The Cleansing Flames (28 page)

Kirill Kirillovich snatched the paper and shook his head over the account. ‘A wasted opportunity,’ he declared.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Virginsky.

‘
No motive for the dreadful crime has been given
,’ read Kirill Kirillovich. ‘What is the point of committing such an act if you do not make it clear that it is political? The least you could have done was to shout some slogans.’

‘I . . .’

‘And why did you run away? You should have waited there for them to arrest you.’

‘That’s insane!’ objected Virginsky.

‘No,’ said Botkin. ‘He’s right. It is better for the cause when the assassin is arrested. For one thing, it shows that we are not ashamed of our acts. For another, it allows the possibility of a trial. A trial is essential; indeed, it is the main point of a political crime. It affords us, in defending our actions, to speak directly to the Russian people. By avoiding arrest, you have held back the cause of the revolution.’

‘But am I not of more use to the cause free? Can I not be used to lead and inspire further unrest? Besides, the timing of my attack was everything. The timing proves its political aspect. I struck the very day after the Tsar’s mistress gave birth! While he was busy fawning over his illegitimate son – abandoning not only his own family, but the whole of Russia. When people see that his decadence allows us to strike at the heart of the administration with impunity, they will cease to believe in the regime’s ability to protect them. You must at least admit that my action will be successful in destabilising the government?’

‘But we must let it be known beyond doubt that it is a political act. We must put out a manifesto to that effect, claiming responsibility. It is a pity that . . .’ Botkin broke off.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I have notified the central committee of these developments. We may expect a visit from one of their number, imminently.’

‘A member of the central committee is to come here? Openly? A member of the central committee is to reveal himself to us?’ Kirill Kirillovich was beside himself at the prospect.

‘Such an extraordinary development calls for extraordinary measures,’ said Botkin.

Virginsky gave a tense grimace.

They heard the apartment door. Varvara Alexeevna came into the room, stooped and worn out, her eyes ringed with exhaustion.

‘In the meantime, let us have some tea.’ Kirill Kirillovich gave his wife a commanding nod.

Varvara Alexeevna turned on her heel with a sudden burst of alacrity.

‘Of course, tea! I shall bring in the samovar. What an excellent suggestion, Alyosha Afanasevich. It is no wonder you are held in such esteem by your friends.’

Botkin frowned at her back as he tried to unravel the nuances of her sarcasm.

*

They drank tea steadily for the next five hours, while they waited for the visit from the representative of the central committee. At one point, Varvara Alexeevna provided
buterbrody
of ham and cheese, with a selection of pickles.

Little was said. They morosely watched the stilted, ponderous progression of the filigree hands of an ormolu and enamel clock, decorated elaborately with dancing nymphs. Each time the hands approached the hour, and the antique clock wound itself up to chime, the watchers’ air of tense expectancy increased. It seemed they believed, irrationally, that the visitation would occur precisely on the hour, although which hour did not seem to matter. At midnight, this feeling was greatest of all, but it was also mixed with a sense of dread that the longed-for visit would not after all occur, and the day would end without them knowing what to do.

As the prolonged midnight chimes came to a close, Botkin gave vent to his frustration by roundly abusing the clock that had announced the time. ‘What are you doing in possession of that filthy object? You call yourself a revolutionist? You’re worse than the most decadent aristocrat! I have a good mind to throw it from the window and watch it smash upon the courtyard.’ He even stood up and took a step towards the mantelpiece.

‘If you do, you will have me to answer to, Alyosha Afanasevich!’ warned Varvara Alexeevna.

‘My wife is fond of it,’ explained Kirill Kirillovich, despondently.

‘I am surprised at you, Varvara Alexeevna,’ said Botkin, turning away from the offending clock. ‘I know you share our convictions. Indeed, I always took you to be a more rigorous political theoretician than your husband.’

‘And so I am. If you wish to discuss this sensibly, then I will ask you this. Is the purpose of social revolution to bring all down to the level of the meanest pauper, or to raise all up to the level of the privileged few?’

