The Cleansing Flames

A visit from an old friend

‘Are you quite comfortable?’

Rakitin looked up from the plank bench affixed to the damp wall of his cell. The grubby patches of exhaustion around his eyes seemed to intensify, shrinking in extent, but growing darker, as if the skin there was a touchpaper to his emotional state. The dark patches expanded now, closing in over his eyes. He looked around the cell and gasped in disbelief.

Porfiry blinked in astonishment at the mute bitterness of the response to his question. ‘You do not want for anything?’

‘Are you. . mad?’ Rakitin looked from Porfiry to Virginsky, his mouth lolling open in disbelief.

Porfiry held out his enamelled cigarette case. ‘Would you like a cigarette, for example?’

Rakitin winced. ‘It hurts. . when I breathe.’

‘We regret that it was necessary to use force to apprehend you. However, if you had co-operated with Lieutenant Salytov. .’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ The violence of his protestation caused Rakitin to double over in pain.

‘I am glad to hear it. In which case, you will soon be out of here. I would also like to assure you that there will not be any charges brought against you for resisting arrest or obstructing the course of justice, provided you co-operate from now on. As soon as you have answered our questions, you will be released. It need not take long.’

‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Oh, I think you have. When you were told that Pseldonimov was dead, your reaction — according to Lieutenant Salytov — was not one of surprise, or shock. It seemed that you already knew about his death. “How do you know?” was what you said to Tolya. Is that not the case?’

‘I didn’t say that. Or if I did, I didn’t know what I was saying. I was in shock. I must have been. Don’t you see? Pseldonimov was my friend. So, yes. It was a terrible shock to me. I hadn’t seen his ugly mug all winter. I had begun to fear the worst. I knew that he was mixed up in — well, things he shouldn’t have been mixed up in. And so, when Tolya came to me with this news, it seemed that my worst fears were being confirmed. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to know from whom he had heard it. I didn’t want to believe it.’

‘Do you know who killed Pseldonimov?’

Rakitin hesitated a moment. He did not look at Porfiry when at last he gave his reply. ‘No.’

‘What was he mixed up in?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You just said he was mixed up in things he shouldn’t have been. To what were you referring?’

‘I don’t know. It was just something to say. I meant nothing by it.’

‘What are you frightened of? That the men who killed him will come for you?’

‘I have told you all I know. You must let me go now. You have no reason to keep me.’ Rakitin turned to Virginsky. ‘Is that not so?’

Porfiry blinked quizzically at his assistant, while continuing to address Rakitin. ‘I don’t think you’ve told us all you know yet. Pseldonimov was a printer, was he not?’

Rakitin shrugged. ‘It was no secret. He was a printer. What of it?’

‘Where was his workshop?’

The smudges around Rakitin’s eyes seemed to pulsate, as a tremor of panic vibrated under the skin. ‘His workshop?’ The intonation was designed to convey the evident absurdity of Porfiry’s question, as if to say, Why on earth would you want to know where his workshop is?

‘Yes, his workshop,’ insisted Porfiry calmly. He at last turned to Rakitin with a beaming smile, above which his eyelids fluttered. It was so excessively and deliberately coquettish that, in the circumstances, it could only be interpreted as a threat.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you never visit his workshop?’

‘No.’

‘And he never divulged its location to you?’

‘No.’

‘Not even in the most general terms? May we, for example, assume it is somewhere in St Petersburg?’

Rakitin shrugged. ‘You can assume what you like.’

‘My friend, this is not good. This does not help us. And if you do not help us, we cannot help you. Did they tell you where Pseldonimov was found?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘That’s right, in the Winter Canal,’ said Porfiry, ignoring Rakitin’s actual answer. ‘Here, this is a photograph of what remained of him. Not a pretty sight, is it?’

‘That is Pseldonimov?’

‘The white patches are caused by the action of water on the flesh. You must disregard them. It is difficult at first — such is the transformation that has been effected. However, Lieutenant Salytov recognised him from the pockmarks on his face. The identification was confirmed by the pastry vendor. Can you not see it?’

‘It could be him. It could be anyone.’

‘I understand. You do not wish it to be your friend. How much more you must wish that it will not be you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We can protect you against the men who did this.’

