R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“It’s not gold. It’s silver,” said Dmitri dismissively.

“Ah, but it’s freshly minted-just for you. It has the tsar’s picture on it.”

“Give it to me then.”

“You’ve almost earned it. If only you hadn’t run away when we were talking before, it would be yours already. Why did you run away, my friend? There was nothing to be afraid of.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“Then why did you run away?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“It’s my job.” Porfiry took out and lit the cigarette he had put off smoking in the drozhki. Dmitri’s watchful envy inspired him to offer the boy the case. Dmitri took a cigarette eagerly and sucked in his cheeks as Porfiry lit it for him.

“Turkish?” he asked with his first, delayed exhalation.

Porfiry nodded. “You like it?”

Dmitri shrugged.

“We were talking about the yardkeeper, remember? When you delivered your message to the dwarf Goryanchikov, you called in at the yardkeeper’s shed. Did Govorov give you a message for him too?”

Dmitri bit the inside of his mouth. “He gave me a note, yes.”

“So? Why not tell me that before?”

Dmitri held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and studied the glowing ash. “Dunno.” He took a long draw. “Something he said, maybe” came out with the smoke.

“What did he say?”

“It was nothing really.” Dmitri steadfastly refused to look Porfiry in the eye.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. It’s bound to be nothing. A pity. If it proved to be useful…”

“‘Be careful with it.’”

“‘Be careful with it’?”

“That’s what he said. ‘Be careful with it.’”

“Anything else?”

The boy shrugged. “It was the way he said it. His smile. The way he looked at me.” The boy shuddered at the recollection. In that moment, and in the distant narrowing of his eyes, he seemed curiously ageless, beyond all consideration of age, as if he were remembering something that had happened a hundred years ago. “It sent a shiver down my spine.”

Porfiry pursed his lips. He glanced quickly to Salytov for a reaction. The policeman was frowning thoughtfully. “Interesting,” conceded Porfiry.

“So do I get it now?” Dmitri held out his hand.

Porfiry winked and produced the silver ruble. He reasoned that he would not get much more out of the boy on the promise of the coin alone. “You’ve done well. The tsar will be pleased.” He handed over the prize.

Dmitri flashed a proud glance around, but seeing the grubby porter, his expression became wary. He hurried the coin into a pocket. “Do you know the tsar?” he asked Porfiry.

“Not personally. But I will communicate your cooperation to my superior, and he will communicate it to his superior, and so on until it reaches the tsar. I am confident he will be pleased.”

“He’s playing with you, you little fool,” sneered the porter suddenly.

“I assure you, that’s the way the system works,” said Porfiry, blinking calmly. “His Imperial Majesty’s gratitude-or displeasure -is passed back down.” He lowered his head to menace the porter with significance. “It could be a beating as easily as a coin.” Porfiry turned to Dmitri with a smile. “Now, my friend, there is one more thing I would ask you to do for me. I would like you to show us the room that Govorov occupied.”

Dmitri drew from his cigarette with a manly grimace. “We’ll need a candle,” he said.

Virginsky scanned Gorokhovaya Street as he came out of Friedlander’s. He couldn’t see the tramp. But it was getting dark, and the air was thick with swirling snow. It was difficult to see anything. He had the sense, however, that the man was out there somewhere waiting for him. Perhaps he was one of the vague shapes huddled around the yardkeepers’ fires that punctuated the pavement on both sides of the street.

Virginsky’s stomach growled painfully. Big snowflakes streamed toward his eyes, hungry for his tears.

He started walking south. His new boots served him well on the slippery surface. He felt them grip but also sensed within his step the heart-lurching point at which they would fail him, and he measured his gait to stay the right side of it. Then, as a closed carriage passed him heading in the opposite direction, he turned sharply back on himself and ran in its lee. He was exhilarated by his ability to stay upright. He surprised himself by the maneuver but was comforted by it all the same, not merely because the carriage sheltered him from the weather. If the tramp was still on the other side of the street, the moving vehicle would act as a further blind, in addition to the nascent blizzard. As he came to the first corner, he turned right into Morskaya Street. The carriage continued straight on. Virginsky ran a few more paces and then abandoned himself to a slide that took him, arms windmilling, a couple of sazheni along the pavement. His arms came up, and he ducked into a quick walk, casting a single glance over his shoulder.

With the same impulsiveness that had prompted him to turn on his heels in Gorokhovaya Street, he suddenly lurched toward the door of a shop. He did not look at the name of it and had formed no clear impression of what it sold.

There was a smell of new felt and cologne, which had to it an elusive familiarity. He had been here before, once, a long time ago. In fact, his last visit to the German hat shop on Morskaya Street had been soon after his arrival in St. Petersburg. In those days his own apparel was equal to the expensive hats on display. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to hold his head high as a shop assistant measured its circumference. Then he had inspected the shop’s wares as if they already belonged to him, and he had not been afraid to look himself in the eye in one of the many looking glasses. His face beneath a German topper had not struck him as preposterous. Far from it. He had bought the hat, though it was long since hocked, the pledge surrendered.

Now the mirrors crowded in on him oppressively. He flinched away from them as if from a public shaming. And to try on one of the hats would have been as impossible as to dance on the ceiling.

Virginsky moved far enough into the interior to be partially hidden from the street, but not so far that he could no longer look out through the window of the door. He was anxious also to avoid the attention of the shop walker. Fortunately, the staff all seemed to be busy with other customers.

He didn’t have long to wait before the tramp shuffled into sight. In fact, the man’s sudden appearance on the pavement outside the shop took him by surprise. He had not had time to prepare himself for what now confronted him: an unimpeded view of the other’s profile. The greatest shock was that he did not recognize the face. It was certainly not his own. This was so unexpected that he stared blankly at the man, scarcely believing that it was the same tramp. He looked down at the stranger’s feet for confirmation. He was still wearing the old felt boots. But Virginsky noticed he now had a pair of good rubber galoshes over them.

The man hesitated briefly on the pavement almost directly in front of Virginsky, casting searching looks up and down Morskaya Street. It seemed it did not occur to him to look inside the German hat shop. It was clearly inconceivable to connect the object of his search with the interior of such an establishment. The man moved on. Once again his speed and purpose impressed Virginsky.

“Can I help you?”

Virginsky turned. A sleek, elegantly dressed man of around thirty stood before him. He tilted his head back so that he could look down at Virginsky more effectively.

Virginsky thought of all the things he could say to the fellow as he took in the details of his appearance, the long oiled hair that curled solidly at his collar, the crisp black frock coat, beneath it the taut waistcoat, as glistening and bright as a polished mineral, and the finely tapered, beetle-black shoes. Everything was sharp and unassailable, a hostile elegance, even the needle-scent of his perfume.