The Cleansing Flames (33 page)

Dr Pervoyedov saw the beads of sweat forming on Porfiry’s brow. It was clear that the pain the magistrate was feeling now was not intellectual.

‘I think we had better leave,’ he whispered to Nikodim Fomich.

The chief of police frowned. ‘I don’t understand. This is a ruse, is it not? He was not really shot by Virginsky.’

There was a grunt from the bed, which could have been of contradiction or agreement. However, Porfiry did not open his eyes.

Dr Pervoyedov placed a hand on Porfiry’s forehead, frowning at the heat that met his touch. Porfiry murmured incoherently in response.

Turning from the bed, the doctor ushered Nikodim Fomich out of the room with an urgent gesture.

As they came out, the
polizyeisky
at Porfiry’s door tensed his face into an expression of self-conscious alertness, snapping himself upright in his seat. Nikodim Fomich acknowledged his exemplary watchfulness with an appreciative nod. The policeman stared straight ahead, straining to see enemies of the state in the empty hospital corridor. At any rate, he seemed determined to make it clear that he had no interest in eavesdropping on the conversation of his superiors.

‘Nikodim Fomich, I am very concerned about Porfiry Petrovich’s wound.’

‘What wound?’ Remembering himself, Nikodim Fomich glanced at the police guard and dropped his voice: ‘There is no wound, doctor.’

‘Something extraneous was discharged by the gun. It appears to have grazed his face.’

‘Oh yes, that. But why on earth are you worrying about a tiny graze?’

‘Because I fear it may have become infected. If the infection spreads to his blood, the consequences may be very grave indeed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘His condition has deteriorated rapidly. The beads of perspiration. The exhaustion. He is becoming feverish.’

‘So, he will have a little fever. He will get over it.’

‘With all respect, Nikodim Fomich, as a physician, I find it impossible to speak with such absolute confidence.’

‘Surely you don’t think he will die?’

Dr Pervoyedov spoke in an urgent, angry whisper: ‘The next twenty-four hours will prove critical. His body may well succeed in fighting off the infection. I don’t wish to be unduly pessimistic. It was simply my intention to warn you that the situation is not perhaps as straightforward as you might think. Porfiry Petrovich is not as young as he once was, or as strong. His addiction to tobacco has weakened his constitution over the years. His chest is far from robust. To succeed in overcoming a general infection, an organism needs to be in the utmost good health.’ Dr Pervoyedov’s voice rose uncontrollably: ‘This reckless plan! What were you thinking?’

Nikodim Fomich avoided the doctor’s gaze, abashed. ‘I certainly did not think there was any danger to Porfiry Petrovich.’

The doctor’s eyes widened incredulously, but before he could answer, they heard Porfiry cry out. ‘Nikodim Fomich! Where is Nikodim Fomich?’

The two men exchanged glances complicated by anxiety and recrimination, before going back inside.

The following day, Virginsky noticed a new quality in Varvara Alexeevna’s reserve towards him. It no longer seemed that she was afraid of him. Now he believed he noticed something like contempt in her demeanour towards him. She regarded him, he felt, as one might a marked man. Her replies to his mostly innocent questions concerning household matters were tinged with a mocking tone that seemed to say:
Just you wait, my lad. Just you wait.

Kirill Kirillovich lingered over breakfast, and indeed both of them today seemed reluctant to leave him alone in the apartment, so that all three of them were at home when the first visitor of the day called. What struck Virginsky was that whoever it was failed to use the coded knock. The urgent, formless hammering set their hearts racing: What could it mean? Who could it be?

They were somehow shocked to discover that it was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, in a state of supreme agitation. The reason for his excitement was quickly revealed: ‘Dolgoruky is dead.’

Varvara Alexeevna, who had revealed her fondness for the Prince – for all his faults – at her husband’s name day, let out a small yelp of horror.

‘Hanged himself,’ continued Botkin ruthlessly. ‘Here. He left this.’ Botkin thrust out a piece of paper which Virginsky recognised as Dolgoruky’s printed confession. There was a handwritten addendum scribbled at the bottom.

Varvara Alexeevna was the first to snatch the sheet. She read it with ferocious concentration. When she had finished, she glared at Virginsky. The contempt he had sensed before had now hardened to hatred. She thrust the confession in his hand. He read:
My thanks to the Magistrate-Slayer, who told me what I must do. By the time you read this, I will be at peace. Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky.

‘I don’t know what he means. You know Dolgoruky is a liar. He is lying even in this. I can tell you for certain that this confession omits an important detail of one of his crimes. The child he raped killed herself. That is what drove him to suicide. Nothing that I said to him.’

‘How do you know this?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.

‘He told me. He showed me this yesterday.’

‘This man,’ began Varvara Alexeevna slowly, ‘is not what he seems. He is a police agent. An infiltrator. I saw him pass a note to a spy who was watching the apartment.’

‘That’s not true!’ But Virginsky’s childish blush betrayed him.

