He thought of his wife. That woman never tired of looking into a glass. In her younger days, it was no doubt because she had been gratified by what she saw. She had once possessed a fresh, heedless prettiness that could trip his heart. The years, in which she had borne him seven children, had taken their toll on her looks. Now when she scoured the surface of a silver-backed glass, it was as if she was desperately seeking an image of herself that she knew must be in there somewhere, but which had somehow slipped out of sight. Or perhaps she was simply watchful, not trying to recapture her youthful looks but determined to track and capture every sign of their disintegration. There was something obsessive about her fascination with her own face. It had acquired an added piquancy since Salytov’s accident. He had the feeling that his wife looked more intently into her own face now that she could no longer bear to look into his.
Salytov entered the market and pushed through the cluster of mirror sellers’ stalls. A tradesman in blue kaftan and cloth cap approached him from the side and accosted him with the usual spieclass="underline" ‘Step this way, sir. . only the finest examples of the mirror-maker’s art. . such a flawless reflection as you have never — ’
Salytov waited until the man had got this far before turning his full face towards him. It was enough to silence him. He began to back off, one hand gyrating in confusion and apology, his face drawn in horror. ‘Halt,’ commanded Salytov. ‘Do you know a pastry seller by the name of Tolya?’
The stallholder continued to back away as he answered Salytov: ‘There’s a fellow I sometimes see wandering the lines. Could be a Tolya.’
‘Have you seen him yet today?’
‘He has not been this way yet, sir. He treads a well-worn route. There is a pastry cook who has a concession upstairs in the gallery, over on Linen Line side. By the name of Dasha. She should be able to tell you where to find this Tolya at any given time of the day. It could even be that Tolya works for Dasha, sir, if you see what I mean — taking her pastries abroad for her.’
Salytov gave a curt nod, which was as close as he came to expressing gratitude.
He left the arcade and stepped into the central court of the bazaar. The cries of stallholders vying for business echoed around him, at times drowned out by the squawks of the caged birds they kept hung around the entrances to their shops. From those who were busy came also the sharp clack of flying abacus beads; from those who sat idle, the clatter of dice in the cup and the click of backgammon pieces on the board.
The looking-glass traders gave way to art dealers, first those selling secular paintings, and then the icon dealers. Jewellers, watchmakers, cabinetmakers, dealers in tables, chairs, beds. . the place was like a living encyclopedia of household commerce, arranged in categories and sub-categories, a criss-cross of themed lines. Sometimes the transition from one group to another was gradual and subtle, as if one trade was slowly mutating into another.
Now and then, a trader — not simply to amuse himself it seemed, but more to strengthen links with his neighbouring stallholders — would hoof a ball along the line, over the heads of the hapless shoppers, landing it skilfully at the feet of his mate a hundred or so arshins away.
It was with some relief that Salytov ducked out of the central courtyard, to take the stairs to the upper gallery.
He found the pastry stall near the corner of the Nevsky Prospect and Surovskaya Line arcades, a simple matter of following his nose. The greasy odour provoked a rush of salivation and a twisting sensation in his belly, as if his guts were being wrung out.
He waited for the woman stallholder to finish serving a savoury pie to a young man in a battered top hat. His complexion was as flaky and pale as the pastry. The pie flew to his mouth as if subject to some strange magnetism. He did not see Salytov; his whole being was absorbed in the consumption of that pie. Salytov communicated his distaste with a conscious sneer.
The woman met Salytov’s gaze with the shopkeeper’s look of habitual, almost disengaged, expectancy. She had the napkin ready and the tongs poised over her array of pastries. She gave the impression of having been on her feet at her stall since the first days of Gostinny Dvor, over a hundred years before, with every expectation of remaining there for a hundred more years.
‘Where will I find Tolya?’ Salytov demanded abruptly. He allowed his police uniform to explain his interest.
A flicker of commercial disappointment showed in her face, but she quickly recovered from it. ‘You could try the Linen Line. He treads the same path every day, and at this time of the morning he is usually there or thereabouts.’ It was clear that she wanted to be rid of Salytov as quickly as possible. Salytov sensed this and hated her for it. To punish her, he lingered pointlessly, keeping his eyes fixed on her warningly. ‘Will there be anything else?’ she asked at last.
‘What?’ he snapped, as if outraged by her effrontery.
‘A pie perhaps?’ Was there a trace of mockery in her smile?
Salytov glowered. ‘Madam, a man of my position cannot be seen to buy pies from the likes of you.’
‘If you don’t want a pie, then you’d best be gone. You’re scaring away the paying customers.’
‘I could close you down. .’ Salytov clicked his fingers. ‘Like that.’
‘I have a business to run. I’ve told you what you want to know. Why do you pick a fight with me?’
The question seemed to take Salytov by surprise. At last he began to back away from the stall, although he kept his eyes fixed on her warningly.
Returning to the inner courtyard, the clamour of the caged songbirds seemed louder and more insistent than before. Salytov allowed his instincts to lead him, through avenues hung with lace and shawls, to the Linen Line. He made enquiries as he went, and eventually closed in on the itinerant pastry vendor, clamping a hand on his shoulder as he pushed his cart away from him.
As Tolya turned to see who was detaining him, his look of mild enquiry changed to horror.
‘Do you recognise me, lad?’
‘You?’
Salytov nodded. He worked at the muscles around his mouth to produce something that he hoped would approximate a smile.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘This face — do you know how I got it?’
Tolya shook his head.
‘It was not hawking pies, I can tell you that.’
‘How. . did you?’
‘A bomb,’ cried Salytov, his voice exultant. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. I survived. Some of my friends, my fellow officers, did not. They tell me you had nothing to do with it. But I am not so sure I can believe that. All I know is that I was investigating you and your associates at the time. And then. .’ Salytov pointed at his face. ‘This.’
‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Do you remember that day I broke your stilts?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can do much worse than that, let me tell you.’ Salytov looked down at Tolya’s cart with a threatening leer.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Answers. The last time we met, you were working at Ballet’s. There were two men in there. Friends of yours. Disreputable-looking individuals. One of them has turned up dead. This one.’ Salytov handed Tolya a photograph of the man from the canal. ‘He had a badly pockmarked face. Give me a name.’
Tolya looked as if he was going to be sick. ‘Pseldonimov.’
‘Who was he? What was he? How did you know him?’
‘He was a customer at the confectioner’s.’
‘Don’t play games with me, lad. He was more than that.’
‘He was a printer, I think, or something like that.’
‘Something like that?’ Salytov barked back sarcastically. ‘What does that mean? Either he was a printer or he was not.’