The Cleansing Flames

A rendezvous with no one

Porfiry found the following letter waiting for him back at his chambers:

Dear Sir,

I have chosen to write to you because of your involvement several years ago in the case of the student who murdered the old woman and her sister. Covering the case as a journalist, I was obliged to attend the trial, where I was favourably impressed by the humane way you conducted the prosecution, as I believe I made clear in the account I wrote for a certain publication at the time. Indeed, it might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.

I have an interesting story to tell you. Some sailors went swimming in the Winter Canal. Five men jumped in, but six men came out. How could that be?

If you would like to know the answer to this riddle, meet me at the Summer Garden, near the northern entrance, at three o’clock, today. It is my favourite time to visit the Summer Garden, when the statues emerge from their winter coffins. I would prefer not to visit you at your chambers because there are spies in every government department. If I am seen there it will mean certain death for me.

Of course, if this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me. Therefore I have greater cause than usual to hope that we shall meet this afternoon. How will you know me? Do not fear. I will know you. Please come alone. I’m afraid this must be one of those tiresome anonymous letters, of which I am sure you receive far too many.

‘Is it genuine?’ asked Virginsky.

Porfiry handed the letter over to the younger magistrate. ‘It appears to be. The letter bears yesterday’s date. It was written and sent before the newspapers appeared. I think we may have found our mysterious onlooker.’

‘He is a journalist, or so he claims. Perhaps he learnt about the incident professionally?’

‘He mentions the number of sailors, which I do not believe was given in the information we released to the newspapers.’

‘That’s true,’ conceded Virginsky. ‘So you will go to meet him?’

‘Of course.’

‘Alone?’

‘Is that not what he requests?’

Virginsky frowned. ‘Do you have any idea who he is? He claims to know you.’

‘I hope I shall find out soon enough,’ said Porfiry.

*

He saw the padlocked chains from a distance. Both of the high, elaborate gates in the northern fence were secured. It should not have surprised him but it did. The Summer Garden was, of course, closed. It was that time in late April when visitors were kept from the park in order to allow the ground to recover from the thaw. Had his anonymous correspondent forgotten this? Possibly, though the letter had not explicitly said that they should meet inside the park, merely ‘near the northern entrance’.

Porfiry approached the railing with a sinking heart. He had been looking forward to a stroll along the tree-lined avenues and had purposely arrived with a few moments to spare. The pink granite of the columns in which the gates were set seemed flushed by the glow of spring. The sun also sparkled in the golden embellishments to the wrought iron, almost compensating him for his exclusion. He peered through two vertical bars. The paths were indeed sodden, justifying the temporary closure. The grey wooden boards that protected the statues from the winter frost had already been removed, though the statues were still swathed in white sheets. There was something unmistakably eerie about the rows of enshrouded figures on podiums. They seemed to hold the potential for movement, as if they were simply waiting for the wrappings to be taken off, before springing to life. Porfiry must have been in a morbid frame of mind, for he added the thought: And wreaking havoc. It was not clear to him why the latent beings beneath the sheets should choose havoc-wreaking above any more harmless activity.

Checking his fob-watch, he saw that he was early for his appointment. He did not wish to draw attention to himself by loitering, so he decided to walk a circuit of the perimeter, striking off in the direction of the Summer Palace. The proximity of that modest palace, little more than a large house in fact, reminded him that he was very close to the spot where, almost exactly six years ago, Dmitry Karakozov had made his attempt on the Tsar’s life.

He wondered whether this momentous event had played a part in his correspondent’s choice of meeting place, consciously or otherwise.

Porfiry thought back to the trial of Raskolnikov, without doubt the murderous student referred to in the anonymous letter. The courtroom had been crowded with the gentlemen of the press, scrutinising his every word and even gesture. That was to be expected: Raskolnikov’s crime, sensational enough in itself, had been interpreted as having a wider significance. It had been seen as a symptom of the nihilistic disease that was corrupting the younger generation at the time, and that had, if anything, become more virulent in the years since. Karakozov’s assassination attempt had been made the following year. How the state dealt with Raskolnikov was to be seen as a litmus test for how it would deal with all its malcontent young men. Too much leniency would provoke the reactionaries; excessive severity would incite the radicals.

