Besides, the role I wish you to play is very simple.’ Porfiry produced a folded newspaper clipping from a pocket. ‘Please read aloud the passage marked, if you would be so kind.’
He passed the slip of newsprint to the princess.
Virginsky sensed that with her static demeanour and shadowy dress, she was more comfortable on the periphery of events, hardly seen, or if noticed at all, soon ignored. Perhaps this was what had drawn her to the side of Aglaia Filippovna and why she was so riveted by the girl’s unmoving form. Her fascination was not without a touch of envy. To be invited now into the centre of this momentous incident — a murder investigation — to be asked to participate, and not simply witness, it was almost too much for her. Her consternation bordered on panic. She fumbled in her reticule, spilling its contents with a yelp of dismay onto Aglaia Filippovna’s bed. Virginsky looked away from the spillage as though from something indecent, though he noticed that Porfiry was unashamedly goggling at the items. Such was the greed in Porfiry’s eye that it appeared he longed to handle the objects. It was only his reluctance to release Aglaia Filippovna’s hand that prevented him, it seemed.
Despite his initial tact, Virginsky now found himself following Porfiry’s example. He assessed the displayed contents of her reticule dispassionately, with an almost academic interest, as though they were exhibits in some diminished museum of femininity: a tortoiseshell comb, a porcelain cologne bottle with atomiser ball, a silver compact, and a lorgnette, also of tortoiseshell. It was apparently this last object that Princess Naryskina was looking for. She scooped everything else back into the reticule, including, inadvertently, the newspaper cutting, which she then only found by once again emptying the reticule.
Prince Sergei rushed to his mother’s side to help her replace the contents. ‘M-mother!’
Virginsky noted that the prince’s stutter had returned.
At last the princess was ready to begin the task. She unfolded the paper and held the lorgnette up to her face, moving it backwards and forwards to find the focal point.
‘Before you begin, madam,’ said Porfiry. He turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, may I have a word in your ear.’
Virginsky stooped, allowing Porfiry to whisper something that must have been extremely shocking, to judge by Virginsky’s glare of incredulity. Porfiry nodded emphatically.
Porfiry now addressed Princess Naryskina. ‘Now, madam, please don’t be alarmed, whatever happens. Especially do not be alarmed by what Pavel Pavlovich is about to do, which may indeed strike you as alarming.’ Porfiry nodded to Virginsky.
Virginsky moved to stand behind the princess. Suddenly he stretched his arms out, reaching over the princess’s shoulders, and let the towel unfurl in front of her face. He was careful not to touch her person; even so, their proximity had the awkwardness of enforced intimacy. He felt like a hairdresser might. The bloody towel added a bizarre twist. Prince Sergei stared in mute indignation. It seemed the arrangement was so outlandish it had robbed him of the power of speech entirely.
‘Now madam, if you are ready, please read the passage I have marked.’
Princess Naryskina cleared her throat thickly and tucked her chin against her collarbone. Her unnaturally deep, choked voice intoned: ‘The body of Innokenty Zimoveykin, 13, was discovered within the precincts of the Baird Shipbuilding and Machine Works, where he was employed as a labourer. This brings to four the number of child murders perpetrated in the city in recent weeks, death in each case being rendered by strangulation.’
It was here that Virginsky saw Aglaia Filippovna’s eyes start open. As Princess Naryskina continued reading, the two intense circles of turquoise flashed towards the bloody towel. The eyes widened. At the same time, Aglaia Filippovna’s hand came to life, struggling to pull itself free of Porfiry’s hold.
Her eyes swivelled briefly up to meet Porfiry’s.
‘Aglaia Filippovna, don’t be afraid. My name is Porfiry Petrovich. I am an investigating magistrate. I know everything, my dear. Everything. I am here to help you get better.’ Virginsky noticed that he was still toying incessantly with her hand, in particular turning an imaginary nut around an imaginary thread at the base of her thumb.
Aglaia Filippovna’s eyelids snapped to over the glorious colour of her irises, as if withholding something precious from the undeserving. The tension that had come into her body left it. She seemed to be lost to them again.
‘What did that p-pantomime achieve?’
‘It’s too early to say for sure,’ confessed Porfiry. ‘You may take the towel away now, Pavel Pavlovich. And, thank you, madam, for your assistance. You have helped me more than you can know. More than even I had hoped.’
‘Is that it?’ Prince Sergei voiced the question that was foremost in Virginsky’s mind. Porfiry’s experiment seemed to have ended in anti-climax. The same soft amber ripples flitted across the ceiling. Virginsky wondered if he had imagined the colour of her eyes.
40 A game of billiards
That evening, Porfiry invited Virginsky to dine with him at Domenika’s on Nevsky Prospekt. He could not face going back to his apartment. A confrontation with Slava was overdue, but Porfiry had too much else on his mind to relish that prospect. And the thought of dining alone depressed him. Besides, he liked his young colleague. That said, he was not in the mood to talk over the events of the day, and he knew that that was what Virginsky would naturally wish to do. Porfiry felt unusually on edge. He craved distraction. He had a sense of the case as a vast but fragile lattice-work. Each of the pieces that comprised it was a supposition resting on an assumption. Somewhere at the base of it, perhaps, was a firm and irrefutable kernel of evidence. But so much had been built on so little that he could not now distinguish fact from speculation. If just one piece proved to be faulty, the whole edifice would collapse. He knew that what he should do was subject this mental construction to scrutiny, to see if it held up. But all he wanted to do was eat and drink, and afterwards, perhaps, divert himself with a game of billiards. He found the clack and clatter of balls from the billiard room comforting, and was saddened when the gypsy players struck up.