‘He threw a paper dart from the window and it was picked up by the spy. In addition to that, he continues to ask questions like a magistrate. And he acts without any caution, as if he is not afraid of getting caught. Yesterday he went out with the Prince. And he simply left his service uniform out for anyone to see. A man who was really in hiding would not be so careless.’

‘But how can this be?’ wondered Botkin. ‘He shot his superior.’

‘The man survived the attack!’ said Varvara Alexeevna. ‘All I can say is he did not try very hard to kill him.’

Kirill Kirillovich turned a look of sour distrust on Virginsky. Botkin’s expression was one of utter disillusionment.

‘I confess,’ began Virginsky, ‘that my attack on Porfiry Petrovich was intended to be symbolic, rather than necessarily fatal. As I think I have already explained, it didn’t matter to me whether he lived or died. To have shot him in his chambers was enough. My own experience, as an investigator, of gunshot wounds is that death is not always immediate. He may not be dead yet, but that does not mean he will not die soon. As far as I could tell, he lost a lot of blood. For a man of his age and physique and general health, it will be difficult for him to get over that. It is ironic that Dolgoruky yesterday proposed that we should go to the Obukhovsky Hospital to finish him off. I should have agreed. But I was concerned that we had no authorisation from the central committee. If it is so very important to you that Porfiry Petrovich die, I will go there today and make sure of it.’

‘You won’t be able to get within a
vershok
of him,’ said Kirill Kirillovich. ‘As you well know! For another thing, we do not intend to let you out of our sight. Not until we have heard from the central committee what they want us to do with you.’

‘But what is this about a note?’ demanded Botkin, struggling to process Varvara Alexeevna’s allegations. ‘Who was the man you passed the note to?’

Virginsky looked from one face to another. He saw nothing in any of them that offered hope. ‘It’s true. The man I passed a note to is a spy. And I am an infiltrator. But we are not working on behalf of the police. We are part of another revolutionary grouping. We found out about your group’s activities and it was decided that we ought to investigate. Believe it or not, there are two central committees and it seems that they have nothing to do with one another. Certainly, this is how the situation appears to the foot soldiers on the ground. I have been sent in to infiltrate your people to discover whether you can be trusted, with a view to bringing our groups together and co-ordinating our activities. I must confess that Tatyana Ruslanovna’s belief that there is already a police agent in your midst concerned me greatly, as did Dolgoruky’s erratic behaviour. I communicated as much to my people.’

‘Why did your group not approach us directly?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich.

‘It is not wise to do anything directly. One simply does not know who to trust. I admit my clandestine behaviour may have backfired. I regret that I was not more open with you, Alyosha Afanasevich, but you must understand that I was obeying the commands of my own central committee.’

‘This is all a lie!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna wildly.

‘One thing will prove I am telling the truth. The death of Porfiry Petrovich. I sincerely believe it is only a question of time. I urge you to await more news on that front before you dismiss me as a police spy.’

‘You seem certain, now, that he will die. You did not before,’ observed Botkin warily.

‘In all honesty, I don’t know how he has survived this long.’

‘We must consult with the central committee,’ advised Kirill Kirillovich. ‘
Our
central committee. They will decide what your fate should be. I would not hold out too much hope, if I were you. Even if your story proves to be true, they will not be favourably impressed by the deception you have used.’

‘You must take me to see Dyavol. I will talk to him directly and put myself at his mercy. I have things to tell him that I cannot disclose to anyone else. I believe I know who the spy in your midst is.’

A startled energy transmitted itself between Botkin, Kirill Kirillovich and Varvara Alexeevna. It was Varvara Alexeevna who spoke for them all: ‘You are accusing one of us! Oh, you are very clever, but you will come unstuck! The truth will come out in the end. We’ll wind in the pail and discover it cracked.’

‘Naturally, we will communicate what you have said to the central committee,’ said Botkin. ‘They will decide what is to become of you. I warn you, they do not look kindly on those who would betray the cause.’

‘Do what you must do,’ said Virginsky. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

Botkin nodded sharply and deeply, his head scything the air like an executioner’s blade.

*

Kirill Kirillovich stayed with him for the rest of that day, refusing, however, to enter into conversation of any kind. All Virginsky’s questions – ‘When will Botkin be back?’ ‘Has he gone to consult with the central committee?’ ‘How long will it take them to come to a decision?’ And even, ‘Is this how it was with Pseldonimov?’ – were met with resolute silence. There was an element of punishment to this, of course. But Virginsky also got the impression that the other man did not quite trust himself. Either he was afraid that he would give away something that might be useful to a potential enemy of the cause, or that he would be swayed by Virginsky’s persuasive arguments.

Virginsky expected the central committee to act swiftly. That is to say, he expected the end at any moment. But the hours dragged on, even without Varvara Alexeevna’s ormolu clock to mark them out.

When Varvara Alexeevna herself returned at the end of her working day, she gave Virginsky a new look. Her usual suspicion was shadowed, for the first time, by something Virginsky recognised as doubt, the source of which seemed to be the copy of the
Police Gazette
she was clutching. She took Kirill Kirillovich into the bedroom for an urgent conference.