‘The latter is impossible, Varvara Alexeevna,’ said Botkin dismissively. ‘We cannot all live as wealthy aristocrats. That is the way to perpetuate the disparities of the current system, merely transferring the privileges of the few to a different elite. And so, inevitably, the production of equality necessitates a process of levelling off. We will all meet in the middle somewhere, I imagine.’

‘And there will be no more fine things?’

‘Everything that is necessary will be provided. There will be no more want. Still and all,
this
. . .’ Botkin turned and pointed at the clock. ‘This is not a question of necessity. It is luxury. For sure, there will be no more luxury.’

‘And what will become of all the fine things that already exist?’

‘They will be destroyed.’

‘What purpose does that serve?’

‘It clears the way. It educates. It punishes.’

‘And I will be punished for owning this clock? You know I was given it as a fee by a countess who had fallen on hard times and got herself into trouble. You could say it was redistribution in action. At any rate, I worked long hours to earn that clock, and all the other nice things you see here.’

‘You will fall into the category of education, rather than punishment. You are essentially suffering from a misguided aspiration. You aspire to the decadent practice of connoisseurship which you have appropriated from another class. It would be better that you did not.’

‘But is it not a form of social revolution when people such as I can own such objects?’

‘And in the meantime there are millions who cannot afford to feed their families. Are you aware, Varvara Alexeevna, that men died to produce luxuries like this?’

‘You go too far, Alyosha Afanasevich!’

‘Not at all. The process of laying on the ormolu involves the evaporation of mercury, which causes first the insanity and then the premature death of the artisans involved. In France, a more enlightened country than ours I think, the process was long ago declared illegal.’

‘The clock is over a hundred years old. The man who made it is certainly dead, whether prematurely or not. His oppression will not be lightened one iota by smashing it.’

‘Surely you are familiar with the Catechism? The revolutionist knows only one science: the science of destruction. Before we can establish a new order, we must destroy everything associated with the old. Your precious clock falls into that category. It must be swept away.’ Botkin appeared carried along by his own words. Although he had so far restrained himself, he now reached out and lifted the clock from the mantelpiece.

Varvara Alexeevna shrieked.

Botkin’s eyes were gleeful. ‘I see now it is my duty to destroy it. As it is your duty to rejoice in its destruction.’

It was at that moment that the long-awaited knock at the door was finally heard. The clock between Botkin’s hands indicated the time to be twenty-one minutes past twelve. For some reason, Botkin was distracted by the time, perhaps by its numerical symmetry. The moment for destroying it passed. He returned it to the mantelpiece.

Kirill Kirillovich went to see to the door. He returned a moment later with Tatyana Ruslanovna. The room became energised at her entrance.

‘You!’ cried Botkin. ‘You are the representative of the central committee?’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘No. It pleases me immensely. It delights me.’

‘It is a good thing,’ agreed Varvara Alexeevna. ‘You are a woman,’ she added, to explain her position more clearly.

Tatyana Ruslanovna turned her attention to Virginsky. ‘And so, my friend, what have you done?’ Her smile was kindly.

‘I have struck at the heart of the administration.’

‘Hardly the heart. But you have struck one of its prominent limbs.’

‘Yes, but he should have made clear the political aspect of his act, should he not?’ insisted Kirill Kirillovich. ‘If he had been dragged off shouting “Long live the Revolution!,” the crime would have had more of an impact. As it stands, it is possible for the authorities to represent it as the isolated action of a lone madman. He should have stayed to make clear his position as a revolutionist.’

‘The central committee is of the view that Pavel Pavlovich acted correctly in saving himself. In allowing Porfiry Petrovich’s attacker to remain at liberty, the authorities reveal their ineptitude. It increases public terror. The central committee is of the view that all our people must co-operate in keeping Virginsky out of the authorities’ reach. This is now a priority. For the time being, he will remain here.’

‘Here?’ Kirill Kirillovich screwed up his face distastefully. ‘Who is to pay for his food?’

