The Cleansing Flames (29 page)

If her look had made him feel like a murderer, to be left alone in the apartment made him feel like a thief. Her invitation for him
to help himself
to her husband’s clothes did not help.

The couple’s bedroom adjoined the sitting room. It was a dark, sag-draped space, clogged with furniture and ornaments. Varvara Alexeevna’s taste for frivolous possessions seemed to emanate from here, spilling out into the rest of the apartment in the centrifugal scatter of a storm.

There was a hook on the inside of the bedroom door which fitted into a metal loop on the frame, to form a rudimentary lock. For some reason he could not explain, knowing he was alone in the apartment, he pushed the hook into its eye.

Tatyana Ruslanovna had warned him to stay away from the windows. But the angular projections of light that were distributed about the apartment like so much celestial bunting were more compelling than her injunction. He stood to the side of the frame and looked down at the courtyard. A solitary figure, a man in artisan’s clothes, could just be made out, lurking by the entrance. It could have been Virginsky’s imagination, but he felt sure that the man was looking up at the apartment. This was precisely what he expected. In fact, it comforted him to see the man there. Everything was as it should be, as far as that was possible. He moved slowly back from the window.

He had not expected Kirill Kirillovich to be the owner of an extensive wardrobe. In addition to the work suit he was wearing that day, Virginsky had counted on finding an additional suit for best, although he was not sure that a committed revolutionist would succumb to such conventionalities. However, Virginsky had not reckoned on the fact that a resourceful revolutionist might find it expedient to accumulate a range of clothes, which might be termed outfits, or even disguises. He could think of no other reason why Kirill Kirillovich would possess a number of different coloured peasant smocks, as well as a merchant’s kaftan, and a tailored European suit with a swallow-tailed jacket. He was not altogether surprised to find a priest’s robe hanging in the wardrobe. He chose a pair of loose workman’s trousers and a rough red smock. He then searched the bottom of the wardrobe and found a pair of felt boots, which he tucked the trousers into. Finally, he put on a leather belt to cinch the smock.

It was strange to stand before a mirror in another man’s clothes. He was surprised how unlike himself he looked. He wondered whether that was the result of the change of clothes, or of a greater change that had taken place inside him. But in St Petersburg, a city of costumes and uniforms, the power of appearance could not be underestimated. It was never a question of
mere
appearance. A man could make himself whatever he wanted to be, simply by appearing to be it.

He was startled out of his self-absorption by a knock at the apartment door. His heart picked up the sharp rhythm and echoed it internally. He froze. The silence after the knocking ceased throbbed with catastrophe. The knocking was repeated. Virginsky thought he recognised the complicated pattern of the entry code. He relaxed minutely, though his heart still kept up its percussive chorus.

He let himself out of the bedroom and moved noiselessly to the apartment door. He sensed the presence of the other in the silence. He laid a hand flat on the door, as if to reach out to whoever was there. He withdrew the hand as the knocking was repeated, the same pattern, more urgently.

A voice, Dolgoruky’s, hissed: ‘Magistrate! Open up. It’s me, Dolgoruky.’

‘I can’t. She’s locked me in.’

There was laughter from the other side. ‘She’s not taking any chances, that one.’

‘What do you want?’

To Virginsky’s astonishment, he heard a key fit into the lock. A moment later the door was open. The Prince’s gaze swept over him hungrily. ‘My, my, magistrate, what have you done?’

Virginsky closed the door quickly. ‘You have a key?’

‘Of course. This is my apartment. That is to say, it was. I put it at the disposal of the central committee and they handed it over to Kirill Kirillovich and Varvara Alexeevna. I must have forgotten to surrender all the keys.’

‘But you live in that squalid room? With all those others.’

‘One must make sacrifices for the revolution.’

The look Virginsky bestowed on Dolgoruky was almost one of admiration. There were many questions he could have asked. He settled for, ‘Why did you knock, if you had a key?’

‘It’s hardly polite, is it, to go barging in uninvited.’ Dolgoruky’s sheepish expression suggested another motive.

Only now did Virginsky think of the question he should have asked in the first place: ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Everyone knows you are here. That is to say, all our people do, at least.’

