R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘Good God! Is that what this is about? A man has died because he would not get out of your way on the Nevsky Prospekt!’

‘It is a question of honour. He failed to show me the respect that was due to me.’

‘You will come with us now.’

‘But I have confessed to nothing. And even if I had, I would get off. No jury would convict me. To have been so possessed by vengeance over such a trifle proves my insanity. Thank God and the Tsar for the new juries!’

Yefimov began to laugh. There was a strangled cry behind him. One of the clerks broke away from his companions, moving with great difficulty, as though running through soft sand. He held one hand out stiffly in front, clenched around a flicker of steel. This hand jerked forwards, at the soft flank of Yefimov’s lower back, and came away empty. Yefimov’s face lurched upwards, spasms of pain distorting it. Blood darkened the bottle-green frock coat of his civil service uniform around the projecting handle of a penknife. His fingers flexed in time with the draining pulse of his blood. He strained his head back to fix his imploring eyes on Porfiry. A plea for help shaped his lips but did not sound. Porfiry did not move.

Yefimov staggered towards him, at the last throwing himself upon the magistrate. Porfiry caught him and held his full weight in a tight embrace. Over Yefimov’s shoulder he saw the clerk back away, awed by his own action. The phalanx of scribes closed around him. In a moment, he was lost to sight.

‘Who was that man?’ cried Porfiry, still clinging on to Yefimov. The fingers of one hand felt the dampness of the other man’s blood. ‘Surrender him now.’

The clerks stared back at him, blank-faced and silent. Before long, the memory of the assassin’s face mingled with those of his colleagues.

‘Which one of them was it, Pavel Pavlovich? Can you say?’ The strain of his burden gave Porfiry’s voice a desperate edge.

Virginsky shook his head, his face wide open with wonder. ‘What about him ?’ He held a shaking finger towards Yefimov. Porfiry felt the civil servant writhe in his arms; his cheek brushed Yefimov’s grimace.

‘I’ll stay with him. You go and raise the alarm.’

Virginsky watched as Yefimov’s groping hand closed its fingers around the handle of the penknife and pulled. The awkward yanking motion failed to bring the blade out cleanly. It pivoted the knife on its axis and churned the blade through the ruptured kidney. When the knife did come away, falling with a mocking clatter to the floor, the unstoppered blood chased through the fabric of his coat.

‘Quickly, Pavel Pavlovich! If there is to be any hope of saving him, you must go now !’ It had not seemed possible, but the body in Porfiry’s arms grew suddenly heavier.

But all Virginsky could do was cast a hesitating glance towards the knot of clerks. Something in their enlivened defiance held him.

They stood on the steps of the ministry, looking across Chernyshov Square, their thoughts clogged in the faltering traffic. A restive dray horse stamped and snorted between the shafts of an ambulance carriage, unable to proceed. It seemed to sense the urgency of the moment, perhaps scenting blood in the air. Its eye stood out with animal panic.

Porfiry looked down at his right hand and saw it stained with Yefimov’s blood. He could not bring himself to light the cigarette between his lips.

‘I am not cut out for this.’

Porfiry looked up sharply. ‘Nonsense.’

‘He may die because of me.’ There seemed to be no great conviction to Virginsky’s words.

Porfiry shrugged. ‘You did not plunge the knife in.’

‘I couldn’t move!’ It was as if Virginsky was pleading to be blamed.

‘You’re not the only one, it seems,’ said Porfiry, frowning at the stationary ambulance. He added, more gently: ‘Next time, you will move. You will be prepared.’

‘There won’t be a next time.’

‘So, what would you do instead? Go back to Riga with your father?’ The sarcasm in Porfiry’s voice was harsher than he intended.

Virginsky’s response was quick with affront: ‘There is work for me on the estate. I have ideas about more efficient methods of agricultural management. My father would be amenable, I’m sure.’

‘You think you will escape the memory of what you have seen? Rostanev in his bed? It will go with you. It will haunt you and there will be nothing you can do about it. Something has been awoken in you, Pavel Pavlovich. You cannot leave it now. It will not leave you.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Porfiry sighed heavily. He found he was clutching his cigarette case, which he offered to Virginsky. Virginsky declined. At last Porfiry lit his own cigarette. He gave Virginsky a long, assessing look. ‘The appetite. There is only one way to appease it. And that is to give in to it. You will work in the department, not because it is a way for you to serve the Russian people, not because it will make you happy, or bring you honour, nor, indeed, for any reason that you can admit to. You will work with us because you need to. We have spoilt you for anything else.’

‘I cannot get the sight of that man out of my head.’

‘Rostanev? You will see other things. Some may even be worse than that. I cannot promise you otherwise.’ Porfiry emptied his lungs of smoke.

A slight smile played on his lips as he held Virginsky with his gaze. His nod released them.

They turned their backs guiltily on the ambulance, as its driver shouted at the three coaches blocking his way. They walked away from the frantic whinnying of his horse.

‘For you.’ The letter that Zamyotov handed him was battered and dusty, split along the folds. It was post-marked ‘Terek’.

He felt a strange emptiness as he read the single line of the message.

‘Bad news, Porfiry Petrovich?’

Porfiry could hear the insincerity of Zamyotov’s smile without having to look up. His own words came out heavily: ‘If only this had arrived two days ago. Rostanev would still be alive. As would Kheruvimov and Pestryakov. Indeed neither Ilya Petrovich nor any of our men would have been injured.’

‘Good heavens. What on earth does it say?’

Porfiry handed the letter to Zamyotov.

‘Ah, it is a reply to the telegram I sent to the Caucasus on your behalf. So it has come at last!’ Zamyotov read the brief message out loud: ‘“Sir, the scoundrel you are referring to went by the name Yefimov. Your servant, Devushkin.” Well, there you are, Porfiry Petrovich! Your case is solved. You should be pleased.’

Porfiry breathed in the cleansing scent of linseed oil. It came from the unmoving figure on the bed: he had to believe it was a man, given that it was a patient in the Obukhovsky Men’s Hospital. However, the face was covered in bandages, holding in place the scented, liniment-soaked gauze. Through a slit in the bandages, Porfiry could see that the eyes were closed. The eyelids had a strangely naked appearance. It was a moment before he realised that the lashes were missing. There was another gap in the bandages for the mouth, and vents for nostrils.

The crisp white sheet folded over the man’s chest seemed like an infinite weight pinning him down. His bandaged arms and hands lay stiffly on top of his covers.

‘Ilya Petrovich?’ Porfiry spoke gently, taking a seat next to the bed.

Salytov’s eyes opened and sought Porfiry out. The slit of his mouth opened on to blackness, as he swallowed drily. ‘Did you get the bastards?’

‘It was not the boy from Ballet’s who did this to you, Ilya Petrovich, or any of his associates. The bomb was thrown by the civil servant Yefimov. It was not a revolutionary plot, merely a mask for his personal vendettas. It was intended to distract and confuse us.’