The Gentle Axe

Beneath the Milliner’s Shop Again

Porfiry Petrovich lit a cigarette. He was appreciative of the opportunity the flaring match gave him to take in his surroundings. The paneled door that briefly appeared was unexpectedly impressive. He shook the match out before it burned his fingers. The details of the door faded. Porfiry blinked, as if testing the darkness with his eyelashes. He coughed once as he waited for the unheard bell to be answered. He felt that he need not have coughed, or that the cough had a psychological rather than strictly physiological origin. The truth was, even in the impenetrable blackness of this night, he felt himself spied upon. And whenever he experienced this sensation, all his actions struck him as false.

At last a small panel in the door opened. Light fled the interior as if scandalized.

“Yes, mein Herr?”

“Fräulein Keller?”

“Do I know you?”

“I would like to make your acquaintance.”

Her laughter revealed the indecency as well as the absurdity of his idea. “I always like to make new friends, especially when they are a handsome gentleman like you.” She held the door open for him, treating him to a smile that was more ironical than coquettish. Even so, and despite her age (he judged her to be past the midpoint of her fifth decade), that smile set his heart thumping. It was not that he found it attractive. But there was knowledge in it, and experience. Her face was wearied by habits he could only guess at. Perhaps the most wearisome of all: this habit of opening the door to strangers, of assessing their predilections and facilitating fulfillment. Her smile stripped him bare but did not even show her teeth.

There was nothing of the bawd or the courtesan about her appearance. Her dress was fashionable and tasteful, even demure. All that it revealed was that she had kept her figure. He sensed a certain affectation in the way she carried herself, but was almost reassured by that. It seemed only human and certainly was to be expected. If he slapped her once, very hard, she would perhaps be cured of it. But he knew that he would, on balance, regret its loss.

Porfiry was admitted to a corridor decorated with more propriety than he had anticipated. He had expected crimson plush. The walls were in fact painted pale green, which struck an oddly prim note, as did the framed prints of racehorses. Only the narrowness of the corridor seemed indecent, due to the physical proximity it forced on those who passed in it.

Fräulein Keller held out her arms for his shuba. Porfiry was shocked by the gesture. To take off one’s coat in such an establishment was not an innocent activity. It expressed a certain intention. Besides, the coat seemed to afford some protection, not least from that smile. It was strange too how he felt the need to escape from this place as soon as he had entered it. No, he would keep his coat on; he had a perfect right to, after all.

He saw his tortured mental processes mirrored and mocked in her smile.

“Fräulein Keller, I am an investigating magistrate.”

“And so you cannot take off your coat. I understand.”

“No, no. The point is I’m here on official business.”

“A bird may be known by its flight. Is that not what you say?” Fräulein Keller laughed at her own cleverness, then, catching that Porfiry did not share her amusement, became serious: “But we are all legal. There is nothing to investigate here.” As if to prove her point, Fräulein Keller opened one of the doors from the corridor, seemingly at random. She showed Porfiry into a parlor paneled in highly varnished yellow wood. There was a hint of excess in the style of some of the furnishings. Porfiry was oppressed by the number of mirrors in elaborate frames. A fire was blazing, suggesting that someone other than the fleeting reflections on the walls had just occupied the room. “You will be too hot if you insist on keeping your furs on.”

“I am looking for a girl.”

“Of course.”

“In connection with an investigation.”

“Ja, ja, I understand.”

“Her name is Lilya Ivanovna Semenova. I believe she works here.”

“No longer. She has retired from the business.”

“I see.”

“It happens. The girls find themselves a rich patron. They settle for a while, but it never lasts. Soon they come back, knocking on my door. ‘Fräulein Keller! Fräulein Keller! He has thrown me over! He has taken up with a dancer! Fräulein Keller, please! Let me in!’ They cannot escape the life. It is in their blood. They are born whores.”

“When was the last time you saw Lilya?”

“Today. She came back for her galoshes, the little fool. Does she not realize her new friend will buy her all the galoshes she desires?”

“She told you of this…patron?”

“She didn’t need to. It’s obvious. How else could she afford to retire?”

“Perhaps she has found other employment.”

Fräulein Keller laughed cynically. “It is a wonder you catch any criminals, you are so innocent.”

“The girls who work for you-they live here in the brothel?”

“And now you say dirty words to prove how worldly you are.”

“Where is Lilya now, do you know?”

“It is not my concern.”

“She had a child, didn’t she? Who looked after the child when she was working?”

“I know nothing about these things. Perhaps it would profit you more to talk to one of the girls. I can arrange for you to be introduced. It would be my pleasure. You may pick one to examine more closely, in private. And that will be your pleasure, I am sure.”

Fräulein Keller once again held out her arms for Porfiry’s shuba.

“What if I wished to talk to them all?”

“That would be very greedy of you, mein Herr.”

As if this answer decided him, he finally began to take off his fur coat.

Even though the heat from the fire had dried his throat, Porfiry declined the champagne.

“So the Widow Cliquot is not to your taste?” asked Fräulein Keller archly.

Porfiry also refused the brocade-upholstered chair, with its ornately carved “Second Rococo” frame, ignoring the care with which Fräulein Keller had positioned it.

“I will stand,” he said curtly.

Four “girls” filed in through a second door in the parlor and stood in front of him. He did not step back or flinch under the force of their underdressed presence, but he wished he had accepted both the drink and the seat. His own breath seemed intoxicating to him. It accelerated and enlarged his pulse. A kind of heavy sickness seemed to have entered his being, as if his soul were solidifying. The cause of this strange excitement was the sudden knowledge of what he was capable of.

He lit a cigarette without knowing he was doing so.