‘You are. Sacrifices are required. This will be yours. You will also supply him with clothes, preferably a workman’s. You, Pavel Pavlovich, are advised to do whatever you can to change your appearance. Grow a beard. Adopt a different gait. You will be surprised what a difference a change in gait can effect. You will also be supplied with a false passport, of course. As soon as this is ready, we will move you out of Petersburg.’

‘I don’t want to move out of Petersburg.’ Virginsky’s voice was childishly petulant.

‘It doesn’t matter what you want.’

He tried to affect a more reasonable tone: ‘But I can be more use here.’

‘It is hard to see how you can be any use at all to us now, other than as an idea, a phantom. That is the only reason we are determined to keep you safe. There is also the consideration that we cannot be sure you will not betray us if you are arrested.’

‘I would hope that I have proven myself on that score,’ protested Virginsky.

Tatyana Ruslanovna did not reply. And the smile that flickered briefly over her lips was hard to interpret.

He slept on the sofa in the main room of the apartment. More accurately, he lay down on it and closed his eyes intermittently. After a while, it was hard to distinguish between the swirling grey fuzz of the room around him, and the non-dimensioned darkness, streaked with flaring lights, that he entered when he closed his eyes. Both were filled with the ticking of the ormolu clock, meting out the hours with inhuman patience. He found its measured insistence oppressive, and began to wish that Botkin had made good on his threat to destroy it. He self-consciously framed the intention that, before the end of his stay in the apartment, he would smash the infernal clock himself, if no one else did. He laughed wildly into the darkness, his eyes straining with defiance at the boundless obscurity of the night. It seemed that he was capable of anything now. Soon, however, he became irrationally afraid of the clock. He imagined that it had grown to gigantic size, and that its hands were swinging axes, as sharp as guillotine blades. He knew at that moment that he was asleep, and dreaming. And as soon as the realisation struck him, he woke up. The reality of his situation was immediately depressing. He felt trapped, as indeed he was. He imagined eternity as a nocturnal room like this, with an unseen clock tapping relentlessly at the darkness. He began to count the ticks of the clock, and for some reason that made him feel a little better.

He knew that he would not get to sleep again that night. But that decisive realisation was also somehow liberating. He settled down to address the turmoil of his thoughts, without being distracted by the anxieties of insomnia.

Surprisingly, perhaps, he found himself thinking about Prince Dolgoruky; or, more specifically, about his demon. He imagined it there in the room with him, squatting foully on its haunches, leering in the darkness. He could not quite believe in it. When he tried to put a face to it, his mind – peculiarly – supplied the face of Porfiry Petrovich. And so it was a demon with pale, almost translucent skin, with a face as feminine and cunning as a peasant woman’s, with eyes the colour of ice and transparent lashes flickering restlessly over them. He sensed the bulbous prominence at the back of its head, and was repelled by it.

But this demon, it seemed, had the power of metamorphosis, for he saw that its face had changed into that of Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin. And so it was now a hatchet-headed demon, with a wild incendiary stare trapped behind circular spectacle lenses. No sooner had the demon settled into this incarnation than it began to change. Its neck stretched out impossibly. Virginsky’s mind’s eye craned upwards to see the face of Tatyana Ruslanovna Vakhrameva looking down at him with an expression of aloof indifference. This was the Tatyana Ruslanovna of old, the sexually knowing woman-child with the drifting, dangerous gaze. He felt an ache of longing and unhappiness. He knew from her glance that she was utterly unattainable, no matter what crimes he might commit to please her.

He didn’t like to see the demon as Tatyana Ruslanovna. He willed it to assume another form. But the demon seemed to want to torment him, for it held onto Tatyana Ruslanovna’s features with obstinate cruelty.

