R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘It was all a long time ago, you understand.’

‘Of course.’

‘I have mended my ways.’

‘Yes.’

‘That man, the man who visited these places, is a stranger to me now. I do not recognise him. I pity those who still have need of such a recourse.’ Vakhramev looked at Porfiry pointedly.

‘Please, all this is understood.’

‘No, I’m not sure that you do understand, sir. I have repented, my God, how I have repented. I have atoned. It has not been something trivial, this atoning. It has not been something I put on like a cloak. It has been an upheaval, sir, a veritable upheaval of the soul. I bared my face to my God. I lay prostrate, my face in the dirt. I told my wife everything too. Everything. I kept a journal, you see, when I was a bachelor. A journal in which every sordid encounter was inscribed. I gave it to her to read — no, I insisted she read it. Before we were married, you understand. To give her one final chance. . to walk away. So that she could know the beast, the unworthy, worthless monster that I was, and escape from me. She was repelled. Disgusted. She hated me. But she — angel! — forgave me. Can you imagine such magnanimity of soul? Can your understanding encompass it? You have never married. I am sorry for you. How can you know of what I speak? She forgave me! But, there was one condition. We were never to speak of it again. I promised, I swore, to destroy the diary. And I would never mention it to another living soul.’

‘Ah, I see. Pity — that you destroyed it.’

Vakhramev looked down at the table, his face quivering with emotion.

‘And you were married. . when?’

Vakhramev lifted his gaze proudly. ‘Nastasya Petrovna and I were married on March the twenty-first, eighteen forty-eight.’

‘So we are twenty years too late to read it.’ Porfiry smiled but watched Vakhramev closely, who once again looked down. ‘My interest in the diary has nothing to do with prurience, you understand, ’ continued Porfiry. ‘It’s just that it might have contained a significant name or two. This Madam Josephine, for instance.’

‘I believe I did go there once,’ said Vakhramev quickly, still not looking at Porfiry.

Porfiry lifted the cover of the folder again and took out the photograph of Raisa Ivanovna Meyer from many years ago that Virginsky had recovered from the dacha. He passed it across the table to Vakhramev. ‘Do you remember ever seeing this woman there?’

Vakhramev studied the photograph. His lips pursed slightly as he did so. And then the hand holding the photograph began to shake. ‘It was a long time ago. I only went there once.’

‘Really?’

‘I swear.’

‘But did you see her there?’

‘I cannot be expected to remember their faces,’ said Vakhramev. His own face became sealed off from further enquiry, as he laid the photograph face down on the table.

‘Is there, do you think, a specifically Russian type of hypocrite? And if so, who would stand as our exemplum of it?’ Porfiry was again looking out of the window, down at the Yekaterininsky Canal, as he had been the morning Virginsky first presented himself at his chambers twelve days ago. He was smoking now, as then.

Virginsky did not answer. It was clear that the questions were asked rhetorically.

‘Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev?’ Porfiry’s voice seemed to come from far away. He turned to face Virginsky, as if he did want an answer after all. He had finished his cigarette.

‘But Vakhramev has confessed to visiting prostitutes. A true hypocrite would not be able to do that, I feel,’ said Virginsky.

‘Yes. He even wrote it all down in a diary for his wife to read. What a charming wedding present that must have made.’

‘I admire him for doing that.’

‘Do not admire him too much. You see, he did not destroy his bachelor diary as he promised her.’

‘How can you know that?’

Porfiry shrugged. ‘How could he have borne to do so? He would have been destroying part of himself.’

‘But what if it was a part of himself he wished to destroy?’

‘Hmm. That is certainly the impression he wished to give to his angelic wife.’

‘I am beginning to wonder, Porfiry Petrovich, whether the only qualification one needs to be an investigating magistrate is a mind as filthy as your hated Ditch out there. That and an ability to suspect everyone of the vilest acts.’

Porfiry half-turned, almost wistfully, back towards the window. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the only reason I don’t like the Ditch is because it reminds me of myself.’

‘You certainly spend long enough staring at it. But why can’t you take Vakhramev’s word that he destroyed the diary?’

‘Because he did not give me his word. He did not say that he had destroyed it at all. He merely said that he had promised his fiancée that he would destroy it. And when I deliberately chose to assume that this meant the diary was destroyed, he became quite embarrassed, and yet did not correct the misapprehension.’

Virginsky angled his head, almost conceding the point, but allowing himself to retain some scepticism. ‘But perhaps there was no misapprehension?’

‘No, no, no,’ said Porfiry shortly. ‘When you have worked in this job as long as I have you will learn to pay especial regard to the precise form of words people choose, particularly suspects.’

‘So you do suspect him of killing Setochkin?’

‘I suspect him of something. I suspect him of lying to his wife. I suspect him of not destroying the diary. I suspect him of continuing to visit prostitutes after his marriage. Despite his deep atonement and repentance. Yes, he continued in that — how shall I describe it? — practice for at least six and possibly seven years after he had abased himself with his face in the mud.’

‘Again, how can you know that?’

‘Because he recognised the photograph of Raisa Ivanovna. From what Meyer said of Raisa Ivanovna’s history, she cannot have worked at Madam Josephine’s for long. A year, possibly two at most. Raisa Ivanovna was already pregnant with Grigory when Martin Meyer married her. Grigory was thirteen at the time of his death. Let us say, then, that Raisa Ivanovna was at Madam Josephine’s fourteen years ago — which is indeed the timescale given in the malicious letter sent to Meyer. The photograph I showed Vakhramev must have been taken soon after then. And yet Vakhramev has been married to his angel for twenty years.’

Virginsky was silent for some time, during which Porfiry lit and began smoking another cigarette. ‘Do they help, the cigarettes, really?’

Porfiry held the case out towards Virginsky, who nodded once and took one. He coughed three times as Porfiry lit it for him, then held the cigarette away from his face and studied the burning tip. ‘You said you were not here to judge him, but that is what you have done. Despite the fact that you yourself have confessed to identical peccadilloes.’

‘What peccadilloes have I confessed to?’ Porfiry narrowed his eyes.

‘To visiting brothels. You said that you have visited brothels.’

‘I said that I had visited one establishment. Fräulein Keller’s. I went there once — no, actually, twice I think it was — in the course of the investigation during which you and I first became acquainted, Pavel Pavlovich.’

Virginsky gingerly attempted another inhalation. ‘So how do you?’

Porfiry met the question with an innocent blink.

‘Deal with the issue of needs?’

Porfiry looked at Virginsky thoughtfully but did not seem inclined to provide an answer. At any rate, there was a knock at the door and Zamyotov came in, as usual without waiting to be admitted.

‘There are some females here. .’ His emphasis was one of disapproval, outrage almost. ‘They claim to be connected with that individual Vakhramev.’