by R. N. Morris
For the first time, he wondered who she was. Something about her extraordinarily diminutive structure seemed familiar. He thought of Tatyana Ruslanovna’s words to him just before they entered the church: Someone you killed, that’s all.
Had she said it simply to make him think of Porfiry Petrovich? She knew as well as he did that Porfiry was not really dead, and that therefore Virginsky could not in any way be said to have killed him.
Indeed, there was no one whose death could be laid at his door. Unless one counted Dolgoruky.
Of course. Now he recognised the woman in the coffin as Princess Dolgorukaya, Dolgoruky’s mother. So Princess Dolgorukaya had died. But how could he be held responsible for her death?
The chanting had come to a stop. Virginsky turned to face the sea of candle flame. Without the auditory accompaniment, the light seemed wan and almost incomplete. The faces of the mourners were turned towards him, in anxious expectation. He saw a number of men in police and gendarme uniforms assembled at the front, forming a kind of human barricade around one part of the congregation. The officers shifted nervously. Among them he recognised Major Verkhotsev, whose expression was wary, although again Virginsky noticed the unmistakable presence of pity. Verkhotsev was standing at the head of the bank of men; immediately next to him, to Virginsky’s surprise, was Totsky. If it was not such an absurd idea, he might have thought the two of them had just been in conference.
Virginsky cast a glance towards the back of the cathedral, seeking out Tatyana Ruslanovna, as if the sight of her face would explain everything. But instead of an explanation, he saw only contempt.
He turned back to the cordon of tense, bristling uniforms. They seemed to be closing in on him, by slow, measured steps. In the shift and bob of the men, he caught sight of the one man who was truly responsible for the terrible predicament he found himself in, the Tsar whose jealous retention of autocratic powers had driven ‘our people’ to the only reasonable course of action open to them: revolution. Everything followed from that, including his own infiltration of the movement, and the ruse that had been required to make that possible.
For the first time he saw that everything that men like Botkin and Tatiscev had argued was not only right, it was also necessary. There could be no justice without social revolution. And the new society could not be founded until the old one had been destroyed. The troubling duality of his conflicted morality was all at once resolved. His convictions clarified. He remembered watching the fire on Alexandrovsky Prospect, and how he had come close to welcoming his own annihilation.
He was a dead man already. He saw now that he had been betrayed by Totsky, who had no doubt informed on him to ensure his destruction.
As always with Virginsky, there was something inescapably personal in this too. Again he looked for Tatyana Ruslanovna. The look of contempt was still in place. She gave a nod that was charged with challenge and mockery. Perhaps that was all it came down to, in the end: her nod propelled him.
He took one step towards the cluster of uniforms. He was aware that his movement seemed to provoke an agitated stir.
A second step, and there was a shout. He had the sense of a mass of blue rushing at him, a wave of twill that hit him with a shocking force. He landed heavily, his head thrown back, his eyes open on the highest tier of the iconostasis, the symbol of the entrance to Heaven. His skull hit the ground with a sickening crack. He felt the glass phials pocketed around his body pop and crumple, heard their brittle splintering, felt here and there the points of their tiny shards prick him through the material of the corset.
He braced himself for the end. But the explosion did not come. Above the screams of havoc filling the church, he thought he heard the sound of broken laughter.
40
A room in Fontanka, 16
The room that Virginsky was taken to resembled a well-appointed drawing room. He was not held under any kind of restraint but was treated with the utmost civility by Major Verkhotsev and his subordinates. He was given tea, which made him realise how hungry he was, and so he was also brought a meal of cabbage soup, sturgeon and potatoes, accompanied by a palatable French wine. He was rather given the impression that whatever he asked for would be provided.
‘Where is Porfiry Petrovich?’ asked Virginsky, pushing his empty plate away from him. ‘I insist on Porfiry Petrovich being present during my . . . interview.’
Major Verkhotsev rolled a waxed moustache between thumb and forefinger. ‘I am afraid that won’t be possible. There was an accident, you see. Your little prank backfired.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The prank you and Porfiry cooked up between you. It was a very stupid thing you did, you know. And dangerous. To discharge a gun at close range.’
‘But the cartridge was stuffed with a wad of paper. Porfiry prepared it himself.’
‘Something went wrong. There must have been a foreign particle lodged in the chamber. Porfiry Petrovich sustained a slight graze.’
‘A graze!’
‘Which became infected. The infection took hold.’
‘What are you saying? He is not dead? Not really?’
Major Verkhotsev blinked once before continuing: ‘It has not come to that. Yet. However, I warn you, his doctor, Dr Pervoyedov, is far from hopeful. He advises us to prepare for the worst.’
‘No! Porfiry is as strong as a bear. He will not succumb to a graze!’ Virginsky was on his feet. ‘I must go to him.’
‘There will be time for that. First, we need to have a little chat. Please, sit down. You will be taken to see him in due course.’
Virginsky sank back into his seat. ‘Taken? Am I to consider myself under arrest?’
‘One cannot simply overlook the fact that you tried to assassinate the Tsar.’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s certainly how it seems.’
