The Gentle Axe

by R. N. Morris

  Of course, there were stairs to be climbed and corridors to be tramped, corners to be turned. And rows of numbered doors, some of them also bearing the names of the businesses conducted within. “You see, it’s as well that I came with you, your excellency,” commented the energetic commissionaire. But it was soon apparent that he himself was lost, although he would not admit it. His pace, however, did begin to flag. At last he angrily accosted a young man hurrying toward them with a sheaf of papers under one arm: “Athene?”

  “Next floor down. Suite seventy-two.”

  “Ah! They’ve moved, have they?”

  “Always been suite seventy-two,” shouted the young man over his shoulder, picking up his step.

  “Young fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” said Porfiry’s escort snappily. “They were on this floor the last time I came along here.”

  They retraced their steps, this time with Porfiry leading.

  The door to suite 72 was open. Before they drew level with it, Porfiry could hear the voices inside, two male voices, the first light and relaxed, the other a forced baritone. The debate was passionate but good-natured. Porfiry had a sense of the friendship, the mutual fondness even, between the two men.

  “…but I insist a philosopher’s thought is enwrapped in his language.”

  “What you are saying, more or less, is that the endeavor of translating philosophy is either futile or impossible.”

  “If it is the latter, it is also the former.”

  “But it is the endeavor to which you have devoted your life. It is what we do. It is our business.”

  “There is nothing nobler than to devote one’s life to a futile enterprise.” This was said after a slight pause, with a cheerful, almost mischievous lilt.

  Porfiry dismissed his guide with a deep bow and stepped into the doorway. He drummed his knuckles lightly on the open door, and the two men looked up.

  They were as he had imagined them from their voices, almost exactly. The younger man was tall and thin, his legs especially so. He had a high-domed forehead and thinning hair. Perched on the edge of a desk behind which his companion sat, he looked up at Porfiry over a book, the pages of which he turned distractedly with long fingers. His face was pale, his expression somewhat severe: a small pinched mouth was drawn together in readiness for denial. His eyes were gray and cold. The seated man was portly but neat. He kept his beard trimmed, and his hair, though thick and long, was tidily combed. His age was approaching fifty, and he wore silver-framed reading glasses. Behind their glinting lenses, his quick black eyes shone with intelligence and humor. Though his figure was spreading and his face filling, he was still a handsome man, or at least he was still able to carry himself like one. A long straight nose gave his face strength in profile. Viewed frontally, a small cleft at the tip arrested the gaze. His mouth, which was generous in comparison to his companion’s, curved into a ready smile, whereas Porfiry noticed the other man’s frown deepen.

  “Good day. This is the office of Athene publishing, is it not?” asked Porfiry.

  “It is” came simultaneously from them both.

  “And if I am not mistaken, I have the pleasure of addressing the two gentlemen who lodge at the house of Anna Alexandrovna Ivolgina, that is to say Osip Maximovich and Vadim Vasilyevich.”

  The two friends looked at each other uncertainly.

  “You do,” said the older man, who turned out to be the source of the lighter, higher voice. “I am Osip Maximovich Simonov. You have the advantage of us, sir.”

  “I am Porfiry Petrovich.” Their faces were blank. “I was the investigating magistrate on the case of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov. I believe he occasionally did work for you?”

  “Ah! So that’s what this is about,” said Osip Maximovich. “Please sit down.” But every spare seat in the office was already taken with a jerrybuilt tower of books or papers, or sometimes both.

  “We’ve already given statements to the police,” said Vadim Vasilyevich, raising the book he was reading so that it covered his face. He also shifted the position of his gangling legs, swinging one knee across and turning his body away from Porfiry.

  “Yes, you spoke to Lieutenant Salytov, I believe. I have read your statements. But this is not about that case. That case is closed.”

