by Boris Akunin
Berdichevsky was taken aback. “Requested by whom?”
“You are requested,” the doorman repeated, so forcefully that the public prosecutor asked no more questions.
“Shall I wait, mister?” number 48-36 shouted.
“Yes.”
Matvei Bentsionovich had made up his mind so firmly to go into the Senate, the building closest to the embankment, that he did not immediately understand what was wrong when his escort tactfully touched him on the sleeve.
“Step this way, please,” he said, pointing to the entrance of the Holy Synod.
Inside the doorway, the doorman remarked casually to the duty clerk who was sitting there, lazily driving away the flies: “To Konstantin Petrovich. He is expected.”
Ah … ah, you blockhead! Matvei Bentsionovich stopped and slapped himself very painfully on the forehead, as a punishment for being so blind and dim-witted.
The doorman swung around at the sound.
“Swatted a fly? They’re a terrible nuisance. Multiplied like wildfire, they have.”
Fellow thinkers and soul mates
MATVEI BENTSIONOVICH’S GUIDE handed him over to an elderly clerk who was waiting on the bottom step of the stairs. The clerk bowed politely without introducing himself and gestured for Berdichevsky to follow him.
In the reception room of the great man who was regarded as the most powerful individual in the empire—not so much because of his official position as because of his spiritual influence on the emperor—there were about fifteen visitors; these included generals in full-dress uniform and two senior churchmen with medals, but there were also simpler people there, such as a lady with red, tearful eyes, an agitated student, a young junior officer.
The clerk approached the secretary and pronounced those magic words: “For Konstantin Petrovich. He is expected.”
The secretary looked closely at Berdichevsky, darted out from behind his desk, and disappeared through a tall white door. Thirty seconds later he reappeared.
“You are requested to step this way …”
Unable to think where to put his hat, Matvei Bentsionovich resolutely set it down on the secretary’s desk. If they were according him the honor of skipping the queue, they could respect his hat, too.
He bit his lower lip, and the fingers of his right hand involuntarily clenched into a fist.
He went in.
Two men sat beside the gigantic desk at the far end of the vast study. One was facing Berdichevsky, and although the public prosecutor had never seen the Chief Procurator in person before, he immediately recognized those ascetic features, sternly knitted eyebrows, and rather prominent ears from all the portraits.
The second man, dressed in a gold-embroidered civil uniform, was seated in an armchair, and he did not turn to look at the new arrival right away. When he did look around, it was for no more than an instant. Then he turned his face back to Pobedin.
Konstantin Petrovich, famous for his old-fashioned St. Petersburg courtesy, got to his feet. At close quarters the Chief Procurator proved to be tall and erect, with a wizened face and sunken eyes that glowed with intelligence and strength. Looking into those remarkable eyes, Berdichevsky remembered that the Chief Procurator’s ill-wishers called him the Grand Inquisitor. It was not surprising, he looked the part.
Dolinin (naturally, it was he sitting in the armchair) did not get up. On the contrary, he gazed pointedly off to one side, as if trying to show that what was going on had nothing to do with him.
Speaking in a gentle, resonant voice, Konstantin Petrovich asked: “Are you surprised, Matvei Bentsionovich? I see you are surprised. You should not be. Sergei Sergeevich is far too valuable to Russia for him to be left without protection and supervision. I know, I know everything. I have had reports. About the surveillance yesterday and the surveillance today. Yesterday no one bothered you—we had to find out just what kind of bird you were. But today, when we found out, we decided to have a word with you. Quite openly, heart to heart.” Pobedin shaped his thin, dry lips into a smile of goodwill, even sympathy. “Sergei Sergeevich and I understand the reason that has impelled you to undertake a spontaneous investigation. You are an intelligent, energetic, brave man—you would have got to the bottom of things anyway, if not today, then tomorrow. And so I decided to invite you in myself. For a meeting with the visors up, so to speak. It is unseemly for me to hide. I suppose you have imagined Mr. Dolinin to be some appalling evildoer or conspirator?”