‘But I did not even know that the Tsar was in the church. He was concealed by your men.’ Virginsky hurriedly asserted his lie, the desperation rising in his voice.
‘The deceased was a distant relative of a dear friend of the Tsar’s, and had been a courtier. It was therefore natural that the Tsar should attend her funeral.’
‘A dear friend? You are talking about his mistress?’
‘Please, you must not pay attention to scandal-mongers.’
‘I saw Totsky talking to you,’ said Virginsky abruptly.
‘Yes. Totsky was our agent.’
‘Then you will know from him what happened. Unless he is lying to cover his own duplicity.’
‘That fellow saved your life, you know. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had rendered the nitroglycerine in your corset inert, you would have blown yourself up and taken God knows how many innocent souls with you. Mine included.’
Virginsky overlooked the Major’s appropriation of innocence. ‘I was drugged. They put the corset on me without my knowledge or consent – of course. I was acting under duress. They said that they would kill the baby if I didn’t obey.’
‘Baby?’
‘There is a baby. They said that they would kill it.’
Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘It is unlikely that they ever intended to kill it. Even these people have some compunction. It was enough to hold out the prospect of infanticide to ensure your compliance. You have to hand it to them. They are astute psychologists.’
‘Have you arrested Tatiscev?’
‘It seems that Professor Tatiscev has gone to ground. He has not been seen at the university, or at any of his other usual haunts.’
‘And Tatyana Ruslanovna?’
‘From what Totsky says, wherever Tatiscev is, Tatyana Ruslanovna will not be far away. You knew of course that they were lovers?’
‘Totsky and Tatyana?’
‘No. Tatiscev and Tatyana.’
‘I see,’ said Virginsky, as if it made no difference to him. ‘What about the others? Kirill Kirillovich and Varvara Alexeevna? Botkin?’
‘Oh, we have them.
So that is something, eh?’
There was a momentary silence. The animal pacification that Virginsky had experienced at the satisfaction of his immediate bodily needs gave way to a dull depression. ‘Tell me, was Porfiry Petrovich’s death ever announced?’
‘His death? No. Of course not. He has not died.’
‘No, I meant as a ruse. To convince the terrorists to trust me.’
‘There were bulletins about the seriousness of his condition and his decline in health. But naturally we would not release such egregiously false information. No matter what plans you and Porfiry had hatched.’
‘She lied to me. She told me that his obituary had appeared in the papers.’
Major Verkhotsev shook his head. ‘They played a ruse of their own, it seems.’
‘And Princess Dolgorukaya? That was Princess Dolgorukaya in the coffin?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she die?’
‘She suffered a heart attack.’
Virginsky let out an involuntary laugh.
Major Verkhotsev raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘It was something Tatyana Ruslanovna said,’ explained Virginsky. ‘She implied that I had killed her.’
‘Unless you were responsible for her son’s death, you did not. Princess Dolgorukaya’s fatal heart attack was brought on by the news of Prince Dolgoruky’s suicide. The old princess was deeply religious, you see. As far as she was concerned, he would go straight to Hell. It broke her heart.’
Virginsky placed a hand over his eyes.
‘Yes, it’s all been a terrible strain for you, I’m sure. The tragedy is that none of this was necessary. If you had come to us, we would have told you that we already had a man in there. This distrust between the Department of Justice and the Third Section is most regrettable, you know. It helps neither of us.’
‘It is hard to trust people who employ such methods as you do.’
‘My dear fellow! What a thing to say! After all this!’
Virginsky removed his hand from his eyes and stared accusingly at Major Verkhotsev. ‘Rakitin.’
‘Rakitin?’
‘The witness you took from us.’
‘We have no record of ever receiving anyone by that name. And neither do you, by the way.’ The remark was made lightly, almost cheerfully. There was no sense of threat in it.
Major Verkhotsev seemed to be aware of the difficulty this would cause Virginsky. He sensed the need for explanation: ‘It may surprise you to learn this, but I am considered a liberal, you know.’
Virginsky gave a cynical shrug.
‘Ask my daughter.’
Virginsky bristled at the mention of Maria Petrovna.
Major Verkhotsev smiled with satisfaction at the effect his last sally produced. ‘Yes, Maria Petrovna and I are as one on many issues.’
‘She does not condone the murder of state witnesses.’
‘No one has been murdered. Whatever wild conclusions you have leapt to concerning the fate of this – what did you say his name was?’
‘Rakitin. You know full well.’
‘Yes. Rakitin. Rest assured that, as so often, it is not as you imagine. Perhaps Mr Rakitin wished to disappear. And perhaps we aided him in the accomplishment of his wishes. Perhaps he found himself superfluous to events, and so took himself off. One simply does not know.’
‘You know.’
Major Verkhotsev tapped an index finger impatiently on the table. ‘Yes, I am quite the liberal,’ he continued, as if they had not talked about Rakitin at all. ‘I keep up with all the liberal papers, and even some of the radical ones.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Oh no. It’s not like that. I don’t do it to keep an eye on them, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I read them because they interest me. Genuinely. I find myself sympathetic to many of the views expressed.’ Verkhotsev crossed to another table at the side of the room, on which a number of newspapers and journals were laid out. ‘Take this, for example. In this week’s Spark.’
