The Gentle Axe

An Abundance of Icons

She moved through the Apraxin Arcade with the same inflexible determination with which she had crossed Petrovsky Park, only a few days before. Those who saw her coming stepped aside. Those who didn’t felt the buffet of her shoulder or the swipe of her arm, and skipped out of the way with an angry sidelong glance at the force that had impelled them. They saw an old woman bundled in layers of ragged clothes, a strange, sealed expression on her face. It was almost a smile, but cunning prevented it from going so far. If anyone studied her face for long enough, they would reach the conclusion that there was a secret contained in it. But whatever that secret was, it could not escape through the tight slits of her eyes.

She reached the corner of the market where the icon dealers were to be found. Her approach stirred the sheepskin-clad traders into an exchange of nods and winks. There was something conspiratorial, but also competitive, in the way they bristled at the prospect of her. They vied for her custom with friendly cries and waves: “Hello Granny!” “Madam!” Those who knew her name called out, “Zoya Nikolaevna!”

But she chose today, as had done on previous days, a dealer who made no effort to get her attention or her business. It was his face, and more specifically his eyes, that drew her. He had the eyes of Christ the Redeemer. And just like the Christ figure in one of the icons he sold, his long hair fell around his shoulders in ringlets, and his beard was divided into two soft points. He was a young man, the youngest of them. His face was always serious, giving the impression that he was well aware of the solemnity of his trade. The others hawked their icons like half-kopek cakes.

He acknowledged her presence at his stall with a silent upward tilt of his head. Her greeting in return was an involuntary twitch of the mouth.

She scanned the banks of icons, arranged according to the holy personages represented and the manner of representation. Here the Christs: Christ Immanuel, Christ Redeemer, Christ’s Descent into Hell, Christ of the Fiery Eye, Redeemer with Moist Beard, Redeemer Not Painted by Human Hands. Next to the Christs were the Marys (although, of course, both figures were featured in depictions of the Nativity): Virgin of Compassion, Our Lady of Vladimir, Our Lady of Kykkos, Our Lady of Refuge and Succor. And then the saints: Saint Nicholas, Saint John, Saint George, Saint Paul, Saint Demetrius. The lights of the market glinted softly in the gold paint and jewels.

As well as those on display, there were deep baskets filled with icons. Zoya stood over one and closed her eyes. She held out one hand and let it hover. Then she dropped it to caress the varnished surfaces, before forcing her fingers down. It was a question of wheedling and teasing, of flexing her fingers to engineer minute shifts in the abutment of edges. She was able to plunge her arm all the way up to her elbow before withdrawing it. And then, at last, she opened her eyes and inspected her forearm. It seemed strange to her that no visible change had been wrought upon it; that it was not glowing or dripping with gold.

The young icon dealer tolerated all this without comment, too polite even to give any indication of noticing. Zoya, however, chose to see something other than politeness in his gently averted eyes. In them she saw infinite compassion.

Looking back to the icons that were hung up around his stall, her eye was drawn to one she hadn’t seen before, a heavily jeweled representation of the Savior. His halo was formed from circles of pearls, alternating with settings of sapphires and lapis lazuli, all on a base of beaten silver. Seeing it for the first time, she felt the breath leave her body in amazement. It was not simply the beauty and richness of the jewels and precious metal that impressed her. She understood that this was meant to represent Christ’s splendor. Her soul grasped too the inadequacy of any earthly treasures to convey it. The Savior’s face remained unmoved by the riches surrounding him. And it was the face she stared at, the face that humbled her.

Finally she addressed a remark to the dealer: “Haven’t seen this one before.”

His eyes flashed toward where she was pointing. “It came in today.”

“Is it old?”

“Seventeenth century.”

Zoya’s eyes narrowed further. She seemed to find this information discouraging. “It’s not the oldest I’ve seen. Was it in a church?”

The young man nodded.

“How much is it?”

“It’s very precious. The jewels alone are extremely valuable.”

“How much?”

“One hundred rubles.”

Zoya clicked her tongue. “I don’t care about the jewels.”

The icon dealer shrugged, as if to say, Don’t buy it then.

“It’s not the jewels I want,” insisted Zoya. “If I wanted jewels, I would go to Fabergé.”