As always in Russia, a matter of justice had become a political battleground: Porfiry had found himself caught in the middle.

He tried to picture the journalists’ faces. Had there been one among them whom he could identify as the writer of that letter? One man in whose eyes he had noticed a particular sympathy, the beginnings of a bond perhaps?

It seemed so long ago now. And at the time, he remembered, he had made a conscious effort to block out their faces, not to mention their pencils, sharpened for blood, hovering over their notebooks. If he had thought too much about what the press were going to write about him, he could not have done his job. He concentrated instead on the humanity of the young man whose terrible error had brought him to that courtroom. Yes, his error was grievous, his crimes appalling. But he was still a man. A human heart beat within his breast. He possessed a soul, one that had become infected with ideological disease admittedly, but a soul nevertheless. A soul capable of being saved. Indeed, it was the duty of all those older, wiser heads charged with the administration of justice — judges, prosecutors, defence attorneys, all — it was their duty to work together urgently to bring about this salvation. Porfiry had come to believe that Raskolnikov’s soul was nothing other than the soul of Russia’s youth. If they turned their back on him, they turned their back on a whole generation — on the future, in fact.

And so, with this thought in mind, he had called for clemency. He had joined with those who urged that the accused be treated with compassion, as one suffering from a mental derangement.

In short, he had not called for the maximum sentence. Further, he had himself brought to light many of the strange psychological contradictions in the case that had helped to convince the jury of Raskolnikov’s insanity and had so led to mitigation in sentencing.

Which of those journalists, he now wondered, would have viewed this conduct with approval? Porfiry paused in his circuit. He closed his eyes and tried once again to bring their faces to mind. Nothing. However, he felt sure that he would immediately recognise the individual should he come towards him now. He opened his eyes and looked about him hopefully. There were not many people about (why would anyone come to the Summer Garden when it was closed?), but none of the faces he saw struck a chord.

Porfiry took the letter from his pocket. The line he wished to consult was, ‘It might have surprised you to read such an account in such a journal.’ What could the writer have meant by that? he wondered.

He folded the letter along its creases and returned it to his pocket. He had not yet completed his circuit and was still early for the meeting; nevertheless, he turned and headed back to the northern gate.

He looked expectantly into the faces of everyone who approached, including the women, and even, rather foolishly, the children. Not once did he feel any glimmer of recognition. More to the point, it was clear that no one recognised him.

Sudden activity within the park drew his attention: the squeak of a handcart being pulled around by couple of workmen in long artisan’s waistcoats. Porfiry was unduly excited to see that they were about to take the covers off the statues. He watched as they picked away at the first of the sheets, pulling it away to reveal a female figure, in the classical style, semi-naked but nondescript. An allegory. Porfiry had to admit he was disappointed. She did not leap from the podium and run along the main avenue, her laughter tinkling stonily like dropped pebbles. Porfiry smiled at the fanciful image, which his imagination further embellished with the fantasy of the two workmen giving chase. In reality, the men simply busied themselves with folding up the redundant sheet, which they placed in the handcart, before moving on to the neighbouring sculpture.

Porfiry studied the statue that had been uncovered, wondering what the allegorical figure represented. She was depicted holding some kind of weapon, a rod or a sword of some kind. Of course, Porfiry realised, that was the fasces, the bundle of rods that symbolised the state’s authority, a symbol also — as he well knew, being a magistrate — of its summary judicial power. Ah yes, he had contemplated this figure before, somewhere, if not here; drawn to it, perhaps, because of its particular relevance to him. She was Nemesis.

Porfiry consulted his watch again. It was now a quarter past the hour. He looked about him, his expectancy turned to unease, remembering another sentence in the letter. ‘If this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me.’

He would give it till four o’clock, he decided.