by R. N. Morris
‘I have to believe. If I did not, I would go mad.’
‘But what if belief is itself a form of madness? There is no logic in it.’
‘On the contrary, it is supremely logical. It is the only thing that makes sense of … of everything.’
‘How did he kill her?’
‘Her throat was … cut open.’
‘Yes. That’s what people are saying. Was there a lot of blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must let me see her. Spare me the torment of imagining this!’
‘To see it is a greater torment.’
‘You have seen it.’
‘My profession requires me to.’
‘And my love … requires … me … to,’ echoed Maria Petrovna, though her final words were almost swallowed by her sobbing.
*
Porfiry led her down to the room. Neither spoke. Once, Maria Petrovna reached out and touched a wall, as if to convince herself of the reality of what she was experiencing.
They descended by a back staircase. Porfiry had a vertiginous sense of disaster. He tried to make his steps as quiet as he could, to make himself weightless, as if he believed he could float away from this.
He had no wish to see the dead woman again. However, he realised that he would have to watch Maria Petrovna as she confronted her friend. He wanted to witness the transformations wrought in her face. The recognition of this repellent curiosity created an invisible force of resistance against which he had to push.
A door as bland and blank as any other faced them as they reached the foot of the stairs. A politseisky stood to one side, the only indication of anything untoward.
‘She is here?’
Porfiry nodded.
Maria glared at the door with starting eyes; her hand shook as she reached for the handle.
‘You do not have to go through with this,’ said Porfiry, grasping her careening hand in his.
She looked down at his protective hold. A smile, small and faltering, flickered on her lips. Then she looked into his eyes, her gaze pleading and urgent. ‘Let me see her.’
*
Her cry shamed him. High, like a wheeling bird, it was the inarticulate voicing of flesh crying out to flesh, her throat opening without the intercession of thought, beyond consciousness, knowing only the need to voice.
He watched her face, as he had known he would. He watched and mentally recorded the rippling fluctuations of her horror and her suffering. He told himself that it was right that she should have someone with her as she endured this, some living person to reassure her that life triumphs over death. But it felt like a platitude. The thought came from somewhere: that life should triumph over death is no consolation to the dead. Then he remembered that other life, the eternal life that comes after death, and marvelled that he had forgotten something so important, so central to his being. He had declared himself a believer but minutes earlier. But was it merely a pretence, empty words, another piece of play-acting?
He held out an arm to steady her. She clutched at it with both hands, like a bird clawing food. But instead of lifting him into the air, she pushed down with all her weight. His arm shuddered with the effort of keeping her upright. He had to shift position or she would take them both down. He stepped towards her, into her collapse, and held her with both arms around her body. Her head was on his shoulder, rolling in a strange, infinitely soft motion of denial. She clung on to him. He could feel the quivering spasm of her chest against his own. At some point their breathing became synchronised. He was very aware of the heat of her body.
Eventually, the burden of her physical weight eased, and a different weight replaced it. He felt it in his face and in his chest, a weight of longing and loss. They drew apart, their heads bent, each scrupulously avoiding the other’s eye.
The door swung open with a rude, intrusive force. Porfiry and Maria hastened to increase the distance between them.
‘Ah, Porfiry Petrovich, there you are.’ It was Virginsky. He held before him a black military hat, with a chain chin-strap and an extraordinarily long plume standing irrepressibly upright. As he took in the presence of Maria, and the quickly changing configuration of their bodies, his eyes contracted with suspicion. ‘One of the men found this,’ he said at last. ‘Outside.’
‘A shako,’ said Porfiry.
‘It’s Captain Mizinchikov’s,’ said Maria. ‘He was holding it earlier. When Yelena struck him.’
Porfiry took the hat and turned it in his hands. The name MIZINCHIKOV was sewn into the lining. ‘It would appear so. Apparently, he abandoned it in his haste to flee the palace. Possibly also to make himself less conspicuous.’ He handed the shako back to Virginsky. ‘Take it back to the bureau. But first we must see to it that Maria Petrovna is escorted safely home. Can you assign a politseisky?’
