R. Morris: The Gentle Axe

Porfiry leaned his back against the closed door and finally took out his cigarette case. He busied himself in lighting a cigarette. The headache eased as quickly as it had come. He gazed across the room at the window. A low sun blinded him to the details of his chambers. All he could see was the cloud of exhaled smoke, a swirling trap for sunlight.

He tried to remember what day it was. He could not shake off the feeling that there was something he should be doing. And yet whatever it was, it was not as important to him as leaning against this door and watching the smoke from his cigarette.

The ash fell unheeded to the floor. Porfiry was absorbed in the shifting smoke, studying it as if it were a mystery that could be solved. When he had finished the cigarette, he squeezed the glowing tip, feeling its sharp heat between his thumb and forefinger, and strode away from the door. The room became visible to him, and he knew it was New Year’s Eve. Later, he would be expected at Nikodim Fomich’s house.