by R. N. Morris
And it was now that they came out, in all their shameless glee. The Haymarket crawled with whores. Some of them, almost certainly the illegal ones, backed off at the sight of his uniform, though among this group were those too diseased or drunk to care. The yellow ticket carriers were undeterred by his appearance. They either ignored him and carried on their business or, seeing through the uniform to the man, approached him with brazen, beckoning eyes and coaxing words. Even a policeman has to fuck, was evidently their reasoning, as well as their experience.
He wanted to let them know that they disgusted him; that he saw through their daubs of face paint and tawdry dresses, even through their soft flesh to the soulless bones beneath. Without doubt, he wanted to punish them, even the legals, for the humiliation that their glances and their words inflicted. For is it not humiliating to be reminded of the things that are beyond our power, the forces that control us? At the very least, he wanted to inconveniencethem, to take them in, shake them up, scare them, if necessary hurt them. Then perhaps, when he had made his position and his power clear, he would consent to their proposals.
But tonight, as he consciously had to remind himself, he was on official business. ‘Do not antagonise them,’ Porfiry Petrovich had said to him, as he handed over the photograph of Raisa Ivanovna Meyer. ‘You need to win them over.’ As always it galled him to receive advice from - to be patronised by - the investigating magistrate, especially when his own suggestions as to the management of the case were so flagrantly ignored. They had let the boy from the confectioner’s go! Unbelievable! It was not even clear that Porfiry Petrovich had informed the Third Section of the pamphlets found at the boy’s lodgings.
No. Salytov’s views had not been appreciated. And instead of following a genuine lead, he was sent to chase loathsome chimeras around the Haymarket.
The first girl that approached him was too young to remember Raisa Ivanovna in her working days, even allowing for the young ages at which most of them began their careers. He declined her mocking proposition with a shake of the head.
He made for a group of older women, who seemed to have given up any real expectation of trade, certainly at this early stage of the night, while there were still younger, prettier girls about. Instead, they were absorbed by their own hilarity, passing a vodka bottle around and cackling. At his approach, they began to preen and pout. Salytov felt a flinch of tension quiver in his face as he suppressed his disgust and allowed them their advances. God only knew with what diseases they were riddled. Their vile and filthy fingers came out towards him. Even in the soft whiteness of the night, the sores and pockmarks of their faces were discernible beneath the layers of make-up. Porfiry Petrovich’s words came back to him: ‘You need to win them over.’ But at what cost?
‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Some of you are old enough to be grandmothers.’ He could not help himself. It was the only way he knew.
Their responses to his reproach were good-natured, or perhaps their renewed laughter was simply a reflex. ‘Whores are like fine wines, dearie, they get better with age,’ came from one of them. Her wink seemed not to be for Salytov, but for her companions. She clung to the necks of two of them. There was a round of appreciative laughter.
‘So you admit to being whores? But what use is there in denying the obvious. I hope your yellow tickets are all in order?’
‘If it’s our yellow tickets you want to see, you know where to look for them!’ The voluble one unhooked her arms from her friends and spun around to present Salytov with a view of her backside, which she stuck out and wiggled.
‘Enough of that. Show more respect, woman. Here now. You must all look at this picture. That’s right, pass it around. Do any of you recognise her? She worked as a whore many years ago at a brothel run by one Madam Josephine. Our records show that this brothel no longer exists, or at any rate is no longer legally licensed. It is believed that Madam Josephine is dead. God knows how it is that any of you are still alive. The name of the woman in the picture is Raisa. She may have worked under a different name, however. Cast your minds back, if you have anything left of your minds. Come now, do any of you recognise her?’
There were murmurs of distrust now, heads were shaken, and the women began to back away. Some of them tried unsuccessfully to recapture their former mood, which this intrusion of the past, a reminder of the youth they no longer possessed, had muted. In particular, Salytov’s mention of Madam Josephine seemed to have had a sobering effect. And it was almost as if the picture of Raisa acted with a repulsive force on them.
The woman who had done most of the talking was the first to go, making a beeline for a solitary man whose drunken swerve marked him out as easy pickings. She paused only to cross herself as she passed the Church of the Assumption.
Soon only one of them remained. She was left holding the photograph of Raisa, her head bowed over it.
‘I remember her,’ she said. When at last she lifted her face, Salytov saw that her eyes were moist with tears.
‘Raisa. That was her name. She came from a good family, didn’t she? Yes, she was a nice girl, a good girl, really she was. I can see the way you’re looking at me, but believe me, it’s true. It happens, you know. Girls fall on hard times. Their families forsake them. What else are they to do?’
‘Nonsense. They have many options. They could enter service. If she was from a good family, and educated, why could she not have become a governess? Are you telling me that because she was too proud to find work as a seamstress, she became a whore instead? Only the lazy and the wicked go down your path.’
