by R. N. Morris
‘It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that they are one and the same.’
‘We have no evidence to suggest that.’
‘And nor will we ever, unless I meet with my contact again. Tonight.’
Porfiry’s expression grew pained. ‘If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.’
‘I take responsibility for my own actions, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘That suggests that even if I do not give my consent, you will go through with this. That – of course – would make you a revolutionary spy, you know, feeding secret information to the state’s enemies.’
‘Then you had better give your consent.’
Porfiry shook his head in forlorn protest. ‘I thought you didn’t gamble, Pavel Pavlovich. And yet this . . . this is far worse than any monetary wager. Here the stake you are playing for is your life.’
Virginsky clicked his tongue dismissively. He looked down at the floor, away from Porfiry’s warning, to await his eventual acquiescence. He heard the cigarette case click open again. This time it was followed by the scrape and sulphurous whiff of a match igniting. When Virginsky at last looked at his superior, he saw him exhale a long cone of smoke. At the same time, he gave an upward tilt of his head, fixing Virginsky with a gaze that was for once utterly unblinking.
*
Virginsky stepped out onto Stolyarny Lane and thought of food. It was night. The lamps were lit. For its size, Stolyarny Lane was well illuminated: the presence of a police bureau counted for something. He felt a strange reluctance to take himself outside the protective glow. No harm could come to him, he felt, for so long as he could be seen. He sensed a voracious darkness lurking beyond the lamps’ soft auras.
His stomach grumbled angrily. The claw of pain in his head dug in its nails. It had been clutching his brain all day, but now that he was released from duty, it tightened its grip for one last stab of torture. He knew that he was in no fit state to undertake the mission that he had so rashly, and perhaps feverishly, proposed. Equally, he also knew that it had to be done tonight, if it was to be done at all.
It was hard to believe it was only the night before that he had met the hatchet-headed man in the tavern on Haymarket Square. It seemed a lifetime ago. He realised, with a dawning sense of his own stupidity, that he had been in such a state of intoxication at the time that he had no clear memory of which tavern the encounter had taken place in. However, he distinctly remembered the man’s last words to him: ‘If you can’t find me, I know where to find you.’
He wondered if the man was watching him now, hiding in the vast darkness that surrounded the small pockets of illumination. He had the sense that the true city was constructed out of darkness, with shadows for inhabitants. By keeping to the light, he was drawing attention to himself as an outsider.
He had to remind himself that he wanted the man to find him. The plan relied on their meeting again. But Virginsky was so distracted by headache and hunger that he could not be sure what the plan was anymore. It was no longer clear to him whom, or what, he was serving, or even where his loyalties lay.
To distract himself, he fell into his old habit of counting his steps: One, two, three . . .
The first thing to do was to eat something. But that would not ease the pain in his head. For that, there was only one cure that he knew.
He counted his way to Haymarket Square. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight . . .
A boisterous crowd of muzhiks were passing the bottle around. Virginsky shied away from them and headed for the nearest tavern. His mouth was salivating as he stumbled down the stairs to the basement.
When it came to it, he ordered vodka first. He saw that his hands were trembling as he waited for his drink. The idea of the drink was more soothing than the drink itself, which did not provide the instantaneous easing of his discomfort that he had hoped for. However, for the time being at least, it seemed to steady his hands. Certainly, the bottle did not shake as he poured the second glass.
A display of collapsed pies drew his attention. In all honesty, he had never seen anything more unappetising. Nevertheless, he picked one out and watched with a mixture of impatience and horror as the landlady plated it for him.
It was the punch of petroleum in his nostrils that alerted him to the presence at his side. He turned and saw a familiar face, with a familiar lop-sided grin fixed in place. ‘Hungry?’
‘Yes, I am, in fact.’
The hatchet-headed man looked Virginsky up and down. ‘Well, well, look at you, magistrate. Come to see me in your service uniform.’
‘I have come straight from the bureau. I have something to tell you that cannot wait.’
‘My goodness, you are an eager little magistrate. At least eat your pie first. The sound of your stomach churning is deafening. Come, there is a booth in the corner. We will be able to talk more freely there.’
They transferred to the booth, Virginsky making sure to take the vodka as well as the food with him. The table was covered in crumbs. A candle flickered, almost burnt out, the feeble flame surrounded by frozen rivulets of wax.
Virginsky took a bite of the pie, as he had been bid. He discovered it contained some kind of fish mixed with rice. It was devilishly dry. Despite his hunger, he had great difficulty swallowing the first mouthful. A swig of vodka helped to wash it down. ‘There is something you must know. I trust you will pass it on to the appropriate people.’
‘I am the appropriate people. As far as you are concerned.’
A chilling thought struck Virginsky. Suppose this man was not who he purported to be. Suppose he was simply a solitary crank, a fantasist without any connections to the revolutionary movement. The only link with Kozodavlev and Pseldonimov was the manifesto. But it was a common enough piece of trash. Even Porfiry had had a copy in his possession. Virginsky took a second bite of the pie, followed by more vodka. ‘An urgent situation has developed. The Third Section have Rakitin.’
