Virginsky’s hands were shaking when he held the sheet back to Dolgoruky. Dolgoruky was slumped on the floor, his back against the iconostasis. He looked up but made no move to take the manifesto.
‘Do you understand now?’ Dolgoruky’s voice was a rasping whisper.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me what I should do?’
‘It is not for me to say.’
‘This was not the end of it, you know.’
‘I know. You killed Pseldonimov because he printed this for you. You could not bear that he knew your secret.’
‘Do you think I would care about that? Why would I have it printed if I cared who saw it?’
‘A change of heart? Your original intention was to distribute the confession to all and sundry, but when the documentation of your crimes was there in front of you, you lost your nerve. More than that, you panicked.’
‘It was not like that.’
‘But you did kill Pseldonimov?’
‘What is this, Magistrate? Have I not confessed to enough crimes for your liking?’
‘You said this was not the end of it. I am merely trying to find out what you meant by that.’
‘The girl. . the child. . I raped. You read that part?’
Virginsky swallowed, it seemed with great difficulty, as if the process of swallowing was entirely unnatural to him, something he had to force himself to do. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘She. . she killed herself.’ Dolgoruky watched Virginsky closely to see how he absorbed this information. His own face seemed to mirror the revulsion he imagined Virginsky was feeling. ‘And I knew. I knew that was what she was going to do. I saw it in her eyes. She said she was going to the storeroom. But I knew she was going to hang herself. And I did nothing to prevent it.’
‘Of course you didn’t. There was nothing you could do. You had already killed her when you. .’ Virginsky released his grip on the printed confession. It fell with a swooping, distraught flutter. There was hatred in Dolgoruky’s eye as he tracked its descent. ‘. . did this,’ completed Virginsky.
‘I thought you were a kindred spirit,’ said Dolgoruky, his voice laden with bitter disappointment.
‘Why did you not put the child’s suicide in your confession?’
‘I. . could not!’ Dolgoruky began to sob.
‘Yes, of course. There is a limit to what we are able to face up to in ourselves. But tell me, did you really show this document to Marfa Timofyevna?’
Dolgoruky nodded, wincing at the memory.
‘Ah! There you have it. You wanted her to think badly of you, but not so badly as all that! You censored the account for her consumption.’
‘You don’t know what it cost me to show her even this. And is this not bad enough, Magistrate? It does not require a great leap of the imagination to go from this to the child’s suicide. What else was left for her? What else is left for me?’
Virginsky looked away, deliberately evading Dolgoruky’s final question. ‘Why did you show it to her?’
‘She loved me!’ cried Dolgoruky. ‘At least, she said she loved me. But she didn’t know who I was.’
‘In the end, she could not believe you capable of this. That is a sign of her love, is it not?’
‘But it is a false love, based on falsity.’
‘And you would rather have her hatred, so long as it is based on truth?’
‘I would rather have her love, based on truth. But it seems that is not possible.’
Virginsky stared intently at the discarded handbill. ‘What kind of woman could love a man capable of that?’ The question escaped without thought. But they had passed the point where tact was necessary or even possible.
Dolgoruky gave a bitter laugh. ‘Tatyana Ruslanovna, perhaps.’
Virginsky declined to answer. He suddenly felt an overwhelming revulsion for Dolgoruky, who appeared to him like an insect, deserving only to be crushed. He imagined himself picking up the manoualia once more, this time bringing it down on Dolgoruky’s head. His feelings were entirely without pity now. He would do this, he imagined, purely to rid himself of Dolgoruky’s existence, which had become suddenly intolerable to him. Instead, he satisfied himself with humiliating Dolgoruky: ‘One speaks of a woman’s ruin. Certainly, you brought about the ruin of that child. But it seems to me that you have also caused your own ruin, Dolgoruky.’ He paused before finally answering the question Dolgoruky had asked earlier: ‘There is nothing left for you.’
Dolgoruky drew his head up with a perverse pride. ‘Thank you.’ It seemed that he had reached a decision. Virginsky felt strangely reticent to discover what it was. He turned from the Prince and walked out of the church.
As he headed back along Kalashnikovsky Prospect, Virginsky felt, for the first time that day, exposed. More than that, he felt bereft. It was as if Dolgoruky’s presence had acted like a talisman, and although he could not bear to be in the man’s company any longer, he missed the strange invulnerability that the Prince inspired. A sudden ache of loneliness and longing came over him. He realised he was tiring of these people, tiring of the position in which he had placed himself. He looked down the muddy lane where the workshop was located. Should he go back in there? What would he find if he did? Totsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna locked in a filthy embrace? It was absurd. He could not imagine anything more unlikely in that chill shed. And yet, her broken laugh, and Dolgoruky’s suggestion that she was capable of loving a man such as him, a child-rapist, no less, not to mention all the rest of his insinuations. . But Totsky? Surely she would draw the line at Totsky?
He had seen all that he needed to see, he decided. It was now a matter of urgency to get back to the apartment building in Moskovskaya District.
*
The man Virginsky had noticed before was back in place, just at the entrance to the courtyard. They confronted one another with a complicated and confused exchange of panic. Virginsky was afraid that the man might say something to him, or, even worse, that he might say something to the man. The other shook out a brief, sharp warning. This annoyed Virginsky, who felt that if anyone had the right to toss his head in warning, it was he. He glared at the man and moved on.
So, that is how things stand! thought Virginsky as he climbed the stairs.
Varvara Alexeevna let him in. ‘Where have you been?’ Her eyes tracked down and took in his workman’s clothes. A flicker of amusement undermined her attempt at severity.
‘Dolgoruky came for me.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘Dolgoruky had a key. He said the apartment is really his.’
‘That’s a lie. If he has a key he must have stolen it.’
‘I suppose that is entirely possible, knowing Dolgoruky.’
‘And how were you going to get back in if I had not been here? He locked the door behind you, did he not?’
Virgkinsky frowned and blushed in quick succession.
Varvara Alexeevna shook her head dismissively. ‘Foolish man!’
‘I had no choice. I had to go with him. He said Dyavol wanted to see me.’ Virginsky felt a tingle of self-consciousness at the lie.
‘You saw Dyavol?’
‘No. It turns out that Dolgoruky lied to me. I only saw Totsky. And Tatyana Ruslanovna.’
‘Still and all, you should not have gone out.’
Something about her use of the expression ‘still and all’ prompted Virginsky to ask: ‘Who is Dyavol, do you know?’
‘No one has ever met him, apart from Dolgoruky, and Botkin, and maybe a few others.’
‘Tatyana Ruslanovna?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Pseldonimov?’
‘Why do you ask about Pseldonimov?’
‘Did you know him?’
‘He was one of our people, I know that.’
‘And now he is dead. What about Kozodavlev? Had he ever met Dyavol?’
‘Why are you asking me these questions? Like a. . like a magistrate!’
‘Forgive me. It is an unpleasant habit of mine. I used to be a magistrate. Until very recently, in fact. I still have the magistrate’s instincts. I can’t help myself.’