The Cleansing Flames

Petersburg burns

Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev chose to remain at his apartment, watching the orange glow that was visible from his fifth-storey room. But he was a journalist, for God’s sake! Wasn’t it his duty to get out there and report what was happening? For, undeniably, momentously, something was happening.

A year ago, Paris had burnt. Now it was St Petersburg’s turn.

As his eyes widened to drink in the flaring glow, Kozodavlev bit down on the nail of his right thumb. He glanced over his shoulder nervously. But there was no one there to witness his reactions. Even so, he felt acutely self-conscious. No, it was more than self-consciousness, it was an unshakable sense that there was someone with him, there in the room and always, watching his every move. Was it her presence? But she had left him a lifetime ago, and he did not believe in ghosts. Besides, if she were to come back from the dead, he would be the last person she would choose to haunt, unless the dead were moved by regret in ways the living were not.

He turned back to the window, towards the lambent pulse that fringed the sky. The fire flashed and rose, reaching a startling height in the surrounding darkness.

An apartment building, most likely.

Kozodavlev winced and bit harder on his nail. Was he imagining the roar of the people? Was it a roar of approval or rage at what had been unleashed in their name? Or was it the dying roar of those trapped in the flames?

He could hear the tocsins of the fire carts and imagined himself among the crews, handing grateful residents from the burning ruins. After all, property was the target of the attacks, not people. He had always been clear about that.

The consoling fantasy did not last. It was replaced by a cold certainty, more frightening than dread. If he was right and it was an apartment building, people would certainly die. Some of them would be workers.

That was bad, very bad.

These were the people on whose behalf these acts were committed. Or so he had always supposed.

Again he looked over his shoulder and again reassured himself that he was alone.

He had heard the arguments before, made them himself on many occasions, in print as well as at meetings. Sacrifices were necessary. Whoever was called upon should consider it an honour to give himself to the cause.

Besides, the people had brought this all on themselves. If only they had taken up the call when the time was right, none of this would be necessary. But you couldn’t trust the people to act in their own interests. Really, the bovine passivity of the Russian peasant beggared belief! Even when the Tsar had cheated them out of what was due to them with that sleight of hand known as the Great Reforms, they were too stupid to see the fraud that had been perpetrated on them.

No, you couldn’t leave anything to the people. You had to take up the cudgels on their behalf, even if it meant a few hundred of them were incinerated in the process.

The fires seemed to be spreading.

Had it indeed begun?

All that they had planned for?

Kozodavlev did not sleep at all that night, didn’t even retire to his bed. Even after the last throb of amber had died from the sky, he continued to stand at the window, straining the darkness for sight of fresh fires. A nerve sprang into frantic, flickering life beneath his left eye. The end of his thumb was wrinkled from sucking, though he had still not bitten through the nail.

At last the true dawn broke. Slow, celestial flames stretched languidly across the full extent of the sky, dwarfing the bonfires of the previous night.

Not God — no, not God. Never!

Even he admitted that there was something suspect about the fact that he had to remind himself of this truth. It was nature, science, the position of the earth in relation to the sun, atmospheric conditions — that was all. This rosy grandeur had nothing at all to do with any divinity. It intimated nothing more than another warm day ahead, and the promise of a thaw.

Kozodavlev turned away from the window and threw himself down onto his bed. He was surprised to discover that where his face touched the pillow, there were traces of dampness. He wiped the rim of one eye with the knuckle of a finger, lay down his head again, and slept.

*

His dreams were disturbed, but not broken, by the pounding rumble of cannon fire. He knew in the depths of his sleeping Russian soul that they were the cannons of the Peter and Paul fortress, signalling the breaking of the ice and the start of spring. And so the commander of that fortress entered his dream, in all his finery, offering him a crystal glass of pure Neva water, as if he, Kozodavlev, were the Tsar. But it was his hunger that finally woke him.

By the time he put on his coat to go out, a bright spring day was well under way.

There was still snow underfoot, hard-packed and obdurate after the long winter. Lattices of frost clung defiantly to the bases of walls and parapets. But the sun was crisp and businesslike in a clear sky. He felt its warmth on his face, the rays of the new season burning down destructively on the remnants of the old. As he walked, he was aware of the thin layer of greasy slush forming.

He came to the Moika river, heart quickening. The proximity of any large body of water did this to him now. Instinctively, before looking down at the surface of the river, Kozodavlev checked behind him, as if he believed that whoever was spying on him would have noticed this change in his physiology.

