The Gentle Axe Paperback (15 page)

“Young fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” said Porfiry’s escort snappily. “They were on this floor the last time I came along here.”

They retraced their steps, this time with Porfiry leading.

The door to suite 72 was open. Before they drew level with it, Porfiry could hear the voices inside, two male voices, the first light and relaxed, the other a forced baritone. The debate was passionate but good-natured. Porfiry had a sense of the friendship, the mutual fondness even, between the two men.

“…but I insist a philosopher’s thought is enwrapped in his language.”

“What you are saying, more or less, is that the endeavor of translating philosophy is either futile or impossible.”

“If it is the latter, it is also the former.”

“But it is the endeavor to which you have devoted your life. It is what we do. It is our business.”

“There is nothing nobler than to devote one’s life to a futile enterprise.” This was said after a slight pause, with a cheerful, almost mischievous lilt.

Porfiry dismissed his guide with a deep bow and stepped into the doorway. He drummed his knuckles lightly on the open door, and the two men looked up.

They were as he had imagined them from their voices, almost exactly. The younger man was tall and thin, his legs especially so. He had a high-domed forehead and thinning hair. Perched on the edge of a desk behind which his companion sat, he looked up at Porfiry over a book, the pages of which he turned distractedly with long fingers. His face was pale, his expression somewhat severe: a small pinched mouth was drawn together in readiness for denial. His eyes were gray and cold. The seated man was portly but neat. He kept his beard trimmed, and his hair, though thick and long, was tidily combed. His age was approaching fifty, and he wore silver-framed reading glasses. Behind their glinting lenses, his quick black eyes shone with intelligence and humor. Though his figure was spreading and his face filling, he was still a handsome man, or at least he was still able to carry himself like one. A long straight nose gave his face strength in profile. Viewed frontally, a small cleft at the tip arrested the gaze. His mouth, which was generous in comparison to his companion’s, curved into a ready smile, whereas Porfiry noticed the other man’s frown deepen.

“Good day. This is the office of Athene publishing, is it not?” asked Porfiry.

“It is” came simultaneously from them both.

“And if I am not mistaken, I have the pleasure of addressing the two gentlemen who lodge at the house of Anna Alexandrovna Ivolgina, that is to say Osip Maximovich and Vadim Vasilyevich.”

The two friends looked at each other uncertainly.

“You do,” said the older man, who turned out to be the source of the lighter, higher voice. “I am Osip Maximovich Simonov. You have the advantage of us, sir.”

“I am Porfiry Petrovich.” Their faces were blank. “I was the investigating magistrate on the case of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov. I believe he occasionally did work for you?”

“Ah! So that’s what this is about,” said Osip Maximovich. “Please sit down.” But every spare seat in the office was already taken with a jerrybuilt tower of books or papers, or sometimes both.

“We’ve already given statements to the police,” said Vadim Vasilyevich, raising the book he was reading so that it covered his face. He also shifted the position of his gangling legs, swinging one knee across and turning his body away from Porfiry.

“Yes, you spoke to Lieutenant Salytov, I believe. I have read your statements. But this is not about that case. That case is closed.”

“I read about it in the gazettes,” said Osip Maximovich brightly. “Isn’t it your theory that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then took his own life? Poor Borya. Poor Goryanchikov. A tragic waste. He was one of our most inspired translators. You see, translating philosophy is not an exact science. As we were just discussing, the translator needs to engage his imagination. He must first understand what the philosopher means to say, before he attempts to render that meaning into another language. Take Hegel. He was not even understood by the Germans. He said himself, ‘One man has understood me, and even he hasn’t.’ But really, is it any wonder? Language, the only means we have available to us for expressing thought, is a far from perfect medium. We can say for certain that there are things that exist for which we have no words. Words simplify and reduce the universe. There is, moreover, a gradation of ideas that is not reflected in the divisive and categorical nature of language. Hegel showed, I think, that it is possible for an idea to contain within itself its opposite. A word cannot do the same. Yes, indeed.” Osip Maximovich broke off, suddenly morose. “An invaluable talent that boy had.”