Matvei Bentsionovich did not reply to that, he merely lowered his head; but he did not lower his gaze, so that the effect was that of a scowl.
“Please sit here, opposite Sergei Sergeevich,” the Chief Procurator invited him. “Do not be afraid, he is no evildoer, and I, who am his mentor and leader, do not wish anyone ill, no matter what the liberal gentlemen might say about me. Do you know who I am, Matvei Bentsionovich? I am the people’s servant and sympathizer. And as for the monstrous conspiracy that you no doubt believe you have uncovered, I confess quite honestly: yes, there is a conspiracy, but so far from being monstrous, it is sacred—its goal is the salvation of Russia, Faith, and the Throne. One of those conspiracies, you know, in which all good, honest men of faith should participate.”
Berdichevsky opened his mouth to say that most conspiracies, including the monstrous ones, pursued some sacred goal such as the salvation of the motherland, but Konstantin Petrovich raised an imperious palm.
“Wait, do not say anything yet and do not ask any questions. There are many things I must explain to you first. I require helpers in the great task that I have mentioned. I have been gathering them, year by year—one grain and one crumb at a time—for many years now. They are true men, my soul mates. And they also choose helpers for themselves, men who are useful. It has been reported to me that your investigation has followed the trail of precisely one such useful man. What was his name, now?”
“Ratsevich,” Sergei Sergeevich said, opening his mouth for the first time.
Although he was sitting directly opposite the man from Zavolzhsk, he contrived not to look at him. Dolinin’s face was sullen and blank.
“Yes, yes, thank you. Following this Ratsevich’s trail has led you, Mr. Berdichevsky, to Sergei Sergeevich, one of my helpers—only recently acquired, but already he has demonstrated quite excellent qualities. And do you know what I have to say to you?”
Matvei Bentsionovich did not attempt to answer this rhetorical question, especially since he had no idea whatever of the direction that this astounding conversation might take.
“I believe in Providence,” Pobedin declared solemnly. “It is what has led you to us. I told Sergei Sergeevich: ‘Of course, we could exterminate this public prosecutor so that he will not harm our cause. But take a look at his actions. This Berdichevsky acts like a man who is purposeful, intelligent, selfless. Is this not the very set of qualities that you and I value in men? Let me have a word with him, as a good shepherd. He will look into my eyes, and I into his, and it might very well be that we shall find ourselves a new fellow thinker.’”
Berdichevsky started slightly at the word “exterminate” and failed to listen very attentively to the remainder of the Chief Procurator’s speech—there was only a single, panicky thought left twitching in his mind: your fate is being decided right now, this very minute.
Konstantin Petrovich apparently failed to understand the real reason for the other man’s reserve. “You have no doubt heard that I am an anti-Semite, an enemy of the Jews. It is not true. To classify people according to their nationality is something I would never do. I am not an enemy of the Jews, but of the Jewish faith, because it is a poisonous tare that springs from the same root as Christianity and is a hundred times more dangerous than Islam, Buddhism, or paganism. The worst enemy is not he who is alien to you, but he who is your own kin! And therefore the Jew who, like unto you, has abjured the false faith of his fathers and accepted Christ is dearer to me than the Russian who abides in the bosom of the true faith through the gr
ace of birth … However, I can see that you wish to ask me about something. You may do so now. Ask.”
“Your Excellency …” Matvei Bentsionovich began, trying to control the trembling of his voice.
“Please—Konstantin Petrovich,” the Chief Procurator corrected him gently.
“Very well… Konstantin Petrovich, I did not entirely understand about the conspiracy. Do you mean that in a figurative sense, or …”
“In the most direct sense possible. Only a conspiracy is usually arranged in order to overthrow the existing order, while my conspiracy exists in order to save it. Our country, yours and mine, is teetering on the brink of a precipice. If it fails to hold, and plunges into the abyss, it is the end of everything. Our long-suffering homeland is being dragged to its doom by a mighty satanic power, and those trying to avert this catastrophe are few in number. Disunity, a decline in morality, and, worst of all, a lack of faith—this is the Gogolesque troika that is bearing Russia toward the edge of the chasm that is already close, verily it is close! And the pit breathes fire and brimstone!”
