R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘ Talk to him! ’ Nikodim Fomich yelled the command at Porfiry, as if he were giving a junior officer a severe dressing-down. He shook his head impatiently, then added, his voice only marginally softer: ‘It cannot do any harm to talk to him, can it?’

The murmur of genteel conversation, teacups chinking, crises of decision over which pastry to choose; the starched, unsullied table-cloths, upon which the worst catastrophe that could be imagined was a spilled cup of hot chocolate: the whole confection was saturated in a cloying atmosphere of contentment that stirred a dangerous rage in Porfiry.

As he watched the self-satisfied clientele pick over their sweetmeats with a mannered fastidiousness, he felt revulsion grip him and a desire to overturn the tables. He imagined these people with their faces running in blood, their smart, fashionable clothes shredded over their twitching limbs. It was an after-effect of shock, a super-imposition of the scene he had come from, but he wondered if it were not also a visualised wish. He wanted to punish them, he realised. And yet they were blameless, at least in the matter of the bomb blast. He breathed in deeply and looked at Virginsky. The strain of the day showed in the rippling tension of the young man’s face, which was white and drawn. Once again, he was puffing himself up and breathing heavily, battening on his emotional armour.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Porfiry quietly.

Virginsky’s eyes flared antagonistically.

Porfiry winced in disappointment, bowed his head and approached the counter.

‘Is Tolya here?’ he asked.

A plump-faced man with a waxed moustache and very black hair treated Porfiry with haughty disregard. He directed a fawning smile towards a waiting customer, giving a precisely gauged bow. Porfiry noted with satisfaction that the elegant cut and superior tailoring of the fellow’s frock coat came under considerable strain as he bowed.

‘Monsieur,’ Porfiry said, switching to French. ‘Monsieur Ballet, is it? I have to tell you that I am an investigating magistrate, here on official business. I wish to speak to Anatoly Denisovich Masloboyev. He works here, does he not?’

The man continued to talk to the customer for a moment or two longer. When at last he turned to Porfiry, his eyes were lidded and his face looked as if he had just inhaled smelling salts. He too spoke in French. ‘Will you people never be satisfied? This is a respectable establishment with connections at the imperial court. I, Ballet, have vouched for Tolya. I had thought that would be an end to the matter. I had been assured as much by a very high authority indeed.’

‘Things have changed. Produce Tolya now and it will be better for him — and you. If you cannot produce him I will have to assume that he was in some way involved in the atrocity perpetrated this morning on officers of the Haymarket District Police Bureau. If that is the case, you will find that your high-placed friends will have no hesitation in removing their protection, as well as their patronage — if you persist in sheltering a wanted criminal, that is.’

‘I know nothing of any atrocity. I. . am sorry to hear of it. However, Tolya has been here all the time. Please believe me when I say he is a good boy, a hard worker. I have no complaints.’

‘Let me speak to him.’

Ballet sucked in his cheeks and nodded to the stout female shop assistant who had followed their exchange apprehensively from the other end of the counter. At his signal, she disappeared through the door to the back of the shop. Ballet turned a sour face back to Porfiry.

‘The officer against whom you made a complaint,’ said Porfiry, blinking frantically at Ballet, ‘was injured in the atrocity.’

The confectioner was startled. ‘But that doesn’t mean that Tolya did it.’ He blanched under Porfiry’s steady gaze. ‘Or me! You surely do not suspect me?’

‘Have you discussed Lieutenant Salytov’s persecution of Tolya with anyone?’

‘Well, yes. I have discussed it with many of my customers — to universal outrage, may I say.’

‘With whom in particular have you discussed it?’

‘That is an impossible question to answer, monsieur.’

‘Let me put it another way. Of all those you have discussed the matter with, is there any one person who seemed to you to take an inordinate interest in it? That is to say, a greater interest than most of the other people you discussed it with?’

Ballet angled his head as he looked at Porfiry with something that could have been amazement. ‘Now that you come to mention it, there was one gentleman who asked very many questions. Indeed, he came back. . and asked more questions. I thought, perhaps, he was investigating the case, in some official capacity.’

‘Did he give you his name?’

‘I asked him for his name. He said people called him, in Russian, Nikto. Nikolai Nikto. ’

‘But nikto is not a name, monsieur. It simply means nobody .’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought, after he had gone. I thought it was a strange name. I thought perhaps he was a police spy. An officer of the Third Section. I never saw him again.’

‘And had you ever seen him before? I mean, before he came here asking questions?’

‘It’s difficult to say. Possibly yes. He looked familiar. But then again, one sees a lot of people. Eventually everyone appears familiar. ’

‘I see.’

Tolya came through the door and hung back, watching the magistrate with a look of queasy trepidation. It was a moment before Porfiry recognised him, such was his preoccupation. He smiled reassuringly at the youth and switched to Russian: ‘Ah, Tolya, there you are. There is nothing to be afraid of, if you tell the truth. Come forward; I wish to speak to you.’ Tolya moved uncertainly along the counter, glancing at Ballet as though for approval or permission. ‘There has been a very serious incident,’ Porfiry continued. ‘A bomb attack outside a police station on Stolyarny Lane. Do you know anything about it?’

The boy shook his head. There was fear in his eyes. His face was drained of colour, sickened.

‘Your master tells me that you have been here all morning. Is that true?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Porfiry smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’ He paused and looked at the boy as if considering him seriously for the first time. ‘You’ve had a rough time of it recently, haven’t you, Tolya?’

‘I. .’ The boy’s brows came together and he swallowed heavily.

‘Lieutenant Salytov, the police officer with the red hair, he had been persecuting you, hadn’t he?’

Tolya looked down. ‘It wasn’t fair,’ he mumbled.

‘That’s exactly right. It wasn’t fair.’

‘I hadn’t done anything. He just. .’

‘He just didn’t like you, Tolya. It was as simple as that.’ Porfiry paused, then added: ‘It was unjust.’

Tolya flashed a questioning glance at Porfiry, torn between belief and distrust. ‘He had no right,’ he asserted, his belligerence fragile, almost false.

‘It must have made you very angry, to be treated that way.’

‘He broke my stilts.’

‘But what could you do about it? He was an officer of the law. Who could you turn to?’

‘I told Monsieur Ballet.’

‘Of course. And did you discuss it with anyone else? With any of your associates?’

‘What associates?’

‘Come now, Tolya. Let us not play games. You have been very honest with me so far. That is good. The leaflets that were found in your room. They did not appear out of thin air. Who gave them to you?’

Tolya looked fearfully between Porfiry and Monsieur Ballet. ‘A man.’

‘Did he have a name, this man?’

‘No. I mean, not really. He called himself. .’