Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (57 page)

“You are going to kill the revolutionaries?”

“There is no point in that. We should only arouse sympathy for them. No, we shall kill a revered dignitary of high standing. If necessary more than one. And we shall spread the word that it is the beginning of revolutionary terror. We shall choose a worthy, respected individual so that everyone will be horrified … Wait, Matvei Bentsionovich, do not shudder so. I have not yet told you everything. The murder of a minister or a governor general will not be enough. We shall arrange explosions at railway stations, in apartment buildings. With large numbers of innocent victims. Monstrous provocation, you will say. But have you read Nechaev’s
Revolutionary Catechism?
Our enemies are willing to commit acts of provocation and cruelty, and so we have the right to use the same weapons. I pray to God that it will not come to that.” Pobedin crossed himself fervently. “And so that you will not think me the Devil incarnate, let me tell you one more thing. Before the explosions begin, another highly placed dignitary will be killed, one whom the sovereign himself respects, to whom he pays close attention. Unfortunately, not close enough …”

“Yourself?” Berdichevsky gasped.

“Yes. And that is not the greatest of the sacrifices that I am willing to make for the sake of mankind!” Konstantin Petrovich exclaimed with anguish, and tears began to flow from his eyes. “What is it to give one’s life? A mere trifle. But I shall sacrifice something far more valuable—my immortal soul! That is the very highest price that a human leader is obliged to pay for the happiness of human beings if it is necessary! Do you think I do not understand what a curse I am taking on myself? There is no ministry more sacrificial than mine. I will say a terrible, even blasphemous thing: my sacrifice is greater than that of Jesus, for He kept His soul. Jesus called on us to love our neighbors as ourselves, but I love my neighbors
more
than myself. I shall not even begrudge my immortal soul for their sake … Yes, in ordering the killing of those who are innocent, but dangerous to our cause, I doom my own soul! But it is for the sake of love, the sake of truth, the sake of my neighbor!”

At this moment the Chief Procurators eyes were no longer looking at Berdichevsky, but upward, at the ceiling, at the center of which a magnificent crystal chandelier gleamed brightly.

He is not speaking to me, but to the Lord God
, Matvei Bentsionovich realized.
So he must still be hoping for His forgiveness
.

Konstantin Petrovich wiped away his tears with a handkerchief and spoke to Berdichevsky in a tone that was intimate, yet also stern and uncompromising.

“If you are willing to walk this road to Calvary with me, then set your shoulder to the Cross and let us go. If you are not, then move aside and do not get in the way! Well, then? Are you staying or leaving?”

“I’m staying,” Berdichevsky replied quietly but firmly, after only the very briefest of pauses.

His Excellency takes a stroll

MATVEI BENTSIONOVICH LEFT the Holy Synod building an hour later, no longer a state counselor but the owner of a higher title—a full state counselor, with the rank of a general. The promotion had been effected with quite fantastic ease and rapidity. Konstantin Petrovich telephoned the Ministry of Justice and spoke for no more than three minutes, then called the Palace, where he spoke with Another Person so important that Berdichevsky’s palms began to sweat. “An absolutely invaluable individual to the state, entirely at my own responsibility”—such were the words spoken about the unknown man from Zavolzhsk. And to such a person!

Other officials waited months for their promotions to be confirmed, even after they had completed the full term of service; but in this case everything was resolved in the blinking of an eye, and even the decree was due to follow immediately, with today’s date.

Matvei had been promised an appointment to a responsible position in the immediate future. And while the Chief Procurator was selecting a worthy field of endeavor for his new fellow thinker (it would take a week or two), Berdichevsky was instructed to remain in the capital. Konstantin Petrovich advised him not to return to Zavolzhsk. “Why get involved in pointless explanations with your spiritual father?” he said, demonstrating yet again the absolutely exhaustive extent of his knowledge. “The governor of Zavolzhie will be informed by telegram, and your family will be brought here. In a day or two the ministry will provide you with a state apartment, fully furnished, so you need have no concerns about domestic arrangements.”

But His Brand-New Excellency had no concerns about settling in.

Berdichevsky emerged from the Synod building onto the square. He screwed his eyes up against the bright sunshine and put on his hat.

The cab was waiting by the railings. Number 48-36 was staring at the fighter against Austro-Hungarian espionage, waiting for a sign. Matvei Bentsionovich hesitated for a moment, then went across to him and said casually: “Take me for a ride, brother.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t really know, I suppose the embankment will do.”

The ride along the Neva was simply remarkable. For a few minutes the sun had hidden behind the clouds, a fine drizzle sprinkled down from the sky, and the passenger raised the leather top and screened himself off from the outside world; then it turned bright, the top was lowered again, and His Excellency rode along, smiling at the sky, the river, the glimmers of sunlight flitting across the walls of the buildings.

“Turn onto the Moika,” he ordered. “No, wait—I think I’ll take a walk. What’s your name? This is the second day we’ve been driving around together, and I never asked.”

“Matvei,” said the cabby.

Berdichevsky was surprised, but not greatly so, because during the morning his capacity for surprise had been significantly diminished.

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well done. Take this for your pains.”

He slipped several pieces of paper into the pocket of the cabby’s caftan.

The driver did not even thank him, he was so upset. “Is that all, Your Honor? Don’t you need anything else?” His voice was actually trembling.

