by R. N. Morris
The young prince became crestfallen. “However, if you bear with me for one moment, I would like you to look at something.”
It took several minutes for the case to be brought. There was some doubt as to its whereabouts, whether indeed it was still in the station. Lieutenant Salytov put his head around the door at one point to challenge Porfiry’s order. “You are aware that as of today this investigation is officially over?”
“I am aware of that, Ilya Petrovich, though I am grateful to you for bringing it to my attention. However, this is to do with another investigation. This gentleman-a prince, no less-has reported a missing person. His testimony makes mention of a piece of luggage. In order to get a more accurate impression of this particular article of luggage, I wished to compare it to the suitcase that you found in Petrovsky Park. That is all.”
Salytov seemed dubious, suspicious even. And no doubt the necessity of instigating a search was inconvenient to him. But in the end the case was tracked down. It had left the room in which evidence is stored, but not the station, and was found under an officer’s desk. Clearing out the old case files that had been temporarily stored in it took only a few moments.
Prince Bykov nodded tensely when the case was put on Porfiry’s desk. “That is it. That is Ratazyayev’s. The scratch on the front is the same.”
A Strange Document
As Porfiry entered the main headquarters of the St. Petersburg City Police Department, he was impressed not so much by the grandeur of the building as by its immaculate preservation. The contrast with the Haymarket District station was marked. The very uniforms of the policemen, even when they were of the same rank as the men in his own bureau, seemed crisper and smarter. He had the sense of visiting wealthier relatives and felt that he should be on his best behavior.
The building was situated at 2 Gorokhovaya Street, close to the Admiralty. Prokuror Liputin’s chambers were on the third floor. Porfiry walked slowly up the stairs. The echoing clip of his heels drew disapproving glances from those coming down.
He was kept waiting, as he knew he would be, for over an hour before being admitted to an office similar to his own, except larger, cleaner, and with newer furniture. The prokuror was seated at his desk, his head bowed as he studied a case file. When he finally looked up, his face was puckered by a scowl of displeasure.
“Porfiry Petrovich.” He made the possession of such a name sound like a crime.
“Your excellency.”
“What is this about?”
“I wish to apply for permission to reopen the investigation into the murder of Goryanchikov.”
“The dwarf?”
“New evidence has come to light.”
“What are you doing seeking new evidence?”
“I did not seek the evidence. It came to me.”
“What is this evidence?”
“It is the testimony of a prince. As you know, our law makes clear that the rank of a witness has a bearing on the reliability of his testimony. The testimony of a prince cannot be discounted.”
“Who is this prince?”
“Prince Bykov.”
“What is his testimony?”
“He has identified the suitcase in which the student Goryanchikov was found as belonging to an associate of his. One Ratazyayev. This Ratazyayev is now missing.”
Liputin screwed his face up in distaste. “How did he come to see the suitcase?”
“I showed it to him.”
“You showed it to him!”
“There were certain details concerning Ratazyayev’s suitcase, which is itself pertinent to his disappearance. I felt that if Prince Bykov saw the case found in Petrovsky Park, it would help him to describe the missing man’s luggage.”
“You were playing games, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“I was pursuing a connection.”
“Who is this Ratazyayev?”
“An actor.”
“An actor!” exclaimed Liputin disdainfully.
“A very good friend of Prince Bykov, who is himself accepted within the highest echelons of our society. He speaks warmly of the Stroganov-Golitsyns.”
“The dwarf was killed by the yardkeeper. The yardkeeper committed suicide,” recited Liputin.
“Perhaps that is true. But still the question remains, how did Goryanchikov’s body come to be found in Ratazyayev’s suitcase? And where, indeed, is Ratazyayev?”
“How can he be sure that it is the same case? It is a nondescript kind of brown suitcase. There must be thousands of them in circulation in St. Petersburg. No, it is not enough. You may only investigate the disappearance of Ratazyayev. You may not assume any connection between the cases.” Noting the look of disappointment on Porfiry’s face, the prokuror added with an insincere smile: “I am only protecting you from yourself, Porfiry Petrovich. The last thing I want is for you to make a fool of yourself over this. Besides, it’s not like you to be seduced by a minor member of the aristocracy.”
That night Porfiry dined in his chambers: fish soup, sturgeon and beans fetched from the Palais de Cristal restaurant on the corner of Sadovaya Street and Voznesensky Prospect. Or rather, the food was laid in front of him by Zakhar, the aged manservant provided for him by the government. Zakhar took it away hardly touched.
“His nibs is out of sorts,” Zakhar confided to himself as he carried the tray away, swallowing down the anticipatory build of saliva. “Well, I have done my duty by him,” he decided. This was the license he needed to devour the remains.
Porfiry had not asked for wine to be brought. The month before Christmas was, after all, a period of fasting in the Orthodox calendar. But he had consented to a pot of strong black coffee. And although he relinquished the food, Porfiry let out a warning yelp when Zakhar threatened to take the coffee. That was the only communication he had all evening with the human being who shared his apartment.