‘No, there is no need. I shall take a cab. No harm will come to me,’ protested Maria.
‘You have had a terrible shock. I know how hard it is to bear these things.’
‘Then why did you put her through it?’ demanded Virginsky, his face flushed with unexpected heat.
Porfiry met the accusation with a look of mild hurt.
‘Pavel Pavlovich, I asked to see Yelena,’ said Maria. ‘Porfiry Petrovich tried to prevent me.’
Porfiry hung his head and shied away from Virginsky’s sceptical scrutiny, as if he was unworthy of Maria’s defence.
‘I see,’ said Virginsky. He nodded slowly while he calculated what his next words should be. ‘Then … I … apologise,’ came eventually.
Porfiry winced at the stilted tone. ‘We shall say no more of it.’ He fled the room with his head down.
10
At the Officers’ House
The knock, when it came, was not the one Afanasy had been expecting. At the time, he was sprawled on the sofa, one arm inside Captain Mizinchikov’s left boot. His other hand worked blacking into the leather with a soft rag. A pipe was clamped between his teeth, filling the room with the thick, scented fug of smoking tobacco.
Both ‘his’ officers were out for the evening and he did not expect them back until the small hours. This perhaps explained the liberty he took in polishing boots in the officers’ sitting room.
Despite his lolling pose, Afanasy was in a hurry to complete his evening duties, eager to have them out of the way by the time he heard Olga’s muted tap on the felt-lined apartment door. It was a sound that managed to be at once playful, timid and teasing. By now she would have put the little ones to bed, and her husband would be out of the way, off on one of his benders. Vanya, the dvornik, knew to admit her with a discreet wink, no questions asked. He was a good sort, that Vanya.
Afanasy had distractedly been aware of some kind of commotion, a hammering on the street door, voices raised, the stamp of boots on the stairs, but his attention had been directed inwards. He had a lot on his mind. It seemed Olga had recently developed a guilty conscience regarding her feckless husband.
She had threatened to break off their relationship altogether, only relenting when he had promised her more of the gifts – jewellery, silverware, money – with which he had won her affections in the first place, but which had not been forthcoming in recent months.
Times had been hard. His generosity to her depended much on the combined good fortune and gullibility of ‘his’ officers. But both Captain Mizinchikov and his co-lodger Staff-Captain Herzenstube had suffered extended runs of bad luck at the gaming tables of the Officers’ Casino, and so there had been little point touching them for funds. Afanasy had never resorted to open theft, though he did not scruple at lying, having invented for his perfectly healthy and unsuspecting mother a vague but life-threatening disease. Like any good Russian son, he wanted the best for his mother. But the best medical care was inevitably expensive and he was periodically overwhelmed by doctor’s bills he had no hope of paying. Fortunately, Captain Mizinchikov and Staff-Captain Herzenstube were also both good Russians sons, and it cut them to the quick to see their loyal an
d hard-working orderly in such a desperate predicament through no fault of his own, but through filial devotion – the noblest of sentiments.
He sincerely hoped their fortunes would change tonight, for he didn’t know how much longer he could count on ensuring Olga’s fidelity with promises alone.
These thoughts were interrupted by the explosion of raps on the apartment door. The harshness of the noise startled him. It sounded as though some hard metallic implement was being employed, with the intention of breaking down the door.
No, this was not Olga.
His heart was pounding as he leapt to his feet, one arm still plunged into the boot. Hesitating only to take courage from a glance at the St George’s cross of the regimental banner, with its inscription ‘Awarded for conspicuous valour in the Battle of Kulm, 17th August, 1813’, he ventured into the corridor, holding his booted arm out in front of him, as both a shield and a weapon.
The violent rapping had ceased. Now the cry was raised for him to ‘Open up!’.
