The Gentle Axe

At the Obukhovsky Hospital

The hunger had gone, but now it was back. The city danced around him in the falling snow. There was a sense of finality to the snow. This was how it was going to be from now on. He was light-headed. It was the hunger, he told himself. But it was something else. He felt himself to be on the brink of something. How did he come to be in this jangling drozhki, sitting next to this stranger, this strangest of strangers? The plump little fellow with the blinking eyes lit a cigarette and watched him closely.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” he heard himself say.

“Yes?” said the man next to him, exhaling smoke.

“I’m cold,” he told the man.

The man nodded and rearranged the furs that lay over his lap. “We’ll soon be there.”

“Where?”

“The Obukhovsky Hospital. Don’t you remember?”

“Am I ill?”

“Possibly you are ill. There is a doctor there who will examine you. But that is not why we are going.”

Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky shivered and tried to think. “Why are we going?” he asked at last.

“You’re going to help me. You have a duty to perform. It’s not a pleasant duty, I’m afraid.”

He realized now where it came from, this feeling of being on the brink. “The city will never look the same to me again,” he said, as they glided over the frozen Fontanka between two lines of birch trees placed there to mark the route. Beyond the trees, men were loading a sled with blocks of ice hewn from the river.

Porfiry Petrovich did not answer.

“Are you a policeman?” asked Virginsky.

“I am an investigator. A magistrate.”

“And he is really dead?”

“I believe so.”

As the drozhki slowed, he caught sight of the bronze bust of Catherine II on the side of the hospital she had founded. He had the feeling she was waiting for him.

“Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Yes?”

“I’m cold.”

PORFIRY, still with the books under one arm, led Virginsky along the crowded corridors of the men’s hospital. Some men were slumped against the walls, others lay where they had fallen on the floor. A few paced. All were dressed in ragged and dirty clothing. The Obukhovsky was a free hospital.

Occasionally, one of the men turned toward them and watched them pass with a kind of hostile expectancy that stood in place of hope.

Virginsky experienced a heightened sensitivity. The sound of coughing resonated in the joints of his bones. He was aware of the smell of his own body and how it reacted with the other smells around him. He drifted in and out of physicality.

“It’s like a magnet, a great stone magnet, it draws them to it,” he murmured, in one of his lucid moments.

Porfiry met the observation with an expression of mild inquiry.

“This building. It’s like a magnet for their misery. And God knows there is enough of it.”

“You speak as if you’re not one of them.”

“I have no right to. I have been drawn here too. By my misery.”

“Your case is slightly different. It’s more a case of sorrow, I would think.”

“Does that imply less suffering?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps you have it in your power to end your suffering whenever you wish.”

“It’s not in my power.”

“You spoke of your father.”

“I don’t remember. I must be ill. It’s not like me to speak of my father.”

“Is he a landowner?”

“What’s that to me? He won’t give me a single kopek.” They approached an elderly man supporting himself with one hand on the wall. He was in the grip of a hacking cough. “And why should he help me?”

“Because he’s your father. He’s bound to you by blood.”

“There are other bonds, stronger, more important.”

“Such as?”

“Love.”

“Ah. Lilya,” said Porfiry gently.

“No,” said Virginsky quickly. “I mean, perhaps, I don’t know. It’s not…She has a child, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes.”

“Are you…the father?”

“Certainly not. There has never…There has never been anything like that between us.”

“Who is the father, do you know?”

“No. I don’t know. She’s never told me. Why are you interested?”

“There is quite a little mystery concerning your friend Lilya. A man, one Konstantin Kirillovich, family name unknown, accused her of stealing a hundred rubles. She says he gave it to her. She was brought in for questioning, but her accuser having disappeared, she was released.”

“I can tell you now, she is no thief.”

“I believe you. She didn’t want the money when it was offered to her. Have you ever heard her speak of this Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“No.”

“I should very much like to talk to Lilya again.”

Virginsky offered nothing in return.

