R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

Wan candle flames glimmered on the half-dozen tables and along the bar. The uncertain light, pocketed in gloom, seemed to encourage introspection among the isolated drinkers. Not a single face turned toward him. In one corner of the room, a woman wrapped in a grubby shawl was squeezing random notes out of a ruptured concertina. The anxious expectancy that these sounds induced was incompatible with conversation. There was no laughter, no voices raised in conviviality; only groans and sighs of despondency sounded in the gaps between the instrument’s wheezes.

Salytov pushed through his own resistance to the wooden bar, where a skinny adolescent potboy was intent on smearing glasses with a dirty rag. The youth paused now and then, prompted somehow by the irregular rhythms of the concertina. It was as if he couldn’t continue his task until the next note had sounded. He wore a soiled and belted rubashka, the embroidery of which was coming apart.

“Who’s in charge here?” The boy responded to Salytov’s abrupt demand with a look of stupefied amazement. “The landlord, idiot!” Salytov brought a fist down on the bar. The noise it made was less impressive than he had hoped, but still it was enough to startle the boy a second time. It seemed also to silence the concertina player, at least temporarily. “Why are you staring at me like that? Why will you not speak? Are you a mute? Are you an imbecile?” Fear bloated the boy’s eyes. This only infuriated Salytov more. “Can you people not understand-?” He broke off, unable to voice what it was he wanted to be understood. His sense of contamination was incommunicable. He resorted to announcing: “I am Lieutenant Ilya Petrovich Salytov of the Haymarket District Police Bureau.” And now the boy’s mouth was gaping. “Don’t you understand Russian? Where is he?”

“Who?” came finally, in a cracked voice that managed to span several octaves in one word.

“The landlord, you idiot!”

“He’s in the other room.”

“Call him then! Don’t you people understand anything?” He could feel it on his scalp now, the contamination. It had spread over the surface of his body and was now seeping into him. Every second he was forced to spend in these places deepened it. A shudder of loathing passed through him. He scanned the floor for cockroaches and looked back at the boy as if he had found one.

But without the boy calling, a rotund man with indolent eyes appeared behind him. His face was dirty, his hair and beard knotted. His pear-shaped body bulged beneath a greasy leather apron. “It’s all right, Kesha.” There was a note of suspicion in his bass voice. Wariness flickered in his eyes as he took Salytov in.

“You are the proprietor of this”-Salytov looked around as if he would find the word he was looking for daubed on the walls, then settled for a sarcasm-“establishment?”

The landlord nodded minimally.

“Lieutenant Salytov of the Haymarket District Police. I am conducting an official investigation. You must cooperate or face the consequences.” Salytov reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, then passed across the photograph of Ratazyayev. “Do you recognize this man?”

The landlord studied the photograph without comment. He blinked once with great emphasis, making his face a mask of imperturbability. “We get a lot of people in here,” he said finally, handing the photograph back.

“But do you recognize him?”

“Not particularly.”

“Not particularly!” shouted Salytov with sudden spluttering rage. “What on earth do you mean by not particularly ? Either you recognize the man or you do not.”

“In that case, I should say, all things considered, I do not.”

“Are you trying to make a fool out of me? Is that your game? I warn you, do not try to make a fool out of me.”

One of the landlord’s eyebrows rose and fell eloquently.

“Do not raise your eyebrow at me! You dare to raise your eyebrow at me? Impertinent-” Salytov struck the man across the face with the back of his hand. The potboy jumped back in shock. But the landlord hardly turned his head and swung it back immediately as if eager for another blow. He faced Salytov now with lowered eyes. “That will teach you to raise your eyebrow at me.”

The landlord nodded in meek penitence.

“Now, I ask you once again, do you recognize this man? Look at the photograph carefully.” Salytov thrust the picture into the landlord’s face, so that he had to lean back to see it.

“Now that I think about it, perhaps he has been in here, once or twice.” The landlord’s voice was flat and calculated. He spoke deliberately, without a trace of fear.

“He is known to frequent the filthiest dives in the Haymarket area. Why would he not come in here?” When it seemed the witticism would not receive the appreciation it merited, Salytov continued his questioning. “When was the last time?”

“I don’t remember, your excellency.” Despite his readiness to use the honorary title, the landlord’s tone remained dangerously neutral. Salytov eyed him suspiciously, even nervously.

“Today? Has he been in here today?”

“No, your excellency.”

“Last night?”

“No. We haven’t seen him for a while, your excellency.” A new note, of strained impatience, crept into the landlord’s voice. He flashed a decisive glance at Salytov and risked: “Or the other one.”

“The other one? What other one?” The kindling of Salytov’s curiosity relaxed his aggression. He dropped the hand holding the photograph.

“He often comes in with another man.”

“Name?”

“I don’t know, your excellency. It’s not my business to inquire into the names of my clientele.”

“I could have you pulled in as the accomplice to a very serious crime.” But Salytov was distracted. The threat was delivered without conviction, almost out of habit. “You are guilty of aiding and abetting men wanted by the police,” he added sharply, as if remembering himself.

“I didn’t know they were wanted by the police, your excellency.” The landlord spoke with measured guile. “If I had, I would have made sure I got their names. As it is, I don’t know the names of any of these people.” He gestured toward the stupor-frozen faces peering out of the gloom. “They come in, they drink, they leave. I don’t interfere with them. Perhaps Kesha can help you.” The landlord nodded permissively to the potboy, whose face was suddenly stretched by panic at the prospect of having to talk to the police officer.

A slow sneer writhed over Salytov’s features. “Very well. You. Talk.”

Kesha’s gaze flitted anxiously between the landlord and the policeman.

Salytov held up the photograph. “So you know these men?”

Kesha nodded.

“Speak!” barked Salytov.

“Y-y-y-yes.”

“Names? Did you ever hear them address each other by name?”

“I think s-s-s-so.”

“Good. So what are their names?”

“That’s Ra-Ra-Ra-Ra….” The boy’s stammering dried up.

“Ra-Ra-Ra? What sort of a name is Ra-Ra-Ra, you imbecile?”

“Ra-Ra-Ratazyayev!” The name came out, eventually, in an angry rush.

“I know it’s Ra-Ra-Ratazyayev, you idiot. I don’t need you to tell me it’s Ra-Ra-Ratazyayev. I want to know about the other one. The man he comes in here with.”

“Govorov.” This time, the name was produced without stammering, in a sudden, involuntary regurgitation.

“Govorov? Are you sure?”

Kesha nodded frantically.

“So. Govorov. What can you tell me about this Govorov?”

Kesha’s shrug was anything but nonchalant. It was as much a wince anticipating pain as a gesture of helplessness. He was desperate to know what it was Salytov wanted to be told about this Govorov. Then he could get on with telling it. But only one thing came to mind: “He has photographs.”