In no time at all, Virginsky had potted five balls. Things were looking bad for Porfiry.
As Virginsky was cueing his sixth potential pot, Porfiry called out ‘Foul!’, causing his opponent to mis-cue and botch his shot.
‘What foul?’
‘You’re supposed to keep one foot on the floor at all times.’
‘What are you talking about? Both my feet were on the ground.’
‘Both your feet? That’s acceptable, is it?’
‘Of course. The foul was yours in trying to put me off. I should be granted a free shot.’
‘An honest mistake on my part. You cannot pelanise me for that.’
‘Penalise,’ corrected Virginsky.
‘My shot is it?’ said Porfiry nonchalantly. He placed his champagne glass on the side of the table and retrieved his cue from the wall rack. He then decided that that cue was unsatisfactory, and so replaced it with another. After considerable deliberation, moving round the table to line up a series of potential shots, he finally settled on one. He bent down to cue, miming a series of dummy shots before standing up to reassess his choice. He decided he was satisfied with the shot after all, hunched back over his cue and made a hurried jab. The line was not far out, but the ball failed to sink, rattling in the jaws of a pocket. Whether it was the ball Porfiry had intended to sink, in the pocket he had selected, was unclear. He remained bent over his cue, blinking querulously at the recalcitrant billiard ball. ‘These pockets, are they smaller than those on the other tables?’
‘All the pockets are the same size, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘But I swear the diameter of the ball is greater than the aperture of the pocket.’ Porfiry blinked each eye alternately to test this theory.
‘I have successfully managed to pocket five balls. And now, if you will kindly stand away from the table, I will pocket the three outstanding balls I need to win.’
‘You think you will win?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘Don’t be too sure, my young friend. I have one or two tricks still up my sleeve.’
‘Tricks? Exactly! Your only hope is to resort to trickery.’
‘In my day, I was a champion of Nevskaya Pyramid Billiards. I beat all-comers. There was no challenger who could take me on. It is some time since I played, I confess. I had to retire from the game to give others a chance. I was something of a phenomenon.’
‘In your day?’
‘In my day.’
‘May I suggest that today is not your day?’ Virginsky potted the next ball with ruthless efficiency. ‘Two more to win, Porfiry Petrovich.’
But Porfiry was moving away from the table, as though he had lost interest in the game. He gravitated towards a loud and very drunk cavalry officer who was berating his own opponent with a stream of obscenities. Virginsky paused in his play to watch the developing scene nervously.
‘Sir, moderate your language!’
‘Moderate my language? Are there ladies present?’
‘Not in this room perhaps. But in the restaurant. Without question, your appalling outbursts can be heard in there.’
‘No one can hear me over that infernal gypsy racket.’
‘I can hear you.’
‘Are you a lady? You’re the ugliest damn lady I’ve ever seen, and believe me I’ve seen some ugly ones.’
‘On behalf of the ladies of your acquaintance, I consider that to be an insulting remark.’
‘Funny little man!’
‘Boor!’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Boor. You are a boorish fellow. A lout.’
‘A lout now, is it? I will not be insulted by you, funny little man.’
‘I am not little. I have the girth of a bear. Whereas you have the mouth of a swine.’
This was too much for the drunken officer, who swung back the cue he was holding in preparation to bringing it down on Porfiry’s head. Fortunately, Porfiry was pulled out of the way by Virginsky, who took the full vicious brunt of the blow on his left hand.
Virginsky gave a sharp cry.
‘That’s unlucky,’ observed Porfiry. ‘Your cueing hand.’
The drunk fell over, unbalanced by the momentum of his attack.
‘I suggest we make a swift exit, Porfiry Petrovich. That fellow has many friends here and the mood appears to be waxing ugly.’
‘But the wager, Pavel Pavlovich! We will be forced to abandon the wager!’
‘I cannot believe you provoked a beating in order to get out of paying me ten roubles.’
‘His language was insufferable.’
‘I hadn’t noticed. I was concentrating on the game.’
‘So was I, my friend,’ said Porfiry with a wink, as he allowed himself to be dragged from the billiard room.
*
The swirl and dash of Domenika’s were still with Porfiry as he lay on his bed. Sweat pooled at his neck. His skin there chafed but it was a discomfort he was prepared to tolerate.
The throb of the gypsy music pulsed and echoed in his ears. The oil lamp by his bedside swayed and shimmered in time with the beat.
After their flight from the billiard room, they had stumbled into a drinking den in one of those alleys off the Haymarket. He remembered that Virginsky had been eager to get him home, but he had insisted on a nightcap. It was not the kind of place that Porfiry was in the habit of entering, a dark cellar with a sticky floor and tables, frequented by low-ranking clerks and tradesmen. Its novelty inspired a strange giddiness in him, which Virginsky was at pains to quell. There was no champagne to be had and Porfiry remembered making a scene with the proprietor over this inconvenience. He winced at the recollection. Had he really demanded that the fellow scour the streets of St Petersburg, urged him to spare no expense, and forbade him from returning without the Widow? In the event, vodka had been brought, the landlord probably calculating, quite reasonably as it turned out, that a drunk would happily drink whatever was put in front of him.
Porfiry closed his eyes and lay very still, as if his own immobility could influence the objects around him. He swallowed back a liquid reflux. It felt as though the sturgeon had come back to life and was swimming around in his stomach.
He was not entirely sure how he had arrived back at the apartment, that part of the evening being somewhat of a blank. But the empirical evidence was conclusive — here he was in his bed, after all! — and perhaps it was fruitless to enquire beyond that.
Porfiry thought instead of Princess Yevgenia Andreevna Naryskina. He felt now that he understood her strange inertia. It was a form of sympathetic magic; she sought to control through utter passivity. He thought also of Aglaia Filippovna, equally immobile. Was she held by her coma, or did she use it to exercise a hold over others? It was certainly true that it had effectively stalled his investigation.
He opened his eyes. The room was still spinning. He came to the conclusion that lying motionless achieved nothing. But now it seemed he was incapable of doing anything else.
He was about to lean over to extinguish the light, or at least to attempt that manoeuvre, when he became aware of the sounds of movement in the apartment. Footsteps. Slava. He even thought that he could hear a stifled whisper.
Now he remembered coming in. He had stopped outside Slava’s room, swaying as he strained to listen. There had been silence then, though he had the sense that it was a false silence, a suspension of frenzied activity prompted by his arrival. He had an image of Slava holding his breath, waiting for his employer to move on before resuming whatever he had been doing.
The unnatural silence had struck him as ominous. He had never known Slava to hold himself so still. It came close to unnerving him.
Now, beyond any doubt, he heard footsteps outside his door. He was not afraid. He was ready for whatever might happen. Better than that, he was drunk. He twisted his torso to dim the lamp. He wanted to give the impression that he was asleep when the intruder entered.