‘Who is Rakitin?’
‘Please. Don’t insult me.’
‘Why do you think I should be interested in this information?’
‘If you do not understand the significance of it, you should pass it on to those who will.’
‘You are sweating, magistrate. What’s the matter? Is it hot in here?’
‘I suffer from a medical condition. This comes upon me without warning. And for entirely no reason.’
‘A medical condition, or a guilty conscience?’
‘No. It is . . .’ Virginsky drained his glass.
‘Doesn’t the vodka exacerbate the condition? Most of the drunks I know suffer terribly from the sweats.’
‘It’s not the sweats. It is something more . . .’ Virginsky poured another drink. The bottle rattled in the glass. His hand was shaking again.
‘Dear dear, the shakes as well. That does not bode well. We need men we can rely on, you know. Not alcoholics.’
‘You must understand,’ began Virginsky. ‘This is very difficult for me. I am putting myself at great risk. I have given you valuable secret information. And what if you are an informer? You say you need men you can rely on. But how do I know I can trust you?’
‘It is not necessary that you trust me. Simply that, when the time comes, you obey me.’
‘But how can I give obedience without trust?’
The guttering candle finally went out. The man’s features grew less distinct, his sarcastic smile lost in the shadows. ‘Blindly. That is what we require of you. Blind obedience.’ The man shook his head discouragingly. ‘Now then, my dear magistrate, this information you have given me. It is nothing. It does not help us. We will need more than this before we trust you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps you could see to it that this . . . what was his name?’
‘Rakitin. You know who he is.’
‘Perhaps you could see to it that this Rakitin does not betray his friends, whoever they may be. Perhaps you could personally see to it t
hat he is silenced.’
‘Impossible. He has been taken away by the Third Section, I tell you.’
‘Do you not have contacts in the Third Section?’
Virginsky thought for a moment before replying. ‘No.’
‘Then you know what you must do. Apply for a transfer into the Third Section.’
‘But I despise them. I am against everything they stand for!’
‘That remark reveals you to be a very naive individual.’
Although he could not see it, Virginsky sensed the man’s sarcastic grin was back in place. He felt himself flush. ‘If I may say so, your proposal is quite absurd. Even if I were able to secure a transfer, which is by no means certain, it would take time. That effectively rules out your plan as a means of silencing Rakitin. He would have informed before I had a chance to get anywhere near him.’
‘Then you are no use to us. Superfluous. But it is no matter. We already have our people inside the Third Section. If the central committee decide that this is a matter that requires acting on, there is someone in place to silence this fellow. Indeed that is how you may know that you can trust me. Wait for news of Rakitin’s . . . silencing.’
‘You would have him killed?’
‘If what you have said is true, then that would be the logical course of action.’
‘Would it not be safer for the central committee to disperse?’
‘The central committee is not interested in what is safer, but in what is necessary. If they disperse, the work will be abandoned. And all that we have struggled to achieve so far will be in vain. Yours is the suggestion of a coward.’
‘I am not a coward.’
‘I require you to prove it.’
‘I have brought you this information.’
The man made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘We knew it already.’
‘Lie.’
‘No matter. Whether it is a lie or not is irrelevant. It is not enough. We require more of you.’
‘What?’
‘Names. The names of police agents who have infiltrated revolutionary cells.’
‘Can’t your spies in the Third Section discover this for you?’
‘There is a list. But it is not widely circulated, even inside Fontanka, 16.’
‘And do you think I would have access to it?’
‘Oh, but it is essential that you should. As I am sure your superiors will agree. Tell them that you have the opportunity to infiltrate a terrorist cell yourself. Tell them as much of our history as you think is necessary to make the story persuasive. They will naturally give their consent. However, at this point, you will raise an objection. What if there is already a police agent in place? That would seriously complicate matters, and might put both of you in an awkward position. You would be working against one another, rather than together. If you are to undertake such a dangerous task, it is only reasonable that you should be forewarned with this information. They will see that. You will be given the list.’
‘I’m not convinced your plan will work.’
‘So far I have asked you to perform two tasks for the cause. You have raised objections to both.’
‘I can only do what is possible. If you ask me to reach down the moon . . .’
‘I would expect you to do it.’
‘Is there not a danger that if I broach the subject of infiltrating a cell, it will arouse my superiors’ suspicions? Furthermore, I will be expected to supply them with information about the cell to make the story credible.’
‘Of course. We will select what you tell them. There is something that is very like information, but is in fact its opposite. Disinformation, you might call it.’
‘There’s no need to talk in such a roundabout sort of way. It serves no purpose. I understand perfectly well what you are talking about. Disinformation. Just say it.’
‘So you will do it?’
Virginsky poured another vodka.