“I know what you want from them.” His eyes confirmed his understanding. “I have one here that also came in today. I put it aside for you.” He bent out of sight and returned holding a tiny, dark rectangle of wood, on which was painted an image of the eternal Mother of God holding the Infant Christ. He held it out for her to examine. She took it and felt its power in the quickening of her heart.

The gold paint of the background was peeling off. The age of the varnish flattened the details of the clothing. But the intensity and directness of the Virgin’s gaze was undimmed. Zoya felt the tears trickle down her face. She thought of all the men who had squirted their seed into her, the seed of life, of all the unborn, unbaptized babies she had carried, but not to full term. She realized that she could have no secrets from those eyes. The Virgin’s gaze knew everything, understood everything, and forgave everything. It promised intercession and redemption. It promised hope. Those eyes looked into her soul without flinching.

“This one is twelfth century. It’s over six hundred years old. Imagine.”

She nodded as she dabbed the tears away.

“Imagine how many people have thrown themselves down before it. Imagine how many prayers have been said to it. Six hundred years. Imagine how many miracles it has performed.”

“I’ll take it,” said Zoya. She did not ask the price. “I’ll take them both.” And all the gilded saints and angels and all the varnished prophets flickered their blessings on her purchase.

A group of children was playing in the snow in front of the apartment building on Srednyaya Meshchanskaya Street. One of them, a little girl of about three or four, wearing a drap-de-dames shawl, caught Porfiry’s notice. Somehow he knew that she was Lilya’s child. She was less ragged than her playmates, dressed in smart new clothes and boots, which seemed to confirm Fräulein Keller’s story about Lilya’s rich provider. He could see something of Lilya in her wide blue eyes and the shape of her head. Her lips reminded him of Lilya too. It was only the nose that made him doubt, rather stronger than the insignificant nub typical of children her age. It had a distinct double tip, which was reddened by the cold. Like the rest of her face, it seemed familiar to him, and so perhaps it was more like Lilya’s than he remembered.

As he watched the children play, he thought of the price he had paid for this lead. He felt as though he was defiling them by his gaze.

As much to cut short these reflections as to advance the investigation, Porfiry called out, “Hey! You lot!” The children turned, their faces startled but not afraid. “Who can take me to Zoya Nikolaevna’s flat? A shiny five-kopek piece for the one who can!”

They ran up to him, arms outstretched, calling for the money. But Porfiry kept his gaze on the little girl he had noticed earlier. Her eyes had widened even further and her mouth gaped in wonder.

“Do you know Zoya, little one?”

“She’s my granny!”

“And what’s your name?”

“Vera.”

“Hello, Vera. Would you take me to Granny Zoya’s?” Porfiry bent down and held the five-kopek piece in front of her amazed eyes. He fended off the protests from the older children with an upheld palm.

“She’s gone out,” said Vera simply. Porfiry winced at her trusting innocence.

“So there’s no one at home?”

“Mamma’s at home!” This was said with that good-humored indulgence that children reserve for the stupidity of adults.

Porfiry nodded thoughtfully and gave her the coin. The other children began to drift away. “Mamma? I see. Is your mamma’s name Lilya, child?”

The little girl nodded energetically.

“Let’s go and see her, shall we?” The child became grave, affected by the responsibility of her commission. But she saw nothing strange in it. He felt the tug of childhood in her hand.

The door opened narrowly. The mother’s blue eyes peered out, uncomprehending and mistrustful. Her face shocked him, somehow. And then he realized. She was not wearing her streetwalker’s makeup. Her pale exposed skin confronted him with her undeniable humanity. The makeup, he saw, protected both of them.

“Lilya? Do you remember me?”

Of course she remembered him: her eyes showed recognition clearly enough. But she did not understand his presence there. And when she saw her daughter holding his hand, her expression of general anxiety changed to one of fear.

“Vera? What have you done?”

“It’s all right.” He tried to reassure her with his smile. “I just want to talk to you. It would be better if I came in.”

Obedience was clearly a habit with her, yet she resisted widening the gap of the door. Her eyes begged for release, for him to let her be. She had the conflicted look of one who has something to hide but longs to confess it. Her face was momentarily panic-stricken as she glanced at her daughter; then finally, as he knew she would, she began to open the door.

Little Vera ran around his legs to get inside. Porfiry caught the complex of apology and indulgence in her mother’s loving eye.

