R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘Give me the book,’ said Vakhramev. He turned to the last entry. ‘I do not remember in all honesty whether this Raisa is the woman you showed me in that photograph. Her face did seem familiar, I confess. It awoke some memory. But there were so many of them, you know. It gives me no pleasure to say that. However. .’ Vakhramev tapped the page decisively. ‘I do remember the night in question. There had been a dinner in honour of Devushkin, who was leaving St Petersburg the following day for the Caucasus. Myself and Golyadkin were invited, but Golyadkin turned up with this other fellow. An old schoolfriend of his.’

‘The Uninvited One?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was his real name?’

‘I don’t remember. Or rather, I’m not sure I ever knew. He called himself the “Uninvited One”, you see, out of a perverse pride. “You don’t want me here,” he said. “But here I am.” He did his best to insult us all. Particularly Devushkin, whose party it was. After the dinner, in the course of which, if I remember rightly, he as good as challenged Devushkin to a duel — Devushkin laughed it off, of course, which only infuriated him the more — yes, after the dinner, we tried to shake him off. We pretended that the party was breaking up but we met again and took a cab to Madam Josephine’s. I had never been to that particular brothel before. It was a favourite haunt of Devushkin’s. Well, somehow, he, the Uninvited One, got wind of our plot and followed us there. He had the effrontery to demand we pay his cabdriver. Strange how all the details do come back to one. Well, he was drunk. We were all drunk and getting drunker. There was a terrible scene. Madam Josephine tried to calm things down. She offered him a new girl. Or at least Madam Josephine said she was a new girl. Can one ever believe what they say? I wonder, do you have that photograph still?’

Porfiry reached a hand into a pocket and produced Raisa’s picture.

‘I do believe that was her, you know. Yes, I’m almost certain of it. You have to realise that the light in those places was never very bright. But I remember how I felt looking at her — I feel the same thing now. I remember, you see, thinking at the time, “That girl is from a good family. That girl is afraid. How on earth did she end up here?” And I thought of my own daughter, Tatyana, who must have been five or six at the time. Do you know you can buy girls that young, perfectly legally, in the Haymarket?’

‘Please continue,’ said Porfiry.

‘Well, I looked at her and I looked at him , and I saw something horrible in his eyes, something that I knew was in my own eyes too. And that was when it ended. I swear to you that was when it ended.’

‘Do you remember if this man promised her money to buy her way out of the brothel? If he promised her a better life?’

‘Yes! That was it! He was determined to show himself better than us. It was a way of insulting us, that was all. He had no intention of going through with it.’

‘We picked up a report that this is what happened to Raisa. It would rather suggest that we are talking about the same woman.’ Porfiry’s hand delved into another pocket. He held out a photograph of Martin Meyer recovered from the escritoire in the dacha. ‘Was this the man? Is he the Uninvited One?’

Vakhramev frowned at the picture. ‘No. Not him. I am sure of it.’

Porfiry nodded. ‘Good. I did not think it would be, but I had to confirm it. This man is Raisa’s husband. In the event, it was he who gave Raisa the better life that the Uninvited One promised her. However, he himself claims not to have known until recently that Raisa ever worked as a prostitute. It would not fit with his story if he had in fact slept with her at Madam Josephine’s.’ Porfiry took back the photograph of Meyer. ‘Now then, your friend, Golyadkin, the schoolfriend of this mysterious individual — he must surely know the identity of the Uninvited One. Where may we find Golyadkin?’

‘In the Mitrofanevsky Cemetery,’ said Vakhramev. ‘He died in a boating accident three months ago.’

Porfiry let out a sigh, in which there was more than simple disappointment. ‘I doubt very much that it was an accident. Perhaps you remember which school it was they were at together?’

‘It was a private boarding school in Moscow. Golyadkin talked of it often. He had a miserable time there. I don’t remember the name.’

‘I have only one other question. Do you happen to know what age Golyadkin was at his death?’

‘He had recently celebrated his forty-seventh birthday.’

‘Thank you,’ said Porfiry, looking Vakhramev in the eye. ‘You have helped us very much. This has provided the first real breakthrough of the case and I realise that it has been hard for you to talk of these things. Allow me to shake your hand.’ Porfiry stood and held out his hand.

A sob of gratitude shook Vakhramev. The tears sprang to his eyes as he took Porfiry’s hand.

Salytov stood at the entrance to the yard, in full view, watching the boy on stilts. Every now and then Tolya would lose his balance and jump off. He would regard the lieutenant defiantly before climbing back on and resuming his strange stiff-gaited walk. Gradually, the periods between his falls lengthened, and at last he was able to totter over to Salytov. He held on to the trembling handles grimly as he looked down on the police officer.

‘You’re not a very good spy.’

‘I want you to know that I have my eye on you.’

‘I was released. Without charge. You have no right.’

‘What do you know about rights?’ said Salytov.

Without warning, Salytov swung back his boot and launched it at Tolya’s stilts. The boy fell heavily. When he picked himself up, there was horse ordure over his clothes. His hands were bleeding.

‘You should be more careful,’ observed Salytov.

Tolya glared back at Salytov. ‘I have told Monsieur Ballet about this. He intends to lodge a complaint.’

‘Let him. I have closed his shop down once. I can do it again.’

‘Leave me be.’

‘What was that? A command? Surely you have learnt the dangers that ensue when you raise yourself above your station.’ The boy’s stilts lay one on top of the other on the ground. Salytov jumped on them, snapping one over the pivot of the other.

‘One day. .’ Tolya began.

But Salytov’s mocking, questioning leer discouraged him from saying more.

‘How nice that you have come to visit us,’ said Natalya Ivanovna, holding Virginsky by both hands. Her smile uplifted him. He felt it pour into him.

‘At last!’ added Virginsky’s father warmly.

Virginsky chose to take offence. ‘You could have come to see me at any time.’ He let go of his stepmother’s hands.

‘Please. Let’s not argue. The important thing is that you are here. And we are glad of it.’ Natalya Ivanovna’s smile now was anxious, straining to hold on to a moment already gone.

‘What do you think of the suite?’ said Virginsky’s father with a satisfied smile, as the sweep of his arm offered the sitting room to Virginsky. ‘A good set of rooms, is it not? And the view, of course. Natasha had to have her view of the river. It is an extra expense. But I am not the man to begrudge a beautiful woman that which she has set her heart upon.’

Virginsky looked about without commenting on the quality or size of the accommodation. At last he said: ‘I’m surprised you have requested a room overlooking one of the city’s stinking waterways. However, you must dispose of your money in whatever way you deem appropriate, father. It matters not to me. Please be assured that I expect nothing from you in that respect.’