“I believe I might pay her a visit. What was the name of the establishment she works at? Something German. Keller or Kellner. It was there on her license, I remember,” said Porfiry.

“Keller. The madam is a German woman.”

“Is that where you met her?”

Virginsky winced, as if in pain. He came to a stop. “Once, with a group of friends-no, not really friends, acquaintances. People from my school days. There had been a dinner. Drinking. I was taken to that establishment. She was there. Something about her touched me. I saw how young she was. I couldn’t go through with it. I gave her money and left. I–I met her again by chance in the street. It may seem unlikely to you, but we became friends.”

“On Sadovaya Street, isn’t it?”

“Beneath a milliner’s. These places usually are.”

“Can you remember anything else about it?”

Virginsky shook his head, and they continued in silence, until they came to a closed door that bore the sign PATHOLOGY.

The smell of formaldehyde overwhelmed everything else. The room was large, with high workbenches running its length. Virginsky had expected to see cadavers and body parts scattered about. But if there were any, they had been hidden away. The surfaces and instruments were gleaming. He saw jars and bottles of various sizes, as well as enamel basins and test tubes in racks. Microscopes were distributed regularly about, at some of which stood men in white laboratory coats. One of these, a young man with unruly hair, looked up. His face showed recognition, and he came toward them.

“Ah, Porfiry Petrovich! Our esteemed Porfiry Petrovich!” he cried, shaking Porfiry warmly by the hand.

“Dr. Pervoyedov, good day to you.”

“You were right, Porfiry Petrovich. There can be no doubt about it, you were right!” The physician beamed with excitement.

“You have finished your report?”

“No, no! You’ve seen the corridors? The beds are taken up with influenza victims. There’s no time for writing reports.”

“I understand. But I fear others may not.”

“The prokuror will get my report in due time. But don’t you want to know what I’ve discovered?”

“Of course I’m interested in your preliminary findings. However, there is a more pressing matter. This gentleman”-Dr. Pervoyedov bowed to Virginsky-“may be able to identify the victims for us.”

Dr. Pervoyedov’s face became grave. “I understand.” He addressed Virginsky directly: “What you are about to see…you must prepare yourself.”

“I am prepared,” said Virginsky.

Dr. Pervoyedov addressed the next question to Porfiry: “You have told him what to expect?”

“I have told him everything that’s necessary,” Porfiry answered with a flutter of his eyelids.

The doctor stared intently into Virginsky’s eyes. “I’ll get you a seat. It’s better if you sit down.” He dragged a stool over. “I’m afraid the pathology laboratory is not furnished for comfort.”

Porfiry took Dr. Pervoyedov to one side. “Do you think he’s up to this?”

“Will it make any difference to you, Porfiry Petrovich, if I say he is not?”

“Of course. I will postpone the identification.”

“Give me a moment.”

Dr. Pervoyedov returned to Virginsky, who was now perched unsteadily on the stool. He passed a hand in front of the student’s face, then said, “Open your mouth, please.” With a wooden spatula, he pulled back Virginsky’s lips and examined his teeth and gums. “Hold out your arms, please.” After a moment’s delay, Virginsky complied. “Could you bend your right arm?” The doctor gripped Virginsky’s bicep. Virginsky winced as he bent the arm. “That hurt?” asked Dr. Pervoyedov.

Virginsky closed his eyes on the pain.

“Any other joint pain?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. I hadn’t noticed. Not much. Sometimes.” Virginsky opened his eyes with a challenging look.

“Straighten your arm again, please. Keep it out in front of you. Now push up against my hand.”

Virginsky was unable to move the hand that the doctor had placed on top of his own.

“Relax now.” Dr. Pervoyedov’s expression for Porfiry was critical as well as concerned.

“Well?” asked Porfiry.

“There are signs of malnutrition. Slow reaction times. Joint pain. Muscular atrophy. Weakness. Really, I put no effort into holding down his hand. And dizziness, of course. You can see for yourself how he’s swaying. His teeth and gums are in a shocking condition.” After a pause the doctor added, “It’s the sort of thing I see every day.”

