‘Must we?’ complained Virginsky, hurrying to keep up. ‘I confess I can never make any sense of these shows.’
‘That is because you are watching with the wrong part of your mind. You approach it too rationally. It is not your fault. It is the fault of your generation, and it applies to everything you do.’
‘I am surprised to hear you, of all people, decry the use of too much rationality.’
‘You’re right, Pavel Pavlovich. I place great store by rationality. But it is like a muscle. One must exercise it, for sure. But one must also rest it from time to time.’
It was a pantomime show, presented on the platform of a makeshift wooden theatre. The actor playing Pulchinella was dressed in the traditional white costume, his face half-covered by a black mask. The performance had reached the part where Pulchinella — in his peculiar high, rasping voice — has announced his intention to marry. It seemed that a bride had been selected for him, a ninety-nine-year-old woman, living for some reason in the Semyenovsky Regiment.
‘It makes no sense,’ complained Virginsky. But Porfiry, like the other spectators, was delighted when the promised bride did not materialise and instead Pulchinella was attacked by a dog.
A seemingly random succession of characters came onto the stage in succession, to be attacked and fought off by Pulchinella. The action was chaotic. It culminated in the appearance of a devil, who it seemed had come to claim the incorrigible Pulchinella. A fight ensued, of course, ending with Pulchinella riding the devil like a horse. It was at this point, just as the drama was coming to its bewildering end, that Petrushka entered the stage.
‘Why?’ cried Virginsky, in exasperation. ‘I ask you in all seriousness, Porfiry Petrovich, what purpose is served by his entrance? Why do we need Petrushka when we have Pulchinella? And why now, when the thing is nearly over?’
Porfiry waved away the objection.
‘He is entirely superfluous to the drama!’ But Virginsky appeared to be the only member of the audience who objected to Petrushka’s appearance, for it was met with frenzied cheering by all around.
A canvas screen dropped down behind the actors, on which was depicted an enormous devil’s head, with an open mouth. One by one, the cast climbed through the hole, apart from Pulchinella, who was pulled through by the hands of the others, resisting to the last.
A rendezvous with no one
Porfiry found the following letter waiting for him back at his chambers:
Dear Sir,
I have chosen to write to you because of your involvement several years ago in the case of the student who murdered the old woman and her sister. Covering the case as a journalist, I was obliged to attend the trial, where I was favourably impressed by the humane way you conducted the prosecution, as I believe I made clear in the account I wrote for a certain publication at the time. Indeed, it might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.
I have an interesting story to tell you. Some sailors went swimming in the Winter Canal. Five men jumped in, but six men came out. How could that be?
If you would like to know the answer to this riddle, meet me at the Summer Garden, near the northern entrance, at three o’clock, today. It is my favourite time to visit the Summer Garden, when the statues emerge from their winter coffins. I would prefer not to visit you at your chambers because there are spies in every government department. If I am seen there it will mean certain death for me.
Of course, if this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me. Therefore I have greater cause than usual to hope that we shall meet this afternoon. How will you know me? Do not fear. I will know you. Please come alone. I’m afraid this must be one of those tiresome anonymous letters, of which I am sure you receive far too many.
‘Is it genuine?’ asked Virginsky.
Porfiry handed the letter over to the younger magistrate. ‘It appears to be. The letter bears yesterday’s date. It was written and sent before the newspapers appeared. I think we may have found our mysterious onlooker.’
‘He is a journalist, or so he claims. Perhaps he learnt about the incident professionally?’
‘He mentions the number of sailors, which I do not believe was given in the information we released to the newspapers.’
‘That’s true,’ conceded Virginsky. ‘So you will go to meet him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Alone?’
‘Is that not what he requests?’
Virginsky frowned. ‘Do you have any idea who he is? He claims to know you.’
‘I hope I shall find out soon enough,’ said Porfiry.
*
He saw the padlocked chains from a distance. Both of the high, elaborate gates in the northern fence were secured. It should not have surprised him but it did. The Summer Garden was, of course, closed. It was that time in late April when visitors were kept from the park in order to allow the ground to recover from the thaw. Had his anonymous correspondent forgotten this? Possibly, though the letter had not explicitly said that they should meet inside the park, merely ‘near the northern entrance’.
Porfiry approached the railing with a sinking heart. He had been looking forward to a stroll along the tree-lined avenues and had purposely arrived with a few moments to spare. The pink granite of the columns in which the gates were set seemed flushed by the glow of spring. The sun also sparkled in the golden embellishments to the wrought iron, almost compensating him for his exclusion. He peered through two vertical bars. The paths were indeed sodden, justifying the temporary closure. The grey wooden boards that protected the statues from the winter frost had already been removed, though the statues were still swathed in white sheets. There was something unmistakably eerie about the rows of enshrouded figures on podiums. They seemed to hold the potential for movement, as if they were simply waiting for the wrappings to be taken off, before springing to life. Porfiry must have been in a morbid frame of mind, for he added the thought: And wreaking havoc. It was not clear to him why the latent beings beneath the sheets should choose havoc-wreaking above any more harmless activity.
Checking his fob-watch, he saw that he was early for his appointment. He did not wish to draw attention to himself by loitering, so he decided to walk a circuit of the perimeter, striking off in the direction of the Summer Palace. The proximity of that modest palace, little more than a large house in fact, reminded him that he was very close to the spot where, almost exactly six years ago, Dmitry Karakozov had made his attempt on the Tsar’s life.
He wondered whether this momentous event had played a part in his correspondent’s choice of meeting place, consciously or otherwise.
Porfiry thought back to the trial of Raskolnikov, without doubt the murderous student referred to in the anonymous letter. The courtroom had been crowded with the gentlemen of the press, scrutinising his every word and even gesture. That was to be expected: Raskolnikov’s crime, sensational enough in itself, had been interpreted as having a wider significance. It had been seen as a symptom of the nihilistic disease that was corrupting the younger generation at the time, and that had, if anything, become more virulent in the years since. Karakozov’s assassination attempt had been made the following year. How the state dealt with Raskolnikov was to be seen as a litmus test for how it would deal with all its malcontent young men. Too much leniency would provoke the reactionaries; excessive severity would incite the radicals.