The face that he saw as the door sprung open took his breath away. It was hardly a face at all, more like an unfinished model executed by a poor craftsman. In places the skin was unnaturally smooth, and glistened with a lurid pink hue; in other places it was pitted and ridged. The mouth was a slit, the enlarged nostrils seemed almost to swallow up what there was of a nose. But the most unsettling feature was the eyes. As Afanasy stared into them, a shiver of revulsion passed through him. The lids were stretched taut and were without lashes. It seemed that it would have been impossible for them to blink, at least not without causing the possessor of this unfortunate face some discomfort. This gave the eyes a strange fixity of expression. In them burnt a constant fire of rage and resentment, as if those eyes held the world responsible for the disfigurement around them.
‘Where is Mizinchikov? We have a warrant for his arrest.’ The effort of barking these terse demands distorted the face into a sinewy, flushed knot.
‘He’s not here.’ It was only now that Afanasy took in the grey uniform and the kepi, beneath which sprouted strands of unruly red hair. He noticed too the silver-bossed walking stick in the police officer’s hand. Two other policemen crowded at his shoulder, together with a gentleman in a frock coat. The latter seemed notably ill at ease and shifted distractedly, as if he was in a hurry to be elsewhere. ‘What’s this about?’ asked Afanasy.
‘I’ll ask the questions.’ Then, as if to prove his point, the officer with the disfigured face said, ‘What do you mean by brandishing that boot at me?’
Afanasy looked down at the boot on his hand and shrugged. ‘I was just cleaning it.’
The officer raised his walking stick and placed the tip against Afanasy’s chest. He held it there for a moment before thrusting it sharply forwards, forcing Afanasy to take a step back. He then lurched past him into the apartment, opening every door he passed.
‘Search every room,’ he barked over his shoulder. The two policemen rushed in like a small swarm, disappearing together into the first of the rooms, Afanasy’s own.
‘You won’t find him in there!’ protested Afanasy. ‘You won’t find him anywhere. He’s not here, I tell you.’
The gentleman in the frock coat, who was hanging back diffidently on the landing, cleared his throat to signal his presence. ‘I say, Lieutenant Salytov, sir, if you’ll not be needing me any more …’
The disfigured officer withdrew a folded paper from his uniform and turned sharply back towards the man. He shook the paper open in one hand. ‘Sign here and you may go.’
The gentleman in the frock coat stared at the hand that gripped the paper. The skin on the back of the hand was hairless and utterly without texture, as smooth as molten wax. ‘I don’t have anything to write with,’ he said at last.
‘You!’ Lieutenant Salytov snapped at Afanasy. ‘Fetch pen and ink.’
‘There are writing implements in Captain Mizinchikov’s room. At his desk. I will gladly show the gentleman … and your honour, too.’
Salytov paused to consider the suggestion. The moment trembled with unpredictability. ‘Very well. Lead the way.’
Afanasy extricated his arm from the captain’s boot, which he placed upright on the floor.
Captain Mizinchikov’s room was behind the third door. In the light from the corridor, it appeared small and well-ordered, its Spartan furnishings no doubt facilitating tidiness. Afanasy retrieved a candle from a shelf and lit it, revealing a few faded prints of battle scenes on the walls, together with a monochrome portrait of the Tsar. There was an icon of St George in one corner. A small writing desk was crammed in beneath the black square of the window, its green leather surface cleared of papers. At the rear of the desk, three pens sprouted from an ivory pen stand decorated with the double-headed eagle of the Romanov crest.
Lieutenant Salytov pointed to an oil lamp hanging above the desk. ‘Light that too.’
In the spreading glow of the lamp, he took a moment to scan the room, stooping slightly to peer beneath both the desk and the bed. He then satisfied himself that Captain Mizinchikov was not hiding amongst the uniforms in the wardrobe. At last he laid the piece of paper on the desk and nodded abruptly at the man in the frock coat.
The gentleman put on a pair of dusty, smeared spectacles in wire frames and squinted at the document. ‘What exactly am I signing, may I ask?’ He smiled a tense, appeasing smile.