  “I read about it in the gazettes,” said Osip Maximovich brightly. “Isn’t it your theory that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then took his own life? Poor Borya. Poor Goryanchikov. A tragic waste. He was one of our most inspired translators. You see, translating philosophy is not an exact science. As we were just discussing, the translator needs to engage his imagination. He must first understand what the philosopher means to say, before he attempts to render that meaning into another language. Take Hegel. He was not even understood by the Germans. He said himself, ‘One man has understood me, and even he hasn’t.’ But really, is it any wonder? Language, the only means we have available to us for expressing thought, is a far from perfect medium. We can say for certain that there are things that exist for which we have no words. Words simplify and reduce the universe. There is, moreover, a gradation of ideas that is not reflected in the divisive and categorical nature of language. Hegel showed, I think, that it is possible for an idea to contain within itself its opposite. A word cannot do the same. Yes, indeed.” Osip Maximovich broke off, suddenly morose. “An invaluable talent that boy had.”

  “You said in your statement that the two men quarreled?”

  “No,” said Osip Maximovich calmly. “I know nothing about it. I wasn’t here. I was eight hundred versts away. It was Vadim Vasilyevich who heard the argument.”

  Vadim Vasilyevich fidgeted at the mention of his name.

  “Ah yes, Osip Maximovich,” said Porfiry. “I remember. Anna Alexandrovna told me. You were on retreat in Optina Pustyn. You are a believer then?” Porfiry noticed the icon mounted high up in one corner of the room.

  “Should I not be?”

  “I would hazard a guess that some of the authors you have published are not.”

  “Why if the case is closed are you asking us all these questions about it?” asked Vadim Vasilyevich with sudden hostility. It seemed his voice sank even lower when he was agitated.

  “My dear Vadim Vasilyevich,” said Osip Maximovich smoothly. He smiled, but his eyes were stern.

  “I was not asking questions about that case,” said Porfiry, with a flutter of his eyelids. “I was merely asking questions out of interest. You are right, that case is closed. But I have come here to talk to you about another case. I am here investigating the disappearance of one Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Vadim Vasilyevich said, “We don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “How about you, Osip Maximovich? Perhaps you would care to answer for yourself.”

  “I think I may have heard the name Ratazyayev. Wasn’t he an actor? I may have seen him in something. Before your time, dear boy,” he added to Vadim Vasilyevich. “Ratazyayev, Ratazyayev. Yes, I think he was quite a celebrated actor at one time. And then something happened to him, I think. Drink, or some other scandal.”

  “Well, he has disappeared now.”

  “What has this to do with us?” asked Vadim Vasilyevich, finally standing away from the desk and exhibiting his full height.

  “His name was found on a document belonging to Goryanchikov. Along with the name of another gentleman, one Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov.” Porfiry studied the two men closely for their reactions. Vadim Vasilyevich slammed his book with a sigh. Osip Maximovich smiled blandly. “Goryanchikov is linked to you because of the work he did for Athene publishing. He was working on a translation for you at the time of his death, wasn’t he?”

  “Ah, yes. Proudhon. Philosophie de la misère,” sighed Osip Maximovich regretfully.

  “He also owned a number of philosophical volumes published by Athene. I believe they were copies of the books he had translated.”

  “Moleschott,
Büchner, Vogt, and Dühring,” said Vadim Vasilyevich. “Those are the authors he has done for us.”

  “Yes, those are the ones I am referring to,” said Porfiry with an appreciative nod. “So you see, Ratazyayev is linked to Goryanchikov. And Goryanchikov leads me to you.”

  “You say that Ratazyayev has disappeared,” said Osip Maximovich thoughtfully. “But surely people disappear all the time? He may simply have tired of living in St. Petersburg and moved to Moscow. One does not even have to look so far. Perhaps he is living in the Vyborg District. Not wishing for his old acquaintances to spoil his new suburban life—perhaps even ashamed of it—he is simply lying low. Perhaps he is no longer living the disreputable life of an actor but has joined the service. He may even be teaching in a girls’ school. Alternatively, he may have drunk himself into a stupor, fallen over in the street, and died from exposure. It is the sort of thing that occurs daily in our great city.”

  “These are all interesting theories,” said Porfiry with a smile. “And indeed plausible. However, there are circumstances surrounding his disappearance that incline us to treat it as suspicious.”

