J.M. Coetzee - The Master of Petersburg

Ivanov seems oblivious of the irony. He is fresh, cheerful, well-rested. 'Ouf!' he yawns. 'I must pay a visit to the toilet!' And then, when he comes back: 'You don't have a scrap of breakfast to share, do you?'

He conducts Ivanov into the apartment. His breakfast is set out on the table, but he has no appetite. 'Yours,' he says curtly. Ivanov's eyes gleam, a dribble of saliva runs down his chin. Yet he eats decorously, and sips his tea with his little finger cocked in the air. When he is finished he sits back and sighs contentedly. 'How glad I am that our paths have crossed!' he remarks. 'The world can be a cold place, Fyodor Mikhailovich, as I am sure you know! I do not complain, mark you. We get what we deserve, in a higher sense. Nevertheless I sometimes wonder, do we not also deserve, each of us, a refuge, a haven, where justice will for a while relent and pity be taken on us? I pose that as a question, a philosophical question. Even if it isn't in Scripture, would it not be in the spirit of Scripture: that we deserve what we do not deserve? What do you think?'

'No doubt. This is unfortunately not my apartment. And now it is time for you to be leaving.'

'In a moment. Let me make one last observation. It was not just idle chatter, you know, what I said last night about God seeing into the crevices of our hearts. I may not be a proper holy simpleton, but that does not disqualify me from speaking the truth. Truth can come, you know, in winding and mysterious ways.' He taps his forehead meaningfully. 'You never dreamed – did you? -when you first clapped eyes on me, that one day we would be sitting down together, the two of us, and drinking tea in a civilized fashion. Yet here we are!'

'I am sorry, but I do not follow you, my mind is elsewhere. You really must leave now.'

'Yes, I must leave, I have my duties too.' He rises, tosses the blanket over his shoulders like a cape, holds out a hand. 'Goodbye. It has been a pleasure to converse with a man of culture.'

'Goodbye.'

It is a relief to be rid of him. But a frowzy, fishy smell lingers in his room. Despite the cold, he has to open the window.

Half an hour later there is a knock at the apartment door. Not that man again! he thinks, and opens the door with an angry frown.

Before him stands a child, a fat girl dressed in a dark smock such as novice nuns wear. Her face is round and unexpressive, her cheekbones so high that the little eyes are almost hidden, her hair drawn back tighdy and gathered in a brief queue.

'Are you Pavel Isaev's stepfather?' she asks in a surprisingly deep voice.

He nods.

She steps inside, closing the door behind her. 'I was a friend of Pavel's,' she announces. He expects condolences to follow. But they do not come. Instead she takes up position squarely before him with her arms at her sides, measuring him, giving off an air of stolid, watchful calm, the calm of a wrestler waiting for the bout to begin. Her bosom rises and falls evenly.

'Can I see what he left behind?' she says at last.

'He left very little. May I know your name?'

'Katri. Even if there is very little, can I see it? This is the third time I have called. The first two times that stupid landlady of his wouldn't let me in. I hope you won't be the same.'

Katri. A Finnish name. She looks like a Finn too.

'I am sure she has her reasons. Did you know my son well?'

She does not answer the question. 'You realize that the police killed your stepson,' she says matter-of-factly.

Time stands still. He can hear his heart beating.

'They killed him and put out a story about suicide. Don't you believe me? You don't have to if you don't want to.'

'Why do you say that?' he says in a dry whisper.

'Why? Because it's true. Why else?'

It is not just that she is belligerent: she is beginning to grow restless too. She has begun to rock rhythmically from foot to foot, her arms swinging in time. Despite her squat frame she gives an impression of limberness. No wonder Anna Sergeyevna wanted nothing to do with her!

'No.' He shakes his head. 'What my son left behind is a private matter, a family matter. Kindly explain the point of your visit.'

'Are there any papers?'

'There were papers but they aren't here any more. Why do you ask?' And then: 'Are you one of Nechaev's people?'

The question does not disconcert her. On the contrary, she smiles, raising her eyebrows, baring her eyes for the first time, glaring, triumphant. Of course she is one of Nechaev's! A warrior-woman, and her swaying the beginnings of a war-dance, the dance of someone itching to go to war.

'If I were, would I tell you?' she replies, laughing.

'Do you know that the police are keeping watch on this house?'

She stares intently, swaying on her toes, as though willing him to see something in her gaze.

'There is a man downstairs this very minute,' he persists.

'Where?'

'You didn't notice him but you can be sure he noticed you. He pretends to be a beggar.'

Her smile broadens into true amusement. 'Do you think a police spy would be clever enough to spot me?' she says. And she does a surprising thing. Twitching the hem of her dress aside, she gives two little skips, revealing simple black shoes and white cotton stockings.

She is right, he thinks: one could take her for a child; but a child in the grip of a devil nevertheless. The devil inside her twitching, skipping, unable to keep still.

'Stop that!' he says coldly. 'My son didn't leave anything for you.'

'Your son! He wasn't your son!'

'He is my son and will always be. Now please go. I have had enough of this conversation.'

He opens the door and motions her out. As she leaves, she deliberately knocks against him. It is like being bumped by a pig.

There is no sign of Ivanov when he goes out later in the afternoon, nor when he returns. Should he care? If it is Ivanov's task to see without being seen, why should it be his task to see Ivanov? Even if, in the present charade, Ivanov is the one playing the part of God's angel – an angel only by virtue of being no angel at all – why should it be his role to seek out the angel? Let the angel come knocking at my door, he tells himself, and I will not fail, I will give him shelter: that is enough for the bargain to hold. Yet even as he says so he is aware that he is lying to himself, that it is in his power to deliver Ivanov wholly and absolutely from his cold watchpost.

So he frets and frets till at last there is nothing for it but to go downstairs and search for the man. But the man is not downstairs, is not in the street, is nowhere to be found. He sighs with relief. I have done what I can, he thinks.

But he knows in his heart he has not. There is more he could do, much more.

He is in the streets of the Haymarket the next day when ahead of him he glimpses the plump, almost spherical figure of the same Finnish girl. She is not alone. By her side is a woman, tall and slim, walking so fast that the Finn has to skip to keep up with her.

He quickens his pace. Though for moments he loses sight of them in the crowd, he is not far behind when they enter a shop. As she enters, the tall woman casts a glance up the street. He is struck by the blue of her eyes, the pallor of her skin. Her glance passes over him without settling.

He crosses the street and dawdles, waiting for them to emerge. Five minutes pass, ten minutes. He is getting cold.

The brass plate advertises Atelier La Fay or La Fée, Milliner. He pushes open the door; a bell tinkles. In a narrow, well-lit room, girls in uniform grey smocks sit at two long sewing-tables. A woman of middle age bustles forward to greet him.

'Monsieur?'

'An acquaintance of mine came in a few minutes ago – a young lady. I thought – ' He glances around the shop, dismayed: there is no sign of either the Finn or the other woman. 'I am sorry, I must have made a mistake.'