“You said in your statement that the two men quarreled?”

“No,” said Osip Maximovich calmly. “I know nothing about it. I wasn’t here. I was eight hundred versts away. It was Vadim Vasilyevich who heard the argument.”

Vadim Vasilyevich fidgeted at the mention of his name.

“Ah yes, Osip Maximovich,” said Porfiry. “I remember. Anna Alexandrovna told me. You were on retreat in Optina Pustyn. You are a believer then?” Porfiry noticed the icon mounted high up in one corner of the room.

“Should I not be?”

“I would hazard a guess that some of the authors you have published are not.”

“Why if the case is closed are you asking us all these questions about it?” asked Vadim Vasilyevich with sudden hostility. It seemed his voice sank even lower when he was agitated.

“My dear Vadim Vasilyevich,” said Osip Maximovich smoothly. He smiled, but his eyes were stern.

“I was not asking questions about that case,” said Porfiry, with a flutter of his eyelids. “I was merely asking questions out of interest. You are right, that case is closed. But I have come here to talk to you about another case. I am here investigating the disappearance of one Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Vadim Vasilyevich said, “We don’t know anyone by that name.”

“How about you, Osip Maximovich? Perhaps you would care to answer for yourself.”

“I think I may have heard the name Ratazyayev. Wasn’t he an actor? I may have seen him in something. Before your time, dear boy,” he added to Vadim Vasilyevich. “Ratazyayev, Ratazyayev. Yes, I think he was quite a celebrated actor at one time. And then something happened to him, I think. Drink, or some other scandal.”

“Well, he has disappeared now.”

“What has this to do with us?” asked Vadim Vasilyevich, finally standing away from the desk and exhibiting his full height.

“His name was found on a document belonging to Goryanchikov. Along with the name of another gentleman, one Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov.” Porfiry studied the two men closely for their reactions. Vadim Vasilyevich slammed his book with a sigh. Osip Maximovich smiled blandly. “Goryanchikov is linked to you because of the work he did for Athene publishing. He was working on a translation for you at the time of his death, wasn’t he?”

“Ah, yes. Proudhon.
Philosophie de la misère,
” sighed Osip Maximovich regretfully.

“He also owned a number of philosophical volumes published by Athene. I believe they were copies of the books he had translated.”

“Moleschott, Büchner, Vogt, and Dühring,” said Vadim Vasilyevich. “Those are the authors he has done for us.”

“Yes, those are the ones I am referring to,” said Porfiry with an appreciative nod. “So you see, Ratazyayev is linked to Goryanchikov. And Goryanchikov leads me to you.”

“You say that Ratazyayev has disappeared,” said Osip Maximovich thoughtfully. “But surely people disappear all the time? He may simply have tired of living in St. Petersburg and moved to Moscow. One does not even have to look so far. Perhaps he is living in the Vyborg District. Not wishing for his old acquaintances to spoil his new suburban life—perhaps even ashamed of it—he is simply lying low. Perhaps he is no longer living the disreputable life of an actor but has joined the service. He may even be teaching in a girls’ school. Alternatively, he may have drunk himself into a stupor, fallen over in the street, and died from exposure. It is the sort of thing that occurs daily in our great city.”

“These are all interesting theories,” said Porfiry with a smile. “And indeed plausible. However, there are circumstances surrounding his disappearance that incline us to treat it as suspicious.”

Vadim Vasilyevich shifted nervously. “If you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to.” Vadim Vasilyevich bowed.

“By all means,” said Porfiry. “But I will wish to talk to you again before I go.”

Vadim Vasilyevich’s small mouth twitched into an uneasy smile, and he crossed into an adjoining room off to one side.

“There are just the two of us here,” said Osip Maximovich, by way of explanation. “Unlike our illustrious neighbors, Smyrdin, we must do everything ourselves. We have an urgent order to prepare for the University of Moscow.”

Impatiently, Porfiry nodded his acknowledgment, then asked, “Is it customary for you to go on spiritual retreat?”

