A visit from an old friend
‘Are you quite comfortable?’
Rakitin looked up from the plank bench affixed to the damp wall of his cell. The grubby patches of exhaustion around his eyes seemed to intensify, shrinking in extent, but growing darker, as if the skin there was a touchpaper to his emotional state. The dark patches expanded now, closing in over his eyes. He looked around the cell and gasped in disbelief.
Porfiry blinked in astonishment at the mute bitterness of the response to his question. ‘You do not want for anything?’
‘Are you. . mad?’ Rakitin looked from Porfiry to Virginsky, his mouth lolling open in disbelief.
Porfiry held out his enamelled cigarette case. ‘Would you like a cigarette, for example?’
Rakitin winced. ‘It hurts. . when I breathe.’
‘We regret that it was necessary to use force to apprehend you. However, if you had co-operated with Lieutenant Salytov. .’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ The violence of his protestation caused Rakitin to double over in pain.
‘I am glad to hear it. In which case, you will soon be out of here. I would also like to assure you that there will not be any charges brought against you for resisting arrest or obstructing the course of justice, provided you co-operate from now on. As soon as you have answered our questions, you will be released. It need not take long.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Oh, I think you have. When you were told that Pseldonimov was dead, your reaction — according to Lieutenant Salytov — was not one of surprise, or shock. It seemed that you already knew about his death. “How do you know?” was what you said to Tolya. Is that not the case?’
‘I didn’t say that. Or if I did, I didn’t know what I was saying. I was in shock. I must have been. Don’t you see? Pseldonimov was my friend. So, yes. It was a terrible shock to me. I hadn’t seen his ugly mug all winter. I had begun to fear the worst. I knew that he was mixed up in — well, things he shouldn’t have been mixed up in. And so, when Tolya came to me with this news, it seemed that my worst fears were being confirmed. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to know from whom he had heard it. I didn’t want to believe it.’
‘Do you know who killed Pseldonimov?’
Rakitin hesitated a moment. He did not look at Porfiry when at last he gave his reply. ‘No.’
‘What was he mixed up in?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You just said he was mixed up in things he shouldn’t have been. To what were you referring?’
‘I don’t know. It was just something to say. I meant nothing by it.’
‘What are you frightened of? That the men who killed him will come for you?’
‘I have told you all I know. You must let me go now. You have no reason to keep me.’ Rakitin turned to Virginsky. ‘Is that not so?’
Porfiry blinked quizzically at his assistant, while continuing to address Rakitin. ‘I don’t think you’ve told us all you know yet. Pseldonimov was a printer, was he not?’
Rakitin shrugged. ‘It was no secret. He was a printer. What of it?’
‘Where was his workshop?’
The smudges around Rakitin’s eyes seemed to pulsate, as a tremor of panic vibrated under the skin. ‘His workshop?’ The intonation was designed to convey the evident absurdity of Porfiry’s question, as if to say, Why on earth would you want to know where his workshop is?
‘Yes, his workshop,’ insisted Porfiry calmly. He at last turned to Rakitin with a beaming smile, above which his eyelids fluttered. It was so excessively and deliberately coquettish that, in the circumstances, it could only be interpreted as a threat.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you never visit his workshop?’
‘No.’
‘And he never divulged its location to you?’
‘No.’
‘Not even in the most general terms? May we, for example, assume it is somewhere in St Petersburg?’
Rakitin shrugged. ‘You can assume what you like.’
‘My friend, this is not good. This does not help us. And if you do not help us, we cannot help you. Did they tell you where Pseldonimov was found?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘That’s right, in the Winter Canal,’ said Porfiry, ignoring Rakitin’s actual answer. ‘Here, this is a photograph of what remained of him. Not a pretty sight, is it?’
‘That is Pseldonimov?’
‘The white patches are caused by the action of water on the flesh. You must disregard them. It is difficult at first — such is the transformation that has been effected. However, Lieutenant Salytov recognised him from the pockmarks on his face. The identification was confirmed by the pastry vendor. Can you not see it?’
‘It could be him. It could be anyone.’
‘I understand. You do not wish it to be your friend. How much more you must wish that it will not be you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We can protect you against the men who did this.’
Rakitin gave a derisive snort. ‘If you don’t mind, I would rather do without your protection.’ He put a hand tenderly to the side of his chest and grimaced.
‘Very well, you may go,’ said Porfiry abruptly. ‘You are right. We have no reason to hold you. It seems you do not know the dead man as well as we believed you did. Certainly, you cannot be counted among his friends. A true friend would not wish his murder to go unavenged. It is just as well you were not Pseldonimov’s friend. Otherwise, his soul might consider your reluctance to help a betrayal.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.’ Rakitin’s eyes seemed to recede into the twin shadows of despair in which they were sunk. ‘I begged him. I pleaded with him. I told him. . not to get involved.’
‘With what, exactly?’
‘He was not. . political. Not really. So it was no business of his. He was a grumbler, yes, and always short of funds. That didn’t make him a revolutionist!’
‘So he was involved in a revolutionary cell?’
‘No!’ The first force of the denial quickly decayed. Rakitin hung his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘He went to meetings.’
‘Did you go with him?’
‘You expect me to inform on myself?’
‘You are an intelligent man, I can see that. However, we are not the Third Section. We are magistrates, investigating a murder. The murder of your friend. That is all we are concerned with. We will not pass on any information you reveal to any other department.’
‘I may have talked to people. Attended name days, or birthdays — perfectly legal gatherings — where discussions were conducted.’
‘Discussions?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which touched upon. .?’
‘Which touched upon matters that you may deem. .’
‘Revolutionary?’
‘Free. .’ After a beat, Rakitin added, ‘ranging.’
Porfiry nodded thoughtfully. ‘May I ask, what is your occupation?’ The courtesy with which Porfiry framed the question was strange, given that he had asked far more probing questions far more bluntly.
Rakitin drew himself up with a self-conscious shiver. Somehow the gesture combined diffidence and assertiveness. ‘I. . am a writer.’ The answer was a challenge, but one issued almost apologetically.
‘My goodness, Pavel Pavlovich, what a troublesome breed these writers are! And who do you write for, Russian This or Russian That?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It is his little joke,’ explained Virginsky.
‘You are a journalist?’ asked Porfiry. ‘I don’t think I have come across your name in the thick journals, or the dailies for that matter.’
‘I write for the lubki. Novels, mostly. I am sure you do not condescend to read such material.’