As Porfiry stepped inside, ushanka in hand, he gasped audibly. Candles burned everywhere, hundreds of them, of every size and type, some in gold candelabra and elaborate jeweled stands, others simply placed in bottles or on saucers. And then he saw the walls, and a second, more self-conscious gasp escaped him. A multitude of holy faces looked out, though their gaze eluded contact. The oil-fueled flames that flickered in front of these faces both illuminated and excluded, creating a glowing screen that seemed to float in front of the dense glittering of icons. They were the blessed ones in paradise; those in the room, the unredeemed on earth. Every square inch of the walls was covered. The icons butted up to one another, frame against frame. The air was thick with burning beeswax, oil, and incense.

Hardly able to believe his eyes, Porfiry looked to Lilya for confirmation. She bowed her head, shamefaced. She could look him in the eye when they talked of prostitution, but this excess of religious sentiment embarrassed her, it seemed.

“I have never seen so many icons,” murmured Porfiry. “Not even in a church.”

“Oh, you will see this many and more at the icon dealers’ stalls.”

Porfiry searched her face for an explanation.

“They’re not mine! I didn’t buy them!” she cried in protest.

Vera ran between the candles shrieking. The child threw herself onto the floor and began to recite a prayer, in childish imitation of something she had evidently seen many times: “Merciful Mother of God, look down with pity on us sinners…”

“Zoya Nikolaevna?” Porfiry suggested. Lilya nodded. “But how? I mean, where did the money come from? Forgive me, but what I mean to say is, I can’t imagine that she has money to spare on such…” Porfiry gestured sweepingly. He refrained from defining the expenditure as folly.

Lilya didn’t answer. But the tension in her expression was revealing.

“There are some questions I need to ask you, Lilya Ivanovna.” Porfiry’s voice was heavy with significance. For the first time, he noticed her new and fashionably simple clothes. She wore a dark blue silk skirt with a brocade hem and a contrasting chemisette of white muslin.

Lilya nodded and led him over to the stove, away from where Vera was now playing with a new porcelain doll. She gestured for him to sit down at the table.

“I went to Fräulein Keller’s,” he began. The color flooded her face. “She told me you’d come into money. She says you’ve found a rich protector. A new boyfriend.”

Lilya shook her head hotly. “Fräulein Keller can only see things through her own eyes.”

“That’s true enough,” said Porfiry, with a half laugh. But then his face became serious as he remembered the depths he had sunk to in order to get information out of the madam. “But Lilya, I look at all this, I look at your dress, at Vera’s toys. When I saw you at the police bureau, you were dressed in hand-me-down rags.”

“I wore what I needed to wear.”

“Yes, of course. But tell me, where did all this come from?”

“Zoya found…some money. That’s all.”

Porfiry noticed the hesitation and frowned skeptically. “She was indeed lucky. But I wonder, did she not think it might belong to someone?”

“You’ve never been poor. You’ve never known what it’s like.”

“I am not here to investigate or judge Zoya Nikolaevna.”

“Why are you here?” It was the same question Raya had asked him at Fräulein Keller’s.

“You know the student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lilya stared at his strange, colorless lashes. “Yes.”

“We are currently holding him in connection with a possible crime.”

She gave an inarticulate sob of protest. Her eyes questioned and challenged him.

“Anything you can say in answer to my questions will help him.”

“You don’t believe he…”

“I don’t believe he what?”

“Is it to do with Goryanchikov?”

“You know about Goryanchikov?”

“Pavel Pavlovich told me. And…”

“And what?”

Lilya could not meet his flickering eyelashes. She looked away to answer: “Zoya found him. She found him and another man. Dead. In Petrovsky Park.”

“She has a habit of finding things, your Zoya.”

“The money, she found the money there too. It was on the other man. In his pocket.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. I…” She tried to lie. Then saw his eyelashes. “Six thousand rubles,” came heavily.

Porfiry whistled. And began to laugh. “And she has spent it all on icons and candles, I see.”

“She has been g-generous to us.”

Porfiry smiled at the significant stammer. “It’s easy to be generous with someone else’s money.”

“But he’s dead. The man it belonged to is dead!”