“He has eaten recently. I saw to it.”

“Then possibly it is the best we can hope for.”

“Pavel Pavlovich,” said Porfiry to Virginsky, “do you feel able to proceed?”

“What is the alternative?”

“We could come back. Another time.”

“But there is no escaping it.” He said this with fatality.

Even though it was not a question, Porfiry nodded.

“I’ll do it. Now.”

“I’ll get them then,” said Dr. Pervoyedov. The doctor crossed to the far end of the laboratory and returned pushing a trolley, on top of which were two large specimen jars. As the trolley got nearer, Virginsky saw the eyes in the first jar, staring out of a murky amber liquid.

His first impulse was to deny that this thing had any connection with him, even on the most basic level. It could not be what it seemed to be. It could not be a head, a human head. Then he saw the gaping mouth and the strands of hair and beard. But that was not hair or beard, there. That was something else trailing, something sinewy and dark. And what was that above the eyes? It seemed to be a second, cruder mouth set vertically in the forehead. He looked into the colorless pulp revealed there.

“Do you recognize him?” asked Porfiry.

Virginsky nodded.

“It is your friend Goryanchikov?” pressed Porfiry.

Virginsky could not take his eyes off the wound in the preserved head. He gazed at it with urgency, as if he hungered for the sight of it and was afraid that it would be taken from him. It was obscene, but like all obscenities it pulled at his soul. “It was him,” he said at last.

“I am very sorry,” said Porfiry. He nodded to Dr. Pervoyedov, who wheeled the trolley around so that the second specimen jar was at the front. “Do you recognize this man?”

Virginsky felt calm now. In fact, he was conscious of his calmness and astonished by it. He felt capable of the utmost callousness.

“It’s not a man. It’s a head,” he said.

“But do you recognize it?”

“It’s Borya.”

“Who is Borya?”

“It’s strange. If you look. Goryanchikov’s head fills its jar more completely. His head really was big. I always thought it an illusion, caused by the smallness of his body. Borya’s head is tiny in comparison.”

“Please, I need to know more about Borya.”

“He was not a great thinker, so perhaps it should not surprise us.” Virginsky began to giggle unpleasantly. “Goryanchikov, on the other hand, thought too much. As we can see, it has had an effect on his brain. What is the word for it when something grows too large? Hypertrophy?”

“He is delirious,” observed Dr. Pervoyedov.

“On the contrary, doctor. I have never felt more lucid. To see this, to be granted this, I thought it would sicken me. I find I am not in the least nauseous. My appetite, I have not lost my appetite at all. Should I be sad? Goryanchikov was a friend, I loved him as a friend, but he was a difficult man to like. And Borya, Borya-who could not love Borya?”

“He was a popular man?” asked Porfiry.

“I would call it a privilege. To be granted this, this vision. It is not given to everyone to see such wonders.”

“The two men were known to each other?”

“I’m not sad. Isn’t that strange? Not sad at all. I find myself feeling quite…almost, you might say, happy. No, not happy. I’m not happy. But I am glad. I shall say that much. What does it mean? Does it mean I have no soul? Does it mean I’m not a man?”

“Why are you glad, do you think?”

“I think I’m glad because it’s not my head pickled in one of those jars.” Virginsky began to shake. He could not stem the sudden flood of tears over his face. “I’m crying for myself, not for them,” he insisted. “I’m crying because I’m a man without a soul. Because I’m not a man. Because I can look at the severed heads of my friends and still live and still breathe and still rejoice to feel my heart beating. Because I’m a bastard, the bastard son of a bastard father, the last in a long line of worthless cowards, and knowing this doesn’t change a thing. I will eat and sleep and write a letter to my father, and one day perhaps I will marry. And looking at their pickled heads won’t change a thing. I’m not a great man. I have no greatness of soul. I’m not great enough to be enlarged by this. If anything, I will be shrunk by this.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know a thing about it!” snarled Virginsky.