‘Is this a celebration, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘What do we have to celebrate?’ Porfiry could not keep the weariness out of his voice as he shouted over the music.
‘I know everything! Were not those your words to Aglaia Filippovna? So you have worked it out? You have solved the mystery?’
‘Ah, but perhaps that was simply part of my psychological experiment.’
‘Perhaps? How can you speak of your own actions with such uncertainty? Surely you know what was in your own mind?’
‘Does anyone? Ever?’
‘Please don’t take refuge in philosophical generalisations. It is only a reluctance to share your thoughts that leads you into obfuscation.’
Porfiry smiled and felt the tension of the smile in his facial muscles. He really did not have the energy for Virginsky’s challenging banter. He sighed morosely and fixed his attention on picking the bones out of a piece of sturgeon. ‘But I may be wrong, you see. And to voice my suspicions when I am wrong will be very damaging.’
‘For whom?’
‘For the one I accuse, of course. Surely you of all people should be mindful of that.’
‘You are not thinking of your reputation?’
‘It’s too late to concern myself with my reputation. My career is almost at an end, Pavel Pavlovich. No, there is no almost about it. I feel this may well be my last major investigation. It is not simply a case of ph
ysical energy, which is sadly all too lacking. I feel that my mental powers are waning too.’
Porfiry lit a cigarette to smoke as he ate.
‘But you acted with such confidence this afternoon!’
‘In truth, I do not know how I succeeded in summoning it. It was founded on nothing. The exercise has left me empty and exhausted. Prince Sergei was right. It was a pantomime that proved nothing. I was trying to force the issue, to bring about some decisive revelation. To shock Aglaia Filippovna into bearing witness. Instead, I merely made a fool of myself. Please, do not attempt to contradict me. There have been too many factors beyond my control in this case. You spoke of my reputation. I suspect I have the reputation of being an arch manipulator. People believe I am able to play the human soul like a pipe organ, pulling and pushing the stops to get the sound I want. But all along I have felt myself manipulated by outside forces and agencies. It has been very trying. I fear it may have forced me into making an elementary mistake. I have come to regard everything as part of one all-encompassing conspiracy. But what if it is not? What if there are merely a number of random events — or rather, events connected only by their awfulness? And what if this is an awfulness I can do nothing about? I know that Innokenty’s killer is beyond my reach, beyond justice, untouchable. He is protected by powerful parties, and I am too old, too fat, too weak, too scared to take them on. You were right, Pavel Pavlovich. I am Oblomov.’
‘No.’
‘I should just take my dressing gown and retire to the country. Perhaps I should buy an estate and preside over its ruin. That is the Russian way, is it not?’
‘It doesn’t have to be.’
‘I find all I want to do is drink champagne and play billiards. Will you play billiards with me, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘Of course. But I warn you I am very good.’
‘A wager then!’
‘I do not play for money.’
‘Then why play at all?’
‘Very well, we will play for dinner. Will that satisfy you?’
‘But you are here as my guest. It was always my intention to pick up the bill. Money, Pavel Pavlovich — I want to smell your money and roll it in my fingers.’
‘Why are you so determined to force me into gambling?’
‘Because I never will trust a man who does not gamble.’
‘In that case … ten roubles!’
‘Paper roubles?’
‘Do you have any objection?’
Porfiry shrugged. ‘I just wish to make sure that everything is clear. We don’t want any arguments later.’
‘When I take your money off you, you mean?’
‘When I take your money off you, I rather think!’
‘Nevskaya rules?’
‘Come, shake on it,’ said Porfiry. ‘And we will prevail upon one of the waiters to pull our hands apart.’
*
Virginsky won the lag for break, his ball settling less than an inch from the baulk cushion. Porfiry, who was by now well into the second bottle of Veuve Clicquot, had sent his careening wildly from end to end.
‘Have you played billiards before, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘It is all part of my tactics.’
‘Before you concern yourself with tactics,’ said Virginsky sententiously, as he racked the pyramid of ivory-white balls, ‘it would be as well to master the basic technique. I fear you are applying too much force to your cue action.’
‘Nonsense!’
Virginsky broke tightly without pocketing, although the single red ball ricocheted between the jaws of the top right pocket, leaving Porfiry with an easy pot. However, he chose to ignore this, instead going for a reckless long shot that he executed with heavy-handed ineptitude, opening up the pyramid to let Virginsky in.
Porfiry watched forlornly as Virginsky played a series of skilful in-offs, repeatedly sinking the red. Porfiry was left to apply the same diligence and determination to draining the champagne bottle as Virginsky did to making shots.