‘Which means that the authorities will by now. Tatyana Ruslanovna believes there is an agent in our midst.’

‘Oh, it is never as simple as that, in my experience. Do you not agree?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘And so you shot him!’ cried Dolgoruky abruptly. ‘You really shot him, that horrible little man. I must say, I couldn’t be more pleased.’

‘I didn’t do it to please you.’

Dolgoruky seemed surprised by this. ‘Why did you do it?’

The question seemed to throw Virginsky. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. To strike at the heart of the administration . . . The central committee called for an act of singular daring . . .’

‘Yes, but why did you take it upon yourself to be the one? And why did you shoot
him
?’

‘Do you have any news . . . concerning his condition? Is he . . . ?’ Virginsky was unable to complete the question.

‘He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean. He is being cared for at the Obukhovsky Hospital. Perhaps we should go there and finish the job off?’ Dolgoruky grinned maliciously.

‘I . . . I imagine he is closely guarded.’

‘Yes, but to a daredevil like you, what does that matter? I like your disguise, by the way. That will serve you well. You can turn up at the hospital pretending to be a workman – there is always some work or other to be done in those filthy, crumbling wrecks. In amongst your bag of tools, you hide a gun, or some dynamite – do you know what dynamite is?’

Virginsky nodded.

‘There! What could be simpler?’

‘I don’t have . . . any tools,’ objected Virginsky lamely. He added, ‘I cannot conceive of acting without the authorisation of the central committee.’

‘Why not? You did before.’

‘No, you are mistaken. As I said, I was called upon –’

‘I think not. I was there, remember. I don’t think anyone explicitly called upon you to do what you have done. You acted on your own initiative. The central committee would be within their rights to hang you out to dry.’

‘They would not dare!’

‘Oh my goodness, listen to him! Now he threatens the central committee!’

‘What do you want, Dolgoruky?’

‘Do you have any tea?’

‘No. There is no tea. And no one to provide it.’

‘What did it feel like?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When you squeezed the trigger and saw what you had done. When you saw him there bleeding . . .
What did you feel
?’

Virginsky hesitated before answering. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to say. I felt . . . different. I felt as if my life would never be the same again.’

Dolgoruky shook his head impatiently. ‘Of course! That goes without saying. That is nothing. But . . . you felt free? For the first time in your life, you were free!’

‘Yes, for a moment. In the instant I pulled the trigger. As the bullet was released. Yes, then, in that moment, I was free.’ Virginsky shook his head violently, as if he were trying to cast out from it a weight of unhappiness. ‘But look at me now. I am a prisoner in this infernal apartment. Can you believe she locked me in?! And when I am moved from here, I will be a prisoner somewhere else.’

‘Until the moment when your crime is multiplied across society. When an army of men like you each stands up and shoots . . . a magistrate here, a minister there, a governor in this province, the marshal of the nobility in that! When your lead is followed, and widespread destruction is unleashed, you will be once again free.’

Virginsky sighed, as if he found Dolgoruky’s vision oppressive. He gave him a critical look. ‘And what if no one rises up?’

‘Don’t be despondent, my friend. The day will come. And you have helped to hasten it. I was talking to someone who . . .’ Dolgoruky broke off, and began to pick his words more carefully: ‘Someone who . . . considers himself . . . to be a friend of yours . . . to have your best interests at heart. Who, it might be said, has followed your career with interest.’

‘Who is this?’

‘I am not at liberty to reveal his name. It is too dangerous for you, as well as for him. Still and all, this man – let us just call him “Dyavol,” for that is a soubriquet it amuses him to answer to – this man –’

‘Dyavol? The Devil? Is this your demon that you’re talking about?’ Virginsky gave a sarcastic laugh.

‘No. This is a real man. A man of flesh and blood. He is known as Dyavol amongst our people, though in truth, I look upon him more as some kind of god. He has had a tremendous influence on me.’

‘Not Lebezyatnikov?!’ cried Virginsky incredulously.

‘Don’t try to get his name out of me. I will not even answer your questions. However, as I was saying, if you would only let me finish you would hear something that redounds to your considerable credit . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘This man, this great man, believes that your action may well prove crucial in heralding in the next, necessary phase of the struggle that will bring about the end of the regime. Widespread violence and destruction are on the brink of being unleashed. This is palpable. I for one feel it. When the time comes, you will take your place amongst the heroes of the revolution.’