“I know enough to recognize a man who is in deep shock. Would you not say so, doctor?”

Dr. Pervoyedov nodded solicitously.

“For all you know, I killed them.”

“Is that a confession?”

“I know how you people work. The fact that I knew them both makes me a suspect.”

“You are sick. I will arrange for you to be taken home.”

Virginsky fell off the stool and staggered forward, grabbing the trolley for balance. “I can find my own way home. I don’t need any help from you.” He gave the trolley a push. The two heads glided away, rotated, then slowed to a halt. “Thank you for showing me this, these…You have shown me myself.”

“You hate me at this moment. You would do better to hate whoever killed your friends.”

“You are quite the psychologist.”

“Who is Borya?”

“Whatever he was, he is nothing anymore.”

“Please. Sit down. You can’t go like this.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“I’m asking for your help. “

“Aha!”

“Borya…?”

“Was the yardkeeper at Goryanchikov’s building. Now will you let me go?”

“And the address? Of Goryanchikov’s building.”

“How can I be expected to remember these details? What difference do these details make, now, after all this?”

“It’s very important. It may help us find whoever killed these men.”

“He lodged with Anna Alexandrovna and her daughter. In a house on Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”

“The number?”

“Yes, there was a number.” Virginsky pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are quite right, there was a number.”

“Did you go to the house?”

Virginsky looked down disconsolately at his feet. “I need new shoes.”

Porfiry followed his gaze. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Seven. The number of the house. It’s come back to me. It has a seven in it. It’s either seven or seventeen, or seventy. Or seven hundred and seventy-seven.” Virginsky laughed wheezily. “No. There’s only one seven, I’m sure of that. At any rate there is a sign.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you write to my father and tell him that I’ve done my duty as a good citizen?”

“Do you wish me to?”

“Not particularly.”

“You should go home now.”

“And the shoes?”

“Don’t worry about the shoes.”

“He was my friend, Goryanchikov. As for Borya…Borya was an innocent. Of course, they hated each other. It’s strange that it should end like this.” Virginsky bowed farewell, took one step toward the door, and fainted.

The two men came toward Virginsky and bent over him.

“How are you feeling?” asked Dr. Pervoyedov.

“What a shock you gave us, Pavel Pavlovich,” said Porfiry.

Virginsky began to lift himself up.

“Please,” protested Dr. Pervoyedov. “Don’t try and get up.”

“I’m quite all right,” insisted Virginsky. “It was the shock.”

“Of course. A quite understandable reaction,” said Porfiry.

“I was not expecting-” Virginsky broke off. His face was gray. He was standing now. He turned to Porfiry with a look of hatred. “You didn’t warn me. That it would be heads. Just heads. In jars. Was that how they were found?”

“No. The heads were removed and preserved by Dr. Pervoyedov. I’m sorry if it shocked you.”

“It was cruel of you. Why did you do it? Is it part of your technique?”

“I’m truly sorry,” said Porfiry. “This is what we deal in. This is our currency. Perhaps we become inured to it and forget the effect it has on others.”

“I do not believe you are one to forget anything, sir. I know what you were trying to do. You were trying to shock me into revealing something.”

“You speak as though I suspect you. But surely you see I can have no reason to suspect you of anything.”

“And did it work? Your nasty little trick? Did I reveal anything?”

“Very well, I’ll be honest with you. You’re an intelligent young man. I like you, Pavel Pavlovich. I did hope to break down any barriers you might have erected in your mind, which might have prevented you from cooperating fully with the investigation. Not because I suspect you, but because you see me as a figure of authority and it’s natural for you to resist me. In the same way that you resist your father. There may be something you know that could be crucial to the solution of this case, but you may not realize you know it, or you may not realize that you are keeping it from me. I hoped, in the aftershock of this discovery-”

“It’s not that. It’s just that you’re cruel.”