In no time at all, Virginsky had potted five balls. Things were looking bad for Porfiry.
As Virginsky was cueing his sixth potential pot, Porfiry called out ‘Foul!’, causing his opponent to mis-cue and botch his shot.
‘What foul?’
‘You’re supposed to keep one foot on the floor at all times.’
‘What are you talking about? Both my feet were on the ground.’
‘Both your feet? That’s acceptable, is it?’
‘Of course. The foul was yours in trying to put me off. I should be granted a free shot.’
‘An honest mistake on my part. You cannot pelanise me for that.’
‘Penalise,’ corrected Virginsky.
‘My shot is it?’ said Porfiry nonchalantly. He placed his champagne glass on the side of the table and retrieved his cue from the wall rack. He then decided that that cue was unsatisfactory, and so replaced it with another. After considerable deliberation, moving round the table to line up a series of potential shots, he finally settled on one. He bent down to cue, miming a series of dummy shots before standing up to reassess his choice. He decided he was satisfied with the shot after all, hunched back over his cue and made a hurried jab. The line was not far out, but the ball failed to sink, rattling in the jaws of a pocket. Whether it was the ball Porfiry had intended to sink, in the pocket he had selected, was unclear. He remained bent over his cue, blinking querulously at the recalcitrant billiard ball. ‘These pockets, are they smaller than those on the other tables?’
‘All the pockets are the same size, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘But I swear the diameter of the ball is greater than the aperture of the pocket.’ Porfiry blinked each eye alternately to test this theory.
‘I have successfully managed to pocket five balls. And now, if you will kindly stand away from the table, I will pocket the three outstanding balls I need to win.’
‘You think you will win?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘Don’t be too sure, my young friend. I have one or two tricks still up my sleeve.’
‘Tricks? Exactly! Your only hope is to resort to trickery.’
‘In my day, I was a champion of Nevskaya Pyramid Billiards. I beat all-comers. There was no challenger who could take me on. It is some time since I played, I confess. I had to retire from the game to give others a chance. I was something of a phenomenon.’
‘In your day?’
‘In my day.’
‘May I suggest that today is not your day?’ Virginsky potted the next ball with ruthless efficiency. ‘Two more to win, Porfiry Petrovich.’
But Porfiry was moving away from the table, as though he had lost interest in the game. He gravitated towards a loud and very drunk cavalry officer who was berating his own opponent with a stream of obscenities. Virginsky paused in his play to watch the developing scene nervously.
‘Sir, moderate your language!’
‘Moderate my language? Are there ladies present?’
‘Not in this room perhaps. But in the restaurant. Without question, your appalling outbursts can be heard in there.’
‘No one can hear me over that infernal gypsy racket.’
‘I can hear you.’
‘Are you a lady? You’re the ugliest damn lady I’ve ever seen, and believe me I’ve seen some ugly ones.’
‘On behalf of the ladies of your acquaintance, I consider that to be an insulting remark.’
‘Funny little man!’
‘Boor!’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Boor. You are a boorish fellow. A lout.’
‘A lout now, is it? I will not be insulted by you, funny little man.’
‘I am not little. I have the girth of a bear. Whereas you have the mouth of a swine.’
This was too much for the drunken officer, who swung back the cue he was holding in preparation to bringing it down on Porfiry’s head. Fortunately, Porfiry was pulled out of the way by Virginsky, who took the full vicious brunt o
f the blow on his left hand.
Virginsky gave a sharp cry.
‘That’s unlucky,’ observed Porfiry. ‘Your cueing hand.’
The drunk fell over, unbalanced by the momentum of his attack.
‘I suggest we make a swift exit, Porfiry Petrovich. That fellow has many friends here and the mood appears to be waxing ugly.’
‘But the wager, Pavel Pavlovich! We will be forced to abandon the wager!’
‘I cannot believe you provoked a beating in order to get out of paying me ten roubles.’
‘His language was insufferable.’
‘I hadn’t noticed. I was concentrating on the game.’
‘So was I, my friend,’ said Porfiry with a wink, as he allowed himself to be dragged from the billiard room.
*
The swirl and dash of Domenika’s were still with Porfiry as he lay on his bed. Sweat pooled at his neck. His skin there chafed but it was a discomfort he was prepared to tolerate.
The throb of the gypsy music pulsed and echoed in his ears. The oil lamp by his bedside swayed and shimmered in time with the beat.
After their flight from the billiard room, they had stumbled into a drinking den in one of those alleys off the Haymarket. He remembered that Virginsky had been eager to get him home, but he had insisted on a nightcap. It was not the kind of place that Porfiry was in the habit of entering, a dark cellar with a sticky floor and tables, frequented by low-ranking clerks and tradesmen. Its novelty inspired a strange giddiness in him, which Virginsky was at pains to quell. There was no champagne to be had and Porfiry remembered making a scene with the proprietor over this inconvenience. He winced at the recollection. Had he really demanded that the fellow scour the streets of St Petersburg, urged him to spare no expense, and forbade him from returning without the Widow? In the event, vodka had been brought, the landlord probably calculating, quite reasonably as it turned out, that a drunk would happily drink whatever was put in front of him.