“The man she found it on,” corrected Porfiry deliberately, “was a yardkeeper. How do you suppose a yardkeeper came by six thousand rubles?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you see, it has a bearing on the investigation. The police should have been told about this. When you wrote me your little note, you could have mentioned the six thousand rubles.” Lilya started in amazement. The investigator’s face chided her with gentle irony. “I see my shot has hit the mark. I’m grateful to you for the information you provided, incomplete as it was. Though if Zoya had come forward herself, it would have saved us a lot of trouble, I believe.”

“How did you know?”

“Murder in Petrovsky Park?” Porfiry repeated the words from the anonymous note in a melodramatic whisper. “I didn’t, until you told me that Zoya had discovered the bodies.” Porfiry’s expression became pained as he contemplated his next question. “Was Goryanchikov a client of yours?”

Her shocked expression demanded an explanation of him.

“When you mentioned Goryanchikov, there was something about the way you said his name. And he must have been known to you, otherwise why would Pavel Pavlovich tell you of his death, and how would you know that the body Zoya Nikolaevna had found was his? I’m afraid I asked the question in the way I did because, well, it seemed the most likely way in which any man might be known to you.”

“He came to Fräulein Keller’s. He always asked for me.”

“And what about Virginsky?”

Her brows came together. Her lips seemed to tremble. “It was never like that with Virginsky.”

“But did he know about Goryanchikov? Is it possible that he was jealous?”

“If he was jealous of Goryanchikov, why should he not be jealous of them all?”

“Perhaps he was. In some way.”

“Didn’t the other man do it? The big man hanging from the tree. Zoya said he did it. She found an axe on him. There was blood on it, she said.”

Porfiry sighed wearily.

At that moment, the door to the flat opened. Porfiry looked up to see a round ball of a woman waddle into the room. Her small wrinkled face appeared to have been pinched out of the headscarf that surrounded it. She was carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.

“Babushka!” cried Vera. She abandoned her doll and jumped up, throwing herself at the old woman, whose solid form absorbed the force of her love. Vera made a great fuss of her Babushka, patting and stroking her and smiling up at her with a face that had its own, child’s, cunning. “Babushka, Babushka, my lovely Babushka! What have you brought for me today?”

The old woman, who had by now noticed Porfiry, chuckled but threw a self-conscious glance toward the kitchen table. “Now, now, child, that’s no way to greet your granny.” But she was looking at Porfiry as she said this.

Vera pawed at the brown paper parcel the old woman was holding. “Is it for me?”

“No, darling, this one’s for Granny.”

“Leave Mamma Zoya be, Vera.”

But the child clung to the old woman, pushing a cheek into the soft padding of her body. Zoya too seemed reluctant to release the child. There was defiance in the way she placed one arm around Vera’s head. With the other, she lifted the brown paper parcel to her bosom.

Porfiry rose to his feet and bowed to Zoya. She picked up the nervousness of Lilya’s movements. She saw that there was something guilty and yet obstinate in the girl’s expression. Things had been said, she knew. She pulled Vera into her for protection.

“Ah, this must be the lady about whom I have heard so much. Zoya Nikolaevna, I presume?”

Zoya was not taken in by his “lady.” She tilted her head slyly in answer.

“I am Porfiry Petrovich.”

“This gentleman is a policeman, Mamma Zoya.”

“No. I am an investigating magistrate.” Porfiry smiled. “But no matter. You could say I am a policeman.”

“What is this about?” Zoya clasped her parcel tightly, as if she were afraid he was going to snatch it off her.

“I am investigating the disappearance of a man called Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.”

Lilya seemed thrown by the announcement; Zoya, relieved. Porfiry noted that she even allowed herself a small grin.

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

He noticed Lilya frowning at him doubtfully, as if she had suddenly lost faith in him. She seemed almost angry. He met her frown with a smile. “I believe him to be an associate of someone known to you, Lilya Ivanovna.” Alarm showed in her eyes. “Konstantin Kirillovich. Whose family name, I have discovered, is Govorov. Wasn’t it a certain Konstantin Kirillovich who accused you of stealing one hundred rubles?”

“Yes.”

“Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov. The mysterious man who accused you of theft and then ran away before charges could be brought. Why did he do that, do you suppose?”

Lilya shook her head without looking at him.

“Perhaps he believed,” continued Porfiry, “as many do, that it would be enough for a gentleman to accuse a prostitute. That the authorities would naturally take his side. That there would be no need for the formalities to be completed. If so, he is unaware of the changes wrought by our legal reforms. We have juries now, and courts. And defense advocates. It takes more than an accusation to have someone sent to Siberia, even a street girl. But then Konstantin Kirillovich is no gentleman, is he?”