Porfiry did not answer this charge.

Virginsky addressed his silence: “I would have told you what I know about the damned house.”

“I believe you would. I had to be sure. However, I’m not required to explain myself to you.” Porfiry narrowed his eyes. “You remind me of someone. A student. He was poor. And proud. Perhaps too proud.”

“A poor student has no grounds for pride at all? Is that your opinion?”

“Pride can be a dangerous thing.”

“You’re wrong about me. I have no pride.”

“There are other similarities. A certain tension in your demeanor. A certain unpredictability. A wildness, you might almost call it.”

“May I go now?”

“Of course. I will look in on you tomorrow.”

“You have already said as much. There is no need. But I understand you have your own motives for wanting to do so.”

Virginsky gave a curt bow to Dr. Pervoyedov. He then strode with surprising firmness of step to the door.

Porfiry felt the doctor’s disapproval. With some annoyance he said: “So, Dr. Pervoyedov, what have you discovered concerning the causes of death? You were eager to tell me, I believe.”

The physician seemed startled by the demand, as if he could not understand its relevance.

At last Porfiry turned his gaze toward Pervoyedov. Unusually, he held it without blinking. “There is something you wish to say?”

“Very well, very well. I will say it. With all respect, with the utmost respect indeed, I wish it to be known that I detest your methods.”

“Naturally. You are a doctor. I am a criminal investigator. We have different purposes, after all. But I ask you, as a physician, would you rather I employed the old methods of extracting information?”

“To replace one form of brutality with another is not progress.”

“I wish I could afford the luxury of your fastidiousness. But when you are investigating brutalities-”

“Do you think he is the murderer?”

Porfiry smiled and now fluttered his eyelids. He took out and lit a cigarette. “Now, Dr. Pervoyedov, what were you saying about your discoveries?”

“Ah. I understand. Yes, yes, of course. I am merely the physician. You are the investigator.” Dr. Pervoyedov shook his head ruefully. He moved along the workbench and opened a drawer set beneath its surface. “It’s true, I have discovered something interesting,” he said, taking out a cardboard file.

Porfiry nodded encouragement.

Looking down at his notes, Dr. Pervoyedov continued: “Well, let us start with the big fellow.”

“Borya.”

“Yes, yes. Indeed. You remember I drew attention to the absence of bruising around the neck. That naturally made me suspicious. When examining the lungs, I noticed that although the lungs themselves appeared to be healthy, the covering of the lungs was inflamed. And then, when I came to test the stomach contents-”

“What did you find?” interrupted Porfiry eagerly.

“Vodka. A hell of a lot of vodka in there. That of course masked the smell.”

“The smell of what?”

“Of prussic acid.”

“I see.”

“Yes. The test for prussic acid was positive. A deep and rather beautiful blue.”

“He was poisoned.”

“It appears so.”

“How was it administered, do you know?”

“I’m inclined to think it was in the vodka.”

“His own flask was full,” mused Porfiry.

“Exactly. The vodka in his stomach could have been given to him by person or persons unknown.”

“Who then strung him up on the tree in an attempt to make it look like suicide. I wonder if the line of bruising around his abdomen has anything to do with that?”

“Very likely, Porfiry Petrovich. Very likely.”

“Excellent work, Doctor. And what about Goryanchikov?”

“I am more or less certain that the wound in the head was administered post-mortem.”

“The lack of blood over his face led me to suspect as much. How did he die, then? Was he poisoned too?”

“I have detected no traces of any known poison. However, sections of the lung parenchyma reveal ductal overinsufflation consistent with asphyxia. And I retrieved something very interesting from his larynx.” The doctor held up a small feather, taken from the file.

Porfiry crossed to where the trolley had stopped its glide. He bent down and stared into the first of the jars. Goryanchikov’s head stared back at him, its mouth and the mouthlike wound in its forehead gaping in supplication. “Someone held a pillow over his face,” said Porfiry.