  Vadim Vasilyevich shifted nervously. “If you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to.” Vadim Vasilyevich bowed.

  “By all means,” said Porfiry. “But I will wish to talk to you again before I go.”

  Vadim Vasilyevich’s small mouth twitched into an uneasy smile, and he crossed into an adjoining room off to one side.

  “There are just the two of us here,” said Osip Maximovich, by way of explanation. “Unlike our illustrious neighbors, Smyrdin, we must do everything ourselves. We have an urgent order to prepare for the University of Moscow.”

  Impatiently, Porfiry nodded his acknowledgment, then asked, “Is it customary for you to go on spiritual retreat?”

  “No, this is the first year that I have done it. And I discovered it is something I have been longing to do all my life. To begin the Christmas fast with a penitent’s retreat. Perhaps it is something to do with getting older. One reaches a certain age. The issue of mortality becomes more pressing. One’s death is no longer an abstract proposition, it is an imminent reality. You were right to question my belief, by the way. I have not always been a believer. As you have probably worked out, I am the son of a priest. I was myself educated in a seminary, and it seemed at one time that I too would follow the path of my father. But like so many of my generation, I discovered philosophy. And science. And doubt. It used to be my opinion that faith and knowledge were irreconcilable opposites. To embrace faith by definition meant rejecting the truths that one had acquired through knowledge. Hard-won truths. I could not in all conscience do the latter, so it was impossible for me to do the former. I was too much under the spell of logic, so I reasoned myself out of my faith. But now I think I have found a way to reconcile them.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “I read Hegel. I discovered that true knowledge, the true subject and object of philosophy, is the spirit knowing itself as spirit.”

  “I have never been to Optina Pustyn.”

  “You should go. I mean, really you should. From the longing in your voice, I can tell that it is what your soul craves. For me there was an added impetus, in that one of the monks there, Father Amvrosy, taught me as a seminarian. He also taught my father. He is an old, old man now. He will die soon. There was a chance that if I did not go this year, I would never see him again in this life. He is without doubt the holiest man in Russia.”

  “It is a long way to Optina Pustyn.”

  “For sure. One must take the train to Moscow. From there one travels to Kozelsk. But there is no road to the monastery itself. One must approach it on foot or by river, or as I did.”

  “And how is that?”

  “On my knees.”

  Porfiry sighed. “Perhaps one day I shall go. One day very soon.”

  “I would urge you to.”

  “What was the date you left St. Petersburg?”

  “Let me see, it was the twenty-eighth, I believe. The twenty-eighth of November. The train left at twenty minutes past eight in the morning. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

  “You arrived in Optina Pustyn?”

  “On the evening of the following day.”

  “And you returned to St. Petersburg when?”

  Osip Maximovich’s eyes flitted briefly as he calculated. “Two days ago, was it now? I have been so busy since returning, and this existence is so different from the spiritual calm of the monastery. It seems a lifetime ago since I left there.”

  “Thank you, Osip Maximovich. You have been most helpful,” said Porfiry with a bow. “Now there is just one question I would like to ask Vadim Vasilyevich.”

  Porfiry moved quickly to the adjoining room. His sudden appearance seemed to surprise the secretary, who tried to give the impression that he was busy wrapping books, and had been for some time. It was obvious, however, that he had been listening.

  “Vadim Vasilyevich, on the day Osip Maximovich took the train to Moscow, you accompanied him to the station, did you not?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you see him onto the train?”

  “I saw him onto the train and waved him off.”

  “And you remained in St. Petersburg the whole of the time that he was away on retreat?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Thank you.” Porfiry bowed and was about to leave, but there was something in the other man’s expression that sought to detain him.

  “May I ask you,” began Vadim Vasilyevich hesitantly. “The work that Stepan Sergeyevich was doing for us, the Proudhon translation—do you know what has become of it?”

  “It is in my possession.”

  “We would appreciate it very much if it could be returned to us. We have a book to prepare, you understand. And we must find another translator to complete Stepan Sergeyevich’s work. Possibly I will have to undertake the task myself, or Osip Maximovich. It would be helpful to know how much Stepan Sergeyevich managed to complete.”

