R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘That is the way of investigators.’ Porfiry smiled apologetically. ‘It is rather distasteful, I know, but it is a habit we fall into. Sometimes I am quite ashamed of myself. Of course, with a man of your intelligence such crude methods will not work. I do apologise. From now on I will conduct myself in a more straightforward manner. So — where were we? I believe that talking to that fellow Bezmygin has rather confused me. I have to say, I found him an unsympathetic type. Rather unsavoury, in many ways. I can understand how uncomfortable it must have been for you to witness his friendship with your wife. I find that such people have a habit of making vulgar insinuations that — regrettably — one cannot get out of one’s mind. According to Bezmygin, the letter provides you with a motive. Your sense of betrayal. You stewed on it for a couple of months. All the time, the poison of this spiteful missive was festering away in your mind. And then you could bear it no longer. You killed her.’

‘It is rather a weak motive, is it not? What did I stand to gain from it?’

‘Of course, one really shouldn’t pay any attention to what that type of man says, but according to Bezmygin — how I hate to say those words — you wanted her out of the way so that you could continue your affair with Polina.’

Meyer narrowed his eyes, then shook his head slowly, without surprise or vehemence. ‘No,’ was all he said. He spoke the denial calmly, almost questioningly, with a strange detachment, as though he were examining the contents of his heart through a microscope before deciding.

‘I’m afraid that’s how it will look to a jury.’

‘That’s how you will make it look.’

Porfiry stubbed out his cigarette. ‘So, there is nothing in it? This fairy tale of Bezmygin’s, about you and the girl? That will teach me. Really I should have known better than to listen to such an obviously self-seeking individual.’ Porfiry paused for a moment before continuing: ‘However, unfortunately, once something has been said, no matter how unreliable the person saying it, it is difficult to discount it utterly. Do you not find? One has to follow these things up. And so, we will have to talk to Polina, I’m afraid. It is just a formality, you understand, merely to confirm that which we know already. It is always better, when countering these slurs, if one can point to a number of consistent rebuttals.’

‘There is some. .’ The sentence trailed off. Meyer looked down. ‘Truth,’ he said abruptly, as if it was something he had just spotted on the table. He looked up forlornly at Porfiry. ‘I did make advances to Polina.’

‘I. . see.’

‘A kind of temporary insanity came over me. It was absurd. I could do nothing. Her beauty. I was possessed.’

‘And how did Polina react to your advances?’

Meyer’s wan face crimsoned.

‘They can be very cruel, these girls,’ said Porfiry sympathetically.

‘It is humiliating sometimes to be a man. Is there really any need to talk to her though? It is a tawdry and quite ordinary story. Nothing came of it. Except. . she used her power over me in ways you can probably imagine. Promise me you won’t bother her with this.’

‘Let us talk of it no more,’ said Porfiry. ‘I think you loved Raisa Ivanovna very much, once. In the same way. You must have done. You were prepared to overlook her condition when you met her. You must have known she was not a virgin. You are a doctor, after all.’

‘Yes, I knew. And I overlooked it. To do so was consistent with my ideas at the time. And, yes, you’re right. I did love her. At least I deluded myself into believing so. That is to say, I fell victim to the insanity of romantic longings and was fool enough to find happiness in their fulfilment. It is a sickness, nothing more, this whole business of love. A mental disorder. And the act. The truth of it is quite disgusting. A question of physical needs, to which the male and the female are both subject. But because we cannot bear to confront the truth of our animal natures, we cover it in the trappings of romance. Or we reduce it to a commercial transaction. No doubt we are very civilised in doing this.’

‘I take it from your tone that you do not think much of being civilised.’

‘It is all hypocrisy. And I am the greatest hypocrite of them all.’

‘You are perhaps too hard on yourself.’

Meyer laughed thinly. ‘Please! I am only accusing myself of hypocrisy. You are accusing me of murder.’ The laughter went from his eyes. A slight tremor flickered across his face and a mantle of loneliness seemed to settle on him.

‘What is it now?’ muttered Yegor as he shuffled along the hallway of Colonel Setochkin’s apartment towards the relentless pounding that threatened the integrity of their door. It had been a morning of interruptions. That busybody from the department of whatever it was, with his constant comings and goings, had driven him almost to distraction. So the drains stank — didn’t the drains stink every summer? What did the fellow hope to achieve going in and out of people’s homes and sniffing the air? If this was him again, come to fill up more of his bottles with their water, the water Yegor himself had drawn from the Neva — if so, he’d get more than he bargained for this time.

‘All right! All right!’ Yegor shouted. ‘I’ve heard you. Give me a chance. I’m not as young as I used to be.’ This overlooked the fact that even in his youth Yegor had not been one to hurry in the fulfilment of his duties. In those days he had been Colonel Setochkin’s batman, when they had served together in the Izmailovsky regiment. What a fool the colonel had been to resign his commission. There wasn’t a day went by when Yegor didn’t have cause to bemoan the change in their fortunes. Look at them now, stuck in this stifling apartment over the summer when the cream of society had long since left for the country. But the invitations ceased to come soon after Setochkin left the regiment. At the time there had been some suggestion of the old dog having no choice in the matter, scandalous rumours about missing regimental funds, a gambling debt, and the major’s daughter. There was always somebody’s daughter — or even wife — mixed up in things. But the master had always managed to worm his way out of such predicaments in the past. Ah well, there was never a dull moment with Setochkin. He had to give the rascal that.

Yegor smiled in begrudging admiration as he threw back the bolts. No sooner had he turned the handle than the door was pushed back into his face.

‘Where is he? Where is that villain?’ A middle-aged man with a cane in one hand bustled past Yegor. His silvered whiskers gleamed against the pink flush of his complexion. His eyes stood out in indignation.

‘Be careful who you are calling a villain!’ For all his master’s foibles, Yegor felt instinctively drawn to his defence.

‘Let there be no mistake about it. It is Setochkin I am calling a villain. And I will do so to his face.’ By now the irate gentleman was some way down the corridor. He struck each door he passed with his cane as if to beat Setochkin out of cover. ‘Let him come out! Let the coward show himself!’

‘By God!’ cried Yegor. ‘You cannot come here buffeting our walls and calling out names. Who do you think you are?’

‘I will tell you who I am. I am Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev.’

At this point one of the doors that Vakhramev had struck opened and a man of about forty-five, still in his dressing gown, appeared, blinking, bleary-eyed.

‘What the devil is this all about?’