‘Go easy on that, my friend. Remember, you are no use to us if we cannot rely on you. The cause requires sobriety and dedication. An almost ascetic devotion to the furtherance of our great task. Study the lives of the martyrs. You must become a contemporary martyr. No more fish pies and vodka. You must learn to live simply. To endure privation. And pain. Are you capable of that?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘My friend. We are not ungrateful. We realise that you have put yourself at some risk. That you brought us the information about Rakitin in good faith.’ Virginsky detected a softening in the man’s tone. ‘We recognise in you considerable potential. We wish to encourage you, but you must be made aware of what lies in store for you if you continue down the path you have set out upon. In a word, danger. There will be rewards too, of course. When the time comes, you will be in a position to reap them.’
A waiter brought over a fresh candle. In its glow, Virginsky saw that the hatchet-headed man was smiling. His smile was almost kindly, and for once without any sarcasm. But as soon as the candle was placed on the table, the man stood up, as if the presence of light repelled him.
‘Where are you going?’ Virginsky’s question had an edge of desperation to it.
‘A friend of mine is having a party. It is his name day.’
Virginsky drained his glass and slammed it, more heavily than he had intended, on the table. A wave of vertigo rocked through his head as he sprang to his feet. ‘Take me with you.’
‘My dear magistrate . . .’
‘My name is Pavel Pavlovich.’ After a moment, he added, ‘Virginsky.’
‘I know that.’
‘And what may I call you? It is absurd, if I am to accompany you to a party, for me not to know your name.’
‘I have not yet said that I will take you.’
‘Do I not deserve some reward for what I have brought you?’ Virginsky’s tone was becoming strident.
The other man looked around the tavern warily. The clientele was universally absorbed in its own dramas and drunkenness. No one was paying any attention to them. Even so, when next he spoke, his voice was hushed: ‘We do not operate like that. Either an individual is committed to the cause, or he is not. The motivation must come from within and must be capable of withstanding every discouragement.’
Virginsky’s crumpled expression suggested that he was far from being up to that challenge.
Perhaps the man took pity on him; certainly, his expression was contemptuous. ‘My name is Alyosha Afanasevich.’
Virginsky tracked his implacable back as he left the tavern.
24
The name-day celebration
Alyosha Afanasevich set a brisk pace, zig-zagging east from Haymarket Square in the direction of the Moskovskaya District. It was all Virginsky could do to keep up, but he was determined not to let the man out of his sight. Alyosha Afanasevich had not, in fact, explicitly consented to take Virginsky to the party, but neither had he flatly refused. Since leaving the tavern, he had not addressed a single word to Virginsky, ignoring the questions that Virginsky fired at his back. All this, together with the speed of his march across the city, could be taken as an indication that he was trying to shake Virginsky off. Certainly, Virginsky had the impression that the man would not have turned a hair if he had simply stopped following him. But he himself could not bear the thought of losing Alyosha Afanasevich.
They walked along the northern embankment of the Fontanka, passing the riverside façade of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The sight of the building reminded Virginsky of an earlier case, the first that he had worked on with Porfiry Petrovich. There would come a time, he imagined, when every building in St Petersburg would bring to mind one case or another.
It was a clear, mild night: under different circumstances, one for ambling unhurriedly alongside the river, anticipating the pleasures of the white nights that lay only a couple of months ahead. But this was no romantic stroll.
The force of the pace, coupled with the vodka he had drunk, was causing Virginsky to overheat. Despite
his indulgence over the last two nights, Virginsky was not a habitual drinker. He welcomed the exercise as an opportunity to clear his head.
As Alyosha Afanasevich turned right onto the Chernyshov Bridge, Virginsky put on a spurt to draw level with him. Their footsteps reverberated over the arching stonework. ‘Isn’t it a bit strange, you fellows celebrating name days? I thought you urged the desecration and destruction of everything connected with the Church. Name days, after all, are Orthodox festivals.’
As their feet came down on the other side of the bridge, Virginsky at last succeeded in provoking a response from his companion. It was perhaps not the one he would have hoped for: ‘Once again you reveal your naivety through your remarks. I hope you do not say anything so foolish when we are at my friends’ apartment. Indeed, it would be best if you did not say anything at all.’
‘Will your friends not think me rude?’
‘I will tell them you are a mute.’
‘Would it not be better to educate me as to why my question was so foolish? Then I will guard against making similar mistakes in the future. To me, it seemed a perfectly reasonable question, bearing in mind the manifesto that you once gave me. To mark the saint’s day corresponding to one’s name – one’s Christian name – does seem a little at odds with the notion of God the Nihilist, do you not think?’
Alyosha Afanasevich gave a heavy sigh. ‘Naturally we do not celebrate name days as devout Orthodox Christians celebrate them. Indeed, amongst ourselves we do not use the names our parents gave us at all. We have given one another new names, names more in keeping with our roles and our destinies. And you may take it from me that we do not give a damn for the calendar of saints’ days.’
‘What is yours?’
‘What?’
‘The name that your friends have given you? I take it they do not call you Alyosha Afanasevich.’
‘No. To my friends, I am Hunger.’
‘Hunger?’
‘It is not a reference to physical hunger, to the hunger of appetite, but rather to my hunger for the revolution.’