Which of these harmless-looking citizens, apparently going about their business without paying him any heed, was the Third Section spy assigned to watch him? He avoided looking too inquiringly into any of the faces that passed him by. But none of them jumped out. He was almost reassured.

At last he peered down, over the balustrade. He knew that he had been delaying this moment, and knew precisely why. It was as he had feared. The surface of the river was mottled with grey slabs of ice, edged in frothy white. Around the slabs, the black water seethed and lapped.

The thaw had begun.

Kozodavlev resumed walking along the Moika embankment, towards the Winter Canal. As he turned the corner, he glanced up along the length of the narrow canal, spanned by a series of bridges, and squeezed between two sheer faces of palace buildings. Ahead of him was the Hermitage Bridge and beyond that the full expanse of the river Neva.

He could hear strange clashing sounds, almost music; rather, what music would sound like if it were at war with itself.

The water of the canal, visible between the series of bridges that spanned it, was flecked with more of the same fragments of ice. The effect reminded Kozodavlev of psoriatic flakes lying loosely on the skin.

The sense of someone watching him was stronger than ever now. Indeed, he had come back to the place where he could confront the one who would never leave him. The one he had sensed standing behind him all through the preceding night.

It was idiotic. Why had he come here? In the hope of attaining some kind of release, or even redemption? Unnecessary. Irrelevant. The idea of redemption did not conform to a rationalistic outlook, which was the only kind of outlook possible. There was no need for redemption, there was nothing for which to be redeemed. Most importantly of all, there was no one to redeem him.

Everything that had happened, everything that he had played a part in — it had all occurred for the very best, the most rational, of reasons. More than that, it was necessary that it happened. He could have no qualms on that front. He should have no qualms at all.

And yet, he had to admit, some of the risks they had taken were not rational. He had made his point at the time. There were aspects of the incident that were coloured by a lurid spirit of recklessness. That was nothing to do with him. He had not approved of it. He had objected to it. They should limit themselves to what was called for by the logic of social and political science. That was what he had said at the time. He had accepted that the deed was necessary on scientific principles; therefore it should have been executed scientifically too. But it was almost as if Dyavol had taken pleasure from it.

Dyavol. How appropriate the man’s nickname was. The gleam in his eye when he had pulled the trigger was the Devil’s own. He had seen it in her eye when she had made her choice and gone to him, as if the gleam was what drew them together.

In all conscience, Kozodavlev had nothing to reproach himself with. Indeed, had he not long ago successfully argued away the very existence of conscience, at least as something pertaining to a man such as himself?

All that was true enough. What was also true was that he had come back to the Winter Canal and was now scanning the surface of the water as if he expected to receive from it some kind of. .

At last the word came to him. Absolution.

Kozodavlev was suddenly aware that he was not alone. His thoughts had been so isolating that he had failed to register even the group of young sailors who were running boisterously along the embankment towards the far end of the canal. But now their sharp, joyful cries spiralling in the clear spring air drew him out of his reverie.

As they ran and yelped, they shed their clothes.

One by one, whooping and goading each other wildly, the now naked sailors clambered onto the balustrade and threw themselves howling into the water. Eventually only one man was left, clinging hesitantly to the wrong side of the balustrade, laughing and shaking his head defiantly in the face of his companions’ jeers.

And then even he let go.

Kozodavlev felt the apprehension tighten inside him as he watched this sailor disappear beneath the ice-capped water. He had a bad feeling about the boy — for he was little more than a boy. The chances were, he couldn’t swim, which was why he had been so reluctant to take the plunge. Kozodavlev hoped that the other sailors would look out for him. If the boy drowned, it would be a tragedy. Such a death — an unnecessary death — was unpardonable.

If they must die, let them die for a reason. For the cause.

Thus Kozodavlev reassured himself that he was not a monster.

Then, at last the boy re-emerged, and Kozodavlev saw that he could swim as well as his fellows, despite being somewhat slighter in build. His reluctance perhaps had been feigned, or it was simply the prospect of the icy shock that had put him off.

There was something about this sailor’s face that attracted Kozodavlev’s attention. Broad-nosed and narrow-eyed, he was from peasant stock, undoubtedly, but his expression was intelligent, and therefore vulnerable. To think — to think deeply and honestly and freely — was to make yourself vulnerable. It involved cutting yourself loose from the security of received ideas and laying yourself open to new ones. It was an unsettling activity. Eventually, if one persevered, it led to greater strength. But first there was a period of uncertainty and anxiety to endure, from which some never emerged. They would spend their whole lives in a state of crippling doubt, cowering beneath a shell of cynicism.