Konstantin Petrovich made the transition from soft-spoken rationality to prophetic pathos quite naturally, without the slightest strain. The Chief Procurator was certainly exceptionally gifted as a public speaker. But when the passionate frenzy of those eyes and the entire charge of spiritual energy were directed at a single, solitary listener, the pressure was quite impossible to resist. And he has no need to address crowds, thought Berdichevsky. An audience of one man is sufficient for him, because that man is the autocratic ruler of all Russia. Despite himself, Matvei Bentsionovich began feeling flattered. Here was the great Pobedin, expending all the fervor and zeal of his statesman’s soul on a minnow like him.
Trying not to submit to the Chief Procurator’s magnetism, the state counselor said, “I beg your pardon, but there is something I don’t understand …” He lost the thread and started over again—he had to choose his words very carefully here. “If the theory that I developed is correct, then the cause of everything that has happened … of Mr. Dolinin’s actions, was the determination to kill the sectarian prophet Manuila, at no matter what cost. In order to achieve this goal and also to cover his tracks, the full state counselor stopped at nothing. If a perfectly innocent nun had to be eliminated—then by all means. He did not even take pity on a little peasant girl.”
“What girl is that?” Pobedin interrupted him, with a glance of annoyance at Sergei Sergeevich. “I know about the nun, but nothing about the girl.”
Dolinin replied abruptly: “It was Ratsevich. A professional, but he got carried away, and he turned out to be rotten. I have already said that I was mistaken to recruit him to our cause.”
“Anyone can make mistakes,” the Chief Procurator sighed. “The Lord will forgive, if the error was genuine. Continue, Matvei Bentsionovich.”
“Well then … I wanted to ask … what is so special about him, this swindler Manuila? Why was all this necessary for his sake … all this?”
Konstantin Petrovich nodded and answered very seriously, indeed solemnly:
“You truly are a highly intelligent man. You have seen through to the very essence. Then you should know that the individual whom you have mentioned represents a terrible danger to Russia, and even more than that—to the entire Christian world.”
“Who, Manuila?” Berdichevsky asked, amazed. “Come now, Your Excellency! Surely you are exaggerating?”
The Chief Procurator smiled sadly.
“You have not yet learned to trust me as my soul mates trust me. I can commit errors of the mind or the heart, but never of both at the same time. This is a gift vouchsafed to me by the Lord. It is my predestined role. Believe me, Matvei Bentsionovich: I see further than other people, and much is revealed to me that is hidden from them.”
Pobedin looked Berdichevsky straight in the eyes, hammering home every word. The public prosecutor from Zavolzhsk listened as if he were in a trance.
“Everyone who comes into contact with Manuila is infected with the fatal disease of disbelief. I myself have spoken with him and felt this seductive power, and only rescued myself through prayer. Do you know who he is?” asked Konstantin Petrovich, suddenly speaking in a terrible whisper.
“No.”
“The Antichrist.”
The word was pronounced with quiet solemnity.
Berdichevsky blinked in fright. Well, how about that! The most influential man in the state, the Chief Procurator of the Holy Synod, is insane. Poor Russia!
“I am not insane, and I am not a religious fanatic,” the Chief Procurator said, as if he had read Berdichevsky’s thoughts. “But I do believe in God. I have known that the Evil One was on his way for a long time. I have been expecting him. And it turns out that he is already here. He has appeared out of nowhere and wanders around Russia, getting a feel for things, taking stock, for he has no need to hurry—he has been granted three and a half years. For it is said in the revelation of St. John: ‘And he was given lips that spoke proudly and blasphemously, and he was given the power to act for forty-two months. And he opened his lips to blaspheme against God, to blaspheme against His name, and His dwelling, and those living in heaven. And it was granted to him to wage war against the saints and defeat them; and power was granted to him over every tribe and tongue and race. And all those living on earth shall bow to him, those whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb, sacrificed from the creation of the world.’”
