The Cleansing Flames (21 page)

‘Not now, but when I taught him.’

‘Ah, I see. You . . .’

‘I was his tutor for many years. In his boyhood . . . You may say I stood
in loco parentis
, or more accurately
in loco patris
. His father died when he was an infant. Yevgenia Alexeevna . . . she . . . has a heart of gold, that woman.’

‘Yes, of course, it goes without saying.’

‘Her heart was in the right place, but it has to be said that she did not understand how to bring up a boy.’

‘I see.’

‘She was his mother, but she left much of his upbringing to me. It may be said that I was his solitary guiding influence during his formative years.’

‘Oh . . . that is a great responsibility.’

‘A burden! But I saw it as my duty, and I fulfilled my duty to the utmost of my abilities. In all conscience, I did the best I could for that boy.’

‘I’m sure you did.’ Porfiry smiled uneasily. ‘Prince Dolgoruky –’

‘My dear Kostyasha!’

‘Your dear Kostyasha . . . acted as an intermediary – as a kind of agent, we might say – between Kozodavlev and the publisher of the articles against you. Without doubt, he profited from the transaction. He facilitated their publication.’

Lebezyatnikov let out a bleating cry and fell back in an affected swoon. ‘You drive a dagger into my heart! A dagger, sir! And my heart is not metallic. Oh no,
my
heart is all too weak and fleshly.’ Lebezyatnikov’s gaze veered wildly, and then he seemed to fix on a distant point. Some kind of realisation came over him. ‘I am to blame. I am to blame for everything.’ He spoke quietly, though his voice was strangely firm. For all his absurdity and self-deception, he did not baulk at confronting this single devastating truth.

‘Professor Tatiscev.’ Porfiry simply said the name, and left it hanging there.

Lebezyatnikov turned a bewildered expression on Porfiry. ‘What about him?’

‘According to Kozodavlev,
he
is to blame for everything.’

‘But that makes no sense.’ Lebezyatnikov frowned at Porfiry. Then his expression became wary and sealed.

‘Kozodavlev called him the Devil’s Professor.’

‘But Kozodavlev was an atheist.’

‘And Prince Dolgoruky is hounded by the Devil.’

‘He is an atheist too. I made sure of that. I taught him to turn his back on all such superstitious nonsense.’

‘Even so, he sees the Devil. Perhaps that is proof of the Devil’s existence, if he can be seen by a man who does not believe in him.’

‘The Devil is a pervasive delusion.’

‘There is something else I wish to tell you about Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘Something worse? You have saved the worst till last?’

‘He had printed a certain document, accusing himself of a number of crimes.’

Lebezyatnikov frowned darkly as he considered this information. Then his face suddenly lit up. ‘It is his conscience! The boy has printed up his conscience! He acknowledges his crimes against me, and seeks forgiveness. There is hope!’

But Lebezyatnikov’s face, in the aftermath of this assertion, was the most pathetic that Porfiry had ever seen. Behind the mask of optimism, the eyes showed utter desolation. The vaunted hope was nowhere to be seen.

The further they got from Bolshaya Street, the muddier the streets became, and the more disreputable the dwellings. Most of these were tumbledown wooden hovels.

The Petersburg Quarter had once been the heart of the city, its streets lined with the homes of the wealthy and well-to-do. Peter the Great had built his first palace here, albeit a modest one, as an example to his nobles. But the rich had followed the power south, across the river, closer to the heart, rather than the edge, of Russia. They had left the bleak northern quarter, the unpropitious territory reclaimed from Finnish swamps, to be colonised by the poor.

The streets were mostly unpaved, many not even boarded. Compared to the broad, brightly lit avenues of more southern districts, these were mean, dark, dangerous alleys. In places, the area could feel like nothing more than a maze of filthy dead ends.

Tolya directed the
drozhki
driver down a boarded thoroughfare, which, in the absence of an official name, had been dubbed Raznochinnyi Street –
the street of the classless ones
. The wheels clanked over the loose planks. They bounced in its wake like the bars of one of Gusikov’s xylophones. At the far end of the street was Dunkin Lane, more a swamp of conjoined puddles, down which the driver quite sensibly declined to venture.