Spread out in front of him were the books he had redeemed from Lyamshin’s. He also had the French book that Goryanchikov had been working on, together with Goryanchikov’s unfinished translation. He felt that he should continue to examine this text for its discrepancies with its source. But a sullen lethargy possessed him. Perhaps it was not lethargy; he had after all been forbidden from working on the Goryanchikov case. Perhaps it was submission. At any rate, he was beginning to feel the over-stimulating effects of the coffee. Why had he let Zakhar take the sturgeon away? He lit a cigarette to quell the hunger pangs and aid his concentration. But even smoking, he was not up to conducting a close textual comparison between a French philosophy book and its handwritten Russian translation.
He halfheartedly turned to the other philosophical titles, the Russian editions of The Cycle of Life, Force and Matter, Superstition and Science, and Natural Dialectics. But his study of these books only went as far as the title pages, where he discovered that they were all published by the same house, Athene. There was a St. Petersburg address given: 22 Nevsky Prospect.
But then he surrendered completely to his mood and turned to the other book. He was aware that he had been avoiding this book, aware too that it disgusted him, but equally aware that he had wanted to look at it ever since it had been put into his hands by the pawnbroker. He was salivating every bit as copiously as he knew Zakhar to have been.
Of course, he could not now pretend, not since his interview with Liputin, that his reasons for looking at One Thousand and One Maidenheads had anything to do with the investigation. But in a way, that interview freed him. He was like the officer who had appropriated Ratazyayev’s suitcase to store paperwork. The books no longer counted as evidence. They had belonged to a man who was now dead. It would not be frowned upon if he used them for his own purposes.
The title page of this book gave no address, only the imprint, Priapos, and the name-or rather pseudonym-of the translator. An inscription read: “Translated from the French by ‘Alcibiades.’”
The pages of the book were uncut. And he found himself strangely reluctant to take his paper knife
to them. It was not, however, the kind of book that required its pages to be cut for its qualities to be appreciated. At a little under two hundred pages long, Porfiry calculated an average of five maidenheads per page. There was not much room left for narrative complexity, or even continuity. And yet even from the truncated version he allowed himself to read, Porfiry found that the author had quite cleverly constructed the story to avoid monotony and build interest. Although the first maidenhead was breached on page one, the episode itself covered several pages, as the erstwhile maiden quickly acquired a taste for the activity responsible for the loss of her virginity. For the whole of the first third of the book, as far as Porfiry could tell, all the deflowerings occurred consecutively. By the middle of the book, it seemed the hero was able, somehow, to increase the number of virgins who were willing to share his bed at any one time. The final climactic episode took place in a private girls’ boarding school, when the remaining tally of three hundred and twenty-one maidenheads was accounted for in one endless white night and twelve exhausting pages; the final maidenhead being that of the school’s headmistress, a sixty-three-year-old virgin, who wept uncontrollably at the discovery of what she had missed out on for so many years.
So engrossed was he in this touching denouement that Porfiry parted the last pair of uncut pages, so that he could continue reading what was written in their closed faces. His eye was caught by a folded sheet of paper that had been slipped between the pages and was adhering to the side that he was interested in reading. He widened the paper sheath and teased out the sheet. Unfolding it, he read the following document, drawn up by hand:
Being a legally binding and legitimate contract entered into freely and willingly by the parties of both parts, the undersigned:
Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky.
[followed by Virginsky’s signature]
Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov.
[followed by Goryanchikov’s signature]
On the twentieth day of the eleventh month of the year of 1866, the party of the first part Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky confers ownership of his soul on the party of the second part Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov, unconditionally and in perpetuity; excepting upon the death of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov whereupon ownership shall be transferred to the heirs of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov; or if there are no heirs existent ownership of the soul of Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky shall revert to the abovementioned Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky provided Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov has not otherwise disposed of said possession being the eternal soul of Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky through his last will and testament or any other legally binding document.
Signed before the presence of witnesses:
Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov.
[followed by Govorov’s signature]
Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.
[followed by Ratazyayev’s signature]
" So you have come back to us, mein Herr!”
Porfiry nodded but did not meet Fräulein Keller’s eye. He could sense her mockery without having to look for it.
“And you have removed your lovely fur coat this time! Will you have some champagne, I wonder?”
Again Porfiry nodded without speaking.
“This time, perhaps, you are not here in an official capacity?” teased Fräulein Keller as she served him the chilled wine.
“Has Lilya Semenova been back here since my last visit?”
“No, not Lilya, we have seen the last of Lilya. But there are other girls, mein Herr. You would like to spend some time with Raya again? Or perhaps Raya was not to your taste?”
“Do you not have anyone younger?”
He felt Fräulein Keller’s laughter resonate with his own corruption. He was sickened by it but joined in. “We don’t have any virgins, if that’s what you mean!”
“Lilya was the youngest of your girls?”
“Lilya, oh, Lilya, it always is Lilya with you! But even Lilya, you know, is not a virgin. And what is it you Russians say? Better a dove on the plate than a wood grouse on the roof?”