Rakitin gave a derisive snort. ‘If you don’t mind, I would rather do without your protection.’ He put a hand tenderly to the side of his chest and grimaced.

‘Very well, you may go,’ said Porfiry abruptly. ‘You are right. We have no reason to hold you. It seems you do not know the dead man as well as we believed you did. Certainly, you cannot be counted among his friends. A true friend would not wish his murder to go unavenged. It is just as well you were not Pseldonimov’s friend. Otherwise, his soul might consider your reluctance to help a betrayal.’

‘You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.’ Rakitin’s eyes seemed to recede into the twin shadows of despair in which they were sunk. ‘I begged him. I pleaded with him. I told him. . not to get involved.’

‘With what, exactly?’

‘He was not. . political. Not really. So it was no business of his. He was a grumbler, yes, and always short of funds. That didn’t make him a revolutionist!’

‘So he was involved in a revolutionary cell?’

‘No!’ The first force of the denial quickly decayed. Rakitin hung his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘He went to meetings.’

‘Did you go with him?’

‘You expect me to inform on myself?’

‘You are an intelligent man, I can see that. However, we are not the Third Section. We are magistrates, investigating a murder. The murder of your friend. That is all we are concerned with. We will not pass on any information you reveal to any other department.’

‘I may have talked to people. Attended name days, or birthdays — perfectly legal gatherings — where discussions were conducted.’

‘Discussions?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which touched upon. .?’

‘Which touched upon matters that you may deem. .’

‘Revolutionary?’

‘Free. .’ After a beat, Rakitin added, ‘ranging.’

Porfiry nodded thoughtfully. ‘May I ask, what is your occupation?’ The courtesy with which Porfiry framed the question was strange, given that he had asked far more probing questions far more bluntly.

Rakitin drew himself up with a self-conscious shiver. Somehow the gesture combined diffidence and assertiveness. ‘I. . am a writer.’ The answer was a challenge, but one issued almost apologetically.

‘My goodness, Pavel Pavlovich, what a troublesome breed these writers are! And who do you write for, Russian This or Russian That?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It is his little joke,’ explained Virginsky.

‘You are a journalist?’ asked Porfiry. ‘I don’t think I have come across your name in the thick journals, or the dailies for that matter.’

‘I write for the lubki. Novels, mostly. I am sure you do not condescend to read such material.’

‘Ah! I see! Literature for the masses! In my youth, I used to enjoy reading lubki. I do not have time now for such entertainments, I am afraid. My reading matter is largely professional. And woefully lacking in pictures, unlike lubok stories. But I would be interested in reading one of your. .’ Porfiry’s inability to produce the appropriate word could perhaps be seen as insulting. He overcompensated with ‘oeuvres.’

‘You can buy them at the usual places.’

‘And do you write under your own name?

‘I do. I’m not ashamed of my writings. On the contrary, I am proud of them. I know what my readers want. And I know how to give it to them.’

‘And so, you are a literary gentleman. Do you mix in literary circles then? Do you, for example, know a journalist by the name of Kozodavlev?’

‘They look down on us.’

‘Us?’

‘Lubok hacks like me.’

‘Ah, I see. There is a table of ranks within the literary world.’

Rakitin shrugged.

‘So you have never encountered Kozodavlev? Perhaps at one of the name days or birthday parties you mentioned? Such events bring together individuals from every level of society. They are very democratic in that way.’

‘I don’t know any Kozodavlev.’ The stress on the first-person pronoun was barely perceptible. But it was all that Porfiry needed.

‘Did Pseldonimov ever mention a man called Kozodavlev to you?’

Rakitin avoided Porfiry’s eyes, as if by so doing he could make the question go away.

‘Think very carefully. Your friend, your dead friend, urges you to answer honestly, for his sake.’

‘You speak for the dead now, do you?’

‘Of course. That is my job. You have described my job very succinctly. I can see you have a gift for the well-polished phrase. I speak for the dead. I ask my questions on their behalf — on his behalf, Pseldonimov’s. And I do not stop until I have the answers that will satisfy them. They have no one else to speak for them.’

‘Kozodavlev, yes. I heard him mention a fellow called Kozodavlev once or twice.’

‘Kozodavlev is dead too, you know.’

‘No!’