“No, this is the first year that I have done it. And I discovered it is something I have been longing to do all my life. To begin the Christmas fast with a penitent’s retreat. Perhaps it is something to do with getting older. One reaches a certain age. The issue of mortality becomes more pressing. One’s death is no longer an abstract proposition, it is an imminent reality. You were right to question my belief, by the way. I have not always been a believer. As you have probably worked out, I am the son of a priest. I was myself educated in a seminary, and it seemed at one time that I too would follow the path of my father. But like so many of my generation, I discovered philosophy. And science. And doubt. It used to be my opinion that faith and knowledge were irreconcilable opposites. To embrace faith by definition meant rejecting the truths that one had acquired through knowledge. Hard-won truths. I could not in all conscience do the latter, so it was impossible for me to do the former. I was too much under the spell of logic, so I reasoned myself out of my faith. But now I think I have found a way to reconcile them.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I read Hegel. I discovered that true knowledge, the true subject and object of philosophy, is the spirit knowing itself as spirit.”

“I have never been to Optina Pustyn.”

“You should go. I mean, really you should. From the longing in your voice, I can tell that it is what your soul craves. For me there was an added impetus, in that one of the monks there, Father Amvrosy, taught me as a seminarian. He also taught my father. He is an old, old man now. He will die soon. There was a chance that if I did not go this year, I would never see him again in this life. He is without doubt the holiest man in Russia.”

“It is a long way to Optina Pustyn.”

“For sure. One must take the train to Moscow. From there one travels to Kozelsk. But there is no road to the monastery itself. One must approach it on foot or by river, or as I did.”

“And how is that?”

“On my knees.”

Porfiry sighed. “Perhaps one day I shall go. One day very soon.”

“I would urge you to.”

“What was the date you left St. Petersburg?”

“Let me see, it was the twenty-eighth, I believe. The twenty-eighth of November. The train left at twenty minutes past eight in the morning. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

“You arrived in Optina Pustyn?”

“On the evening of the following day.”

“And you returned to St. Petersburg when?”

Osip Maximovich’s eyes flitted briefly as he calculated. “Two days ago, was it now? I have been so busy since returning, and this existence is so different from the spiritual calm of the monastery. It seems a lifetime ago since I left there.”

“Thank you, Osip Maximovich. You have been most helpful,” said Porfiry with a bow. “Now there is just one question I would like to ask Vadim Vasilyevich.”

Porfiry moved quickly to the adjoining room. His sudden appearance seemed to surprise the secretary, who tried to give the impression that he was busy wrapping books, and had been for some time. It was obvious, however, that he had been listening.

“Vadim Vasilyevich, on the day Osip Maximovich took the train to Moscow, you accompanied him to the station, did you not?”

“Yes?”

“Did you see him onto the train?”

“I saw him onto the train and waved him off.”

“And you remained in St. Petersburg the whole of the time that he was away on retreat?”

“Indeed.”

“Thank you.” Porfiry bowed and was about to leave, but there was something in the other man’s expression that sought to detain him.

“May I ask you,” began Vadim Vasilyevich hesitantly. “The work that Stepan Sergeyevich was doing for us, the Proudhon translation—do you know what has become of it?”

“It is in my possession.”

“We would appreciate it very much if it could be returned to us. We have a book to prepare, you understand. And we must find another translator to complete Stepan Sergeyevich’s work. Possibly I will have to undertake the task myself, or Osip Maximovich. It would be helpful to know how much Stepan Sergeyevich managed to complete.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible just yet. I have not finished analyzing it. It may turn out to be important evidence.”

“How long do you think you will need it for?”

“I can’t say.”

“I don’t see what possible use it could be to you.”

“That is for me to determine.”

Vadim Vasilyevich stared at Porfiry for a long time. His eyes narrowed but did not blink. “Osip Maximovich is a saint,” he said at last.

Porfiry bowed, as though in gratitude for this information.

