R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘It is not to do with the letter — not this letter at any rate. We wish to talk to Rostanev in connection with a murder investigation. I wonder, however, could you tell me to whom I have the honour of speaking?’

‘I am. . Yefimov.’ The man’s startled diffidence, followed by the defiance with which he finally offered his name, betrayed an inner tension. The superficial hostility that was his shield against the world seemed to change into something more particular, directed at Porfiry alone. ‘Collegiate Registrar Yefimov.’

‘You are Rostanev’s superior?’

‘Yes.’ The answer was given emphatically.

‘Your face seems familiar to me. And indeed your name.’ Porfiry smiled with vague and hopeful affability. Seeming to remember himself, he handed Yefimov the anonymous letter sent to Dr Meyer. ‘We have reasons to believe that he is the author of this letter also.’

‘Yes, quite possibly. I would not be surprised.’ He handed the letter back. An unexpected sympathy showed in his expression.

‘You have to understand that Axenty Ivanovich. . how to put this? He is not quite right in the head, poor fellow. I myself once received a letter not dissimilar to this. The handwriting was the same. I knew it was from Rostanev. I did nothing about it, because, well, really — one cannot hold a man like Rostanev accountable. It seems strange to say this, but Rostanev himself is not malicious. He means no harm. He acts out of a compulsion. It is a disease. He deserves our pity, I would think.’

‘Yes, yes, I quite agree. And ordinarily I would be happy to leave it to you, as his superior, to exercise your discretion in disciplining him. However, I regret to say that the recipient of this letter was accused of murdering his wife because of its contents. And another man who received a similar letter was suspected of murdering his daughter’s seducer.’

‘That is unfortunate.’

‘I wonder, do you have the letter that you were sent?’

‘I destroyed it and thought no more of it. Until today, that is. He never sent me another.’

‘A pity. Nevertheless, what’s done is done. I don’t suppose you can remember the content of it?’

‘It was nonsense. The ramblings, frankly, of a madman. That is why I assumed that Rostanev had sent it.’

‘Is Rostanev in the department today?’

‘Yes.’

‘We would be grateful if you could point him out to us.’

Yefimov nodded distractedly and gnawed a thumbnail. ‘Of course. Please, come this way.’

They threaded their way between the desks. At one point, Salytov brushed one of the columns of files, causing it to totter precariously. All the heads in the room turned towards the swaying paperwork. The collective sigh of relief as it settled without toppling sounded like the wind passing through a forest. The copyists bowed once again over their work.

Yefimov took them deep into the warren of desks and stopped next to that of a short, barrel-shaped man with a squashed face and a sharply angled forehead. His civil service coat was frayed and grubby. He had very black lank hair, which he wore long. In contravention of service regulations, he was bearded. His thick black beard was twisted into four points, giving it the appearance of a dark fuzzy star. The man worked with great concentration, with his tongue stuck out and twisted to one side. The childish habit gave his expression a trusting simplicity.

‘Axenty Ivanovich,’ said Yefimov.

Rostanev looked up, mildly curious. He inspected Porfiry, Virginsky and Salytov with detached and unsuspecting interest.

‘These gentlemen wish to talk to you. They are magistrates.’ Confusion rather than concern clouded his face.

‘You are Axenty Ivanovich Rostanev?’ said Porfiry.

Rostanev nodded. One hand moved to tighten the points of his beard.

‘Your beard-,’ began Porfiry, registering his surprise.

‘You have come about my beard? I have a dispensation on health grounds.’ An uneasy look passed between Rostanev and his superior.

‘No. It is about another matter. I have a letter here that I would like you to look at.’ Porfiry handed him the letter sent to Meyer. ‘Do you recognise it?’

Rostanev read it through and nodded. ‘Oh yes. I do. I wrote it, you see.’ His smile appeared almost facetious. But Porfiry decided it most closely resembled the smile of a child who is surprised by the silliness of adults.

‘You admit that you wrote it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that you sent it to a gentleman called Dr Meyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you also send a similar letter to Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev?’

Rostanev thought for a moment, his face becoming momentarily serious. It then lit up with pleasure, as if he believed himself to be playing a game, and doing unexpectedly well at it. ‘Yes!’ The same hand went back to maintaining his whiskery prongs. He held a quill in the other hand.

‘Did you also send another letter to this gentleman, your superior, Collegiate Registrar Yefimov?’

‘Yes!’

‘But why did you write these letters?’

‘The voices told me to.’

‘I beg your pardon? The voices, did you say?’

‘Yes. At night the voices speak to me. They tell me to write the letters. If I write the letters the voices go away. But they always come back, eventually.’

‘Good heavens, how perplexing for you! Tell me though, were you once a pupil at the Chermak Private High School in Moscow?’

Rostanev let out a chuckle like a repeated high note on a muted trumpet. ‘Yes!’

Porfiry’s gaze softened and became almost pitying. ‘I must ask you to come with us, sir, to the police bureau. There are further questions I wish to ask you and it will be better if we conduct the rest of the interview in private.’

For the first time Rostanev’s expression grew anxious. His beard-tightening fingers quickened. The quill in the other hand trembled. ‘But I have work to do.’ He looked to Yefimov for confirmation.

‘You must go with them,’ said Yefimov.

‘If your hand offends you, cut it off.’ Rostanev’s tone was despairing.

‘Now now, don’t worry. Everything will be all right.’ To Porfiry, Yefimov added: ‘He can’t possibly be held responsible. The new courts will find him insane. You can see for yourself. And this talk of voices. .’

Porfiry said nothing.

Yefimov nodded commandingly to Rostanev. The copyist laid down his quill and slipped off his high stool. Standing on the floor, he turned out to be even shorter and more rotund than Porfiry. He looked up at them all with untroubled innocence. Now he used both hands to sharpen the points of his beard.

Salytov grasped him firmly by the arm, pulling that hand away from its task. A look of shock and bewilderment descended on Rostanev, and — suddenly — fear.

‘It’s all right, Axenty Ivanovich,’ insisted Yefimov. ‘Go with the gentlemen.’ He spoke slowly, with precise enunciation. His eyes stared steadily into Rostanev’s in a way that was perhaps meant to be reassuring.

Rostanev nodded and obeyed.

As they walked Rostanev out of the office, Salytov’s shoulder again clipped a tower of papers, this one even more precariously assembled than the first. As before, all heads turned. The room held its breath; there was a sense of inevitable disaster this time. It was a strangely gradual catastrophe when it came, one which they felt ought to be preventable, but of course was not. The momentum of the collapse built and flowed along the twisting rows of paper, as the originally disturbed column took with it those around it, and they in turn transmitted instability to their neighbours. The sound of the whole event, which left only a few half-towers standing in the room, was like a wave crashing over rocks. All around, sheets flew up and floated in the hot, dusty air, before drifting erratically and ostentatiously to the floor.