Petersburg (60 page)

‘You are pleased to keep a rendezvous with a police investigator, you are pleased to go drinking with a police investigator, like I do not know what, like the latest little sleuth …’

‘Wait!
…’

‘Not a word, not a word,’ said the
person
, beginning to wave his hand as he saw that Aleksandr Ivanovich, who was frightened now in good earnest, was trying to say something.

‘I repeat: the fact of your obvious part in a provocation has not yet been established, but … I warn you – I warn you out of friendship: Aleksandr Ivanovich, my dear fellow, you have been doing something wrong …’

‘I?’

‘Step back: it is not too late …’

For a moment Aleksandr Ivanovich had a plain impression that the words ‘step back, it is not too late’ were a kind of condition set by
a certain person
: he was not to insist on an explanation of the incident with Nikolai Apollonovich; something else seemed to be there, too – the
person
(he remembered) had himself received a very bad name here; something of the kind was happening here – that was plain: Zoya Zakharovna Fleisch’s hints just now – at what else besides?

But no sooner had Aleksandr Ivanovich reflected and, having reflected, plucked up his courage somewhat, than the familiar, malevolent expression – the expression of
that same
hallucination – passed fleetingly over the fat man’s face; and the frontal bones were tensed in a single violent act of stubbornness – to break his will: whatever happened, at whatever cost – to break it, or … explode into pieces.

And the frontal bones broke it.

Aleksandr Ivanovich, sleepily and in a state of depression, somehow drooped, and the
person
, in revenge for the moment of resistance to his will that had just taken place, once again advanced; the square head inclined low.

The little eyes – the little eyes were trying to say:

‘Ah, ah, ah, my good chap … So that’s your game?’

And the mouth sprayed spittle:

‘Don’t pretend to be such a simpleton …’

‘I’m not pretending …’

‘All Petersburg knows it …’

‘Knows what?’

‘About the exposure of T … T …’

‘What?’

‘Yes, yes …’

If the
person
had deliberately wanted to distract Aleksandr Ivanovich’s thought from anything that would enable him to discover the true motives of the
person
’s behaviour, he had completely succeeded, because the news of the exposure of T … T … shook the feeble Aleksandr Ivanovich as if by thunder.

‘Oh Lord Jesus Christ!
…’

‘Jesus Christ!’ the person mocked.
‘You knew about it before any
of us … Until the experts give their testimony, let us assume that it is so … Only: do not redouble the suspicion you attract to yourself: and not a word about Ableukhov.’

Aleksandr Ivanovich must at that moment have had an extremely idiotic air, because the person continued to roar with laughter and teased him with the black grin of his wide open mouth: with the same grin does a beast’s bloody carcass with flayed hide stare at us from a butcher’s shop.

‘Don’t pretend, my dear fellow, that you know nothing about Ableukhov’s role in all this; or that you know nothing about the reasons that forced me to punish Ableukhov by means of the commission I gave him; that you know nothing about how that mangy little worm played his role: the role, observe, has been played skilfully; and my little calculation was correct – my calculation that he would be sentimental, dithering, like you’ – the
person
had softened: with the admission that Aleksandr Ivanovich, too, suffered from dithering he generously removed the accusation he had a moment earlier made against Aleksandr Ivanovich; that was no doubt why at the word ‘dithering’ something fell from Aleksandr Ivanovich’s soul; he was already vaguely, vaguely trying to persuade himself that he had been wrong with regard to the
person
.

