The Cleansing Flames (37 page)

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.

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
.’

‘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.’

‘Did 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.

Across the river he saw the peculiar pseudo-medieval construction of the Mikhailovsky Castle, now the School of Engineering. He thought of the sons sent there by their fathers to acquire a useful profession, imprisoned in that red fortress by vicarious ambition. And yet, somehow, he envied them the certainty and security that such a start in life promised. He wondered if there was a young man standing at one of its windows, viewing him with an equal but opposite envy.

The day was mercilessly bright, spring asserting itself with the insensitivity of the eternally recurring. The sun knew nothing of his suffering. He wondered vaguely how many days had passed since it had all begun. All he could decide with any confidence was that it must be May.

The shriek of a solitary gull ripped the sky. It was a plangent sound, bearing hope away, as if it were a fish snatched from the Bay of Finland.

He thought of Major Verkhotsev’s last words to him. The prospect of disappearing from his life held an undeniable allure at that moment. But the river’s expanse did not tempt him to suicide. No, what appealed to him was the idea of leaving a hat on the ground, with a suitable note tucked into the band, and slipping away to start a new life, with a new name, somewhere far from where he was standing now. But the trouble was that he would always want to be far from wherever he was standing.

The city’s emptiness poured into him, inexplicably weighing him down. He could not understand how the core of him could feel so heavy when he knew it contained only an expanding vacuum.

It was at that moment that he first had the sense of someone, or something, standing behind him, watching him. He did not turn round. If there was someone there, the chances were that it was a Third Section spy.
But surely Verkhotsev would not be as unsubtle as that?
he thought. Or perhaps that was the essence of his subtlety, to order a surveillance operation so implausibly unsubtle that Virginsky was bound not to believe in it? At any rate, if it was a spy, Virginsky judged it best not to reveal that he knew he was under surveillance. He would retain the advantage if he led the other to believe that his presence was not suspected.

In fact, Virginsky’s instinct was that his watcher had not come from Fontanka, 16. Indeed, he found it hard to admit where he thought it had come from, or what he thought it was. But his thoughts were accumulating around the conversation he had had with Dolgoruky about a demon. And now Virginsky’s refusal to turn round came not from cunning, but from fear.

He turned to his left and started walking along the Fontanka Embankment in the direction of the Obukhovsky Hospital. He heard no footsteps, but he was dogged by the sense of another following him. The further he progressed, the more real that sense became.

He counted his steps, straining to hear an echo of his own footfall that would confirm the reality of the entity tracking him. But if there was a man behind him, his steps were perfectly synchronised with Virginsky’s.

At the tenth step, he halted, and of course there was only silence. He set off again, and halted again, this time after a further thirteen steps. Again, silence. His follower was either able to guess exactly when he was going to stop, or made no sound as he tracked Virginsky. But the sense that he was being tracked did not diminish.

*

Porfiry’s breathing was shallow and uneven. Each breath when it came seemed like an epic victory. It left him as wearied as if he had wrestled an angel to the earth.

His eyes were closed, bulging blindly in dark sockets. The change in his physical form since the last time Virginsky had seen him was shocking. His cheeks, one of which was padded with a thick dressing, were sunken. Silver stubble over his face added twenty years to his age, or perhaps revealed his true age for the first time. The hair on his head grew in white wispy clumps, exaggerating the irregular shape of his skull, its strange protuberances seemingly forced out by the peculiar ratiocinations that occurred within. As for the rest of the body, it was hard to believe that the shrunken form beneath the covers had ever once been Porfiry Petrovich. There was nothing left of his considerable paunch. It seemed to have melted away in a fever along with the muscles of his arms and legs.

Virginsky began to shake. He fell to his knees and clasped one of Porfiry’s hands in both of his, squeezing the clammy flesh as if he thought he was sealing the life in. ‘Forgive me.’ He lifted the hand and pressed it against his forehead.

He sensed movement on the bed. Porfiry’s eyes were open now. Something like a smile flickered weakly over his lips. ‘Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘Yes. It is I.’

‘Good.’

‘I . . . did this to you.’

‘No.’

‘
Forgive me
,’ insisted Virginsky.

With heroic effort, Porfiry swung his other hand over to lay it over Virginsky’s with a reassuring pat. It took an equal effort for Porfiry to swallow. ‘Pray for me. For my soul.’

‘You are not going to die!’

Virginsky felt the squeeze of Porfiry’s grip. It was surprisingly strong.

‘Pray for me,’ repeated Porfiry.

‘I . . .’ He was about to say that he could not, that he did not believe in prayer, or the soul. This once, he exercised tact when it came to expressing his convictions to Porfiry Petrovich.

But Porfiry seemed to have sensed what was on his mind: ‘My father . . . was a non-believer too. And yet, God gave him the gift of healing.
Pray for me
.’ The entreaty was charged with an urgency that even Virginsky could not escape.

He closed his eyes. He tried to remember the words of Kozodavlev’s prayer. ‘
Eternal God, the judge of all, look with compassion on this our brother.
’

Porfiry lifted his head from the pillow. ‘I don’t know that prayer.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not a proper prayer. The words just came to me.’

‘God gave you the words.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I read it somewhere.’

‘No matter.’

Porfiry’s head fell back against the pillow. There was a flurry of blinking as his eyelids settled over the bulbs of his eyes. His breathing settled into a deep, regular pattern. His hand relaxed. Virginsky placed it onto the sleeping man’s rising and falling abdomen.

*

He stayed by the bedside all night, dozing in an armchair that was found for him. He dreamt again of the merchant couple’s baby but also of his own father. In this dream, the baby was alive, although his father was dead. He shook his head sharply when he woke from it, as if to deny the subconscious wish his dreaming mind had voiced.

In the morning, Dr Pervoyedov expressed himself satisfied with Porfiry’s condition; indeed he described himself as more satisfied than he had been for days. He told Virginsky to go home and sleep.

Virginsky found himself on the Fontanka Embankment again. He walked alongside the gently lapping river and thought of the much smaller river that ran through his father’s estate. In fact, the river ran through a birch coppice that his father had recently sold. The sale had been the cause of some tension between them at the time. His father had believed that Virginsky’s anger derived from seeing his inheritance sold off, but there had been more to it than that, as Virginsky now realised, perhaps for the first time. The river was part of his childhood. It seemed that his whole childhood had been spent running breathless through that coppice; that childhood was a silver lattice made from threaded shafts of summer. But his brightest, happiest memory was of one rare afternoon sitting on the riverbank beside his father, the two of them lazily teasing the water with lines dangled from simple rods. He had looked up at his father, and in his father’s gentle smile, happiness dwelt. It was the betrayal of that memory, he realised, that had provoked his anger at the sale of the coppice, not any resentment at the reduction of the estate he stood to inherit.