R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

The woman who had done most of the talking was the first to go, making a beeline for a solitary man whose drunken swerve marked him out as easy pickings. She paused only to cross herself as she passed the Church of the Assumption.

Soon only one of them remained. She was left holding the photograph of Raisa, her head bowed over it.

‘I remember her,’ she said. When at last she lifted her face, Salytov saw that her eyes were moist with tears.

‘Raisa. That was her name. She came from a good family, didn’t she? Yes, she was a nice girl, a good girl, really she was. I can see the way you’re looking at me, but believe me, it’s true. It happens, you know. Girls fall on hard times. Their families forsake them. What else are they to do?’

‘Nonsense. They have many options. They could enter service. If she was from a good family, and educated, why could she not have become a governess? Are you telling me that because she was too proud to find work as a seamstress, she became a whore instead? Only the lazy and the wicked go down your path.’

‘But there are many small steps on to it. Sometimes a girl finds herself friendless, that’s somehow worse than penniless and homeless. You have to imagine the depths of despair.’

‘Depravity!’

‘No. Despair. Then, at last, she finds a friend, or so it seems. She is taken in by a kindly soul who understands everything. She is given a bed, food, warmth, and nothing is asked of her in return. At least not at first. More and more she finds herself in the debt of this kindly soul, whose name may be Madam Josephine, or Fräulein Keller, or some such. She is reassured daily not to give the mounting debt another thought. Perhaps there are practical measures, not to mention expenses, that the girl needs help with. There is a way of getting into trouble that only girls have. These kindly souls know all the remedies. Then the day comes when the poor lost girl no longer feels herself poor or lost. She feels herself strong and ready to go out into the world again. But now she is reminded of the debt. Her ingratitude is thrown back at her. “But what can I do?” she asks. “I have no way to repay you. I have no money.” “There is a way,” says the kindly soul. And so begins her education. There will be tears, no doubt. But no one will hear them. In the meantime, the debt increases. It always increases, no matter how hard the girl works. And she begins to see herself as a spoiled, worthless creature with no way out, no life of her own, and more alone than she has ever been.

‘That was Raisa’s story, but not the whole of it. It did not end for her as it did for so many others. As it will for me. She got out. She met a man. A gentleman. He came to Madam Josephine’s and saw something in her eyes that moved him. He got her to tell him her story and was moved by that too. He slept with her, of course. He was not such a saint as to forgo that privilege. He promised her money to buy off Madam Josephine. It was not such a large sum as all that, though any sum is large when you have nothing. He gave her more. His address and the promise of another life. She left to find him. And the day she left was the last time I ever saw her. Tell me, is she happy now, do you know?’

‘She’s dead. It’s thought her husband killed her.’

The Vakhramevs’ apartment was in a respectably solid building on Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street, around the corner from 22 Nevsky Prospekt. Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged a startled look as they walked past that address, though neither felt inclined to comment.

‘These nights are deceiving,’ said Porfiry, looking at his pocket watch. ‘I always think it is earlier than it is. There is no need for you to come with me, you know. It is long past the hour when you are required to attend me.’ Porfiry’s tone became solicitous: ‘You may go home, Pavel Pavlovich.’

‘No,’ said Virginsky. ‘There is nothing for me there.’

‘But isn’t your father still in Petersburg? Would not he and your stepmother appreciate a visit from you?’

‘That can wait.’

‘As you wish.’

They walked in silence along Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street.

‘Will there be anyone in the apartment?’ asked Virginsky at last.

‘No. The household, apart from Vakhramev himself, have removed to Pavlovsk. Vakhramev, as you know, is the guest of our esteemed superior, the Prokuror Liputin.’

‘Is it right, do you think, the way that between you, you drove a coach and horses through the justice system? Simply because he is a friend of the prokuror , he is allowed to go free. It is a pity that I did not have such friends when I was in a similar predicament.’

‘I am confident that Ruslan Vladimirovich will not abscond.’

‘That has not answered my question.’

‘Very well. Let me say that it is right, it is very right and proper that a friend of the prokuror , or to be more accurate, the husband of a friend of the prokuror ’s wife, should receive preferential treatment in this way. It is right because it is necessary. What is necessary is always right. Is that not so?’

‘But it isn’t fair.’

‘Ah, Pavel Pavlovich, how are we to cure you of this morbid preoccupation with fairness?’ Porfiry looked up at the precise geometric facade of the street, following the upward lines of the windows to the pale sky. ‘This is the one, I think.’

They climbed to the first landing. A brass plaque on the wall beside the white double panelled door announced Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev . Porfiry Petrovich placed the key in the lock and looked at Virginsky, who felt again the thrill of transgression that he had experienced reading the letters in Meyer’s study.

‘Where did you get the key?’ he asked as Porfiry opened the door.

‘Vakhramev supplied it. He had little choice.’

‘But does he know what we are looking for?’

Porfiry shook his head as he closed the door. ‘Neither is he aware that we know where to find it.’

There was an air of stagnant domesticity about the flat. The aroma of a recent meal, or possibly the accumulation of many such aromas, lingered in the entrance hall. A stand by the door was fully charged with canes and umbrellas. The floor was of worn painted boards and the walls were papered with a dull geometric design, reminiscent of masonry. The entrance hall was L-SHAPED and doors led off from every side.

Porfiry opened one door to the left. ‘Kitchen and washroom through there. And servants’ quarters beyond, presumably. So. . let us try this one.’

They entered a drawing room. The same wallpaper continued in here. A broad metal stovepipe running almost the full height of the room cut into the wall. There was a sofa with a table pushed up against it. The table had a cloth over it and an oil lamp in the centre. Virginsky had the sense of the social gatherings that had taken place around it, and imagined the ghost-like faces of the family turning in surprise as they entered. The shadowless dusk of a summer night lay like a soft filter over everything. It seemed to be a third presence in the room with them, and Virginsky felt the need to speak to dispel it.

‘We are like thieves in the night.’

Porfiry seemed surprised by the remark. ‘It is a necessary part of the job, I am afraid. This is what we deal in. People’s lives. In the course of your work, you will discover far more about people than you would wish to know. If this makes you uncomfortable, then I fear that the role of an investigator may not be suited to you, after all.’

‘Are you not uncomfortable?’

Porfiry gave the impression of being even more taken aback.

‘Or do you, perhaps, relish it?’

‘Relish? No. I do not believe there is any prurient element to my constitution, if that is what you’re implying. It is merely necessary, as I said.’