At Tolya’s lead, they walked a short distance down Dunkin Lane, pulling their feet high with each step to free them from the clinging mud. Tolya stopped in front of a house that had once, fifty or so years ago, been a pleasant enough timber cabin. He studied the yellow nameplate on the gate. ‘Yes, this is the place. The residence of the retired Arab.’

Salytov glowered at the nameplate. ‘What does that mean? The residence of the retired Arab?’

‘The gentleman who owns the house, Ivan Ivanovich – he is a retired Arab. That’s how I can be sure we have come to the right place.’

‘What in God’s name is a retired Arab?’

‘I don’t know. It was once explained to me but . . .’ Tolya trailed off despondently.

‘Right. We will get to the bottom of this.’ Salytov hammered on the gate with his cane. There was no bell.

Tolya took a couple of tentative steps backwards, away from the house, keeping his eyes on Salytov all the time.

‘Where do you think you’re going, lad?’

‘I’ve brought you here. You don’t need me anymore.’

‘Oh no you don’t. Only when I have Rakitin in my hands will I think of letting you go.’

‘But he may not be here.’

‘You had better hope that he is.’

An old gentleman, as pale as a candle from head to toe, dressed as he was in a white dressing gown and white
tarboosh
, came out from the house to open the gate for them. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Are you the owner of the house?’ demanded Salytov sceptically.

‘I am.’

‘The retired Arab?’

‘That is correct.’

‘You do not look like an Arab. Your skin is whiter than mine.’

‘I am not an Arab by race. But I am one officially, you see.’

‘No, I do not see. Some kind of fraud has been perpetrated here, I’ll warrant.’

‘No fraud. My transformation to Arabhood was sanctioned by the authorities. I went through all the proper channels. It was my wife’s idea. She heard that Arabs are retired from the service with twice the pension of ordinary Russians. “Ask them if you can retire as an Arab,” she said. And so I did. I put forward a petition, stating my reasons –’

‘Reasons? What reasons could you possibly have?’

‘Well, my main reason was that I could do with the extra money.’

‘That is a reason any of us could put forward!’

‘There is nothing to stop you.’

‘And your petition was granted?’ Salytov was incredulous.

‘My boss took pity on me. To be honest, I think the idea amused him. At any rate, he put me down on the rolls as an Arab and I retired on an Arab’s pension. I recommend it, sir, when the time comes for you to retire.’

‘I will not pass myself off as an Arab, not for any money.’

‘It’s twice the pension.’

‘Enough!’ barked Salytov. ‘We have come for Rakitin. Does he still reside with you?’

‘He does.’

‘And is he at home today?’

‘I have not seen him go out, your Honour.’

Salytov gave a nod of satisfaction. But the look he turned on Tolya was entirely devoid of mercy.

*

A knot of misery and fear tightened in his chest. The lieutenant was leaning with his back against the wall, next to the door jamb, looking out at him. If the door was opened, Salytov would be out of sight of anyone inside the room. Tolya could not look him in the face. It was not the ugliness of his disfigurement that repelled him but the unrelenting, unreasoning hatred in his eyes.

Tolya felt the cords of his emotions twisting and tightening even more, as if he were being bound and gagged from within.

He closed his eyes, so that he would not have to watch his own act of betrayal, and rapped his knuckles lightly against the door. There was an answering flurry of movement inside the room.

Salytov prompted Tolya further with an urgent nod.

‘Rakitin? Are you there? It is I, Tolya. From Ballet’s. Do you remember?’

The door opened a crack. An almost handsome face, marred by dark rings around the eyes, peered out. ‘Oh. You. I thought it might be . . .’ Rakitin broke off; his eyes shifted nervously.

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. Come in then.’

Salytov shook his head slowly at Tolya.

‘No. I . . . I don’t want to take up too much of your time.’

‘You must come in,’ Rakitin pleaded. ‘You never know who is listening.’

