R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘Well then, it was to maintain your position. You do have your position, Porfiry Petrovich: that man, even the vilest criminal, is capable of salvation. You cannot allow that there may exist a man who is irredeemably evil. A man, for example, who would kill children just for the sport of it.’

‘On the contrary. I know such men exist. I have met them and talked to them. And listened to their motives.’

‘Did you manage to save any of them?’ Virginsky could not keep the sarcasm out of his question.

Porfiry closed his eyes and shook his head minutely.

‘No,’ confirmed Virginsky, relentlessly. ‘If you accept that such men exist, then logic insists that they may be found within any social class. Within any family. You can hardly believe that the propensity to evil may be contained by social boundaries.’

‘Enough!’ Porfiry began to thrash himself energetically with the birch whisk.

‘What do you intend to do?’

Porfiry Petrovich lifted the conical hat from his head and looked inside it, as if he expected to find the answer to Virginsky’s question there. ‘We must do our job. That is to say, we must slowly and methodically gather evidence.’ He restored the hat to its former position and met Virginsky’s challenging look blankly. ‘As far as the deaths of the children are concerned, we have hardly begun to scratch the surface. It is certainly too early to jump to conclusions.’

‘You think that is what I have done?’

Porfiry held out the birch whisk, as if it were an olive branch. ‘I think you are in need of this.’ When Virginsky did not take it, Porfiry shrugged and settled back into the heat.

*

After losing himself in the melting heat of the banya , the subsequent plunge into an icy pool restored the edges of his being with the vicious shock of a thousand slaps landing simultaneously. Once again his heart hammered out alarm. There was something reckless, almost self-destructive, about the rate of its pummelling. Porfiry felt the stab and twist of new pains. He tasted his own mortality. More than that, he sensed his heart at the edge of capacity. And yet, strangely, it seemed to gain strength from this forcible reminder of its own frailty.

Drying himself briskly with the threadbare towel, Porfiry acknowledged a new energy in his muscles, a lightness to his bones, and a mental clarity that he had not experienced for a long time. He felt almost sorry for Virginsky at the sight of the younger man’s sullen, graceless movements. His limbs seemed to be weighed down with unhappiness.

‘Who are you fighting, Pavel Pavlovich?’

Virginsky gave Porfiry a guarded look as he held his towel in front of himself defensively.

‘Did you not ask me that question earlier?’ explained Porfiry. ‘I am intrigued to know how you would answer it.’

‘The criminals, of course,’ said Virginsky.

Porfiry laughed appreciatively. ‘Correct answer! Well done!’

Porfiry continued to pat himself dry. ‘There is much work still to do. Difficult work. This is a murky business. And it is set to become even murkier. Other agencies and interests are sure to get involved, if they are not already. We need to know who our friends are, for it will be far from easy to discern our enemies.’ Porfiry sensed Virginsky shrink back under the force of his scrutiny. ‘I need to know that I can count on you, Pavel Pavlovich.’

Virginsky’s mouth tightened pensively. Neither man said a word as they dressed.

*

Back in his clothes, Porfiry’s skin felt not just cleansed but renewed.

They took a carriage north along Liteyny Prospekt. There was a moist chill to the air, which was heavy with the threat of snow. But their naked exposure to the extremes of the bath house had fortified them for whatever shocks the climate held. Both men fixed their gaze on the District Courthouse as they rattled past it. The solid square building, with its high arched windows, like wide-open eyes searching out the truth, seemed to be the physical embodiment of an ideal.

Porfiry caught the challenge brimming in Virginsky’s look. ‘We must place our faith in it, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he said gently.

Virginsky blinked and shook his head as if he had been roused from a deep reverie. His brow contracted into a questioning frown.

‘Progress,’ continued Porfiry, ‘the progress of Russia, is taking place in there, through the exercise of legality. The judicial process, Pavel Pavlovich, the open examination of evidence, the presenting and arguing of cases, without prejudice or fear … progress. Adversarial dispute … progress. Cases heard before a jury … progress. And we — you and I — we are the agents of progress. Simply by doing our job, by investigating crimes, gathering evidence, pursuing leads, interviewing suspects — in so many ways are we taking Russia forward. We do not need a revolution, Pavel Pavlovich. The change you desire will come about simply by virtue of us doing our job.’

‘That is what you believe.’ Virginsky’s emphasis sought to distance him from Porfiry’s optimism.

‘Yes.’

‘But the tsar who gave this licence may just as easily take it away.’

‘He cannot. Besides, he does not want to.’

‘Perhaps not now, not today, not this tsar.’

‘Is that what lies behind your suspicions of the Tsarevich? Fear of a reactionary backlash?’

‘Do you consider me so naive?’

‘It is not naivety, Pavel Pavlovich. On the contrary, it shows a sophisticated understanding of the power with which our office is invested. However, to bring a charge against an individual for political reasons would be an abuse of that power.Anyone who did so would be guilty of perpetrating an injustice. I trust you would agree with that?’

Virginsky grunted his reluctant assent.

‘You cannot bring about a just society through injustice. In the same way that you cannot reach the truth through lying — though many are seeking to do exactly that.’

The carriage drew up outside the Surgical-Medical Academy just as the first fine particles of snow began to swirl in the grey.

‘By doing our job, Pavel Pavlovich. Carefully, meticulously, patiently.’ With that Porfiry forced himself out of the carriage, like a cork popping from a bottle.

‘You have come back?’ Professor Bubnov held the expression of distaste that he had worn all the way across the foyer.

‘Yes,’ said Porfiry, his eyes flickering coyly as though he believed Professor Bubnov’s exclamation had been prompted by irrepressible joy. ‘We went away. And now we have come back.’

‘I see.’ Professor Bubnov touched the tip of one finger delicately to his lips. ‘This is about the initials.’

Porfiry gave an unconvincing performance of surprise. ‘Ah yes, the initials! How kind of you to remind us. Have you had any success in interpreting them?’

‘I know nothing about the meaning of any initials.’ Professor Bubnov seemed to be picking his words advisedly. ‘However, there is a man here who may be able to shed some light on them.’

‘Where is this marvellous luminary? You must take us to him immediately.’

‘He is not a luminary. He is a very lowly individual.’ If Professor Bubnov understood Porfiry’s pun he gave no indication of enjoying it. ‘Smerdyakov is a porter of sorts. It is his job to receive the bodies from the police.’

‘Then he truly is the man to clear up the mystery.’

They were taken to a large storeroom at the rear of the academy, with wide double doors of an unloading bay open to the elements. A cloud of tobacco smoke hung over a screened-off area in one corner. Professor Bubnov approached the screen, seemingly to converse with the smoke. Eventually, a man dressed in a peasant’s belted shirt and high boots, with a pipe clamped between his teeth, stepped out of the booth. He had a lean, strangely bent face, his long jaw being at an angle to the rest of his head. His eyes were pinpricks of cunning. He took a moment to get the measure of Porfiry and Virginsky before approaching them.