Of course, at no point did he actually believe that there was a demon there with him in the room.
Was that the difference between him and Prince Dolgoruky?
he wondered. Virginsky, ever the materialist, knew full well that the demon was simply a product of his own mental processes, that it was something he himself had created, possibly to represent that aspect of himself that was capable of evil. (He took it for granted that he was capable of evil.) Indeed, he had no real sense of the demon as existing outside his mind. Pursuing this impeccably rationalistic analysis, he saw that the projection of other people’s faces onto the demon was an attempt by his unconscious mind to shift the blame for his negative acts onto others.

He shook his head without raising it from the cushion it rested on. Such moral cowardice would not do. He had to take responsibility for his own acts, for all of them. And so he attempted to will his own face onto the demon, for that would be the only honest representation. But even after a conscious, creative effort, he could not make the demon wear his face. It was as if the part of him that had conjured it into being simply refused to countenance such an outcome.

He was growing tired of the demon. He wanted it to be gone. He wanted to prove his mastery over it, over the negative aspects of his personality. And the last face it wore, before it dissolved into the soft grains of night, was that of his old professor, Tatiscev.

*

The walls of the apartment blazed with panels of luminosity, sharp geometric sections of sunlight. A wash of cold pallor spread across the parquet floor.

‘You are to stay in the apartment. Don’t go out. Don’t answer the door. Stay away from the windows, too. You must not be seen by anyone, do you understand?’ Kirill Kirillovich’s habitual look of sour disappointment was momentarily transformed into one of sour disapproval.

Virginsky experienced a nostalgic pang as he contemplated the angled projections of spring. ‘Tatyana Ruslanovna said you are to get me clothes.’

‘There will be time for that later.’

‘But if someone comes to the apartment and I am seen in my civil-service uniform, they are more likely to suspect something. If I am dressed as a workman . . .’

‘If you are dressed as a workman, you will convince no one. I have never seen a more unlikely workman.’

‘That was Tatyana Ruslanovna’s wish. It was the wish of the central committee.’

‘Sometimes, like a theologian interpreting the Bible, one must interpret the commands of the central committee. Having done so, I do not feel it is necessary to supply you with the clothes.’

‘But that is not interpretation. It is contradiction. Furthermore, you chose a suspiciously reactionary analogy.’

Kirill Kirillovich regarded Virginsky without enthusiasm. ‘This is all beside the point. I have already told you that you are not to open the door to anyone. What need is there for disguise?’

‘Is there any news of . . . of the man I shot?’ The question surprised Virginsky as much as it did Kirill Kirillovich.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t been out yet. I haven’t had a chance to see a newspaper.’ He frowned impatiently and then added, ‘Do you care?’

‘No,’ said Virginsky quickly.

‘You don’t care whether he lives or dies?’

Virginsky felt unsure how to answer, sensing the question was a trap.
It will be like this from now on
, he thought. ‘No. I really don’t,’ he claimed.

Kirill Kirillovich did not seem to be impressed. ‘I suppose it makes little difference to you now. They will not go any easier on you if he lives. However, as far as the cause of social revolution is concerned, it would be better if he died.’

His wife, Varvara Alexeevna, came into the room as he said this. Her face assumed an uneasy expression. She averted her gaze sadly to the floor and spoke with quiet determination: ‘You know, Kirill Kirillovich, that I share your aspirations concerning the foundation of a more just society in the future. However, I cannot, in all conscience, condone such bloodthirsty sentiments. I spend my days bringing new life into this world. I see what a precarious and treasured thing it is. I will not sit at the breakfast table, fill myself with pancakes and then blithely call for another being’s destruction. The deed is done. Perhaps it was a necessary deed. I don’t know anything about that. But as far as it was a political act, it is complete. The political point has been made. So let us hope that this magistrate survives, as his death adds nothing, and pleases no one, or so I would hope.’

Virginsky felt obscurely shamed by her words.

Kirill Kirillovich sighed. ‘We have talked about this before, Varvara Alexeevna. And as I have had occasion to remark in the past, you must put aside such sentimental prejudices. It is simply not consistent for you to say that you share my aspirations but reject my means – for you know in your heart that there is no other way. The future can only be born out of the destruction of the past. Just as some women inevitably give up their own lives during childbirth, for all your best endeavours.’