“That is not quite right, but all the same, if I wanted a really young girl, a virgin, is there someone you know who can arrange it for me?”
“What would you have me do? Snatch a girl off the street?”
“Is that how it’s done?”
“There is also your saying about curious Varvara’s nose, no?”
“Curious Varvara’s nose was torn off.”
“That’s right. I would not wish that should happen to you.”
“Do you know a man called Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov?”
“In my business one hears so many names.”
“How about Ratazyayev?”
Fräulein Keller shook her head. “No. I think I would remember that one.”
“Do you know the old prostitute Zoya Nikolaevna, who looks after Lilya’s child?”
“Lilya’s child? But she is very young, mein Herr. She is not yet five.”
“Naturally, I would pay.”
Even Fräulein Keller’s eyes started at the coolness with which this was delivered. “It might have been possible once, mein Herr. But now that Lilya has found her rich protector, I doubt that you could persuade her, for any price. You can’t break through a wall with your forehead.”
“But Zoya. Perhaps she would be amenable to negotiation? There will be something in it for you too, of course, if you lead me to the old whore.”
“You are a determined man. I misjudged you.” Fräulein Keller narrowed her eyes assessingly.
“Not everyone who wears a cowl is a monk,” said Porfiry. He avoided Fräulein Keller’s admiring gaze and bowed his head to his champagne glass. But he found that he was suddenly chilled to the bone, and the thought of the champagne in his mouth was nauseating.
The Man Without a Soul
In his dream, the cabinetmaker Kezel was constructing an interminable twisting staircase for the tsar’s new palace. He wanted to explain that he had no experience or knowledge of building staircases. But it was as if someone had nailed his tongue to the floor of his mouth. The timber was white oak from the Terskaya region, conveyed to Petersburg at great expense. He knew that the quantity of wood had been precisely calculated to build the staircase according to the plan that he had been given. He could not afford to make one mistake. All this had been made clear to him. But a draft of wind kept lifting the plan and folding it in two so that he repeatedly had to break off from his work to lay it flat. In the end, he decided to abandon the plan. He was sawing the wood and fitting it together from memory. To begin with, everything went well. It was as if he weren’t working in the heavy, unyielding medium of his craft. He hefted and chiseled beams without any effort at all. Dovetailed joints slotted together at the touch of his finger. Doweling plugs sank into wood as if into butter. But then something made him look up, and he saw that the staircase he was building was diverging hopelessly from the landing that was awaiting it. And now the pieces that he had shaped would no longer fit together. Joints that he had carefully measured refused to marry up. He was forced to fasten the pieces together with enormous nails. But no matter how hard he hammered the first of these nails, he couldn’t drive it into the wood. He hammered and hammered on the head of the nail. With each hammer blow, he felt the nail advance minutely, only to see it a moment later retreat, as if the sundered timber were healing itself and in the process forcing the nail out. Now there was an air of desperation to his labors. The hammer blows fell faster and harder. But it made no difference. The evil nail would not go in.
Frustrated by the dream, and losing patience with its unreasonableness, Kezel woke up, only to hear that the sounds his dreaming mind had interpreted as hammer blows were in fact coming from the front door of the apartment. It was pitch-black and cold. Caught between fear and anger, he was little inclined to get out of bed to answer the pounding. But suddenly the issue was decided for him as the door crashed open. A lantern beam lit up the apartment and was in his eyes. Behind the beam h
e could make out a huddle of men in dark uniforms.
“The student Virginsky!” one of them shouted. “Where is he?”
Kezel pointed at the door to Virginsky’s room.
Two men separated themselves from the huddle and rushed the door, shouting. Their shouts were inarticulate, the tension of their act finding voice. The door flew open. The shouting continued inside Virginsky’s room.
Another man strode into the apartment now, a short, stout individual wrapped up in a shuba. He bowed gravely to Kezel, without speaking.
Virginsky’s voice could be heard: “All right! All right! Let me get my boots on!”
A moment later he was hauled out by the arms. The unfastened laces of his boots whipped out as he kicked his feet in protest.
He was taken before the man in the shuba.
“So first you bring me presents. Now you have me arrested!”
“That is the man,” said Porfiry Petrovich, blinking rapidly. “That is Virginsky.”
Virginsky was given something to eat and then taken to Porfiry’s chambers. An armed polizyeisky was stationed at the door.
Porfiry laid the contract on the desk in front of him. Virginsky read it in a few seconds and then snorted derisively, “It was a joke. The whole thing was a joke. You think I killed him because of this?”
“Who are these men? Govorov and Ratazyayev?”
“I don’t know. They were friends of Goryanchikov’s. Goryanchikov knew all sorts of people. They were just two men who happened to be in the tavern at the time. I’d never met them before. They were actors, I think. Or had been.”
“They were both actors?”
“I think so. I can’t really remember. I was drunk at the time. That’s how they knew each other, I think.”
Porfiry looked down at the document. “Konstantin Kirillovich. A strange coincidence. Yet another strange coincidence concerning your friend Lilya. I asked you once if the name meant anything to you, do you remember?”