Lieutenant Salytov exhaled his impatience. ‘It is merely to indicate that you have witnessed a search of these premises – the apartment of Captain Mizinchikov, at the Officers’ House of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, Kirochnaya, 35 – at the time and date specified …’
‘There is no time or date indicated. And no address given, either.’
‘Don’t worry about that. We will fill in those details later. The important thing is that you testify that force was not used. The police freely admitted. That any evidence offered in court as a result of this search was indeed found here. So on and so forth. It is all there in black and white. All you have to do is sign.’
‘You have completed the search then?’
‘That doesn’t matter. Just sign it now and we finish the search after you have gone.’
‘But what if you break something after I’ve gone.’
‘That won’t happen. The sooner you sign, the sooner you can go about your business. Whatever that may be,’ Salytov added with a distasteful sneer.
‘Perhaps I should make a note that I left before the search was completed?’
‘That will only get you into trouble.’
‘With all respect, Lieutenant Salytov, does this not rather make a mockery of the whole system? I mean to say, why go to the bother of bringing a civilian witness along if you are not going to require him to … witness?’
‘This is the way it is done. Let me assure you that you have discharged your duty as a citizen here tonight. There is no reason to detain you further. All that remains is for you to sign the statement and you may go.’
There was a crash from the next room.
‘Should we not … ?’ began the civilian witness, pointing vaguely in the direction of the noise.
‘No.’ Lieutenant Salytov’s voice was chillingly calm. It was far more menacing than any amount of bluster.
‘In that case, it’s probably for the best if I leave you to it.’ The witness took up a pen. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’ He stooped over the desk and signed with a flourish. He nodded once and was gone without a further word. His pounding footsteps could be heard as he threw himself down the stairs.
Lieutenant Salytov pocketed the document and pulled open a small drawer in the desk. A flash of colour caught his eye: crimson, glistening garishly. For one absurd and shocking moment he was convinced that the drawer was filled with blood. But as he pulled it to its full extent, he saw the brilliant red was contained within a narrow rectangle. He realised that it was some sort of cloth; the sheen suggested silk, which his touch confirmed. The silk glided
under his fingers. He could feel that there was something wrapped inside it, something weighted and hard, that gave the silk around it shape. Salytov pulled back the loosely folded material, revealing a cut-throat razor, the blade closed inside a nacre handle.
Salytov wrapped the razor back in the silk and pocketed it. He turned his attention to the other contents of the drawer, a bundle of letters tied up with a ribbon, also of red silk. He untied the ribbon and watched the letters spring apart, as though they couldn’t abide each other’s company.
At the thump of boots behind him, Salytov almost guiltily removed his hand from the bundle.
‘No sign of him,’ one of the policemen announced.
‘I told you,’ said Afanasy.
Salytov said nothing. His hand returned to the letters. He lifted the first one and read.
I have never loved you, any more than I have loved any man. I have tried on the idea of loving you, as I might a dress. But it did not fit. I could not walk freely. I was not myself. You might even say the idea of loving you clashed with my complexion. Console yourself with the knowledge that I do not love Naryskin. The idea of loving Naryskin is absurd. Naryskin is absurd. But the idea of marrying Naryskin is not absurd. Naryskin is a Prince. I have always dreamed of marrying a Prince. The fact that he is rich is also in his favour. If only you had been richer, I might have married you. If you had been richer, you would not have sullied yourself and insulted me by that shameful act. Poverty cannot but be shaming.
Of course, it is horribly cruel of me to confide this to you, of all people. I do it so that you should know the character of the woman who has betrayed you, so that you might feel less torment at my betrayal. I do it out of kindness and generosity. I do it to set you free. Consider yourself to have had a lucky escape.
You may also consider that you have brought this on yourself. How could I love you now?
In the same spirit, let me inform you that I have tried on the idea of loving many men, and none of them suited. Be under no illusion, as with you, so with them. That is to say, I gave myself to them completely. One cannot try on the idea of loving a man without trying on the man. You must know by now that it pleases me to express myself in such crude