‘Yes, my calculation was correct: it would appear that the noble son hates his father, is preparing to bump him off, while at the same time he pokes about among us with little talks and other balderdash; he’s collecting pieces of paper, and when his collection of them is complete, he is going to present it to his dear papa … Yet you are all somehow inexplicably drawn to this loathsome creature …’

‘But Nikolai Stepanych, he was – weeping …’

‘So what, did his tears surprise you … Why, you are a strange fellow: tears are the usual condition of an educated investigator; why, when the educated investigator bursts into tears he thinks that he is doing so sincerely: and he possibly even regrets that he is an investigator; only those educated tears don’t make us feel any easier in the slightest … You too, Aleksandr Ivanovich, you also weep … But by that I don’t at all mean to infer that you are guilty’ (this was not true: the person had only just now repeatedly mentioned the subject of guilt; and for a moment this
not true
filled Aleksandr Ivanovich with horror; subconsciously in his soul, like lightning,
one thing had flashed: ‘A bargain is being struck: I am being asked to believe a repulsive slander, or, more precisely, since I don’t believe it, I’m being asked to go along with it at the price of having the slander removed from myself …’ All this flashed beyond the threshold of his consciousness, because the terrible truth had been locked up beyond that threshold above his eyes by the frontal bones of the
person
and the oppressive atmosphere of the storm and the glitter of the little eyes with their ‘aha, my good chap’ … And he thought that he was starting to believe that slander).

‘I am sure that you, Aleksandr Ivanych, are clean, but as for.
Ableukhov: right here in this drawer I have a dossier for safekeeping: later on I shall submit it to the judgement of the Party.’ Here the
person
began desperately to stamp about the little study – from corner to corner – clumsily beating his hand against his starched chest.
But in his tone one could hear an unfeigned vexation, a desperation – quite simply, a kind of nobility (the bargain had evidently been struck successfully).

‘Later on, believe me, I shall be understood: but now the situation makes it necessary for the contagion to be torn out swiftly by the roots … Yes … I am acting like a dictator, by my will alone … But – believe me – I regret it: I regretted signing his sentence, but … dozens are perishing … because of your … senator’s dear son … Remember, you yourself once nearly perished (Aleksandr Ivanovich thought that he had already perished) … Had I not … Remember the Yakutsk region!
… Yet you intercede for him, condole with him … Weep, then, weep!
There is something to weep about: dozens are perishing!!!
…’

Here the
person
rolled his swift little eyes and walked out of the study.

It had got dark: there was blackness.

Darkness had fallen; and it had risen between all the objects in the room; tables, cupboards, armchairs – everything had receded into profound darkness; Aleksandr Ivanovich went on sitting in the darkness – all on his own; the darkness entered his soul: he – wept.

Aleksandr Ivanovich remembered all the nuances of the
person
’s discourse and considered that all those nuances had been sincere
ones; the
person
had probably not been lying; and the suspicions, the hatred – all that could be explained by Aleksandr Ivanovich’s morbid condition: some chance midnight nightmare, in which the principal role was played by the
person
, might by chance become connected with some chance ambiguous remark of the
person
’s; and the food for a mental illness on a basis of alcoholism was ready; while the hallucination of the Mongol and the meaningless whisper of ‘Enfranshish’ that he had heard in the night – all that had done the rest.
Well, what was the Mongol on the wall?
Delirium.
And that nefarious word.

‘Enfranshish, enfranshish …’ – what was it?

An abracadabra, an association of sounds – no more.

True, he had harboured uncharitable feelings towards the
certain person
previously, too; but this was also true: he was obligated to the
person
; – the
person
had got him out of trouble; his revulsion and horror were not justified by anything except … delirium:
the stain on the wallpaper
.

Oh, then he was ill, he was ill …

Darkness was falling: had fallen, was all around; with a kind of serious menace emerged – table, armchair, cupboard; the darkness entered his soul – he wept: Nikolai Apollonovich’s moral profile now arose for the first time in its true light.
How could he not have understood it?