Hence the wariness behind the young sailor’s hesitancy. The quick darting glance of his eyes was questioning and slightly remote. He was less spontaneous, less natural. Happiest when he was swimming away from the ugly braying of his fellows. But still, not wholly content alone. Always he would come back to the group, to make himself again the butt of their stupid jokes.

He was a potential revolutionary, judged Kozodavlev. They needed young peasants like this, who could think for themselves — up to a point, it always had to be up to a point — and then take the word back to their villages. Loyalty to the cause is always stronger when the individual believes he has come to his convictions himself.

The young sailor executed an untidy but efficient duck dive, his two pale legs splayed as they kicked against the air.

Kozodavlev’s apprehension returned. But this time he was not anxious about the swimmer’s abilities.

It was there, just there, where the boy was diving that. .

The boy’s head broke the surface of the river, pushing aside two bobbing slabs of ice with a fierce shake of denial. A circle of spray shot out from his drenched hair. Immediately, he began shouting and gesticulating urgently to his comrades, his finger repeatedly stabbing downwards towards the bottom of the canal.

Kozodavlev bit down on his thumbnail, finally severing it, so sharply that the clash of his incisors scratched the enamel.

He took a step back from the balustrade but did not move away.

The nail fragment caught in the back of his throat, setting him coughing. Eventually, he was able to spit out the nail.

Kozodavlev now watched in horror as the mood of the other sailors changed gradually from hilarity to confusion, and then to a kind of hyper-alert tension. With varying levels of skill, they duck-dived beneath the broken ice.

The moment seemed longer than humanly possible: all the sailors gone from sight, the canal unnaturally quiet in their absence. If Kozodavlev was going to run, now would be the time to do it.

Then, one by one, they broke the surface, with huge, life-swallowing gasps, their lungs strained to the edge of endurance. The young boy who had caught Kozodavlev’s eye was the last to emerge, his skin now turning blue with the cold.

Now, almost immediately, there was something else there with them, another presence, or almost a presence, not quite. A smooth, black, glistening mound nudged aside the suddenly agitated chunks of ice.

The sailors shouted excitedly amongst themselves. Then one of them, Kozodavlev’s boy in fact, noticed Kozodavlev on the embankment watching them. Treading water, he waved his hands and called out to Kozodavlev.

‘Hey, you! Mister! Find a policeman, will you? Or the City Guard.’

Kozodavlev frowned, as if he couldn’t understand Russian, or had never heard it spoken with a Volga accent.

‘What’s the matter with you? Get the police, for Christ’s sake!’

‘The police?’ Kozodavlev’s voice had never sounded more false to his ears.

‘There’s a dead body here. It was tied to some rocks. We got it free. Someone must have dumped it in the canal. Before the water froze over.’

‘A dead body, you say? Are you sure? My goodness, a dead body! Who would have thought it? And with all the fires last night.’

Now all the sailors were watching Kozodavlev, their faces dumbfounded. ‘He’s some kind of. . madman,’ pronounced one of them, a man with an unruly moustache that stuck out at right angles before him.

‘Who is it?’ said Kozodavlev, brightly. Even he knew it was a stupid thing to say, possibly the most stupid thing he could have said in the circumstances.

‘Who is it?’ exploded the sailor with the bristling moustache. ‘How the fuck should we know?’

‘Turn him over, I mean,’ answered Kozodavlev. ‘Let’s have a look at his face.’ The truth was, he was simply incapable of tearing himself away from that spot until he knew for sure.

The sailors exchanged consultative glances and decided, wordlessly, that there was some merit in the suggestion, even if it had come from a madman.

They clustered around the low cylindrical form that barely broke the surface of the water.

Like flies, thought Kozodavlev. Around the proverbial.

The slabs of ice seemed to shun the alien matter in their midst. Kozodavlev could now see it was the back of a frock coat, taut and filled with bloated mass.

At a signal from the sailor with the bristling moustache, the men gripped and heaved. It was clear they were used to working together. Kozodavlev felt a momentary pang of envy, the envy of the intellectual for the common man, always excluded. At the same time, he envied them their co-operative ease. What he could do with such men, if only he could recruit them to the cause!

He allowed his mind to run on like this only for as long as it took them to turn the sodden trunk, its limbs flailing in protest at the disturbance.

The sailors backed away, to lay bare the strange doll-like face for the madman on the embankment to see. But when they looked up, they saw that he had already gone.