R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘Dead? Really? Let me see!’

‘There will be time for that later. Now.’ Her hands were on him again, exploring, guiding, compelling. Pulling away at the fastenings of his clothes. His hands were quick to reciprocate. It seemed an immense privilege to touch those coarse peasant clothes, as if he was being allowed to share in something deeply personal to her, as if his fingers were alighting on her mind. If he had been moved at the sight of the clothes, his feelings now, as he probed and peeled away their layers, were almost too much for him to bear.

And then the fact of her beauty — her complete beauty, revealed to him without shame or affectation, simple, absolute — was overwhelming. Most affecting of all was the trust that it implied. When he had been denied so much, to be granted this — the tears rose to his eyes. He dared not touch her naked beauty. She had to take his hands and guide him.

She pulled him down onto her, onto the sofa, into her, and the release from all his suffering came immediately, and he was shaking with tears of gratitude and fear, sobbing himself into her, a sobbing that came from the deepest part of him. And she held him and soothed him and stroked his hair.

She was more experienced than him, and her experience frightened him. But she put him at his ease and her hands resumed their exploration of his body, and he felt himself want her again, but without the desperate urgency of before: more calmly, more completely, knowing somehow that they had all the time in the world, and that she wouldn’t be taken from him, and that they were not just lovers but also equals in their love.

Once more, time meant nothing to him. A lifetime was lived, and everything that could be said or done in a lifetime was said and done.

At the end of that lifetime, she began to get dressed. He watched her in silence, and a strange, appalling grief gripped his heart, as if every item of clothing that she put on removed a part of her from him for ever. At the end of her dressing, she turned to him with a tender smile. ‘Come. You must get dressed too. Dyavol will see you now!’

‘Dyavol?’

‘Yes, of course! You have proven yourself. You killed Porfiry Petrovich.’

It was as if the words she spoke were true. The grief took him over completely now. He wept.

‘My God, you’re crying like a baby! If this is how you are when you get what you desire! Don’t worry, my darling, everything has worked out perfectly. I always had absolute faith in you. Dyavol is very eager to meet you. The central committee. .’

‘I don’t care about that.’

‘Oh, please don’t look at me like that!’

‘Hold me, Tanya.’

‘There is no time. We must not keep Dyavol waiting.’

‘You and Totsky — did you? What we have just done — have you done it with him?’

A pinch of displeasure constricted Tatyana Ruslanovna’s face. ‘I will not lie to you. Therefore, I beg you, do not ask me such questions.’

Virginsky began to dress with quick stabbing movements, his face an angry, raw pink above his full beard.

*

Even so, despite his unhappiness, he could not resist going with her, silent and resentful at her side. To his surprise, he discovered that she had hired a closed carriage, which was waiting outside. It was an undemocratic luxury perhaps, but she considered it warranted, given that the death of Porfiry Petrovich would rekindle the authorities’ efforts to capture him. Naturally, Virginsky did not believe in that death. But even if he had felt like talking, he could say nothing to disabuse her.

For her part, Tatyana Ruslanovna seemed determined to make it up to Virginsky. She repeatedly referred to him as a hero of the cause, saying that he, more than anyone, deserved to ride in such a carriage. She clung onto his arm as if she believed it was in danger of being snatched away by thieves. Virginsky tried half-heartedly to wrest himself from her, his body tense with the contortions of his misery. But she pulled him back to her, with confident ease, nestling her head on his shoulder.

The carriage drew up on the Admiralty Quay. The Bolshaya Neva was freely flowing now, a vein of glistening darkness glutted with boats of every size. Across the water, the narrow end of the long university building was visible. He knew from his days as a student that a ferry left from where they had pulled up, and crossed directly to the University Quay on the other side, before heading onwards downstream past the Strelka.

Virginsky looked questioningly into Tatyana Ruslanovna’s eyes. Her gaze offered no answer and so he made to get out. She pulled him back. ‘No. You are to stay here. I will get out. But before I leave you, there is something I am obliged to do.’ There was a mischievous, almost cruel quality to her smile now. Virginsky felt a sudden pounding dread. She produced from her reticule a strip of black cloth. ‘You are to meet Dyavol,’ she explained. ‘But you are not to see him.’ The mischief in her smile softened, and he was no longer afraid. The renewed tenderness of her smile was the last thing he saw before the blindfold went on.

He heard the creak of the door and felt the bounce in the carriage’s springs as she got out. A moment later, the bounce was repeated, though this time it was deeper and more prolonged. The presence in the carriage beside him settled back. The door clicked to as the carriage was sealed.

‘ Good day, Pavel Pavlovich. ’ The greeting was whispered, a breath away from inaudibility, rendering impossible any attempt to identify the speaker. Even so, Virginsky had the impression he had heard that voice before.

‘Dyavol?’

Virginsky felt the jolt of the carriage pulling away.

‘You are to be congratulated,’ continued the whisper. At least that was what Virginsky thought he heard; with the steady cascade of hooves in the background, it was even harder to make out what was being said.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Virginsky. ‘I can barely hear you! Why must I wear this blindfold?’ His hands went up to loosen the cloth, but were restrained.

‘We must still take precautions. For your benefit, as much as mine.’ The man spoke more clearly now, though it seemed he was disguising his natural voice. ‘If you are caught, the less you know, the less you can give away. Still and all, we must do all we can to ensure that you are not caught. We will get you out of the country. Switzerland. Our people there will look after you.’

‘ Still and all? Is it you, Botkin?’

Dyavol laughed. His laughter was the ordinary laughter of an ordinary man, unexpectedly amused. ‘Please, don’t insult me!’

‘You said “still and all”. That is one of Botkin’s characteristic phrases.’

‘I believe it is a common enough phrase. Besides, all our people have come under my influence, sometimes unconsciously.’

‘Yes, I heard Varvara Alexeevna use it once.’

‘There! I hope you will not accuse me of being Varvara Alexeevna!’

‘No. You are not Varvara Alexeevna.’ Virginsky waited a moment before committing himself: ‘You are Alexander Glebovich Tatiscev.’

‘Ah, my friend. I do wish you hadn’t said that.’ There was a note of sadness in the voice, but it was undisguised now, and clearly recognisable as that of Virginsky’s old professor.

‘May I not remove the blindfold?’

‘No. There are others here whom it would be better you did not see.’

‘Others?’

‘One other, let us say. A witness to our conversation, who will remain silent and report back to the central committee. I do not act on my own, you know. I am accountable.’

‘I thought you were the central committee,’ said Virginsky. More wistfully, he added, ‘At least now we may talk to one another naturally.’