‘But there are many small steps on to it. Sometimes a girl finds herself friendless, that’s somehow worse than penniless and homeless. You have to imagine the depths of despair.’
‘Depravity!’
‘No. Despair. Then, at last, she finds a friend, or so it seems. She is taken in by a kindly soul who understands everything. She is given a bed, food, warmth, and nothing is asked of her in return. At least not at first. More and more she finds herself in the debt of this kindly soul, whose name may be Madam Josephine, or Fräulein Keller, or some such. She is reassured daily not to give the mounting debt another thought. Perhaps there are practical measures, not to mention expenses, that the girl needs help with. There is a way of getting into trouble that only girls have. These kindly souls know all the remedies. Then the day comes when the poor lost girl no longer feels herself poor or lost. She feels herself strong and ready to go out into the world again. But now she is reminded of the debt. Her ingratitude is thrown back at her. “But what can I do?” she asks. “I have no way to repay you. I have no money.” “There is a way,” says the kindly soul. And so begins her education. There will be tears, no doubt. But no one will hear them. In the meantime, the debt increases. It always increases, no matter how hard the girl works. And she begins to see herself as a spoiled, worthless creature with no way out, no life of her own, and more alone than she has ever been.
‘That was Raisa’s story, but not the whole of it. It did not end for her as it did for so many others. As it will for me. She got out. She met a man. A gentleman. He came to Madam Josephine’s and saw something in her eyes that moved him. He got her to tell him her story and was moved by that too. He slept with her, of course. He was not such a saint as to forgo that privilege. He promised her money to buy off Madam Josephine. It was not such a large sum as all that, though any sum is large when you have nothing. He gave her more. His address and the promise of another life. She left to find him. And the day she left was the last time I ever saw her. Tell me, is she happy now, do you know?’
‘She’s dead. It’s thought her husband killed her.’
The Vakhramevs’ apartment was in a respectably solid building on Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street, around the corner from 22 Nevsky Prospekt. Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged a startled look as they walked past that address, though neither felt inclined to comment.
‘These nights are deceiving,’ said Porfiry, looking a
t his pocket watch. ‘I always think it is earlier than it is. There is no need for you to come with me, you know. It is long past the hour when you are required to attend me.’ Porfiry’s tone became solicitous: ‘You may go home, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘No,’ said Virginsky. ‘There is nothing for me there.’
‘But isn’t your father still in Petersburg? Would not he and your stepmother appreciate a visit from you?’
‘That can wait.’
‘As you wish.’
They walked in silence along Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street.
‘Will there be anyone in the apartment?’ asked Virginsky at last.
‘No. The household, apart from Vakhramev himself, have removed to Pavlovsk. Vakhramev, as you know, is the guest of our esteemed superior, the Prokuror Liputin.’
‘Is it right, do you think, the way that between you, you drove a coach and horses through the justice system? Simply because he is a friend of the prokuror, he is allowed to go free. It is a pity that I did not have such friends when I was in a similar predicament.’
‘I am confident that Ruslan Vladimirovich will not abscond.’
‘That has not answered my question.’
‘Very well. Let me say that it is right, it is very right and proper that a friend of the prokuror, or to be more accurate, the husband of a friend of the prokuror’s wife, should receive preferential treatment in this way. It is right because it is necessary. What is necessary is always right. Is that not so?’
‘But it isn’t fair.’
‘Ah, Pavel Pavlovich, how are we to cure you of this morbid preoccupation with fairness?’ Porfiry looked up at the precise geometric facade of the street, following the upward lines of the windows to the pale sky. ‘This is the one, I think.’
They climbed to the first landing. A brass plaque on the wall beside the white double panelled door announced Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev. Porfiry Petrovich placed the key in the lock and looked at Virginsky, who felt again the thrill of transgression that he had experienced reading the letters in Meyer’s study.
‘Where did you get the key?’ he asked as Porfiry opened the door.
‘Vakhramev supplied it. He had little choice.’
‘But does he know what we are looking for?’
Porfiry shook his head as he closed the door. ‘Neither is he aware that we know where to find it.’
There was an air of stagnant domesticity about the flat. The aroma of a recent meal, or possibly the accumulation of many such aromas, lingered in the entrance hall. A stand by the door was fully charged with canes and umbrellas. The floor was of worn painted boards and the walls were papered with a dull geometric design, reminiscent of masonry. The entrance hall was L-SHAPED and doors led off from every side.
Porfiry opened one door to the left. ‘Kitchen and washroom through there. And servants’ quarters beyond, presumably. So . . . let us try this one.’
They entered a drawing room. The same wallpaper continued in here. A broad metal stovepipe running almost the full height of the room cut into the wall. There was a sofa with a table pushed up against it. The table had a cloth over it and an oil lamp in the centre. Virginsky had the sense of the social gatherings that had taken place around it, and imagined the ghost-like faces of the family turning in surprise as they entered. The shadowless dusk of a summer night lay like a soft filter over everything. It seemed to be a third presence in the room with them, and Virginsky felt the need to speak to dispel it.
