R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘Yes, although in Kozodavlev’s defence, it is probably fair to say that he was desperate in the extreme. This man intended to kill him. Somehow, he managed to get the better of him, but he knew that Dyavol would never let it rest there. He would send another assassin, and another, if necessary. He saw an opportunity to make his enemy believe that he was the one who had perished in the fire, which was after all what Dyavol was expecting to hear. And so, in order to render the dead man unidentifiable, he set the fire, disguising himself as his attacker to make his escape.’

‘Dyavol? The Devil is involved in this?’

‘I mean Tatiscev. That was what our people called him.’

Major Verkhotsev laid down the paper and rolled one of his moustaches thoughtfully. ‘You know, we are always on the lookout for clever young men here in the Third Section. If it should prove problematic for you to return to the Department of Justice, our door is open. I imagine it will not be the same working there without Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘He is not dead yet!’

‘You do not have to make a decision now. Think about it. In the meantime, my wife and I — and Maria Petrovna, of course — would be delighted to see you at one of our at-homes soon. If you have a moment, I shall find you a card.’

‘You mean I am free to go?’

‘Of course. You have given a satisfactory account of yourself.’

Virginsky seemed stunned. ‘But what if I were to tell you that I really did wish the Tsar dead?’

Major Verkhotsev had found the card with the address of his family residence. He held it out to Virginsky. ‘There you are. We are at home every Thursday.’

‘Did you not hear what I said?’

Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘Evidently not.’ He held out a hand to Virginsky. ‘Until we meet again, Pavel Pavlovich, goodbye.’

‘Will I be safe? From Dyavol?’

‘You mean Tatiscev?’

‘I don’t know. Dolgoruky claimed that he was haunted by a devil. Perhaps the same will happen to me now. They blamed me for Dolgoruky’s death, you know. Which means I must also be responsible for his mother’s. And if Porfiry dies. .’

‘You have nothing to fear from Tatiscev. His main concern now will be to flee the country.’

‘And from the Devil?’

‘My dear fellow, you’re one of the new generation. A rationalist. A young man with a scientific outlook. You must simply tell yourself that devils do not exist.’

Virginsky ran a hand over his face. ‘I will try.’

Major Verkhotsev nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s the spirit. Now, I imagine you wish to go straight to see Porfiry Petrovich? He is at the Obukhovksy Hospital. I will have you taken there.’

‘If it is permitted, I would rather walk. Alone.’

‘Yes, of course. But, please, don’t do anything silly on the way. I don’t want to be fishing your hat out of the river.’

‘I’m not wearing a hat.’

Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘Just as well.’

*

The Fontanka river stretched out in front of him between parallel embankments, unnaturally straight, like a vast bolt of fabric unrolled. It was a shimmering cloth, made up of many subtle colours. In the peaks of its rippling surface, an incarnadine glow danced over oily depths. The river seemed somehow wider than he remembered it, as if the quality of distance had changed in the period of his strange confinement. Everything now was further away, it seemed; in particular, the barriers that divided the city had increased. And at its heart, of course, the city was emptier now, immeasurably emptier.

Across the river he saw the peculiar pseudo-medieval construction of the Mikhailovsky Castle, now the School of Engineering. He thought of the sons sent there by their fathers to acquire a useful profession, imprisoned in that red fortress by vicarious ambition. And yet, somehow, he envied them the certainty and security that such a start in life promised. He wondered if there was a young man standing at one of its windows, viewing him with an equal but opposite envy.

The day was mercilessly bright, spring asserting itself with the insensitivity of the eternally recurring. The sun knew nothing of his suffering. He wondered vaguely how many days had passed since it had all begun. All he could decide with any confidence was that it must be May.

The shriek of a solitary gull ripped the sky. It was a plangent sound, bearing hope away, as if it were a fish snatched from the Bay of Finland.

He thought of Major Verkhotsev’s last words to him. The prospect of disappearing from his life held an undeniable allure at that moment. But the river’s expanse did not tempt him to suicide. No, what appealed to him was the idea of leaving a hat on the ground, with a suitable note tucked into the band, and slipping away to start a new life, with a new name, somewhere far from where he was standing now. But the trouble was that he would always want to be far from wherever he was standing.

The city’s emptiness poured into him, inexplicably weighing him down. He could not understand how the core of him could feel so heavy when he knew it contained only an expanding vacuum.

It was at that moment that he first had the sense of someone, or something, standing behind him, watching him. He did not turn round. If there was someone there, the chances were that it was a Third Section spy. But surely Verkhotsev would not be as unsubtle as that? he thought. Or perhaps that was the essence of his subtlety, to order a surveillance operation so implausibly unsubtle that Virginsky was bound not to believe in it? At any rate, if it was a spy, Virginsky judged it best not to reveal that he knew he was under surveillance. He would retain the advantage if he led the other to believe that his presence was not suspected.

In fact, Virginsky’s instinct was that his watcher had not come from Fontanka, 16. Indeed, he found it hard to admit where he thought it had come from, or what he thought it was. But his thoughts were accumulating around the conversation he had had with Dolgoruky about a demon. And now Virginsky’s refusal to turn round came not from cunning, but from fear.

He turned to his left and started walking along the Fontanka Embankment in the direction of the Obukhovsky Hospital. He heard no footsteps, but he was dogged by the sense of another following him. The further he progressed, the more real that sense became.

He counted his steps, straining to hear an echo of his own footfall that would confirm the reality of the entity tracking him. But if there was a man behind him, his steps were perfectly synchronised with Virginsky’s.

At the tenth step, he halted, and of course there was only silence. He set off again, and halted again, this time after a further thirteen steps. Again, silence. His follower was either able to guess exactly when he was going to stop, or made no sound as he tracked Virginsky. But the sense that he was being tracked did not diminish.

*

Porfiry’s breathing was shallow and uneven. Each breath when it came seemed like an epic victory. It left him as wearied as if he had wrestled an angel to the earth.

His eyes were closed, bulging blindly in dark sockets. The change in his physical form since the last time Virginsky had seen him was shocking. His cheeks, one of which was padded with a thick dressing, were sunken. Silver stubble over his face added twenty years to his age, or perhaps revealed his true age for the first time. The hair on his head grew in white wispy clumps, exaggerating the irregular shape of his skull, its strange protuberances seemingly forced out by the peculiar ratiocinations that occurred within. As for the rest of the body, it was hard to believe that the shrunken form beneath the covers had ever once been Porfiry Petrovich. There was nothing left of his considerable paunch. It seemed to have melted away in a fever along with the muscles of his arms and legs.