R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘That is no business of yours. And no business of Tolya’s to do this thing. You will pay now. Forty kopeks.’

‘Ah! How insignificant a sum for men of enterprise and industry such as ourselves. A mere forty kopeks! Fräulein, shame on you, for presuming that we were unable to pay this paltry sum.’

‘Pay it then!’

‘Pay it then! Pay it then! she cries, giving voice to my very intention. It is as if you have read my mind. How could I not pay it? I am a man of honour. It is easier for me to throw myself into the raging Neva than to walk out of here without paying.’

‘I am waiting.’

‘And so am I, Fräulein. I am waiting, indeed, for my associate, Stepan Stepanovich, to return having completed a certain business transaction destined to release the required funds. To be candid, it had been our intention to conduct the necessary dealings prior to coming into your establishment, but we were tempted from the righteous path, as it were, by the sight of your beauteous and, if I may say so, bountiful sweetmeats. Fräulein, you have only yourself to blame. Are we not men? That is to say, mortals? Weak, imperfect. I make no claim to perfection, Fräulein. None whatsoever. Ask Tolya.’

The woman behind the counter made a contemptuous noise, then bluntly declared: ‘You are thieves! Criminals!’

‘Fräulein! Is it a crime, now, not to be perfect? A mistake, a simple human mistake, Fräulein, that is what we are dealing with here, one which, as we speak, is in the process of rectification.’

The shop door opened and the man with the grubby collar and smudged eyes returned. After some tense and whispered negotiation, which involved the pock-marked man grabbing his collar at one point, he counted out some coins which were then handed over to the unsmiling German woman.

The two men left, the pock-marked one jostling his associate all the way out.

‘They are regular customers?’ asked Salytov after a strangely empty moment.

‘They are friends of Tolya’s. They are no good. Tolya is no good.’

‘Tolya works here?’

‘He is an apprentice confectioner. A bad boy.’

‘Does he assist with the making of the chocolate?’

‘Of course.’

Salytov’s left eyebrow shot up. ‘I see. That is very interesting. I would like to talk to him. After I have had a chance to ask you a few more questions. We were talking about chocolates, weren’t we? I am interested in a man who comes here every Saturday, around lunchtime, to buy a box of Ballet’s chocolates. A fellow countryman of yours. A doctor, he would be dressed in a civil service uniform.’ Salytov took out a notebook and consulted the notes he had made when Porfiry Petrovich briefed him. ‘Clean-shaven. Bespectacled. Thinning, blond hair. Of slight build. Walks with a stoop.’

‘Yes, I know him. That is Dr Meyer.’

Salytov snapped the notebook to. ‘Good. Now you will fetch this Tolya.’ The woman disappeared through a door behind the counter. There was a brief explosion of clattering and clamour in the opening and closing of the door. While she was gone, Salytov looked around at the only remaining customer, who lifted his coffee cup absently, but then replaced it without its reaching his lips. The young man sighed balefully as he turned the page of his newspaper, paying no attention to Salytov.

A lad of about sixteen, with wild hair and staring eyes, burst out through the door to the workshop. He was wearing a white coat, spattered with cocoa dust, which to Salytov’s eye looked at first glance like dried bloodstains.

The German woman followed him through the door, her eye watchful and anxious. It seemed she did not trust the boy, and trusted Salytov less.

‘What do you want?’ demanded the youth, with a sullen glance.

‘What do I want? It is not for you to ask me what I want. It is not for you to ask any questions. I will ask the questions and you will answer them. Is that understood?’

The boy did not answer.

‘Is that under stood ?’ roared Salytov.

‘Why are you shouting? I have done nothing wrong. I am a law-abiding citizen.’ Tolya’s own voice was raised in volume and pitch now. ‘I am supposed to be working. The master will miss me.’

‘You must answer my questions.’

‘You haven’t asked any questions!’ Tolya pointed out in exasperation.

Salytov seemed momentarily thrown by this, which gave Tolya the advantage. However, his smirk at the lieutenant’s discomfiture was a mistake. ‘Get out here now!’ barked Salytov.

Tolya groaned and began to move with resistant lethargy.

‘Now!’

If Tolya hurried his step, it was done only in a token way, and perhaps even sarcastically. When at last he was out from behind the glass counter, Salytov approached him ominously, regarded him for a moment, like a gymnast poised before a manoeuvre, then threw back his hand and slapped the boy square in the face. Tolya’s head was twisted round under the force, and shock, of the blow. A red imprint showed on his cheek when he turned his head back to look at Salytov. His eyes stood out from his face more than ever. With some satisfaction, Salytov noticed these eyes glisten moistly as tears welled in them.

‘You are the one they call Tolya?’

‘Yes.’

‘Full name.’

‘Anatoly Denisovich Masloboyev.’

‘You associate with scoundrels, Anatoly Denisovich. Isn’t that so?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Do you want another slap, boy?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then answer the question.’

‘I. . what was the question, sir?’

‘Do you associate with scoundrels?’

‘No, sir.’

Without warning, Salytov planted another smack on the same side of the youth’s face.

‘Try again.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I have seen your friends and they looked like scoundrels to me. Are they scoundrels?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you a scoundrel, Anatoly Denisovich?’

‘No, sir!’

‘You look like a scoundrel to me.’

‘No, sir! It’s not true.’

‘You have the eyes of a scoundrel. Stop blubbering, boy. It will not help you.’

Tolya wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat and sniffed loudly.

‘Where are you from, Anatoly Denisovich?’

‘The village of Ulyanka, Your Honour.’

‘Ulyanka?’ Salytov’s eyes narrowed coldly. ‘We all know what Ulyanka is famous for. The house at the eleventh verst.’

‘I was never in that place,’ said the boy quickly, emphatically.

Salytov looked at Tolya assessingly. He did not seem to like what he saw. His lip curled almost cruelly. ‘You’re lying.’

‘No, sir, Your Honour. Never. Never set foot in it!’

‘Your passport?’

‘I do not have it with me, Your Honour. It is at my lodgings.’

‘No passport? It is all the more likely that you are a refugee from the house at the eleventh verst then.’

‘I do have a passport, as I explained, Your Honour. I do not have it on me, that’s all. And, believe me, I was never in that place. Not on my own account. It was my mother — ’

‘Your mother is a lunatic?’

‘No, sir, there were lies told about her. My father’s family was cruel. She is dead now, Your Honour. They drove her to it.’

‘A suicide?’

‘They drove her to it!’

‘Let me see your hands.’ The suddenness of Salytov’s request took Tolya off guard. He held out his arms. His hands were surprisingly clean. Salytov slipped the handcuffs on him with the practised deftness of a conjuror. He grasped Tolya firmly under the arm. ‘A suicide and a lunatic for a mother. No passport. These are sufficient grounds for taking you in. Now you,’ Salytov addressed the German woman, ‘get your master out here now. I wish to speak to the owner of this place.’