‘We believe so. His apartment was burnt out. A body was found. There is another name I wish to ask you about. Prince Dolgoruky. Do you know him? He operates on the fringes of the literary world, as some kind of go-between. He certainly worked in that capacity for Kozodavlev. Perhaps you have had dealings with him? Perhaps he even attended one of the gatherings you went to?’

‘You are determined to turn me into an informer!’

‘Not at all. We know that Prince Dolgoruky arranged to have something of a personal nature printed up. There is a chance he gave the commission to Pseldonimov.’

‘He wasn’t the only printer in Petersburg.’

Porfiry smiled. ‘Ah, so the workshop is in St Petersburg. And did Prince Dolgoruky ever visit it, I wonder?’

‘Why don’t you ask this Prince Dolgoruky of yours?’

‘I am sure we will, when we next have an opportunity to speak to him. However, in the meantime, I am asking you. Did Pseldonimov ever mention Prince Dolgoruky?’

Rakitin opened his mouth as if to answer. But instead of words, the action seemed to produce a volley of urgent hammering. Porfiry bowed in apology to Rakitin, although it was clear he was relieved at the intrusion.

The cell door opened. The clerk Zamyotov peered in. His demeanour was unusually diffident. ‘Porfiry Petrovich. There is someone who insists on seeing you, right now. I am to say that he is your old friend, Major Verkhotsev.’

‘Verkhotsev? Here? Now?’

‘Yes.’

Porfiry looked down pityingly at Rakitin. ‘Please forgive me. I must talk to this person. I will be back to continue our conversation. Pavel Pavlovich, a word please.’ He drew Virginsky over to one corner of the cell. ‘Stay with him,’ he hissed into Virginsky’s ear. ‘Get him to tell you about the workshop.’ Porfiry gave a confirmatory nod and then looked once more, almost regretfully, at Rakitin, before stepping out.

Major Verkhotsev was waiting for him outside the cell, dressed in his sky-blue gendarme’s uniform and accompanied by two of his junior officers, similarly attired.

So, this was an official visit.

‘My dear, dear friend!’ Verkhotsev held open both arms. Porfiry allowed himself to be embraced, and kissed several times on each cheek.

When he was at last released, he wagged a finger at Verkhotsev. ‘This is not a friendly visit. One does not visit old friends with one’s henchmen in tow.’

‘Henchmen? What an awful word! But you’re right. This is not entirely a social call.’ Verkhotsev produced a sealed warrant and handed it to Porfiry. ‘I have come for the witness.’

‘The witness?’

‘My witness, whom you have kidnapped.’

‘I have kidnapped no one.’

‘Now now, Porfiry Petrovich, don’t play games with me. I think we know one another too well for games. And that reminds me, I hear you have been broadcasting my name, putting it about that I am some kind of contact of yours at the Third Section. That was very naughty of you.’

‘We needed to look at the apartment.’

‘No need at all. I’m sure you have enough cases of your own without poking your nose into other people’s.’

‘But I was working on my own case. That was what led me there.’

‘You were investigating the death of Pseldonimov.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘You know the identity of the body we found? But that has only just come to light.’

‘We have known its identity for some time.’

‘And you did not think to share your information with us?’

‘We do not operate like that, my friend. It is not the way of the Third Section to share information. Although we do insist that others share their information with us.’ Verkhotsev broke off to twirl one of his long waxed moustaches as he smiled at Porfiry. ‘I sometimes think it must be very tiresome for the departments who are forced to co-operate with us.’

‘You cannot force someone to co-operate, my friend. Co-operation is by definition given willingly. When force is involved, it is coercion.’

‘Let us not split hairs. We will take Rakitin off your hands now. We had been watching him for some time and were about to bring him in when your Lieutenant Salytov pre-empted us. Ah, good old Lieutenant Salytov! I remember him well. Of course, how could one forget Lieutenant Salytov? Is he still trading in dead bodies?’

Porfiry ignored the question. ‘I have not yet finished interviewing Rakitin.’

‘No matter.’

‘No matter?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ expanded Verkhotsev with a wink. ‘To me.’

‘Please don’t start winking at me.’

‘You cannot criticise me for winking!’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Come now, Porfiry Petrovich, let us not argue about such nonsense. The time has come to hand over Rakitin. You will see that the necessary documentation is all in order, signed and countersigned by the appropriate authorities.’