Prayer for an Investigating Magistrate
Knowledge of the worst that men can do
Opened your eyes to the best in them.
Zones of darkness you dared to enter,
Observing with an eye informed by ruth.
Dwelling there you saw not monsters but brothers;
A light you shone into their souls, discovering
Virtue lives alongside vice; hope neighbours hate;
Love beds down with lust; joy succumbs to fear’s embrace.
Eternal God, the judge of all, we beseech you,
View with equal compassion our brother’s soul.
‘Of course, it’s just a bit of doggerel by someone who never knew him. And it reads rather too much like an epitaph, for my liking. Still and all, it is rather affecting. I wonder who wrote it,’ said Major Verkhotsev. ‘It is not credited to anyone. But quite an extraordinary stance for such a radical-leaning publication to take, do you not think? I was particularly struck by the overtly religious tone. A prayer indeed! And when you consider that most radicals believe that Porfiry Petrovich was the victim of a justifiable revolutionary attack . . .’
‘Kozodavlev,’ said Virginsky. There was a sense of wonder in his voice.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Kozodavlev wrote it. If you look at the first letter of each line.’
Major Verkhotsev retrieved the paper and scanned the lines of the poem eagerly. ‘Good Heavens! But I thought he died in the fire?’
‘Yes, that is what he wanted us to think. But, obviously, it was the man they sent to kill him who died.’ Virginsky shook his head in begrudging admiration. ‘What Is to Be Done?’
‘Well, of course, we will make enquiries with the newspaper.’
‘No. I meant the book. What Is to Be Done? by Chernyshevsky. Have you never read it?’
‘Of course, Lopukhov’s hat! Well I never. But this is not quite the same, is it? I mean, in What Is to Be Done? a deception was perpetrated, but no one died. Lopukhov’s hat was fished out of the water with a bullet hole in it and from that the authorities concluded he had committed suicide. By the by, I always objected to the stupidity of that episode. It is highly implausible on so many counts. But here, five children perished, as well as the unknown individual found in Kozodavlev’s apartment.’
‘Yes, although in Kozodavlev’s defence, it is probably fair to say that he was desperate in the extreme. This man intended to kill him. Somehow, he managed to get the better of him, but he knew that Dyavol would never let it rest there. He would send another assassin, and another, if necessary. He saw an opportunity to make his enemy believe that he was the one who had perished in the fire, which was after all what Dyavol was expecting to hear. And so, in order to render the dead man unidentifiable, he set the fire, disguising himself as his attacker to make his escape.’
‘Dyavol? The Devil is involved in this?’
‘I mean Tatiscev. That was what our people called him.’
Major Verkhotsev laid down the paper and rolled one of his moustaches thoughtfully. ‘You know, we are always on the lookout for clever young men here in the Third Section. If it should prove problematic for you to return to the Department of Justice, our door is open. I imagine it will not be the same working there without Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘He is not dead yet!’
‘You do not have to make a decision now. Think about it. In the meantime, my wife and I – and Maria Petrovna, of course – would be delighted to see you at one of our at-homes soon. If you have a moment, I shall find you a card.’
‘You mean I am free to go?’
‘Of course. You have given a satisfactory account of yourself.’
Virginsky seemed stunned. ‘But what if I were to tell you that I really did wish the Tsar dead?’
Major Verkhotsev had found the card with the address of his family residence. He held it out to Virginsky. ‘There you are. We are at home every Thursday.’
‘Di
d you not hear what I said?’
Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘Evidently not.’ He held out a hand to Virginsky. ‘Until we meet again, Pavel Pavlovich, goodbye.’
‘Will I be safe? From Dyavol?’
‘You mean Tatiscev?’
‘I don’t know. Dolgoruky claimed that he was haunted by a devil. Perhaps the same will happen to me now. They blamed me for Dolgoruky’s death, you know. Which means I must also be responsible for his mother’s. And if Porfiry dies . . .’
‘You have nothing to fear from Tatiscev. His main concern now will be to flee the country.’
‘And from the Devil?’
‘My dear fellow, you’re one of the new generation. A rationalist. A young man with a scientific outlook. You must simply tell yourself that devils do not exist.’
Virginsky ran a hand over his face. ‘I will try.’
Major Verkhotsev nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s the spirit. Now, I imagine you wish to go straight to see Porfiry Petrovich? He is at the Obukhovksy Hospital. I will have you taken there.’
‘If it is permitted, I would rather walk. Alone.’
‘Yes, of course. But, please, don’t do anything silly on the way. I don’t want to be fishing your hat out of the river.’
‘I’m not wearing a hat.’
Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘Just as well.’
*
The Fontanka river stretched out in front of him between parallel embankments, unnaturally straight, like a vast bolt of fabric unrolled. It was a shimmering cloth, made up of many subtle colours. In the peaks of its rippling surface, an incarnadine glow danced over oily depths. The river seemed somehow wider than he remembered it, as if the quality of distance had changed in the period of his strange confinement. Everything now was further away, it seemed; in particular, the barriers that divided the city had increased. And at its heart, of course, the city was emptier now, immeasurably emptier.