The colour rushed to Varvara Alexeevna’s cheeks at this intrusion of the personal. ‘But not all women die in childbirth!’ she protested.

‘No, but those who do . . . do. What I mean is that it is inevitable in certain cases. In the same way, it is equally inevitable that some, perhaps many, will have to die before a new order can be established. We cannot prevent it. Therefore we should not lament it.’

‘Only a man could be so glib.’

‘And only a woman could be so . . .’ Kirill Kirillovich broke off to consult the ormolu clock. ‘I must go.’

‘What? Only a woman could be so
what
?’ demanded his wife.

But Kirill Kirillovich only shook his head in sour distraction, as he rose to leave.

*

‘Your husband refused to get me any clothes. The clothes that Tatyana Ruslanovna ordered you to provide for me.’

‘What do you need clothes for? You’re not going anywhere, are you?’

‘Suppose the police come to the apartment.’

‘What good would a change of clothes do you?’

‘I might be able to effect my escape.’

‘And how would you do that? By flying out the window?’

‘If I were in disguise, I might be able to slip past them.’

‘You do not think they will send someone who can recognise you, no matter what clothes you are wearing?’

‘What if it is not the police, but someone who might inform on me?’

‘You are not to open the door to anyone. Is that clear?’

‘If I am to be a prisoner here, then I may as well hand myself in. At least then we will have the political advantage of a trial.’

‘If that is what you wish, I shall not stand in your way.’

‘But it is not what the central committee wishes.’

‘Then do not do it.’

‘So I
am
to be a prisoner!’

‘My friend,’ began Varvara Alexeevna more gently, ‘we are all prisoners. It is simply that when you put yourself outside the law, outside society, your imprisonment becomes visible. You notice it for the first time, and you rail against it.’

‘I thought I would become free.’

‘Yes, and that is what makes it all the harder to endure.’

‘I would feel better if I could wear some different clothes. Safer.’ After a moment, Virginsky added, ‘These are the clothes I was wearing when I shot him.’

Virginsky’s voice had taken on a distant quality, half wistful, half appalled. He seemed chastened. This proved decisive to Varvara Alexeevna. ‘You may help yourself to my husband’s clothes.’ She looked him up and down, her gaze softly scrutinising. ‘You are about the same size, you and he.’

‘But he is not a workman,’ objected Virginsky. ‘Tatyana Ruslanovna said I was to be given a workman’s clothes.’

‘No, he is not a workman. He is a skilled engineer.’ Varvara Alexeevna’s head tilted sharply with pride. ‘Tatyana Ruslanovna also said you were to grow a beard. How are you getting on with that?’ Varvara Alexeevna’s tone was gently mocking.

‘I intend to devote all my energies to it.’ Virginsky smiled. ‘I fear I will have little else to do.’

Varvara Alexeevna’s expression suddenly darkened. ‘You are a cold-blooded man,’ she said. ‘You frighten me more than the others. They have no experience of the things they dream about. But you . . . you raised a gun at one of your colleagues and fired. And here you are, a day later, calmly sitting down to breakfast and arguing about a suit of clothes. Are you really not afraid that he might die, and that the sin of his murder will be on your soul?’

Virginsky thought for a long time before replying: ‘I do not believe in the soul.’

Varvara Alexeevna shuddered and quickly put on her shawl. ‘Yes, of course. None of us believes in the soul, these days. Or at least that is what we
profess
. To be able to act on such a profession, however – that is a different matter.’ Varvara Alexeevna stared at the floor for a moment before continuing. ‘I must go out.’

‘I hope I am not driving you from your own apartment?’

The look she gave him was not reassuring. ‘There is tea in the samovar if you need it. I believe you will find some bread for lunch. I trust we shall see you later.’

She closed the door behind her with unseemly alacrity. It shocked Virginsky to realise that she was afraid to be in the apartment alone with him. He frowned as he listened to the sound of her locking him in.