These terrible and obscure words alarmed Matvei Bentsionovich. Pobedin no longer seemed like a madman to him, but even so, it was quite impossible to believe that the pitiful rogue Manuila was the Beast of the Apocalypse.
“I know,” Konstantin Petrovich sighed. “It is hard for a practical man such as yourself to believe in such things. It is one thing to read about the Antichrist in the sacred literature, and quite another to imagine him among real people in our age of steam and electricity, and here in Russia! But let me tell you this,” said the Chief Procurator, waxing passionate once again. “Russia is precisely the place! The very meaning and destined purpose of our country lies in this, that it is appointed to be the field on which the battle between Light and Darkness will be fought! The Beast chose Russia because she is a special country—she is an unfortunate country, farthest of all away from God, but at the same time closer to Him than any other! And also because we have suffered vacillation here for a long time in both the social order and our faith. Our country is the weakest link in the chain of Christian states. The Antichrist has seen this and prepared his blow. I know what that blow will be—he confessed it to me himself. You and Sergei Sergeevich have no need to know it; let the burden of knowledge remain mine alone. I will say only this: it is a blow from which our faith will not recover. And what is Russia without faith? An oak with no roots. A tower with no foundations. It will collapse and be scattered as dust.”
“The Antichrist?” Berdichevsky repeated hesitantly.
“Yes. And not in metaphorical terms, like Napoleon Bonaparte, but absolutely, completely real. Only without any horns or tail, with a quiet, heartfelt manner of speaking and an endearing gaze. I can feel people, I know them. Well, Manuila is not human.”
The simple, everyday manner in which these words were spoken sent a shiver running down Matvei Bentsionovich’s spine.
“What about Sister Pelagia?” he asked in a feeble voice. “Of what is she guilty?”
The Chief Procurator replied sternly: “The institution of capital punishment exists in every state. In the Christian countries it is employed in two cases: when someone has committed a serious offense against humanity, or represents a serious danger to society. The first case applies to hardened criminals, the second to those who would undermine the foundations of morality.”
“But Pelagia is not a murderer and not a revolutionary!”
“Even so, she represents an immense danger to our cause, and that is far worse than any offense committed against humanity. An offense ca
n be forgiven; Christ himself has told us to do that.” At this point Pobedin’s face convulsed for some reason, but he instantly recovered control of himself. “We can, we even should, show mercy to a cruel murderer who has repented. However, not to eliminate a person who may be full of good intentions, but nonetheless represents a danger to the entire world order, is a crime. It is just like a doctor who fails to amputate a gangrenous limb from which deadly poison will flood throughout the body. Such is the higher law of the community: to sacrifice one for the good of the many.”
“But you could have talked to her, just as you are talking to me now,” Matvei Bentsionovich exclaimed. “She is an extremely intelligent woman and a true believer—she would have understood you!”
The Chief Procurator glanced at Dolinin, who raised his stiff, gloomy face and shook his head: “I could tell straightaway that she was dangerous. I kept her close by, to get a better look at her. I had already realized that she was too clever, she was bound to get to the bottom of things, but I kept putting it off… I know her kind, they won’t let go of a puzzle until they have solved it. And she was already getting close to the solution.”
Konstantin Petrovich took up the conversation again. “I can talk to you, Matvei Bentsionovich, because you are a man, and you can see past particular cases to what is truly important. A woman will never understand me, because for her the particular case is more important than the whole. You and I will sacrifice one person in order to save thousands or millions, even if that person is infinitely dear to us and it makes our hearts bleed. But a woman will never do that, and millions will die, together with the unfortunate individual on whom she has taken pity I have seen this Pelagia of yours, and I know what I am saying. She would not wish to remain silent and she would not be able to. The sword has already been raised above her head. I grieve for this extraordinary woman, and Sergei Sergeevich grieves even more, because he has managed to fall in love with her.”