R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘Ah, dear, sweet Konstantinka. Little Koka.’

‘He didn’t seem so little to me.’

‘Not now, but when I taught him.’

‘Ah, I see. You. .’

‘I was his tutor for many years. In his boyhood. . You may say I stood in loco parentis , or more accurately in loco patris . His father died when he was an infant. Yevgenia Alexeevna. . she. . has a heart of gold, that woman.’

‘Yes, of course, it goes without saying.’

‘Her heart was in the right place, but it has to be said that she did not understand how to bring up a boy.’

‘I see.’

‘She was his mother, but she left much of his upbringing to me. It may be said that I was his solitary guiding influence during his formative years.’

‘Oh. . that is a great responsibility.’

‘A burden! But I saw it as my duty, and I fulfilled my duty to the utmost of my abilities. In all conscience, I did the best I could for that boy.’

‘I’m sure you did.’ Porfiry smiled uneasily. ‘Prince Dolgoruky — ’

‘My dear Kostyasha!’

‘Your dear Kostyasha. . acted as an intermediary — as a kind of agent, we might say — between Kozodavlev and the publisher of the articles against you. Without doubt, he profited from the transaction. He facilitated their publication.’

Lebezyatnikov let out a bleating cry and fell back in an affected swoon. ‘You drive a dagger into my heart! A dagger, sir! And my heart is not metallic. Oh no, my heart is all too weak and fleshly.’ Lebezyatnikov’s gaze veered wildly, and then he seemed to fix on a distant point. Some kind of realisation came over him. ‘I am to blame. I am to blame for everything.’ He spoke quietly, though his voice was strangely firm. For all his absurdity and self-deception, he did not baulk at confronting this single devastating truth.

‘Professor Tatiscev.’ Porfiry simply said the name, and left it hanging there.

Lebezyatnikov turned a bewildered expression on Porfiry. ‘What about him?’

‘According to Kozodavlev, he is to blame for everything.’

‘But that makes no sense.’ Lebezyatnikov frowned at Porfiry. Then his expression became wary and sealed.

‘Kozodavlev called him the Devil’s Professor.’

‘But Kozodavlev was an atheist.’

‘And Prince Dolgoruky is hounded by the Devil.’

‘He is an atheist too. I made sure of that. I taught him to turn his back on all such superstitious nonsense.’

‘Even so, he sees the Devil. Perhaps that is proof of the Devil’s existence, if he can be seen by a man who does not believe in him.’

‘The Devil is a pervasive delusion.’

‘There is something else I wish to tell you about Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘Something worse? You have saved the worst till last?’

‘He had printed a certain document, accusing himself of a number of crimes.’

Lebezyatnikov frowned darkly as he considered this information. Then his face suddenly lit up. ‘It is his conscience! The boy has printed up his conscience! He acknowledges his crimes against me, and seeks forgiveness. There is hope!’

But Lebezyatnikov’s face, in the aftermath of this assertion, was the most pathetic that Porfiry had ever seen. Behind the mask of optimism, the eyes showed utter desolation. The vaunted hope was nowhere to be seen.

The further they got from Bolshaya Street, the muddier the streets became, and the more disreputable the dwellings. Most of these were tumbledown wooden hovels.

The Petersburg Quarter had once been the heart of the city, its streets lined with the homes of the wealthy and well-to-do. Peter the Great had built his first palace here, albeit a modest one, as an example to his nobles. But the rich had followed the power south, across the river, closer to the heart, rather than the edge, of Russia. They had left the bleak northern quarter, the unpropitious territory reclaimed from Finnish swamps, to be colonised by the poor.

The streets were mostly unpaved, many not even boarded. Compared to the broad, brightly lit avenues of more southern districts, these were mean, dark, dangerous alleys. In places, the area could feel like nothing more than a maze of filthy dead ends.

Tolya directed the drozhki driver down a boarded thoroughfare, which, in the absence of an official name, had been dubbed Raznochinnyi Street — the street of the classless ones . The wheels clanked over the loose planks. They bounced in its wake like the bars of one of Gusikov’s xylophones. At the far end of the street was Dunkin Lane, more a swamp of conjoined puddles, down which the driver quite sensibly declined to venture.

At Tolya’s lead, they walked a short distance down Dunkin Lane, pulling their feet high with each step to free them from the clinging mud. Tolya stopped in front of a house that had once, fifty or so years ago, been a pleasant enough timber cabin. He studied the yellow nameplate on the gate. ‘Yes, this is the place. The residence of the retired Arab.’

Salytov glowered at the nameplate. ‘What does that mean? The residence of the retired Arab?’

‘The gentleman who owns the house, Ivan Ivanovich — he is a retired Arab. That’s how I can be sure we have come to the right place.’

‘What in God’s name is a retired Arab?’

‘I don’t know. It was once explained to me but. .’ Tolya trailed off despondently.

‘Right. We will get to the bottom of this.’ Salytov hammered on the gate with his cane. There was no bell.

Tolya took a couple of tentative steps backwards, away from the house, keeping his eyes on Salytov all the time.

‘Where do you think you’re going, lad?’

‘I’ve brought you here. You don’t need me anymore.’

‘Oh no you don’t. Only when I have Rakitin in my hands will I think of letting you go.’

‘But he may not be here.’

‘You had better hope that he is.’

An old gentleman, as pale as a candle from head to toe, dressed as he was in a white dressing gown and white tarboosh , came out from the house to open the gate for them. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Are you the owner of the house?’ demanded Salytov sceptically.

‘I am.’

‘The retired Arab?’

‘That is correct.’

‘You do not look like an Arab. Your skin is whiter than mine.’

‘I am not an Arab by race. But I am one officially, you see.’

‘No, I do not see. Some kind of fraud has been perpetrated here, I’ll warrant.’

‘No fraud. My transformation to Arabhood was sanctioned by the authorities. I went through all the proper channels. It was my wife’s idea. She heard that Arabs are retired from the service with twice the pension of ordinary Russians. “Ask them if you can retire as an Arab,” she said. And so I did. I put forward a petition, stating my reasons — ’

‘Reasons? What reasons could you possibly have?’

‘Well, my main reason was that I could do with the extra money.’

‘That is a reason any of us could put forward!’

‘There is nothing to stop you.’

‘And your petition was granted?’ Salytov was incredulous.

‘My boss took pity on me. To be honest, I think the idea amused him. At any rate, he put me down on the rolls as an Arab and I retired on an Arab’s pension. I recommend it, sir, when the time comes for you to retire.’

‘I will not pass myself off as an Arab, not for any money.’

‘It’s twice the pension.’

‘Enough!’ barked Salytov. ‘We have come for Rakitin. Does he still reside with you?’

‘He does.’

‘And is he at home today?’

‘I have not seen him go out, your Honour.’

Salytov gave a nod of satisfaction. But the look he turned on Tolya was entirely devoid of mercy.