Soon after this, Botkin returned. The three of them came together into the main room, bearing down on Virginsky with the angry glowers of wolves that had been cheated of their prey. ‘It seems you have been granted a reprieve,’ said Botkin. ‘According to the late edition of the
Police Gazette
, your magistrate’s condition has deteriorated sharply. The central committee has decided to await the outcome of your attack before determining your fate. If he dies, you will be hailed as a hero of the revolution.’

‘And if he lives?’

‘If I were you, I would pray that he dies. And that his death is verifiable.’

‘And in the meantime, I am to be treated like a convict?’

‘Of course. Or, to be more exact, like a condemned man who has received a stay of execution.’ The old sarcastic smile settled once more on Botkin’s lips, like an animal that had been driven from its lair at last returning.

He had the sense of someone standing over him.

Give up the fight, my dear! It’s time to give up the fight.

It was his father’s voice, but where was his father? Did his father exist now just as a voice?

Release your grip! Let go!

‘Papa?’

I am inside you. The pain – that pain that you feel – you do feel it, don’t you? That pain is me.

‘You can heal me!’ cried Porfiry. He opened his eyes. And opening his eyes was like throwing open the shutters of a window in a Swiss chalet. In fact, that was what he was doing. He was in the bedroom of a Swiss chalet, throwing open the shutters. A blinding light rushed in, with the eagerness of a sniffing hound. The initial fierceness of the light settled into an amber glow on the planks of the chalet’s cladding.

Porfiry turned to where the voice of his father had come from. He had the sense that it had been located in the corner of the room. But his father had said that he was inside him. Did that mean that his father had lied?

The man standing in the corner of the room was not his father. It was Prince Dolgoruky but somehow Porfiry confused him with another prince. He remembered a question that had been on his mind, one that he very much wanted to ask the Prince for whom he mistook Dolgoruky. ‘Did you find him?’

‘He’s not here,’ said Dolgoruky, as if he too mistook himself for someone else.

‘No,’ said Porfiry, as if he had expected this answer. Another question occurred to him. ‘Where are we? In Switzerland?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Prince Dolgoruky.

‘What will it be like to die?’ asked Porfiry.

Give up the fight, my dear! You must give up the fight.

Porfiry looked up. It seemed to him that his father’s voice came from above.

A terrible weight was pushing down on him now. He was lying on his back, pinned to the ground by an enormous stone. It seemed to be a stone, but he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he had to push it off him. Otherwise it would crush him.

Give up the fight!

His father’s voice was in the stone now. His father’s voice was crushing him.

‘Heal me!’ pleaded Porfiry with the weight of the stone.

Don’t you think if I could, I would have healed myself?

‘But God?’ implored Porfiry. ‘There is a God?’

His father’s answering laughter was devastating.

It is not so difficult. Simply decide that you will give up the fight, and lo!

His father’s voice seemed to be answering a question that Porfiry had asked earlier.

‘Why can’t I see you?’

You must give up the fight if you want to see me.

Porfiry closed his eyes and pushed with both hands. The great weight suddenly became nothing. He looked down to see that he was holding a painted egg in his hands. And somehow, he was standing again.

He heard children’s laughter. The five Prokharchin children circled him, arms outstretched, hands linked. They moved around him with half-dancing, half-skipping steps.

Porfiry was overjoyed to see them. ‘You did not die after all! It was all a ruse!’

The children giggled back at him. There was a mindless, empty quality to their laughter that began to unsettle Porfiry. He decided that he wanted no part of it. ‘That’s enough now, children.’

But the children’s dance continued and in fact grew faster, until they were whirling around him at an impossible speed. Their faces blurred into a streak of flesh encircling him, their laughter merging into a single scream.

The fleshy blur shrank like an elastic band contracting, tightening around his head. He felt it against his face, filmy, acrid with the taste of burning. The film was unspeakably revolting, as if it were a spider’s web, or the web woven by something more repulsive than a spider. He pulled at the web with his fingers.

‘Death,’ said Porfiry. And the web that clung to his face rushed into his mouth as soon as he opened it to speak. Once it had gained admittance to his mouth it began to expand. He knew that this did not bode well. The more it expanded, the harder it was for him to breathe. It was suffocating him.

Give up the fight, my dear! It’s time to give up the fight.

His father’s voice was suddenly overwhelmingly comforting. He knew that if he relaxed his being, as his father urged, everything would be all right.

He knew that his father would never lie to him.

He knew that he must do as his father said.

He felt the tension go from him. The first thing that happened was that he swallowed the clump of sticky webbing that had entered his mouth.

There was a sound like the wind chasing itself through a tunnel. The window shutters banged against the outside of the chalet.

Flakes of snow came in through the window, quickly building to a swirling blizzard that obliterated the interior. The blizzard became denser and darker. He had a sense of it as something infinite. The bedroom no longer existed, nor the chalet. There was only the ever-darkening snowstorm.

There was the sound of the unseen shutters slamming to. And then all was darkness.