R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

Salytov gave a curt nod, which was as close as he came to expressing gratitude.

He left the arcade and stepped into the central court of the bazaar. The cries of stallholders vying for business echoed around him, at times drowned out by the squawks of the caged birds they kept hung around the entrances to their shops. From those who were busy came also the sharp clack of flying abacus beads; from those who sat idle, the clatter of dice in the cup and the click of backgammon pieces on the board.

The looking-glass traders gave way to art dealers, first those selling secular paintings, and then the icon dealers. Jewellers, watchmakers, cabinetmakers, dealers in tables, chairs, beds. . the place was like a living encyclopedia of household commerce, arranged in categories and sub-categories, a criss-cross of themed lines. Sometimes the transition from one group to another was gradual and subtle, as if one trade was slowly mutating into another.

Now and then, a trader — not simply to amuse himself it seemed, but more to strengthen links with his neighbouring stallholders — would hoof a ball along the line, over the heads of the hapless shoppers, landing it skilfully at the feet of his mate a hundred or so arshins away.

It was with some relief that Salytov ducked out of the central courtyard, to take the stairs to the upper gallery.

He found the pastry stall near the corner of the Nevsky Prospect and Surovskaya Line arcades, a simple matter of following his nose. The greasy odour provoked a rush of salivation and a twisting sensation in his belly, as if his guts were being wrung out.

He waited for the woman stallholder to finish serving a savoury pie to a young man in a battered top hat. His complexion was as flaky and pale as the pastry. The pie flew to his mouth as if subject to some strange magnetism. He did not see Salytov; his whole being was absorbed in the consumption of that pie. Salytov communicated his distaste with a conscious sneer.

The woman met Salytov’s gaze with the shopkeeper’s look of habitual, almost disengaged, expectancy. She had the napkin ready and the tongs poised over her array of pastries. She gave the impression of having been on her feet at her stall since the first days of Gostinny Dvor, over a hundred years before, with every expectation of remaining there for a hundred more years.

‘Where will I find Tolya?’ Salytov demanded abruptly. He allowed his police uniform to explain his interest.

A flicker of commercial disappointment showed in her face, but she quickly recovered from it. ‘You could try the Linen Line. He treads the same path every day, and at this time of the morning he is usually there or thereabouts.’ It was clear that she wanted to be rid of Salytov as quickly as possible. Salytov sensed this and hated her for it. To punish her, he lingered pointlessly, keeping his eyes fixed on her warningly. ‘Will there be anything else?’ she asked at last.

‘What?’ he snapped, as if outraged by her effrontery.

‘A pie perhaps?’ Was there a trace of mockery in her smile?

Salytov glowered. ‘Madam, a man of my position cannot be seen to buy pies from the likes of you.’

‘If you don’t want a pie, then you’d best be gone. You’re scaring away the paying customers.’

‘I could close you down. .’ Salytov clicked his fingers. ‘Like that.’

‘I have a business to run. I’ve told you what you want to know. Why do you pick a fight with me?’

The question seemed to take Salytov by surprise. At last he began to back away from the stall, although he kept his eyes fixed on her warningly.

Returning to the inner courtyard, the clamour of the caged songbirds seemed louder and more insistent than before. Salytov allowed his instincts to lead him, through avenues hung with lace and shawls, to the Linen Line. He made enquiries as he went, and eventually closed in on the itinerant pastry vendor, clamping a hand on his shoulder as he pushed his cart away from him.

As Tolya turned to see who was detaining him, his look of mild enquiry changed to horror.

‘Do you recognise me, lad?’

‘You?’

Salytov nodded. He worked at the muscles around his mouth to produce something that he hoped would approximate a smile.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘This face — do you know how I got it?’

Tolya shook his head.

‘It was not hawking pies, I can tell you that.’

‘How. . did you?’

‘A bomb ,’ cried Salytov, his voice exultant. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. I survived. Some of my friends, my fellow officers, did not. They tell me you had nothing to do with it. But I am not so sure I can believe that. All I know is that I was investigating you and your associates at the time. And then. .’ Salytov pointed at his face. ‘This.’

‘I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Do you remember that day I broke your stilts?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can do much worse than that, let me tell you.’ Salytov looked down at Tolya’s cart with a threatening leer.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Answers. The last time we met, you were working at Ballet’s. There were two men in there. Friends of yours. Disreputable-looking individuals. One of them has turned up dead. This one.’ Salytov handed Tolya a photograph of the man from the canal. ‘He had a badly pockmarked face. Give me a name.’

Tolya looked as if he was going to be sick. ‘Pseldonimov.’

‘Who was he? What was he? How did you know him?’

‘He was a customer at the confectioner’s.’

‘Don’t play games with me, lad. He was more than that.’

‘He was a printer, I think, or something like that.’

‘Something like that?’ Salytov barked back sarcastically. ‘What does that mean? Either he was a printer or he was not.’

Tolya drew himself up. The years since his last encounter with Salytov seemed to have emboldened him. ‘You are a difficult man to help, Lieutenant Salytov. I was going to say, there were rumours.’

Salytov glared at him, as if outraged at his impertinence. ‘What rumours?’ His tone was suddenly less abrasive.

‘Rumours that he engaged in illegal activities.’

‘Pamphlets? I remember we found pamphlets at your lodgings.’

‘Pamphlets, yes. But also. . counterfeiting.’

‘I see. And when was the last time you saw him?’

‘I haven’t seen him for years, I swear. Not since I left Ballet’s.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I need not have told you about the counterfeiting,’ cried Tolya in outrage.

‘Oh, but you know that it would have been worse for you if you had not.’

‘I swear, I have seen neither him nor Rakitin since that time.’

‘Rakitin?’

‘The one who was always by his side.’

‘I remember him. Grubby individual. Where is he now, this Rakitin?’

‘He used to live in the Petersburg Quarter. I don’t know if he lives there still.’

‘Give me a pie,’ demanded Salytov.

Tolya angled his head warily. ‘What sort of pie would you like?’

‘I don’t care.’

Tolya selected a pastry and wrapped it in a napkin. His movements were constrained by suspicion. Reluctantly, he held it out to Salytov. ‘That will be five kopeks.’

Salytov stared blankly at Tolya, as if he had not heard. He did not take the pie.

Tolya started to withdraw the pie.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Salytov touched Tolya’s wrist with his cane, halting the withdrawal.

‘Do you want it or not?’ demanded Tolya.

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Salytov snatched the pie. He held it for a moment and then tipped his hand so that it fell onto the floor. A moment later, he raised his foot and stamped it down on the pie, squashing it into the ground. ‘Give me another one.’