‘We are like thieves in the night.’
Porfiry seemed surprised by the remark. ‘It is a necessary part of the job, I am afraid. This is what we deal in. People’s lives. In the course of your work, you will discover far more about people than you would wish to know. If this makes you uncomfortable, then I fear that the role of an investigator may not be suited to you, after all.’
‘Are you not uncomfortable?’
Porfiry gave the impression of being even more taken aback.
‘Or do you, perhaps, relish it?’
‘Relish? No. I do not believe there is any prurient element to my constitution, if that is what you’re implying. It is merely necessary, as I said.’
‘And what is necessary is right.’
Porfiry blinked in a self-conscious display of patience. ‘One must overcome one’s misgivings. Besides, what we may find may prove Ruslan Vladimirovich’s innocence, or at least support it. If that is the case, then I am sure he will forgive us this . . . intrusion.’
Virginsky raised his eyebrows sceptically.
Another door led off from the drawing room, which Porfiry tried now. ‘Ah! This I imagine is Tatyana Ruslanovna’s room,’ said Porfiry, stepping through the doorway.
‘What are you doing?’ cried Virginsky. ‘There is no need to go in there, surely?’ But Porfiry did not hear him, or at least did not acknowledge him, so he had no alternative but to follow.
Virginsky was somehow surprised to see the omnipresent wallpaperhere too, as if he expected Tatyana Ruslanovna to impose her personality more forcefully on her living space. Indeed, at first he was at a loss to understand why Porfiry had assumed this was the daughter’s room, unless it was the subtly invasive perfume. But then he saw the toys, the large doll on the bed, the doll’s house on the floor, the rocking horse in one corner.
‘And she wonders why they treat her like a child,’ said Porfiry. ‘She is a strange, contradictory creature, do you not agree? Fascinating, but dangerous. Is she really as worldly as she would have us believe? And why does she cling to these relics of her childhood? Perhaps she grieves the passing of it more than she acknowledges.’
‘She is neither child nor woman,’ said Virginsky, absent-mindedly running one hand over the smooth surface of the room’s stovepipe. It was as if by this touch he believed he could possess her life.
Now Porfiry was opening another door, which faced the one they had entered by. ‘And here it is. Her father’s study. Everything is connected. Room connected to room. Life connected to life. That is the way in St Petersburg.’
Virginsky felt a sudden firmness in the beating of his heart at their proximity to their object. Something too disturbed him about the juxtaposition of rooms.
Now the insistent wallpaper struck Virginsky as an infestation. He was repelled by it. He saw its straight lines and unvarying angles as the imposition of an unfeeling authority, of which the study was undoubtedly the source. No wonder she rebelled against him, he thought.
A icon of the Redeemer looked down from one corner.
On the desk was a large leather-bound Slavonic Bible. Porfiry moved briskly to it, crossed himself, and heaved it open. He turned the rough-edged, thick pages eagerly. At last he held up a small key. His smile was triumphant. ‘It was chapter seventeen.’ Virginsky was beset by a strange dread.
Porfiry sat down at the desk to try the key in the left-hand drawer.
‘Do you really want to see what is written in those diaries?’ asked Virginsky, voicing his dread.
Porfiry hesitated and looked at him questioningly. ‘We have no choice.’
‘But think of her reading them. I cannot help feel that it is these diaries that have made her the way she is. That have corrupted her.’
Porfiry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. They may have played a part.’
‘I find myself exceedingly reluctant to know what is written there,’ confessed Virginsky.
‘Sometimes one must be forced to do what one most desires,’ said Porfiry, looking up at him with a strange expression.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Virginsky. He felt the heat of his rage in his face.
Porfiry didn’t answer immediately. He turned back to the Bible and flicked through the pages, looking for a passage. ‘Here we are. Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians. Chapter five, verse two. Sami bo vy izvestno vestye, yako den Gospoden, yakozhe tat v noshchi, tako priidet. Which, if my understanding of Church Slavonic is correct, can be translated as “For you know perfectly well
that the word of the Lord comes as a thief in the night”.’
‘Your point?’
‘My point is that even subterfuge may result in good.’
‘But this feels . . . despicable.’
‘It is not just the perpetrators of crimes that we must pit ourselves against. Sometimes those who are wholly innocent present us with our greatest obstacles - and challenge. We must use every means - stealth, cunning, even deceit - against them. For you may be assured that they will use the same against us.’ Porfiry Petrovich pulled open the drawer sharply. ‘Even the innocent. For though they may be innocent of the crimes we are investigating, they know themselves to be guilty of others, which in their own hearts they may feel to be far worse.’
‘How can you know this?’