S
HE MOVED THROUGH
the Apraxin Arcade with the same inflexible determination with which she had crossed Petrovsky Park, only a few days before. Those who saw her coming stepped aside. Those who didn’t felt the buffet of her shoulder or the swipe of her arm, and skipped out of the way with an angry sidelong glance at the force that had impelled them. They saw an old woman bundled in layers of ragged clothes, a strange, sealed expression on her face. It was almost a smile, but cunning prevented it from going so far. If anyone studied her face for long enough, they would reach the conclusion that there was a secret contained in it. But whatever that secret was, it could not escape through the tight slits of her eyes.

She reached the corner of the market where the icon dealers were to be found. Her approach stirred the sheepskin-clad traders into an exchange of nods and winks. There was something conspiratorial, but also competitive, in the way they bristled at the prospect of her. They vied for her custom with friendly cries and waves: “Hello Granny!” “Madam!” Those who knew her name called out, “Zoya Nikolaevna!”

But she chose today, as had done on previous days, a dealer who made no effort to get her attention or her business. It was his face, and more specifically his eyes, that drew her. He had the eyes of Christ the Redeemer. And just like the Christ figure in one of the icons he sold, his long hair fell around his shoulders in ringlets, and his beard was divided into two soft points. He was a young man, the youngest of them. His face was always serious, giving the impression that he was well aware of the solemnity of his trade. The others hawked their icons like half-kopek cakes.

He acknowledged her presence at his stall with a silent upward tilt of his head. Her greeting in return was an involuntary twitch of the mouth.

She scanned the banks of icons, arranged according to the holy personages represented and the manner of representation. Here the Christs: Christ Immanuel, Christ Redeemer, Christ’s Descent into Hell, Christ of the Fiery Eye, Redeemer with Moist Beard, Redeemer Not Painted by Human Hands. Next to the Christs were the Marys (although, of course, both figures were featured in depictions of the Nativity): Virgin of Compassion, Our Lady of Vladimir, Our Lady of Kykkos, Our Lady of Refuge and Succor. And then the saints: Saint Nicholas, Saint John, Saint George, Saint Paul, Saint Demetrius. The lights of the market glinted softly in the gold paint and jewels.

As well as those on display, there were deep baskets filled with icons. Zoya stood over one and closed her eyes. She held out one hand and let it hover. Then she dropped it to caress the varnished surfaces, before forcing her fingers down. It was a question of wheedling and teasing, of flexing her fingers to engineer minute shifts in the abutment of edges. She was able to plunge her arm all the way up to her elbow before withdrawing it. And then, at last, she opened her eyes and inspected her forearm. It seemed strange to her that no visible change had been wrought upon it; that it was not glowing or dripping with gold.

The young icon dealer tolerated all this without comment, too polite even to give any indication of noticing. Zoya, however, chose to see something other than politeness in his gently averted eyes. In them she saw infinite compassion.

Looking back to the icons that were hung up around his stall, her eye was drawn to one she hadn’t seen before, a heavily jeweled representation of the Savior. His halo was formed from circles of pearls, alternating with settings of sapphires and lapis lazuli, all on a base of beaten silver. Seeing it for the first time, she felt the breath leave her body in amazement. It was not simply the beauty and richness of the jewels and precious metal that impressed her. She understood that this was meant to represent Christ’s splendor. Her soul grasped too the inadequacy of any earthly treasures to convey it. The Savior’s face remained unmoved by the riches surrounding him. And it was the face she stared at, the face that humbled her.

Finally she addressed a remark to the dealer: “Haven’t seen this one before.”

His eyes flashed toward where she was pointing. “It came in today.”

“Is it old?”

“Seventeenth century.”

Zoya’s eyes narrowed further. She seemed to find this information discouraging. “It’s not the oldest I’ve seen. Was it in a church?”

The young man nodded.

“How much is it?”

“It’s very precious. The jewels alone are extremely valuable.”

“How much?”

“One hundred rubles.”

Zoya clicked her tongue. “I don’t care about the jewels.”

