The Cleansing Flames

A Russian Byron

For a small consideration, Alexey Yegorovich escorted them across a series of courtyards, each muddier than the last. He pointed out a squalid entrance and left them to it. The door was rotten and looked as if it were about to fall off its hinges. A dark stairway led down to the basement. They were at the very rear of what was essentially the same sprawling building that housed the lavish apartments of the Dolgoruky family. It was here where one found the filthy garrets and cellars, and the dingy rooms sublet into ‘corners,’ into which multiple families and individuals were crammed.

Prince Dolgoruky had merely moved from the front of the building to the rear, and yet he might as well have crossed an entire continent. If the apartment building was a microcosm of Russia, he had been cast into its Siberia.

An old woman came through a door as they reached the bottom of the stairs. She regarded them suspiciously out of the gloom, holding herself stock-still. When Porfiry announced that they were looking for Prince Dolgoruky, her manner became highly animated and almost coquettish. She smiled an entirely toothless grin.

The old coquette led them into a large room hung with washing lines. The drying clothes served as informal partitions, dividing the space into its various living areas. Small windows set high in the walls, at ground level on the outside, let in a meagre light.

She pointed to a shabby curtain that was strung across one corner of the room. ‘You had better knock first!’ she recommended with a knowing leer.

As they approached the curtain, they could hear the sounds of laughter coming from behind it; more specifically, the laughter of two people, one as unmistakably male as the other was female. The sounds had an intimate tinge, as if the two people making them believed themselves to be utterly alone. The curtain sealed them off in the universe of their mutual abandon.

Porfiry cleared his throat loudly. ‘Prince Dolgoruky? Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky?’

A strained silence descended on the couple on the other side of the curtain. However, after a moment or two, a fit of giggling burst from the female.

‘Who wishes to speak to him?’ The male voice was charged with aristocratic hauteur.

‘My name is Porfiry Petrovich. I am an investigating magistrate. I wish to talk to Konstantin Arsenevich about the journalist Kozodavlev.’

‘A magistrate, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you’ve caught up with me at last!’ The quip provoked an appreciative giggle from Dolgoruky’s companion. There was the sound of a palm striking flesh, followed by a squeal of mingled pain and delight. The scents that came from the corner left little doubt as to what had very recently occurred there.

Porfiry looked around the room. The interview was drawing the attention of a number of the other residents. In particular, an audience of small and ragged children had gathered. Some of them even sat on the floor at his feet, looking up expectantly for the entertainment to continue. One or two held crusts of black bread in their grimy fingers. ‘Perhaps you would care to draw back the curtain, or come out from behind it, so that we may talk to you in a more convenient manner,’ said Porfiry.

A man somewhere in his late thirties pulled back one side of the curtain and stepped through. He was dressed in a loose shirt and tight breeches. He kept his sand-coloured hair long, swept back in waves from a brow that was higher than it once had been. The angle of his head matched the hauteur that Porfiry had earlier detected in his voice. There was an amused, self-satisfied glimmer in his eye, and a one-sided twist to his mouth. Porfiry saw no trace of the sweet-natured boy the butler Alexey Yegorovich claimed to remember.

‘Kozodavlev, you say? What’s the old fool been up to now?’

‘Are you aware that there was a fire in Mr Kozodavlev’s apartment building on Monday night, in which several people perished? It is feared that Mr Kozodavlev may have been one of them.’ Until he had asked the question, Porfiry did not know that he was going to frame it in that way. Indeed, he had not known he was going to start with the fire at all. He wondered if he had been motivated solely by a desire to wipe the smile from Prince Dolgoruky’s face.

If so, he was not fully prepared for the effect his words had. All colour drained from Dolgoruky’s complexion. The man seemed to age ten years before his eyes. ‘Kozodavlev is dead?’ His voice was a frightened whisper.

‘It is feared so. Obviously, in the case of death by fire, one cannot always be certain of the identity of the victims. But a man did perish in Mr Kozodavlev’s apartment, and he failed to attend a number of appointments on the following day, including one with me.’

Prince Dolgoruky considered this information thoughtfully but said nothing. The colour slowly returned to his cheeks and he seemed to regain his composure.

‘You acted on his behalf as an agent for certain of his journalistic endeavours, did you not?’

‘So, you know about that.’

‘We know that he was K. We also know that you acted in a similar capacity on behalf of the author known as D. Who is D.?’

Prince Dolgoruky shrugged, his face contemptuous.

‘You will not tell me?’

‘Perhaps I do not know.’

Porfiry reached into his pocket and took out a bundle of papers. He found the sheet he was looking for and handed it to Prince Dolgoruky. ‘We found this in Mr Kozodavlev’s drawer at the office of Affair. Do you recognise it?’

‘Yes. I wrote it.’

‘You are the D. in this note?’

‘I am.’

‘What did you mean? “I don’t give a damn what you do. Do you think I have ever cared?”’

‘The words are clear enough, I think.’

‘You had quarrelled with Mr Kozodavlev?’

‘It’s not a question of a quarrel. It is simply a statement of the — how shall I put it? — of the factual basis of our relationship. From time to time, Kozodavlev had to be reminded.’

‘You were never on friendly terms with him?’

‘I have never been on friendly terms with anyone. It is the first article in the code of conduct by which I live my life.’

‘Are you the author of Swine?’

‘Ah, you are very clever, I see, Mr Magistrate,’ mocked Prince Dolgoruky. ‘We shall have to be careful with you. Was it the letter D that alerted you? But are there not other names that begin with the letter D? Some of them, I believe, belong to more noted literary gentlemen than I.’

‘The plot of Swine concerns a revolutionary grouping. A closed cell, I believe it is called.’