Porfiry looked into the eyes of each of them in turn. And something about the way they returned his gaze suggested that he had broken the one taboo of the house. But in their eyes he saw no depravity, only detachment. This was all they had in common. In other respects, they presented different faces behind their makeup: boredom, fear, stupor, and desperation. They affected expressions of licentiousness, but mechanically.

It was immediately apparent that Lilya Semenova would have been the youngest and prettiest of them.

“This is all of them?” asked Porfiry, with an exhalation of smoke.

“All that are available. Is none to your taste?”

“You know it is not a question of that.”

“If you say so, mein Herr. Who then will you choose? We have Olga. Nadya. Sonya. Raya.” A succession of ragged curtsies broke out along the line, the satirical nature of which was confirmed by a further embellishment from the final girl. She pulled down her chemise to bare one conical breast for Porfiry’s benefit.

“Please. There is no need for such exhibitions.”

“Raya is very exuberant. Everything is natural to her.” And yet it was Raya in whose eyes Porfiry had detected fear.

Porfiry sighed heavily. “Very well. I choose Raya.”

Her hands were on his face. He removed them methodically.

The bed filled the room, so much so that one was practically forced onto it as soon as one entered. There was a screen on the far side of the bed, embroidered with kingfishers in flight. A silk kimono was slung over the top of the screen.

“Do I not please you?”

He took in the fact of her naked skin. Her blond hair seemed distilled from its pallor. “You’re not Russian?”

“I’m Finnish. I am sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. Do you know Lilya?”

“Yes, of course. But she doesn’t work here anymore. Fräulein Keller says-”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you want me to be?”

“I am a magistrate. You must answer honestly.”

“I am twenty-seven.”

“And how long have you been a prostitute?”

“I can’t remember. I don’t count the years.”

“Do you know Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“What is this about?”

“Have you heard the name Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think carefully.”

“I think perhaps I have.”

“Who is he?”

“A photographer. He takes photographs of the girls sometimes. And prints them up.”

“Has he ever taken your photograph?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He likes them younger.”

“Has he taken photographs of Lilya?”

“Once, I think.”

“It’s not so bad, having your photograph taken. There are worse things, I should imagine.”

Raya shrugged. She did not give any indication of resenting his eyes on her.

“Konstantin Kirillovich. Konstantin Kirillovich. What is his family name? I have forgotten.”

“Everyone knows him only as Konstantin Kirillovich.”

“That must be why I can’t remember it.” Porfiry smiled and blinked. “You touched my face. Why did you touch my face?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it is because you wish me to touch your face?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

Porfiry placed a hand flat against her cheek. Her skin was hot, and the makeup on it greasy and granular. He closed his eyes. Then felt her hand on his thigh.

“No,” said Porfiry, pulling his hand away and standing up. He distanced himself from Raya’s lingering touch.

“Why did you come?” asked Raya, looking up at him in wonder. Her eyes were very blue, he noticed.

“Where will I find Lilya, do you know?”

“It’s Lilya you want?”

“I wish to ask her some questions. Do you know a student called Virginsky?”

Raya shook her head. Her silk-fine hair opened and closed like a fan.

“How about Goryanchikov? The dwarf?”

“I know the dwarf. He’s a regular here. He always asks for Lilya. Perhaps he is her new boyfriend?” she wondered.

“Impossible. He’s dead.”

The alarm in her eyes intensified.

“It’s likely that he was murdered.”

“You think it was Lilya?”

“Where will I find her?”

“She’ll be with Zoya Nikolaevna, I should think.”

“Who is Zoya Nikolaevna?”

“The old prostitute who looks after Lilya’s child. They share a room and Lilya’s earnings.”

“Did Lilya not board here?”

“Not during the day. Fräulein Keller would not allow the child here.” Raya shivered. She was dressed only in underwear. However, it was not cold in the room.

“Cover yourself up,” said Porfiry.

Raya reached across the bed and pulled down the kimono from the screen. Slipping it on, her face was confused as well as fearful.

“I will tell Fräulein Keller that you pleased me,” he reassured her.

“I don’t understand. Do you want nothing more of me?”

“An address? For Lilya.”

“I don’t know it. How would I know it?”

“No matter.”

“Zoya lives somewhere near the Haymarket, I believe.”

“Thank you. That is very helpful.”

“Are you sure you want nothing more of me? Fräulein Keller says I am to do whatever you ask.”

“Is it not a relief to you?”

“It makes no difference to me. It’s why I am here, after all.”

“Are you really so indifferent?”

She reached out and lifted one of his hands to her face again. He pulled it away. Her reaction was as if he had struck her.

“Please, there’s no need.”

Her habitually cowed expression changed into one of cunning. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.

“I’m looking for Lilya.”

“Lilya is the only one who can please you.”

“Not in the way you think. I merely wish to speak to her.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re a man. And I know why you won’t sleep with me. It’s because you want my gratitude.”

“It makes no difference to me.” There was something pointed in the way his intonation, as well as his words, matched hers. To soften this, he added, “I would prefer it if you’re not grateful. You have nothing to be grateful for, after all.”

“Will you go now?” she asked, as if his presence made her uncomfortable.

He came close to telling her that she hadn’t the right to dismiss him. Instead he said, “What are you frightened of, Raya?”

The question took her aback. “The same as everyone,” she answered after a beat. “Getting old. Losing my looks. Not being able to work.”

“It frightens you that you will one day be free of this place?”

“Hunger isn’t freedom.”

Porfiry lit another cigarette and smoked it through completely in silence. “You’re an intelligent girl,” he said at last. Then he looked into the blue of her eyes and left.