Tolya sensed Salytov’s smile. He was clearly enjoying the irony. A thread of anger now twisted itself in amongst the tangled mass of Tolya’s emotions. ‘Pseldonimov is dead,’ he blurted.

‘How do you know?’

‘The police came to me. I didn’t know what to think.’

‘The police? What did you tell them?’

‘The truth. That I haven’t seen Pseldonimov, or you, for years.’

‘Me? Why did you have to bring me into it?’

‘You were his friend. You were always together whenever you came to Ballet’s.’

‘And so? You were not obliged to tell the police this.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘And now it won’t be long before they come snooping round here. Thanks to you.’

‘No, you don’t understand. They knew all about you.’

‘What are you saying? Was this the Petersburg police . . . or the Third Section?’

‘The police. A policeman.’

‘What did he know?’

‘He knew that you were a friend of Pseldonimov’s.’

‘What of it? That is not a crime, even in this country.’

‘But Pseldonimov is dead. He wants to speak to you about Pseldonimov.’

‘Impossible. I cannot be drawn into this. It is too dangerous. Far too dangerous.’

‘Why do you say that? Was he murdered? Do you know who killed him?’

‘I cannot talk about it anymore. If you will not step inside, then I must –’

Salytov spun out of his hiding place and rammed his cane into the crack of the open door, leaning into it to prise it open further.

‘You led them here!’ cried Rakitin. He ran back into his room, clambering over furniture to get away from Salytov. After a moment of indecision, he threw himself towards the window, struggling to open the latch.

Salytov grabbed the belt of his trousers and hauled him back. ‘Don’t think of it. Don’t . . . you . . . dare . . . think . . . of it.’ The words were punctuated with blows from his cane, landed viciously on either side of Rakitin’s torso. Rakitin fell to the floor and pulled himself up into a whimpering ball, his arms wrapped protectively around his head.

Tolya did not stay to witness the sequel to these events.

*

‘Good,’ said Porfiry quietly, as he turned away from the cell door. His voice lacked any enthusiasm for the sentiment expressed.

Virginsky flashed a questioning glare towards his superior. Porfiry answered with a minute shake of the head. But Virginsky would not be silenced. ‘You commend
this
? The man can hardly walk.’

‘He tried to escape,’ said Salytov.

‘Did you even have a warrant for his arrest?’

‘I was acting on my own initiative. There are times when a policeman, out in the field, must do what he feels is necessary. He does not always have time to consult the rulebook.’

‘You do not need the rulebook to know that you should not beat a witness!’

‘One used to be able to. Before the reforms.’

‘Well, it is no longer allowed.’

Salytov ignored Virginsky’s objection. ‘I brought him in, didn’t I? It’s up to you now. You can draw up the damned warrant now, if you’re so determined to have one.’

‘After the event?’

‘That’s how we used to do it.’

Virginsky shook his head in despair. ‘Will we be able to get anything out of him though?’ He directed his protest to Porfiry. ‘The man is scared out of his wits. I am not sure he is even capable of speech any more. We should have a doctor examine him, Porfiry Petrovich. You know that.’

‘Yes, of course. You will see to it, Pavel Pavlovich. If the doctor says he is well enough to be interviewed, we will proceed. In the meantime, we will allow him to rest.’

‘May I also remind you, he is not a suspect. He is possibly a witness. Is this the best way to ensure the co-operation of a witness?’

‘Very well, Pavel Pavlovich. You have made your points quite eloquently,’ said Porfiry. ‘However, we cannot undo what has been done. A policeman is granted licence to use all necessary force in the conduct of his duties. I am confident that Ilya Petrovich will not have exceeded the limits of
necessary
force.’

Virginsky’s mouth fell open. ‘What has happened to you, Porfiry Petrovich? What have you become? You say “necessary force”, as if this is a perfectly civilised concept. But when the abuser is the one who determines what is necessary, what hope is there for the abused? Furthermore, why is he being kept in a cell? We do not normally throw witnesses in cells.’

‘But he tried to escape,’ insisted Salytov.