He remembered his first meeting with him (Nikolai Apollonovich had given a little talk at the home of some mutual acquaintances in which all values were overthrown): the impression was not a pleasant one; and – further: Nikolai Apollonovich had, to tell the truth, displayed an especial curiosity about all the Party’s secrets; with the absent-minded air of an awkward degenerate, he had poked his nose into everything: after all, that absent-mindedness could be affected.
Aleksandr Ivanovich thought for a bit: an
agent provocateur
of superior type could of course easily possess an outward appearance like that of Ableukhov – that sadly reflective air (avoiding the gaze of the person he was talking to) and the froglike expression of those pursed lips; Aleksandr Ivanovich was slowly becoming convinced: Nikolai Apollonovich had behaved strangely throughout this whole business: and dozens were perishing …

To the degree in which he became persuaded of Ableukhov’s involvement in the matter concerning the exposure of T.T., so did the terror-laden, oppressive feeling that had gripped him during his conversation with the
person
die away; something light, almost carefree entered his soul.
Aleksandr Ivanovich had for some reason long had an especial hatred of the senator: Apollon Apollonovich inspired him with an especial revulsion, similar to the revulsion inspired in us by a phalanx, or even a tarantula; on the other hand, at times he liked Nikolai Apollonovich; but now the senator’s son had united for him with the senator in a single spasm of revulsion and in a desire to root out, exterminate this tarantula-like breed.

‘O, filth!
… Dozens are perishing … O, filth …’

Better even the woodlice, the piece of dark yellow wallpaper, better even the
person
: in the
person
there was at least the grandeur of hatred; with the
person
one could at any rate unite in the desire to exterminate spiders:

‘O, filth!
…’

Across the room from him the table was already gleaming hospitably; on the table ‘savouries’ had been laid out: sausage,
sig
and cold veal cutlets; from afar came the contented humming of the
person
, who had at last grown tired, and Shishnarfiev’s voice; this latter was taking his leave; at last he left.

Soon the
person
came barging into the room, walked up to Aleksandr Ivanovich, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulders:

‘Right, then!
It’s better if we don’t quarrel, Aleksandr Ivanovich; if our own people are at odds with one another … then how will we ever …’

‘Well, let’s go and have something to eat … Eat with us … Only let us not hear a word of all this over supper … It’s all so depressing … And there’s no reason for Zoya Zakharovna to know about it, either: she’s tired of me … And I’m pretty tired, too … We’re all pretty tired … And it’s all just – nerves … You and I are nervous people … Well – to supper, to supper …’

The table gleamed hospitably.

The Sad and Melancholy One Again

Aleksandr Ivanovich rang the doorbell a great number of times.

Aleksandr Ivanovich rang the doorbell outside the gate of his forbidding house; the yardkeeper did not open up for him; when he rang, the only reply from the other side of the gate was the barking of a dog; in the distance a midnight cockerel raised its lonely voice at midnight; and – died away.
The Eighteenth Line stretched away – over there: into the depths, into the emptiness.

Emptiness.

Aleksandr Ivanovich experienced something that resembled satisfaction, indeed: his arrival within these lamentable walls was being delayed; all night within these lamentable walls there were rustlings, crashes and squeals.

Eventually – and this was the main thing: he would have to surmount twelve cold steps: and, turning, count their familiar number once again.

Aleksandr Ivanovich always did this four times.

In all: ninety-six echoing stone steps; further: he had to stand in front of the felt-covered door; he had with fear to put the half-rusted key in the lock.
It was too risky to light a match in this pitch darkness; the light of a match might suddenly illumine the most diverse rubbish; like a mouse; and something else besides …

Thus did Aleksandr Ivanovich reflect.

That was why he always lingered before the gate of his forbidding house.

And – look there, now … –

– Someone sad and tall, whom Aleksandr Ivanovich had several times seen down by the Neva, again appeared in the depths of the Eighteenth Line. This time he quietly stepped into the bright circle of the street lamp; but it looked as though the bright golden light had begun to stream from his brow, from his stiffening fingers …

– Thus did the unknown friend appear on this occasion too.

Aleksandr Ivanovich remembered how one day the charming
inhabitant of the Eighteenth Line had been hailed by a little old woman who was passing in a straw hat and bonnet with lilac ribbons.

Misha, she had called him then.

Aleksandr Ivanovich shuddered every time the sad, tall figure, as he walked past, turned on him an inexpressible, all-seeing gaze; and as he did so, his sunken cheeks gleamed white in the same way.
After these encounters on the Neva, Aleksandr Ivanovich saw without seeing, and heard without hearing.