The icon dealer shrugged, as if to say,
Don’t buy it then.

“It’s not the jewels I want,” insisted Zoya. “If I wanted jewels, I would go to Fabergé.”

“I know what you want from them.” His eyes confirmed his understanding. “I have one here that also came in today. I put it aside for you.” He bent out of sight and returned holding a tiny, dark rectangle of wood, on which was painted an image of the eternal Mother of God holding the Infant Christ. He held it out for her to examine. She took it and felt its power in the quickening of her heart.

The gold paint of the background was peeling off. The age of the varnish flattened the details of the clothing. But the intensity and directness of the Virgin’s gaze was undimmed. Zoya felt the tears trickle down her face. She thought of all the men who had squirted their seed into her, the seed of life, of all the unborn, unbaptized babies she had carried, but not to full term. She realized that she could have no secrets from those eyes. The Virgin’s gaze knew everything, understood everything, and forgave everything. It promised intercession and redemption. It promised hope. Those eyes looked into her soul without flinching.

“This one is twelfth century. It’s over six hundred years old. Imagine.”

She nodded as she dabbed the tears away.

“Imagine how many people have thrown themselves down before it. Imagine how many prayers have been said to it. Six hundred years. Imagine how many miracles it has performed.”

“I’ll take it,” said Zoya. She did not ask the price. “I’ll take them both.” And all the gilded saints and angels and all the varnished prophets flickered their blessings on her purchase.

A
GROUP OF
children was playing in the snow in front of the apartment building on Srednyaya Meshchanskaya Street. One of them, a little girl of about three or four, wearing a
drap-de-dames
shawl, caught Porfiry’s notice. Somehow he knew that she was Lilya’s child. She was less ragged than her playmates, dressed in smart new clothes and boots, which seemed to confirm Fräulein Keller’s story about Lilya’s rich provider. He could see something of Lilya in her wide blue eyes and the shape of her head. Her lips reminded him of Lilya too. It was only the nose that made him doubt, rather stronger than the insignificant nub typical of children her age. It had a distinct double tip, which was reddened by the cold. Like the rest of her face, it seemed familiar to him, and so perhaps it was more like Lilya’s than he remembered.

As he watched the children play, he thought of the price he had paid for this lead. He felt as though he was defiling them by his gaze.

As much to cut short these reflections as to advance the investigation, Porfiry called out, “Hey! You lot!” The children turned, their faces startled but not afraid. “Who can take me to Zoya Nikolaevna’s flat? A shiny five-kopek piece for the one who can!”

They ran up to him, arms outstretched, calling for the money. But Porfiry kept his gaze on the little girl he had noticed earlier. Her eyes had widened even further and her mouth gaped in wonder.

“Do you know Zoya, little one?”

“She’s my granny!”

“And what’s
your
name?”

“Vera.”

“Hello, Vera. Would
you
take me to Granny Zoya’s?” Porfiry bent down and held the five-kopek piece in front of her amazed eyes. He fended off the protests from the older children with an upheld palm.

“She’s gone out,” said Vera simply. Porfiry winced at her trusting innocence.

“So there’s no one at home?”

“Mamma’s at home!” This was said with that good-humored indulgence that children reserve for the stupidity of adults.

Porfiry nodded thoughtfully and gave her the coin. The other children began to drift away. “Mamma? I see. Is your mamma’s name Lilya, child?”

The little girl nodded energetically.

“Let’s go and see her, shall we?” The child became grave, affected by the responsibility of her commission. But she saw nothing strange in it. He felt the tug of childhood in her hand.

T
HE DOOR OPENED
narrowly. The mother’s blue eyes peered out, uncomprehending and mistrustful. Her face shocked him, somehow. And then he realized. She was not wearing her streetwalker’s makeup. Her pale exposed skin confronted him with her undeniable humanity. The makeup, he saw, protected both of them.

“Lilya? Do you remember me?”

Of course she remembered him: her eyes showed recognition clearly enough. But she did not understand his presence there. And when she saw her daughter holding his hand, her expression of general anxiety changed to one of fear.

