The Cleansing Flames

In Kozodavlev’s drawer

The opening of another person’s private drawer is always an act freighted with a sense of transgression, even when it is committed by a magistrate going about his official duties. It may be done in the name of justice and in the interests of the law — still, when it comes down to it, one is simply prying. When the person in question is dead — or thought to be — this sense is even more acute. No permission can be either sought or granted. There is the mitigating feeling that it does not matter now, that they cannot be hurt by whatever is found; but for a man such as Porfiry, a man who could not shake off such outmoded ideas as the eternity of the soul, this was hardly persuasive. If he consoled himself with any thought, it was that Kozodavlev seemed to have led him to this drawer. He had a sense of the missing journalist standing at his shoulder, urging him to go on. This was a delusion, no doubt. Had Kozodavlev actually been there encouraging Porfiry’s investigations, he would have been going against the grain of sentiment in the room. All that Porfiry could sense behind him was the sullen hostility of the younger radicals. Blagosvetlov had retired from the office, as if he could not bear to witness what he had set in motion.

Porfiry allowed himself a moment after opening the drawer to take in the sense of the space that had been revealed. He imagined himself as Kozodavlev, looking down on the drawer’s interior. To the journalist, it would have appeared so familiar as to be hardly considered. And yet to Porfiry, it had all the strangeness and mystery of another man’s soul laid bare.

If so, Kozodavlev’s soul comprised: pencil parings and curls of tobacco, gathered in the corners with the darkness and dust; a copy of Chernyshevsky’s What Is to Be Done?; a number of issues of the conservative journal, Russian Soil; a collection of writing materials, a couple of pens, a bottle of ink, some pencils of varying lengths; an empty cigarette packet; a loose pile of papers, in truth, not as many as Porfiry had hoped for; and a photograph in a dog-eared cardboard frame.

Porfiry seized most greedily on this last item. He called over the young man who had first gone to fetch Blagosvetlov. ‘Which one is Kozodavlev?’ There were about twenty people in the photograph, arranged loosely around a central group of five seated on a sofa. Even as he asked the question, Porfiry knew which of the figures the young man would point out. He recognised a number of the people shown as the young radicals of the magazine’s staff. Blagosvetlov was there too, in the very centre of the composition. Of those he did not recognise, one man stood out. He was seated on the sofa, next to Blagosvetlov. This individual was not at all attractive, unlike almost everyone around him. But it was not for that reason alone that he drew Porfiry’s eye. His face had a haunted expression. He looked towards the camera as if he believed it capable of capturing the secret that he undoubtedly nurtured.

The young man confirmed Porfiry’s suspicion.

Porfiry handed the photograph to Virginsky. ‘We will take that with us, Pavel Pavlovich.’

The young man let out a small cry of protest, then hurried through the door at the back of the office.

Leafing through the papers, Porfiry discovered what appeared to be two drafts of the same article, a review of a novel recently serialised in Russian Soil, which was presumably why Kozodavlev had copies of that journal in his drawer. Porfiry remembered that the novel in question, entitled Swine, had caused something of a sensation because of the interesting circumstances surrounding its author. Known only as D., he had supposedly once belonged to a secret revolutionary cell but had now renounced his former beliefs. The book was presented as a novel, but it was evidently to be taken as a memoir. Porfiry also found a letter from the editor of Russian Soil, in which this basic information was provided and the novel was heartily commended to Kozodavlev.

The first draft of the review was extremely critical. In it, Kozodavlev condemned the writer’s portrayal of radical types as crude caricature. He denied, in fact, that the novel had any basis in reality and was rather the fantasy of a disordered and irredeemably reactionary mind. The novelist’s supposed radical credentials were called into question; and even if true, they merely served to render his turn to conservatism all the more lamentable. The final verdict on the book was that it was a cynical fraud, designed to cash in on public fears about phantom revolutionary groupings. At the head of this article, Kozodavlev had written ‘Affair piece’, which was underlined three times.

The second draft — under the heading ‘R. E. piece’, also triple underlined — took almost entirely the opposite stance. The novel under discussion was a warning to society, a work of visionary genius. The truth of the portrayal could not be doubted, given the novelist’s own former radical credentials. The anonymous novelist was to be praised not only for turning his back on the errors of his youth but also for harnessing his undoubtedly painful experiences in order to create a work of art of such high moral conscience and integrity. Both versions were drafted in the same hand, which bore a striking resemblance to the hand the anonymous letter had been written in.