‘I have heard the term.’

‘I’m sure you have. In Swine, one member of the cell is suspected of being an informer, and is for that reason murdered by the other members.’

‘I am sure the author will be gratified to know that you have read the novel.’

‘To be honest, I have not finished reading it. However, I am familiar enough with the novel and the circumstances surrounding its publication. It is rumoured that the author once belonged to such a group and in fact participated in a similar crime.’

‘It is not a rumour. It is the truth.’

‘You do not deny it?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you must see that your action places you in a difficult position vis-a-vis the law. If you are the author — ’

‘If!’

‘Even if you are not, by concealing the identity of the author, you are concealing the identity of a criminal.’

‘And if you have in fact read the novel, you will know that the author distances himself from the act of his fellows — whom he sees as swine. Hence the title. It is out of moral disgust that he decided to write his account.’

‘He would have done better to inform the authorities, supplying the real names and addresses of those involved.’

‘But he is not an informer,’ said Prince Dolgoruky with disgust. ‘That would make him worse than those you would have him inform against.’

‘To inform is a greater crime than murder?’

‘Of course.’

‘I believe that Mr Kozodavlev had made up his mind to inform the authorities of something. Given certain hints that he put in a letter he wrote to me, it would seem reasonable to speculate that it concerned political — one may say revolutionary — crimes. He expressed the fear that this would place him in mortal danger.’

‘If that is so, then he was right to be afraid.’

‘If Kozodavlev is the author of Swine — ’

‘What on earth makes you suggest that?’ cried Dolgoruky.

‘Let us for the moment imagine that he is. There would be those who would object to the fact that he had written the book in the first place. If they found out for certain that Kozodavlev was the author, they might have decided to punish him. For that betrayal, the only fit punishment would be death. Of course, it would have required someone to have pointed the finger.’ Porfiry gave Prince Dolgoruky a meaningful look.

‘But you are assuming that D. is Kozodavlev! I have by no means confirmed that he is.’

‘You would save us a lot of trouble if you simply told us who the author is.’

‘I do not exist to save you trouble.’

‘I can have you arrested.’

‘I would welcome it. I am not afraid of the Fortress. I hear one is well looked after there.’

‘Is it true that you wrote and had printed a manifesto in which you accused yourself of a number of crimes?’

‘Have you seen it?’ asked Prince Dolgoruky brightly.

‘No.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘Is there any truth in it?’

The contempt evaporated from Prince Dolgoruky’s expression. He seemed surprised by Porfiry’s question.

‘Marfa Timofyevna claims to believe that it is all lies,’ explained Porfiry.

‘She is a dear sweet girl. I regret deeply what happened between us.’

‘What did happen between you?’

‘Nothing. That is what I regret.’

‘You are quite the Russian Byron, aren’t you? And yet, why is it I feel this is all a pose with you?’

‘That is an insult. I have killed men for less.’

‘Then certainly I should have you locked up.’

‘Do you wish to see my manifesto?’

‘Are you really so eager to show it to me?’

‘Unfortunately, I have destroyed all copies of it.’

‘Then I will have to imagine what it said. I think I can, easily enough.’

‘I doubt your imagination will be up to the task.’

‘You forget, my imagination is fuelled by a lifetime of investigating the crimes of men.’

‘But you will not have encountered crimes as black as mine.’

Porfiry sighed wearily. ‘You are a veritable genius of crime, I’m sure. And, as such, the true Hero of our Time.’

‘Again you insult me?’ Prince Dolgoruky’s questioning tone betrayed his uncertainty. It seemed he did not know what to make of Porfiry. ‘You are not interested in my crimes? Is it not your duty to be interested in my crimes?’

‘I find that I am not very interested in you, Prince Dolgoruky. You bore me.’

Prince Dolgoruky was visibly shaken. ‘I cannot bore you. Dolgoruky does not bore anyone.’

‘You bore me, and I suspect you bore yourself. And that is your tragedy, to the extent that you may be said to have a tragedy. But I am not sure that you can be said to have a tragedy. If you are allowed to have a tragedy, there is the danger of your becoming slightly interesting.’

‘You are not serious?’

‘One last thing before I leave you to your. .’ Porfiry glanced at the curtain. His smile was strangely mocking. ‘Crimes. I would like you to look at a photograph. Please try to ignore the white patches on the man’s face.’ He nodded to Virginsky to show the poster of the body from the Winter Canal.

‘My God, what has happened to him?’

‘His face, in life, would not have been like that. It is likely to have been deeply pockmarked all over. I will draw your attention also to his eyes, which are quite small, I think.’

‘Piggy eyes. The eyes of a swine!’

‘Do you recognise him?’

‘Recognise that? It is a monstrosity. If I had ever seen such a face, it would haunt my nightmares for ever!’

‘Do you have nightmares, Konstantin Arsenevich?’

‘Yes. Every night, the same one. I dream that the Devil has come to fetch me. I know he is the Devil, though I never see his face.’ Prince Dolgoruky’s voice trembled weakly, all hint of hauteur gone. His face appeared shockingly vulnerable, even afraid. He looked down at the photograph on the poster. ‘Perhaps I have seen it now.’

‘I am glad that we were able to be of service. We have provided a face for your nightmares.’

Prince Dolgoruky turned his attention to the semicircle of children watching, as if he had only just noticed them. He looked into their faces searchingly, addressing his words to them now: ‘It is not just my nightmares. Sometimes I can hear his step during the day, when I am awake. And when something moves in the shadows, I am sure it is him.’

Porfiry studied Prince Dolgoruky with narrowed eyes. It seemed he had at last begun to interest the magistrate.