“I don’t know what it means, to be a gentleman,” said Lilya, finally challenging Porfiry with her gaze.

“There are only men!” agreed Zoya Nikolaevna with a high, harsh cry. “There are no gentlemen.”

“Konstantin Kirillovich took photographs of you, didn’t he?”

“I allowed him to.” Her voice came from somewhere dead.

“But a photograph is not so terrible. At least it does not involve-”

“Oh, it involved the worst that you could imagine!” cried Lilya despairingly.

“And you were young, you were very young?” His question offered mitigation.

Lilya nodded rapidly. She dabbed tears out of her eyes and looked toward her daughter. “It was…in the beginning.”

“But you did it,” said Porfiry. His tone was flat, not accusing. It was as if he were speaking her thoughts for her.

“Yes.” The word came heavily. “I did it.” She searched his eyelashes for some sign of understanding; or more: redemption.

“This time, however,” pressed Porfiry, “was different. What was it that he asked of you this time?”

Lilya shook her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed now. She would not look at any of them. Like the faces in the icons that surrounded them, her gaze was fixed on another world. But it was not heaven that she was contemplating.

“Leave her alone!” barked Zoya Nikolaevna threateningly.

“I need to find Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov,” insisted Porfiry calmly, without apology. “Lilya, can you tell me, when he took the photographs of you, where was it?”

But Lilya was lost to him.

“You will look after her.” Porfiry’s command drew an eager nod from Zoya Nikolaevna. “Is there anything you can tell me about this man?” This time she shook her head, with equal resolution. “About the money you took…”

“I found it, fair and square.”

“On a dead man. It is a punishable offense to disturb police evidence. More important, there is the issue of to whom it belongs. There is every chance the money was stolen.”

“Yes! That’s it!” cried Zoya, startling Lilya out of her trance. “He stole it off the dwarf. That’s why he killed the dwarf, to get his money. So it doesn’t matter! The dwarf is dead. What can the dwarf want with the money now?”

“Please don’t call him that,” sobbed Lilya, suddenly. “He was a man. His name was Stepan Sergeyevich.”

“I hope to God you haven’t spent it all on these?” Porfiry threw a dismissive hand toward the edges of the room. He glared at Zoya. “What they need, what you all need, is provision in this world. If you’re worried about the next world, you can pray. Prayer is free, after all.” There was an edge of exasperation in his voice.

Zoya Nikolaevna hung her head. “But they are so beautiful.”

“If she ever has to go back to Fräulein Keller’s, I will pack you off to Siberia so fast-”

“We’ll give the money back!” cried Lilya. Zoya shook her head warningly.

“I would dearly love to know,” said Porfiry, ignoring Lilya’s interjection, “what else you found in Petrovsky Park. Was there anything, anything at all, other than the money you took?”

“There was a pack of smutty playing cards I found on the dw-” Zoya broke off and bit her bottom lip contritely. “On the little fellow.”

“Stepan Sergeyevich,” supplied Lilya.

“But I sold them,” continued Zoya. She gave a little penitent shrug and smiled at Porfiry in a way that was almost schoolgirlish.

“Anything else?”

“Just this.” She took her arm away from the child’s head and delved into her layers with one hand. A moment later she pulled out a small key.

“Where did you find it?” asked Porfiry, taking and examining it.

“On the big brute.”

Porfiry pocketed the key and took out his cigarette case. With an unlit cigarette in his mouth he regarded Zoya for some time, as if deciding what was to be done with her. He looked down at the little girl who was still clinging to her Babushka. The child’s face was taut with fear.

“Who is the child’s father?” he asked at last.

There was an anguished cry from Lilya.

“She’s never told me,” said Zoya, meeting Porfiry’s gaze steadily. “And she won’t ever tell you.”

Porfiry nodded. He bent over one of the candle flames and lit the cigarette. “Why not? Doesn’t she know?”

“She will not speak of it,” said Zoya through tightly clamped teeth, as if she were uttering a curse. “She will not speak of it.” The repeated words had the passionately felt but unthinking intonation of a liturgical chant, rising in intensity until a third, final: “She will not speak of it.”