‘Nikodim Fomich said nothing of any advertisement to me.’
Zamyotov’s eyes bobbed upwards, just stopping short of rolling.
‘May I see it again?’
Zamyotov clicked his tongue and handed the paper back.
‘I fail to understand why you have so particularly described me as a solitary gentleman.’
‘It is to assure the applicant that his duties will not be onerous. You are not married. You do not have a family. You are one, single, solitary individual. The needs of a solitary gentleman are necessarily rather more limited than those of a family man.’
‘Why is it necessary to give this assurance? Are we not thereby likely to attract lazier applicants?’
‘You do not want to put people off.’
‘But solitary?’
‘It describes your situation accurately, I think.’
‘I see.’ Porfiry handed the paper back forlornly. ‘When will the advertisement appear?’
‘If you approve the wording, I will take it to the newspaper office myself today and it will run in tomorrow’s edition. Nikodim Fomich is keen to find a suitable person as soon as possible. He is concerned that your unsettled domestic arrangements are distracting you from the efficient execution of your official duties.’
‘He has said nothing of the sort to me.’
‘I take it you are satisfied with the wording?’
‘Delete solitary.’
Zamyotov sucked air through his teeth. ‘If you insist.’
‘I do.’
‘Will you wish to interview the applicants?’
‘I am far too busy for that. I shall leave it to you. I will meet with your selected candidate and, provided he meets my approval, the position shall be his.’ Turning his attention to a case file, Porfiry added in an undertone: ‘How difficult can it be to hire a servant?’
Zamyotov tilted his head into a look of affront, then turned sharply out of the room.
16 The factory children
The gatekeeper at the Nevsky Cotton-Spinning Factory deflected Virginsky’s enquiries with an impervious shrug. His eyes carefully avoided the young magistrate’s, though there was no doubt he took in everything about his interlocutor with a sly, sidelong watchfulness. He was inordinately preoccupied in tending the precarious glimmer of his clay pipe, with which he produced industrial quantities of pungent smoke. It was as if he saw this as the foremost of his duties, from which he could not be distracted, and for which he was confident of a handsome reward. He stood in the wooden lodge at the entrance to the yard, possessing it with a wide stance and a portly, padded body; behind him, a number of massive keys were hung on numbered hooks, their weight and scale attesting to the importance of his office. His head was sunk low into the collar of his great coat, as if it was making ready to withdraw completely into the worsted carapace should the questioning get too sticky.
All of a sudden, for no reason, he gave a high, wheezing laugh, devoid of humour. ‘Yes, I know that one. But you won’t find him around here, your honour.’ He gave the respectful address an unnecessary emphasis. His eyes glinted coldly. ‘He’s done a bunk, has that one.’
‘Thank you. I am aware that Mitka has gone missing. I’m trying to ascertain what has become of him. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘The last time I saw him? There’s no good asking me a question like that! How can I be expected to know when the last time I saw him was? Though I can remember the first day I didn’t see him.’ The gatekeeper’s high-pitched laughter broke down into a fit of coughing. Tears of delight at his own wit trickled from his eyes.
‘Very well, tell me about the first day you did not see him,’ said Virginsky flatly.
‘It was a foggy day, you see. Or rather, you didn’t see. I didn’t see no one, hardly, that day.’ After a long pause, the gatekeeper added, his sarcasm not in doubt this time: ‘Your honour.’
‘A foggy day. Very droll. But the date? Can you remember the date?’
‘I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face so there was no chance seeing the almanac.’
‘Approximately how long ago would this have been? A week, two weeks, one month?’
‘Yes, that’s right, your honour. A week, two weeks, one month.’
‘I have to tell you that your answers are not at all helpful.’
‘I’m not too keen on your questions, if it comes to that.’
‘A child has gone missing. Are you not concerned to help us find him?’
‘That one’s no concern of mine. I knew he would come to no good.’
‘Why do you say that? Was he a trouble-maker?’
‘He had the makings of being a trouble-maker, let’s put it like that. He was filling his head with nonsense, that’s what he was doing.’
‘You’re talking about the school he was attending?’
‘What need had he to attend school? What good would it do him?’
As he considered the question, Virginsky looked away from the gatekeeper, towards the towering presence of the factory. The day’s light was crystal-sharp, and in its stark autumnal glare, the factory’s most oppressive aspect was revealed to be its drabness. It seemed to absorb whatever light was cast upon it with a sullen greed, giving nothing back, only the dense dark smoke puffing relentlessly from its chimneys. Virginsky found his answer in the prospect. ‘What good, do you say? It might get him away from this place.’
‘Well then, what’s the fuss about, your honour? I mean to say, if the point of book-learning was to get him away from here, then it seems to have succeeded tremendously.’
‘You’re a clever fellow.’
‘Yes, and I haven’t had no book learning. I picked it all up myself.’
‘I congratulate you.’
The gatekeeper grinned complacently.
‘Where exactly was Mitka employed in the factory?’
‘He worked for Oleg Sergeevich.’
‘Who is this Oleg Sergeevich?’
‘Ustyantsev. The spinner.’
‘And where will I find this spinner Ustyantsev?’
‘In the spinning-shop, I should think.’
‘Will you take me there?’
‘I cannot leave my post.’ The gatekeeper sucked self-importantly on his pipe, to remind Virginsky of the vital work he had to do there.
‘I shall make it worth your while.’
‘If I leave my post I shall lose my post, and nothing you can give me will make that worth my while. You’ll have no trouble finding Oleg Sergeevich. Everybody knows him. Mind, I would warn you that he will not take kindly to your intrusion. Oleg Sergeevich is a piece worker. He won’t appreciate you taking him away from his work, not unless you intend to compensate him.’
‘It is his civic duty to talk to me, as it is yours.’
‘If you rely on that, then I wish you luck.’ The gatekeeper at last granted Virginsky the privilege of his gaze. His eyes were narrowed almost to points, as if he were squeezing the life out of whatever vision came into them.
*
What struck Virginsky first was the noise. It was a resistant force that he had to walk into and through; it possessed and defined the room he had entered far more than anything else in it. There was a raw energy to it. It attacked his ears, took over his body, and drowned out all his other senses. The machines screeched like angry demons, their spinning parts whirling with the frenzy of the possessed.
The agitation of production was everywhere: the particles of white dust that filled the hot air danced and trembled in its vibrations; in fact, it was easy to believe they were particles of noise.
The rows of machines, mysterious in their purpose, solemnly tended by their human ministers, daunted him. This was a world he had not glimpsed before. That so much energy and unswerving concentration, so much hard metal and speed, should go into the production of fine cotton thread, was somehow both inspiring and shaming. He had the sense that he was staring into the future. He felt it drain the hope from his heart at the same time as he acknowledged its allure.