‘I would like to meet this man. Would this be possible?’

‘Quite out of the question.’

‘You know,’ began Virginsky tentatively. ‘Last night, I thought about your demon. I imagined I had a demon of my own. I will not say he was real to me. But certainly I considered the possibility of his reality.’

Dolgoruky’s reaction was unsurprised, matter-of-fact. ‘This is what happens when you take the step that you and I have taken. When one transgresses . . .’

‘What did you do, Dolgoruky? What was your crime?’

‘The more one transgresses, the more real one’s demon becomes. All this is very perplexing and ironic. I don’t believe in demons, and the only god I acknowledge is . . . myself. And perhaps, also, the great man I have just told you about. And to prove that I don’t believe in it all, I set about . . .’ There was something shocking about the innocently mischievous giggle that Dolgoruky let out. Virginsky had the sense that it was far from appropriate to the enormity of Dolgoruky’s actual crimes. ‘Sinning.’ He put his hand in front of his mouth like a naughty child. ‘Yes. I sinned to banish the demon, but it only made him more real.’

Virginksy looked over Dolgoruky’s shoulder. ‘Is he here now?’

‘I left him outside the apartment.’

‘Shall we not let him in?’

‘It will do no good. You will not be able to see him. I took him to see Lebezyatnikov. I thought if anyone could see him it would be my old tutor.’

‘Did you introduce him to Kozodavlev?’

‘Why bring up Kozodavlev? You’re not still interested in Kozodavlev, are you? That was before. When you were with
him
.’ Dolgoruky screwed up his face distastefully. ‘
He claimed that I did not interest him!
’

‘It’s just that when you mentioned Lebezyatnikov, I naturally thought of Kozodavlev.’

‘Why naturally?’

‘Because Kozodavlev attacked Lebezyatnikov in print.’

‘Ah yes.’ Dolgoruky gave a distracted smile.

‘I believe you acted as an agent in the transactions.’

Dolgoruky’s air of distraction deepened. Virginsky had the sense that it was an evasive strategy.

‘As you did in the articles Kozodavlev wrote attacking my former professor.’

Dolgoruky could not prevent himself from being interested in what Virginsky was saying. ‘Your former professor? You mean . . . ?’

‘Tatiscev.’

‘I see. So you know Professor Tatiscev.’

‘And knowing him to be a man of great integrity, a man whose radical credentials are beyond question, who is furthermore known to be sympathetic to the cause of social revolution, I must confess that I was surprised to find him the target of Kozodavlev’s barbs. Equally, I am disappointed that you played a part in that transaction too, a sordid part, if I may say so.’

‘But you don’t understand. All that was . . . well, let’s just say, it was Dyavol’s idea.’

‘Is Dyavol a member of the central committee?’

Dolgoruky shrugged. ‘Dyavol is Dyavol. He needs no one’s authority but his own.’

Virginsky’s face lit up with sudden realisation. ‘Dyavol is “D.” The author of
Swine
!’

Dolgoruky’s cracked grin left room for the possibility that he was right.

‘And, if I remember rightly,’ continued Virginsky, ‘there is a character in the book called Dyavol. He wrote the book and put himself in it! But why? Is he an anti-revolutionist? It does not portray our people in a very good light.’

‘He wrote it primarily as a warning. If you betray the cause, this is what will happen to you. But perhaps it amused him to write it too. He often does things because they amuse him.’

‘Did it amuse him to have Kozodavlev attack Professor Tatiscev?’

Dolgoruky gave a delighted giggle. ‘Oh, yes! That was the most amusing diversion he had ever concocted!’

‘And why did Kozodavlev go along with it? That’s what I don’t understand. Kozodavlev’s convictions, at least as evidenced by the articles he wrote under his own name, were every bit as radical as Professor Tatiscev’s. Ideologically speaking, you could not put a cigarette paper between the two men.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. That’s true. But what you are forgetting is that, many years ago, Professor Tatiscev stole Kozodavlev’s wife.’