R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames
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- Название:The Cleansing Flames
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- Издательство:Faber and Faber Fiction
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- Год:2011
- ISBN:0571259154
- Рейтинг книги:5 / 5. Голосов: 1
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‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
‘You have the look of a mystic.’
Tatiscev gave a derisive snort. ‘If Kozodavlev had written that, then I would have sued for defamation, truly.’
‘Have you ever heard of Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov, a former professor of history, I believe?’
‘Lebezyatnikov? I have heard the name.’
‘He too was a victim of K.’s attacks.’
Professor Tatiscev shrugged. ‘Again, I do not know him personally. But of course, in this case, there is no reason why I should.’
‘In this case?’
‘I merely meant that with Kozodavlev, you might have expected our paths to cross, given our shared interest in radical politics.’
‘But you have never met Professor Lebezyatnikov?’
‘I cannot say that. There is a chance we may have encountered one another. Was he a professor here at the university?’
‘For a time. Perhaps one of your colleagues in the History and Philology Faculty will remember him?’
‘Perhaps.’
Porfiry brought both hands down on the arms of his seat. ‘We will take up no more of your time. Thank you very much for your help, Professor Tatiscev.’
‘But I fear I have been no help at all!’ There was a glimmer of desperation in the professor’s eyes.
‘It is always helpful to talk a case through, especially with a distinguished professor of law such as yourself.’
Virginsky was horrified to see his superior flutter his eyelids in a manner so insincerely sycophantic as to be insulting. He noted that Professor Tatiscev was by no means taken in. He regarded Porfiry Petrovich mistrustfully. It seemed he did not quite know what to make of him, and for that reason alone perhaps, reserved a small portion of fear amongst his evident contempt.
The pastry vendor
It took a moment for the genteel chatter of the confectioner’s to fall silent. But Salytov knew that the silence would come, to be broken only by gasps and the perilous clatter of silverware on china, as heavy-handled forks fell from involuntarily relaxed grips. It was the moment it took for everyone to notice him, for the full horror of his melded face to be absorbed.
He was used to this. Every time he walked into a roomful of strangers, he experienced a similar reception. And yet it did not lessen his willingness to go abroad. He had no intention of turning himself into a recluse. On the contrary, it was with a certain pride that he held himself upright, thrusting his posture upwards against his cane, facing down the looks of shock and pity with angry contempt. He wanted to scream back at them, That’s right, look at me! I got this face for you, you ungrateful pigs!
Eventually, as happened now, the conversation would resume. Those who had stopped to stare at him would gradually tear themselves away from the freak show of his face, and turn their attention once again to their pastries and their companions. For Salytov, it was almost worse when they did. For in that moment he was left alone with his disfigurement.
The fat German woman avoided looking at him as he approached. No doubt, she would not recognise him from the last time he had visited the shop, before the bomb blast. Perhaps that was just as well, thought Salytov, without exploring his reasons for thinking that.
‘I am looking for Tolya.’
Recognition skittered wildly in her eyes at the sound of his voice. She looked up and stared searchingly into his eyes. ‘You?’
Salytov lifted the angle of his head disdainfully.
‘You have nerve, coming here.’
‘Tolya,’ insisted Salytov.
‘Master will not be happy to see you.’
‘Do you think I care? But I have not come to see your master. I have come for Tolya.’
‘Always Tolya. Still you persecute that boy. He is a good boy. You leave him alone.’
‘I merely wish to speak to him. He is not in any trouble. That is to say, he will not be in any trouble so long as he co-operates with me.’ After a moment, he added, ‘And is not found to have done anything criminal. If that is the case, then, naturally, he will feel the full force of the law come down upon him.’ Salytov rammed the tip of his cane against the floor to reinforce his point.
‘He is not here. Master let him go. After all the trouble.’ From the woman’s scowl, it was clear that she held Salytov responsible.
‘Where is Tolya now?’
The German woman’s nose wrinkled distastefully.
Salytov lifted his cane and slapped it threateningly into his spare hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want any trouble, like last time. Then your master had Tolya to blame. Now. .’ Salytov pointed the tip of his cane at the woman.
‘I heard he sell pastries in Gostinny Dvor.’
As the door closed behind him, he sensed the explosion of relief, as the customers burst into conversation, far more garrulous and excitable than that which his entrance had quelled.
*
Everywhere Salytov looked, he saw a reflection of himself. He was standing on Sadovaya Street, facing the longest of Gostinny Dvor’s frontages. This stretch of the great bazaar, where the mirror sellers clustered, was known as ‘Glass Line’. Here, the windows of the vaulted arcade were given over to displays of looking glasses of every size and shape, fragmented walls of reflection that threw the observer’s image back in his face. It was not a comfortable place for Lieutenant Salytov to stand. And yet he did not, for the moment at least, turn away or move on.
There was no doubt a streak of masochism in his nature that kept him rooted there, confronting the multiple glimpses of his damaged flesh. It was as if he needed to remind himself what he had suffered, in order to understand who he had become. But however many mirrors he stood before, and however long he looked into them, he would never be able to relate the grotesque stranger he saw to his own sense of himself.
He thought of his wife. That woman never tired of looking into a glass. In her younger days, it was no doubt because she had been gratified by what she saw. She had once possessed a fresh, heedless prettiness that could trip his heart. The years, in which she had borne him seven children, had taken their toll on her looks. Now when she scoured the surface of a silver-backed glass, it was as if she was desperately seeking an image of herself that she knew must be in there somewhere, but which had somehow slipped out of sight. Or perhaps she was simply watchful, not trying to recapture her youthful looks but determined to track and capture every sign of their disintegration. There was something obsessive about her fascination with her own face. It had acquired an added piquancy since Salytov’s accident. He had the feeling that his wife looked more intently into her own face now that she could no longer bear to look into his.
Salytov entered the market and pushed through the cluster of mirror sellers’ stalls. A tradesman in blue kaftan and cloth cap approached him from the side and accosted him with the usual spiel: ‘Step this way, sir. . only the finest examples of the mirror-maker’s art. . such a flawless reflection as you have never — ’
Salytov waited until the man had got this far before turning his full face towards him. It was enough to silence him. He began to back off, one hand gyrating in confusion and apology, his face drawn in horror. ‘Halt,’ commanded Salytov. ‘Do you know a pastry seller by the name of Tolya?’
The stallholder continued to back away as he answered Salytov: ‘There’s a fellow I sometimes see wandering the lines. Could be a Tolya.’
‘Have you seen him yet today?’
‘He has not been this way yet, sir. He treads a well-worn route. There is a pastry cook who has a concession upstairs in the gallery, over on Linen Line side. By the name of Dasha. She should be able to tell you where to find this Tolya at any given time of the day. It could even be that Tolya works for Dasha, sir, if you see what I mean — taking her pastries abroad for her.’
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