R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘Are you going to pay me for that one?’

‘You gave it to me. A gift. Remember.’

‘This is my livelihood. I cannot afford to have you-’

‘My livelihood,’ cut in Salytov, ‘is tracking down criminals. When you withhold information, it is just the same as me treading on your pies.’

‘I’m not withholding information. You didn’t give me a chance. You don’t have to do all this. I would have told you everything I know anyhow. I have told you everything I know. I haven’t seen Rakitin for years. All I can say is he used to live in a house in the Petersburg Quarter. I did go there once. If you wish, I can tell you where to find it. But I cannot promise that he still lives there. He may do, but if not, someone there may know where to find him.’

‘Are you telling me how to do my job, lad?’

‘No.’ Tolya closed his eyes, his face trembling in exasperation.

‘Because I would not presume to tell you how to sell pies.’

Tolya clamped his lips together.

‘Right. Let’s get going.’

‘Where?’

‘To this house in the Petersburg Quarter, of course. You’re going to take me there.’

Tolya looked down in despair at his cart.

‘You won’t be needing that.’ Salytov made a sharp gesture with his cane to hurry the pastry vendor along.

‘How extraordinary,’ murmured Porfiry Petrovich, as he closed the door to his chambers.

‘What is it?’ asked Virginsky.

Porfiry handed over the slip of paper that he had received from his clerk Zamyotov only a moment before.

Virginsky read: The Dolgoruky Residence, Liteiny Prospect, 10 . ‘What is so extraordinary? That is the correct address, I believe.’

‘I asked Alexander Grigorevich to make enquiries about Lebezyatnikov’s address. This is what he discovered.’

‘Lebezyatnikov lives with the Dolgorukys?’

‘That would seem to be the case,’ said Porfiry. ‘I wonder what his connection with the family is. Princess Dolgorukaya does not seem to be the sort to take in paying lodgers. Still, appearances can be deceptive. When necessity speaks, and all that.’

‘Perhaps his relationship with the ageing princess is not that of a landlady and tenant. Perhaps he lives there on entirely different terms.’

‘What are you suggesting, Pavel Pavlovich?’

Virginsky shrugged. ‘He may be a friend of the family.’ He handed the address back to Porfiry with an ironic ripple of his brows.

*

Porfiry detected no hint of surprise on the elderly butler’s face as he opened the door. Years of serving an aristocratic Russian family had no doubt habituated him to the suppression of that emotion, to the extent that he now seemed incapable of feeling it. His tone was impatient and weary: ‘I shall tell the Princess that you are here.’

‘There is no need to disturb your mistress, Alexey Yegorovich. We have come to speak to Vissarion Stepanovich.’ Porfiry enjoyed a moment of satisfaction as a tremor of elusive surprise did at last cause a small convulsion in the butler’s face.

Alexey Yegorovich recovered himself quickly. ‘Vissarion Stepanovich is out of sorts today.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. However, I am afraid that we must insist on talking to that gentleman.’

The butler bowed and showed them into a drawing room, furnished and decorated in impeccable European style.

Some moments later, Princess Dolgorukaya herself burst into the room, a tiny purple tornado of agitation. ‘It is out of the question. You cannot talk to Vissarion Stepanovich. I will not allow it.’

‘With all respect, dear lady, you cannot prevent it.’

‘He is an old man. An old fool. It will do you no good to talk to him.’

‘Allow me to be the judge of that.’

Princess Dolgorukaya scowled severely at Porfiry. ‘I insist on being present while you interview him.’

‘That will not be necessary.’

‘Do you suspect him of some misdeed? Vissarion Stepanovich is a confused and silly old man, but he is not a criminal. You have my word on that.’

‘Really, Madame, this is a matter between ourselves and Vissarion Stepanovich. We are not at liberty to discuss it with a third party.’

‘How dare you! I am not a third party . I am that man’s sole benefactor and friend. You will have me to answer to if Vissarion Stepanovich is upset.’

‘Please, be assured, it is not our intention to upset him. We merely wish to ask him some questions.’

‘Oh, but you don’t understand. That’s the very thing that will upset him. He finds it very, very difficult to answer questions. It is simply the cruellest thing you can do to him.’

‘Nevertheless, we must speak to him.’ Porfiry watched the elderly princess closely. Remembering the cool demeanour she had shown yesterday, with her chilling denial of maternity, it was hard to believe that this was the same individual in front of him now. What was consistent — he saw now — was her wilful obstruction. In neither case had he interpreted her behaviour as obstruction. She was simply the disappointed mother and the anxiously solicitous friend. But for the first time he began to suspect that there might be an element of pretence to her conduct. She was presenting personas.

The Princess seemed to detect something she did not like in Porfiry’s attention. ‘Very well, speak to him if you wish. He is not a child. I am not his mother. He must answer for himself, and pay the consequences. I have done all I can to protect him.’ She was withdrawing from the fray, certainly, but only because she saw that it was necessary to do so. She had sensed Porfiry’s suspicion, and chose to nip it in the bud. However, she had missed the right psychological moment to do so.

At any rate, she left the room abruptly, possibly to take herself out of the range of Porfiry’s consideration.

The door opened one more time and a gentleman entered the room with such force that it seemed he had been propelled into it. This could only be Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov.

He was past the prime of his life, though by no means as advanced in years as Princess Dolgorukaya had led them to believe. In fact, the man was little older than Porfiry himself, or so he judged. He was dressed carelessly, a silk dressing gown thrown over crumpled trousers and a grubby waistcoat. His shirt lacked a collar and he wore no necktie. Strands of white hair stood up from a naked skull. A stubble of several days’ growth silvered his face.

Lebezyatnikov clutched a large, far-from-clean handkerchief in one hand, which he dabbed to his rheumy eyes. ‘Forgive my appearance. I was not expecting guests. They told me I didn’t have time to dress. Quelle dommage! I appear before you en deshabille . And you are magistrates, they tell me.’

‘That is perfectly alright. You are Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov?’

The Princess’s anxiety about the effect of questions on her protege’s nerves was borne out. ‘What? What is this? Good Heavens. I never. Am I Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov? My good sir! What kind of a question is that? If I am not, then I do not know who I am. And even if I am, then perhaps the same may be said. Am I Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov indeed! How is one to begin to answer such a question?’

‘A simple yes will suffice.’

‘Oh, but will it? Will it, indeed? Let us say, for the sake of argument, that I possess the name you mentioned. Where does that get us? Does it get us any closer to understanding the essential man behind the name? I am more than just a name, I hope, even if that name be Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov.’

‘But that is your name?’

Lebezyatnikov held his finger down the length of his nose and inhaled noisily. ‘I prefer that question.’