‘No no,’ intervened Porfiry. ‘It is rather that we are short of space. We do not have any other rooms for him to recover in.’

‘Why lock the door then?’

‘Now that we have him, it would be a shame if we lost him, would it not? I believe that happened once before, Ilya Petrovich, and it caused us an inordinate amount of inconvenience.’

The red of Salytov’s complexion intensified.

‘But his rights! The man has rights, you know. The Tsar himself set them down in law.’

‘His rights will be respected.’ There was a hint of impatience in Porfiry’s voice, anger almost. ‘Now, back to my chambers. Ilya Petrovich, you will accompany us? I wish you to tell us all you can about this witness.’

‘If you will excuse me,’ said Virginsky, ‘I will see to the doctor, as you requested.’ 

*

When Virginsky entered Porfiry’s chambers later, he found the magistrate alone. A mist of tobacco smoke filled the room, and the air tasted pungently of Porfiry’s familiar brand of cigarettes.

Porfiry blinked, as if the fug was bringing tears to his eyes. That did not prevent him from lighting a fresh cigarette. ‘What did the doctor say?’

‘Three broken ribs. Do you approve of that?’

Porfiry sighed out smoke. ‘I do not like his methods any more than you do.’

‘And yet you allow them. More than that, you encourage them. You complimented him.’

‘I do not think I complimented him.’

‘You said “good”!’

‘I was not referring to Salytov’s treatment of the witness. Merely to his success in tracking the man down.’

‘Do you think Salytov is capable of making that distinction?’

‘Men like Salytov . . .’ began Porfiry.

‘Yes?’

‘His generation of policemen – those who entered the force before the reforms – will not endure. You are young. You must simply bide your time. The new recruits are being trained to honour the rights of our citizens.’

‘But they still have the example of men like Salytov, whom they see encouraged by a respected magistrate.’

‘I hardly think that one word, uttered in careless distraction, counts as encouragement. Besides which, if I remember rightly, you hardly gave me an opportunity to admonish him. For all you know, I may have been going on to say, “Good . . . Good
God
, Ilya Petrovich, have you any idea how damaging your behaviour is?”’

‘Were you?’

Porfiry looked away sheepishly. ‘That’s beside the point. The point is that this witness may prove to be crucial in the case. I cannot regret that we have him in custody, even if I regret the means by which this was achieved. The fact that he did attempt to flee from a policeman is enough to confer suspicion on him. There is flexibility within the law – within the new law – for Salytov’s conduct. A warrant has been drawn up.’

‘In retrospect?’

‘His known association with the dead man necessarily makes him someone we are desirous to interview. If he will not co-operate with our desire, I’m afraid we must resort to a warrant.’

Virginsky shook his head dismissively. ‘This ability to compartmentalise the deeds of men like Salytov, accepting those that are expedient but turning a blind eye to the inconvenient abuses they commit, is the reason why such abuses persist. I would go further: it is the foundation upon which all the injustices of the regime are constructed. So long as men like you, Porfiry Petrovich, say nothing, then the state may do as it pleases. You urge me to bide my time, to simply wait for the extinction of Salytov’s generation. I am afraid I must also be impatient for the passing of men like you, Porfiry Petrovich. If you will not stand up to the Salytovs of this world, then one must seriously wonder if you have any role in society left to you.’

‘We are investigating a murder. My role in society is to keep on asking questions until we have discovered the person or persons responsible. It is as simple as that. I urge you to adopt a similarly narrow focus of concentration.’ Porfiry ground out his half-smoked cigarette with premature finality, as if he had suddenly sickened of it. ‘In my conversation with Lieutenant Salytov on our return from the cells I was able to glean a number of significant facts. Our man from the canal, the man with the pockmarked face, now has a name: Pseldonimov. I have asked Alexander Grigorevich to submit an enquiry at the Address Office. We should have Pseldonimov’s last known address later today. We also have an occupation for him. He was a printer. There is more to it than that. He is rumoured to have turned his hand to certain illicit activities, such as the printing of manifestos, and counterfeiting.’