‘In the first place,’ continued Virginsky’s companion, ‘I of course know that he is a magistrate. That is the very reason why I have brought him here. In the second place, you know better than to address me by that name.’
‘Are you not Botkin?’
‘Don’t compound your stupidity with insolence!’
‘If you have brought this magistrate here, then presumably you think you can trust him. And if you trust him, you will not object to him knowing your real name, Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin.’
‘And what if I tell him your name?’
‘I dare say he already knows it. He was at the office the other day.’
‘I don’t know your name,’ said Virginsky to the young man.
‘He is rather naive,’ explained Botkin. ‘Touchingly so, at times.’
‘And so you think you will be able to manipulate him?’
‘It is not a question of that. He wishes to help the cause.’
The young man regarded Virginsky sceptically, his expression slightly pained. ‘I shall have to ask Kirill Kirillovich. It is his name day, after all.’
‘That has nothing to do with anything, as you well know,’ said Botkin.
‘There are important people here. It is said that we are to be visited by a member of the central committee. Though, of course, none of us will know who he is.’
‘How do you know that I have not brought him?’ Botkin now treated the young man to the sarcastic smile he had practised on Virginsky.
The young man’s expression grew unpleasant as he considered Virginsky afresh. ‘Make up your mind. Either he is a new recruit who wishes to help the cause, or he is an important personage on the central committee. Which is it to be?’
‘Let us in,’ said Botkin, pushing at the door.
When it came to it, the young man did not resist. He let the door go with a strangely girlish laugh. ‘On your head be it,’ he threw out as he turned his back on them.
They followed him into an entrance hall with a number of doors coming off it. One door stood open, revealing a carelessly furnished drawing room where the assembly was already gathered, about twenty guests in all. The conversation was subdued, and in fact ceased completely as they entered. Virginsky was surprised to see women as well as men there. He thought he recognised some other faces from the office of Affair. Certainly he had the sense that he was recognised, and that the faces that were turned on him were far from welcoming.
A lean, somehow slovenly looking woman of about forty was handing out tea, which she served from a samovar on an oval table draped with a threadbare cloth. She bustled about the room with a sarcastic joviality, suggesting that she resented the presence of these guests in her apartment. She was taking great delight in keeping up the pretence of a name-day celebration. A man of about the same age as her, balding and anxious, rose from a sofa and approached Botkin. His face was careworn, brows pulled down in a permanent frown.
‘Who is this?’
‘Kirill Kirillovich, may I introduce Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky. A magistrate who wishes to perform a great service for the movement.’
‘Can you trust him?’
Botkin did not reply, except to crank up the angle of his lopsided leer, as if to say that it did not matter to him one way or the other if Virginsky could be trusted or not.
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich indignantly.
‘Can I trust you? Can you trust me? Can he trust us? I mean to say, my dear Kirill Kirillovich, that trust is not an absolute. It is always relative, always provisional, never stable. Trust, whatever it is, is a highly volatile substance. I am not even sure it exists at all. And so, there is no meaningful answer to the question you asked. One must act as if there is trust between us, otherwise we could get nothing done. Still and all, at the same time, one must never lower one’s guard. In essence, trust no one. Do not even trust yourself, Kirill Kirillovich.’
‘That is absurd. More of your mysticism, Alyosha Afanasevich. You know that there is to be an important personage here tonight? I trust that nothing untoward will occur.’
‘How do you know that there will be someone here tonight?’
‘Why, you yourself told me!’
‘Exactly. Therefore, I hardly think you need to issue such warnings to me.’ Botkin scanned the room. ‘Our people are all here, I see.’
‘We are still awaiting Dolgoruky.’
Virginsky cocked his head sharply at the name. ‘Prince Dolgoruky is coming tonight?’
‘We do not recognise such titles,’ answered Kirill Kirillovich. ‘But yes, Dolgoruky is expected. Do you know him?’ His frown darkened as he considered Virginsky.
‘I have. . met him. His name came up in connection with a case I was investigating.’
‘And are you here investigating a case?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.
Before Virginsky could answer, the woman handing out tea thrust a cup into his hand. ‘Everyone must have tea! If this is to be a proper Russian name day. Any friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine.’
Kirill Kirillovich’s frown changed its tenor in the presence of his wife. It seemed to go from something fierce and disapproving to a look of helpless despair. ‘Varvara Alexeevna, this is not necessary, as you know.’
‘Oh but it is, Kirill Kirillovich,’ insisted his wife. ‘We must create the semblance of a true name day, in the event of a police raid. At any rate, it is your name day. And we have guests. Why should I not give them tea?’
‘Let us get on with it,’ said Botkin. ‘Dolgoruky is late. We cannot wait for ever.’
Kirill Kirillovich gave a sharp nod of assent. ‘I for one am anxious to begin.’
Just as this was decided, there was an exuberant rap on the door.
‘Dolgoruky,’ said Kirill Kirillovich sourly.
‘He does not even use the entry code!’ complained Botkin.
‘That is how we may know it is Dolgoruky.’
‘If he will not trouble to learn the code, then he must not be admitted,’ declared Botkin. ‘We must teach him the discipline that he is incapable of instilling in himself.’
‘Not admit the Prince!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna, bustling past them to the door. ‘It will be a sorry party without the Prince.’
The girl with the broken laugh
An explosion of laughter accompanied Dolgoruky’s entrance to the apartment. Virginsky waited tensely for his appearance in the drawing room. He was suddenly aware that he had sobered up completely. At that moment, it seemed unlikely to him that he would ever drink vodka again.
Prince Dolgoruky stepped into the room with a faintly mocking smile on his face, as if he was struggling to take the whole thing seriously. It was also apparently impossible for him to suppress entirely the aristocratic disdain with which he habitually greeted everything — and everyone — he encountered. There was no sign of the tormented side of his Byronic nature, the devil-haunted individual Virginsky had briefly glimpsed at their last encounter.
Dolgoruky was accompanied by a much younger woman. Whether they had arrived together by accident, or whether Dolgoruky had brought her with him, was not clear. An instinct for jealousy inclined Virginsky to prefer the former explanation. Virginsky felt that he had seen the woman’s face before. Perhaps she simply conformed to a type that was becoming familiar to him. She was physically attractive, although not in an easy or approachable way. There was something guarded and even aloof about her gaze, which was accentuated by an unusually long neck. He was sure he had not seen her at the offices of Affair. It was some time before that, perhaps long ago. He had the sense that she had changed enormously since the last time he had seen her, and that she would not have appreciated being reminded of it. He sensed the wariness in her assessment of him, and the flicker of alarm when something like recognition showed on her face. She was someone he had encountered in his official duties, he felt sure of that.