“Not ‘Your Honor,’ it’s ‘Your Excellency’ now,” Matvei Bentsionovich told him grandly. “I’ll find you when I need you, number 48-36.”

He clapped the beaming lad on the shoulder and went on by foot.

His mood was a little melancholy, but it was calm. Goodness knows what the former public prosecutor of Zavolzhsk was thinking as he stepped out along Blagoveshchenskaya Street at a relaxed stroll. Once, on the bank of the Admiralty Canal, his eye was caught by a maid taking two little girls for a walk, and he muttered mysteriously: “And will they really be better off if their father’s a scoundrel?”

And another time, on Post Office Square, he whispered in reply to some thoughts of his own: “Simple, but at the same time elegant. The Berdichevsky Étude.” He chuckled merrily.

As he walked up the steps of the Central Post Office, he even started singing in a tuneless voice, but without any words either, so that the melody was quite impossible to recognize.

He scrawled rapidly on a telegram form: “Find P urgently. Her life in danger. Berdichevsky”

He handed it through the window to the telegraph operator and dictated the address: “His Eminence Mitrofanii, the Episcopal Conventuary Zavolzhsk, ‘express.’”

He paid one ruble and eleven kopecks for the telegram.

WHEN HE WENT back out to the street, His Excellency stood on the steps for a while. He said in a quiet voice, “Well, it was a life. It could have been lived more worthily, but this is how it turned out…”

It seemed clear that Matvei Bentsionovich wanted very much to talk to someone, and for lack of such a person he had struck up a dialogue with himself. But he was not saying everything out loud, only a few fragments of thought without any obvious logical connection.

For instance, he muttered, “A ruble and eleven kopecks. What a price.” And he laughed quietly.

He looked to the left and the right. The street was full of people walking along.

“Right here, is it?” Berdichevsky asked someone invisible. He shuddered, but then immediately smiled shamefacedly. He turned to the right.

The next sentence he uttered was even stranger: “I wonder if I’ll get as far as the square?”

He walked at a leisurely pace toward St. Isaac’s Cathedral. He crossed his arms and gazed admiringly at the glistening pavement, the copper gleam of the dome, a flock of pigeons circling in the sky. He whispered: “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Matvei Bentsionovich appeared to be waiting for something, expecting someone. The next sentence he uttered supported this assumption: “Come on, how much longer? This is impolite, to say the least.”

What exactly he found so impolite must remain unknown, because at that very instant a solidly built young man who was in a hurry to get somewhere ran smack into the new full state counselor. However, the sturdy fellow (he was wearing a striped jacket) apologized politely and even supported Matvei Bentsionovich by the shoulder when the full state counselor gasped out loud. Then he raised his straw hat and jogged on his way.

Berdichevsky swayed on the spot for a moment, with a smile on his lips, then suddenly collapsed onto the pavement. The smile widened even further and froze; the brown eyes gazed calmly sideways at a rainbow-colored puddle.

A crowd gathered around the man who had fallen—they fussed and gasped, rubbed his temples, and so forth; and meanwhile the sturdy young man strode down the street and into the Post Office through the service door.

An official of the postal service was waiting for him at the telegraph station. “Where is it?” asked the man in stripes.

He was handed a sheet of paper, a telegram addressed to Zavolzhsk.

The man in stripes was apparently already familiar with its contents—he did not bother to read the message, but simply folded the sheet of paper carefully and put it in his pocket.

Near the garden and in the garden

IN FRONT OF the Jaffa Gate, Pelagia gave the order to turn right. They skirted the old town from the south along the Kedron Ravine. To their right in the distance the white headstones of the Jewish cemetery on the Mount of Olives were like an immense stone city, but Polina Andreevna scarcely spared a glance for the famous necropolis, whose inhabitants would be the first to rise on the Day of Judgment. The exhausted traveler had no time now for holy places and tourist sites. The round moon was already quite high in the sky, and she was very afraid of being too late.

“If we’re not where I told you to go in five minutes, you won’t get your two hundred francs,” she said, prodding her driver in the back.

“And marry?” Salakh asked, turning around. “You say ‘all right.’”

“I told you, I already have a Bridegroom, I don’t need another one. Get a move on, or you won’t get the money either.”

The Palestinian sulked, but he lashed the horses anyway. The hantur rumbled across a bridge and turned right onto a small street that ran steeply uphill.

“There, that’s your garden,” Salakh muttered, pointing to a fence and a gate. “Five minutes not over yet.” Polina Andreevna’s heart raced as she looked at the entrance to the most holy of all gardens on earth. At first glance there was nothing exceptional about it: just the dark crowns of trees, with the dome of a church rising up behind them.

Was Emmanuel here or had he gone already?

Or perhaps she was mistaken?

“Wait here,” Pelagia whispered and went in through the gate.

How small it was! Fifty paces from one side to the other, certainly no more. In the center an abandoned well, with ten or so crooked, knotty trees standing around it. They said olive trees were immortal, or at least they could live for two or three thousand years. Did that mean some of these trees had heard Jesus pray for this cup to pass him by? The nun’s heart faltered at the thought of it.

But Pelagia’s chest felt even tighter when she saw that there was no one in the garden apart from herself. The moon was shining so brightly that it was impossible to hide.

No need to despair
, Polina Andreevna told herself.
Perhaps I have arrived too early
.