  “I’m afraid that will not be possible just yet. I have not finished analyzing it. It may turn out to be important evidence.”

  “How long do you think you will need it for?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “I don’t see what possible use it could be to you.”

  “That is for me to determine.”

  Vadim Vasilyevich stared at Porfiry for a long time. His eyes narrowed but did not blink. “Osip Maximovich is a saint,” he said at last.

  Porfiry bowed, as though in gratitude for this information.

  15

  An Abundance of Icons

  SHE MOVED THROUGH the Apraxin Arcade with the same inflexible determination with which she had crossed Petrovsky Park, only a few days before. Those who saw her coming stepped aside. Those who didn’t felt the buffet of her shoulder or the swipe of her arm, and skipped out of the way with an angry sidelong glance at the force that had impelled them. They saw an old woman bundled in layers of ragged clothes, a strange, sealed expression on her face. It was almost a smile, but cunning prevented it from going so far. If anyone studied her face for long enough, they would reach the conclusion that there was a secret contained in it. But whatever that secret was, it could not escape through the tight slits of her eyes.

  She reached the corner of the market where the icon dealers were to be found. Her approach stirred the sheepskin-clad traders into an exchange of nods and winks. There was something conspiratorial, but also competitive, in the way they bristled at the prospect of her. They vied for her custom with friendly cries and waves: “Hello Granny!” “Madam!” Those who knew her name called out, “Zoya Nikolaevna!”

  But she chose today, as had done on previous days, a dealer who made no effort to get her attention or her business. It was his face, and more specifically his eyes, that drew her. He had the eyes of Christ the Redeemer. And just like the Christ figure in one of the icons he sold, his long hair fell around his shoulders in
ringlets, and his beard was divided into two soft points. He was a young man, the youngest of them. His face was always serious, giving the impression that he was well aware of the solemnity of his trade. The others hawked their icons like half-kopek cakes.

  He acknowledged her presence at his stall with a silent upward tilt of his head. Her greeting in return was an involuntary twitch of the mouth.

  She scanned the banks of icons, arranged according to the holy personages represented and the manner of representation. Here the Christs: Christ Immanuel, Christ Redeemer, Christ’s Descent into Hell, Christ of the Fiery Eye, Redeemer with Moist Beard, Redeemer Not Painted by Human Hands. Next to the Christs were the Marys (although, of course, both figures were featured in depictions of the Nativity): Virgin of Compassion, Our Lady of Vladimir, Our Lady of Kykkos, Our Lady of Refuge and Succor. And then the saints: Saint Nicholas, Saint John, Saint George, Saint Paul, Saint Demetrius. The lights of the market glinted softly in the gold paint and jewels.

  As well as those on display, there were deep baskets filled with icons. Zoya stood over one and closed her eyes. She held out one hand and let it hover. Then she dropped it to caress the varnished surfaces, before forcing her fingers down. It was a question of wheedling and teasing, of flexing her fingers to engineer minute shifts in the abutment of edges. She was able to plunge her arm all the way up to her elbow before withdrawing it. And then, at last, she opened her eyes and inspected her forearm. It seemed strange to her that no visible change had been wrought upon it; that it was not glowing or dripping with gold.

  The young icon dealer tolerated all this without comment, too polite even to give any indication of noticing. Zoya, however, chose to see something other than politeness in his gently averted eyes. In them she saw infinite compassion.

  Looking back to the icons that were hung up around his stall, her eye was drawn to one she hadn’t seen before, a heavily jeweled representation of the Savior. His halo was formed from circles of pearls, alternating with settings of sapphires and lapis lazuli, all on a base of beaten silver. Seeing it for the first time, she felt the breath leave her body in amazement. It was not simply the beauty and richness of the jewels and precious metal that impressed her. She understood that this was meant to represent Christ’s splendor. Her soul grasped too the inadequacy of any earthly treasures to convey it. The Savior’s face remained unmoved by the riches surrounding him. And it was the face she stared at, the face that humbled her.