R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“No longer. She has retired from the business.”

“I see.”

“It happens. The girls find themselves a rich patron. They settle for a while, but it never lasts. Soon they come back, knocking on my door. ‘Fräulein Keller! Fräulein Keller! He has thrown me over! He has taken up with a dancer! Fräulein Keller, please! Let me in!’ They cannot escape the life. It is in their blood. They are born whores.”

“When was the last time you saw Lilya?”

“Today. She came back for her galoshes, the little fool. Does she not realize her new friend will buy her all the galoshes she desires?”

“She told you of this… patron ?”

“She didn’t need to. It’s obvious. How else could she afford to retire?”

“Perhaps she has found other employment.”

Fräulein Keller laughed cynically. “It is a wonder you catch any criminals, you are so innocent.”

“The girls who work for you-they live here in the brothel?”

“And now you say dirty words to prove how worldly you are.”

“Where is Lilya now, do you know?”

“It is not my concern.”

“She had a child, didn’t she? Who looked after the child when she was working?”

“I know nothing about these things. Perhaps it would profit you more to talk to one of the girls. I can arrange for you to be introduced. It would be my pleasure. You may pick one to examine more closely, in private. And that will be your pleasure, I am sure.”

Fräulein Keller once again held out her arms for Porfiry’s shuba.

“What if I wished to talk to them all?”

“That would be very greedy of you, mein Herr. ”

As if this answer decided him, he finally began to take off his fur coat.

Even though the heat from the fire had dried his throat, Porfiry declined the champagne.

“So the Widow Cliquot is not to your taste?” asked Fräulein Keller archly.

Porfiry also refused the brocade-upholstered chair, with its ornately carved “Second Rococo” frame, ignoring the care with which Fräulein Keller had positioned it.

“I will stand,” he said curtly.

Four “girls” filed in through a second door in the parlor and stood in front of him. He did not step back or flinch under the force of their underdressed presence, but he wished he had accepted both the drink and the seat. His own breath seemed intoxicating to him. It accelerated and enlarged his pulse. A kind of heavy sickness seemed to have entered his being, as if his soul were solidifying. The cause of this strange excitement was the sudden knowledge of what he was capable of.

He lit a cigarette without knowing he was doing so.

Porfiry looked into the eyes of each of them in turn. And something about the way they returned his gaze suggested that he had broken the one taboo of the house. But in their eyes he saw no depravity, only detachment. This was all they had in common. In other respects, they presented different faces behind their makeup: boredom, fear, stupor, and desperation. They affected expressions of licentiousness, but mechanically.

It was immediately apparent that Lilya Semenova would have been the youngest and prettiest of them.

“This is all of them?” asked Porfiry, with an exhalation of smoke.

“All that are available. Is none to your taste?”

“You know it is not a question of that.”

“If you say so, mein Herr. Who then will you choose? We have Olga. Nadya. Sonya. Raya.” A succession of ragged curtsies broke out along the line, the satirical nature of which was confirmed by a further embellishment from the final girl. She pulled down her chemise to bare one conical breast for Porfiry’s benefit.

“Please. There is no need for such exhibitions.”

“Raya is very exuberant. Everything is natural to her.” And yet it was Raya in whose eyes Porfiry had detected fear.

Porfiry sighed heavily. “Very well. I choose Raya.”

Her hands were on his face. He removed them methodically.

The bed filled the room, so much so that one was practically forced onto it as soon as one entered. There was a screen on the far side of the bed, embroidered with kingfishers in flight. A silk kimono was slung over the top of the screen.

“Do I not please you?”

He took in the fact of her naked skin. Her blond hair seemed distilled from its pallor. “You’re not Russian?”

“I’m Finnish. I am sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. Do you know Lilya?”

“Yes, of course. But she doesn’t work here anymore. Fräulein Keller says-”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you want me to be?”

“I am a magistrate. You must answer honestly.”

“I am twenty-seven.”

“And how long have you been a prostitute?”

“I can’t remember. I don’t count the years.”

“Do you know Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“What is this about?”

“Have you heard the name Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think carefully.”

“I think perhaps I have.”

“Who is he?”

“A photographer. He takes photographs of the girls sometimes. And prints them up.”

“Has he ever taken your photograph?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He likes them younger.”

“Has he taken photographs of Lilya?”

“Once, I think.”

“It’s not so bad, having your photograph taken. There are worse things, I should imagine.”

Raya shrugged. She did not give any indication of resenting his eyes on her.

“Konstantin Kirillovich. Konstantin Kirillovich. What is his family name? I have forgotten.”

“Everyone knows him only as Konstantin Kirillovich.”

“That must be why I can’t remember it.” Porfiry smiled and blinked. “You touched my face. Why did you touch my face?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it is because you wish me to touch your face?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

Porfiry placed a hand flat against her cheek. Her skin was hot, and the makeup on it greasy and granular. He closed his eyes. Then felt her hand on his thigh.

“No,” said Porfiry, pulling his hand away and standing up. He distanced himself from Raya’s lingering touch.

“Why did you come?” asked Raya, looking up at him in wonder. Her eyes were very blue, he noticed.

“Where will I find Lilya, do you know?”

“It’s Lilya you want?”

“I wish to ask her some questions. Do you know a student called Virginsky?”

Raya shook her head. Her silk-fine hair opened and closed like a fan.

“How about Goryanchikov? The dwarf?”

“I know the dwarf. He’s a regular here. He always asks for Lilya. Perhaps he is her new boyfriend?” she wondered.

“Impossible. He’s dead.”

The alarm in her eyes intensified.

“It’s likely that he was murdered.”

“You think it was Lilya?”

“Where will I find her?”

“She’ll be with Zoya Nikolaevna, I should think.”

“Who is Zoya Nikolaevna?”

“The old prostitute who looks after Lilya’s child. They share a room and Lilya’s earnings.”

“Did Lilya not board here?”

“Not during the day. Fräulein Keller would not allow the child here.” Raya shivered. She was dressed only in underwear. However, it was not cold in the room.

“Cover yourself up,” said Porfiry.

Raya reached across the bed and pulled down the kimono from the screen. Slipping it on, her face was confused as well as fearful.

“I will tell Fräulein Keller that you pleased me,” he reassured her.

“I don’t understand. Do you want nothing more of me?”

“An address? For Lilya.”

“I don’t know it. How would I know it?”

“No matter.”

“Zoya lives somewhere near the Haymarket, I believe.”