The only other item in the drawer was a scrawled note, on a sheet torn from a notebook. ‘I don’t give a damn what you do. Do you think I have ever cared?’ This was the full extent of the missive, apart from the single initial serving as signature: ‘D.’

Was it possible that this was the same D. as the anonymous author? It was too tempting a question to be answered in the affirmative. Porfiry recognised it as one of those traps of coincidence that are often met with in the course of an investigation.

Blagosvetlov came back into the room with the same mixture of combativeness and shyness that Porfiry had noticed earlier. He was beginning to find it endearing, and felt himself wanting to ease the man’s suffering if he could.

‘What have you found?’ Blagosvetlov’s tone was aggressive. He seemed to blame Porfiry for his own acquiescence in the search.

‘I found this.’ Porfiry handed him the brief note. ‘Do you have any idea who this D. might be?’

Blagosvetlov shrugged. ‘It might be anyone.’

‘Might it be the author of the novel Swine? I believe Kozodavlev was working on a review for your magazine.’

‘It might, I suppose.’ Blagosvetlov drew himself up assertively. ‘Ivan Ilyich tells me you intend to confiscate a photograph.’

‘It’s not a question of confiscating. That implies that I do not have your consent. Whereas, I am sure that you would consent to our taking anything that might shed light on the disappearance of your friend.’ Porfiry did not wait for Blagosvetlov to respond. ‘Is it possible that Kozodavlev knew the author of Swine? Perhaps he was about to reveal his identity?’

‘You would do better to talk to Trudolyubov about that.’

‘Trudolyubov?’

‘The editor of Russian Soil, which serialised that trash.’

‘Of course. That is a very good suggestion.’ Porfiry studied Blagosvetlov in silence for a moment. ‘Thank you.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes, for the time being. If there is anything else that we need to know, I trust we may call upon you again.’

Blagosvetlov made no answer.

‘In addition to the photograph, I am taking several other articles back to my chambers for further examination.’ Turning to Virginsky, Porfiry added, ‘Pavel Pavlovich, you will ensure that an official receipt of evidence is sent to Mr Blagosvetlov.’

Virginsky gave an automatic nod, assenting, and then shook his head like a horse that had just been stung.

Porfiry led the way out of the office and had in fact taken two steps onto the landing before he turned back, walking straight into Virginsky. The collision was observed with suppressed hilarity by the staff of Affair. Their laughter was made up of equal parts contempt and relief. This investigating magistrate was evidently something of a buffoon.

Begging Virginsky’s pardon, Porfiry bowed past him to present himself once again in the office. He grinned sheepishly. ‘I just remembered something as we were leaving. Pavel Pavlovich was right behind me. We had a little accident. But then, you all saw that, I imagine. It was my fault, my fault entirely.’

‘Was there something else?’ prompted Blagosvetlov impatiently.

‘Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me. I nearly forgot again! What a dunderhead I am this morning. Were you aware that Kozodavlev wrote for other journals?’

‘Other journals?’

‘Yes.’

‘He may have placed the occasional piece in The Contemporary. Its politics did not exactly coincide with his, but he could see the virtue of extending his readership. A liberal might be stung into radicalism.’

‘But is there a journal, do you know, whose name begins with the letters R and E?’

‘R. E.?’

‘Yes. A name comprising two words, such as Russian Word. But in this case the letters are R and E. I imagine the first word must be “Russian.” It seems to be a very popular epithet in journalistic circles.’

‘There is only Russian Era,’ said Blagosvetlov dismissively.

‘Ah yes, Russian Era. Of course. Thank you. That must be it. Were you aware that Kozodavlev contributed also to Russian Era?’

‘Never!’

‘Never? Why not? Surely a journalist must place his pieces where he can?’

‘But it’s impossible to conceive of anything written by Kozodavlev appearing in that Slavophile rag. Not only would he refuse to submit to them, but they would not consider publishing anything by a radical journalist. They are unremittingly hostile to our goals.’

‘But if he submitted under a false name?’

‘Impossible!’

Porfiry fumbled for the two articles he had tucked away in an inner pocket. ‘Let me see. Now where is it? This is the article he was writing for you. And. . don’t tell me I’ve lost it.’ More fumbling in another pocket finally produced what he was looking for. ‘This, here it is. Yes. “R. E. piece”. That is what he wrote. At the top. Underlined three times.’ Porfiry handed the sheets to Blagosvetlov. ‘You helped me out by reminding me that the only title those two letters could possibly refer to is Russian Era.’

After a moment, the editor thrust the papers back at Porfiry. ‘If Kozodavlev was not dead already, he is dead to me now.’