‘Of course the paperwork will be in order. The Third Section is always scrupulous about its paperwork.’

Verkhotsev beamed delightedly. ‘Ah! A savage attack disguised as a compliment! We are scrupulous in paperwork, but not in other matters. The barb was not lost on me, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘Tell me, how is your daughter, Maria Petrovna?’

‘She is very well. Busy with her school, as always. And shows no sign of marrying. I shall tell her that you asked after her.’

‘Do more than that. Convey to her my deepest affection. Please let her know that I wish her every happiness. And I hope to hear news of a betrothal before too long.’

‘With pleasure. Now, is there anything else you wish to say to me before we take away the witness?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know what you’re doing. You’re seeking to delay me while your man — what’s his name? Virginsky, isn’t it? — continues to question the witness in there. You know, I could have just burst in and snatched him away.’

‘That is effectively what you are doing.’

‘Enough, Porfiry Petrovich. Deliver up Rakitin.’

‘And what is to become of my case? Pseldonimov.’

‘Consider yourself relieved of it. I have already supplied your clerk with instructions concerning the files, which will be delivered to Fontanka, 16 forthwith.’

‘Very well. I wasn’t getting anywhere with it anyhow. I will be glad to be rid of it.’

‘That’s a blatant lie, Porfiry Petrovich. If I know you, you were very close to solving it. It is not as difficult a case as some you have successfully concluded.’

‘Ah, but as I have had occasion to say to you before, Pyotr Afanasevich, the moment the Third Section becomes interested in a case is the moment it ceases to interest me.’

‘Then you will not object to me taking your witness?’

‘Finally, you admit that he is my witness! But only when you sense that there is no danger of my contesting your appropriation of him. No matter, you may have him.’ Porfiry gestured to the open cell door.

Verkhotsev gave one last contemplative twirl of his waxed moustache as he bowed to Porfiry. ‘Might I suggest that you go in first and explain to him what is happening? We don’t want to alarm him, do we?’

Porfiry blinked in ironic astonishment at Verkhotsev’s apparent solicitude.

The rings around Rakitin’s eyes were darker than ever: it looked as though he had rubbed them with inky knuckles.

Porfiry sighed despondently. ‘I’m afraid matters have been taken out of my hands. You are to be handed over to another department.’

‘What other department?’

‘You have heard of the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery?’

Rakitin shifted back on the bench. He reminded Porfiry of a nervous animal scuttling for safety. ‘No! Please! Don’t let them take me!’

‘There is nothing I can do to prevent it.’

‘You said I could go, once I’d told you what I know. I’ll tell you everything.’

‘You mean there is something you have held back?’

‘Call off the Third Section and I will tell you everything.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. Besides which, I don’t have any use for your information. I myself am no longer investigating Pseldonimov’s murder.’

‘But what about the dead? You speak for the dead, that’s what you said. You ask questions on their behalf. And don’t stop until you have the answers that will satisfy them. That’s what you said,’ insisted Rakitin.

‘Yes, but I have been removed from the case. There are some men outside. They have come to take you with them.’

‘Don’t let them take me. I’ll stay here with you. I’ll tell you everything!’

‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’

‘Do you know what they will do to me?’

Porfiry held a clenched fist over his mouth, as if to prevent an answer inadvertently escaping.

The cell door creaked. The two officers Verkhotsev had brought with him came in.

‘You must go with them,’ said Porfiry quietly.

‘No! No-o! I would rather die! Kill me! Kill me now!’ Rakitin leapt to his feet but did not try to escape. Instead, he began fumbling with the belt of his trousers.

It took Porfiry a moment to realise what he was doing. In that moment, Rakitin had drawn his belt through the air, looped its tongue through the buckle and thrown this improvised halter around his own neck. He now pulled the belt tight. The two gendarmes rushed forwards and wrestled his hands away from the belt. Rakitin sagged forwards. The gendarmes caught him under the armpits and dragged him towards the door. For the most part, Rakitin was passive in their hands, defeated.

Just as they got him to the door, his torso shook violently and he managed to turn himself enough to face Porfiry. His eyes seemed, briefly, brilliantly white.