“Vera? What have you done?”

“It’s all right.” He tried to reassure her with his smile. “I just want to talk to you. It would be better if I came in.”

Obedience was clearly a habit with her, yet she resisted widening the gap of the door. Her eyes begged for release, for him to let her be. She had the conflicted look of one who has something to hide but longs to confess it. Her face was momentarily panic-stricken as she glanced at her daughter; then finally, as he knew she would, she began to open the door.

Little Vera ran around his legs to get inside. Porfiry caught the complex of apology and indulgence in her mother’s loving eye.

As Porfiry stepped inside,
ushanka
in hand, he gasped audibly. Candles burned everywhere, hundreds of them, of every size and type, some in gold candelabra and elaborate jeweled stands, others simply placed in bottles or on saucers. And then he saw the walls, and a second, more self-conscious gasp escaped him. A multitude of holy faces looked out, though their gaze eluded contact. The oil-fueled flames that flickered in front of these faces both illuminated and excluded, creating a glowing screen that seemed to float in front of the dense glittering of icons. They were the blessed ones in paradise; those in the room, the unredeemed on earth. Every square inch of the walls was covered. The icons butted up to one another, frame against frame. The air was thick with burning beeswax, oil, and incense.

Hardly able to believe his eyes, Porfiry looked to Lilya for confirmation. She bowed her head, shamefaced. She could look him in the eye when they talked of prostitution, but this excess of religious sentiment embarrassed her, it seemed.

“I have never seen so many icons,” murmured Porfiry. “Not even in a church.”

“Oh, you will see this many and more at the icon dealers’ stalls.”

Porfiry searched her face for an explanation.

“They’re not mine! I didn’t buy them!” she cried in protest.

Vera ran between the candles shrieking. The child threw herself onto the floor and began to recite a prayer, in childish imitation of something she had evidently seen many times: “Merciful Mother of God, look down with pity on us sinners…”

“Zoya Nikolaevna?” Porfiry suggested. Lilya nodded. “But how? I mean, where did the money come from? Forgive me, but what I mean to say is, I can’t imagine that she has money to spare on such…” Porfiry gestured sweepingly. He refrained from defining the expenditure as folly.

Lilya didn’t answer. But the tension in her expression was revealing.

“There are some questions I need to ask you, Lilya Ivanovna.” Porfiry’s voice was heavy with significance. For the first time, he noticed her new and fashionably simple clothes. She wore a dark blue silk skirt with a brocade hem and a contrasting chemisette of white muslin.

Lilya nodded and led him over to the stove, away from where Vera was now playing with a new porcelain doll. She gestured for him to sit down at the table.

“I went to Fräulein Keller’s,” he began. The color flooded her face. “She told me you’d come into money. She says you’ve found a rich protector. A new boyfriend.”

Lilya shook her head hotly. “Fräulein Keller can only see things through her own eyes.”

“That’s true enough,” said Porfiry, with a half laugh. But then his face became serious as he remembered the depths he had sunk to in order to get information out of the madam. “But Lilya, I look at all this, I look at your dress, at Vera’s toys. When I saw you at the police bureau, you were dressed in hand-me-down rags.”

“I wore what I needed to wear.”

“Yes, of course. But tell me, where did all this come from?”

“Zoya found…some money. That’s all.”

Porfiry noticed the hesitation and frowned skeptically. “She was indeed lucky. But I wonder, did she not think it might belong to someone?”

“You’ve never been poor. You’ve never known what it’s like.”

“I am not here to investigate or judge Zoya Nikolaevna.”

“Why are you here?” It was the same question Raya had asked him at Fräulein Keller’s.

“You know the student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lilya stared at his strange, colorless lashes. “Yes.”

“We are currently holding him in connection with a possible crime.”

She gave an inarticulate sob of protest. Her eyes questioned and challenged him.

“Anything you can say in answer to my questions will help him.”

“You don’t believe he…”

“I don’t believe he what?”

“Is it to do with Goryanchikov?”