‘Why did your group not approach us directly?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich.
‘It is not wise to do anything directly. One simply does not know who to trust. I admit my clandestine behaviour may have backfired. I regret that I was not more open with you, Alyosha Afanasevich, but you must understand that I was obeying the commands of my own central committee.’
‘This is all a lie!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna wildly.
‘One thing will prove I am telling the truth. The death of Porfiry Petrovich. I sincerely believe it is only a question of time. I urge you to await more news on that front before you dismiss me as a police spy.’
‘You seem certain, now, that he will die. You did not before,’ observed Botkin warily.
‘In all honesty, I don’t know how he has survived this long.’
‘We must consult with the central committee,’ advised Kirill Kirillovich. ‘Our central committee. They will decide what your fate should be. I would not hold out too much hope, if I were you. Even if your story proves to be true, they will not be favourably impressed by the deception you have used.’
‘You must take me to see Dyavol. I will talk to him directly and put myself at his mercy. I have things to tell him that I cannot disclose to anyone else. I believe I know who the spy in your midst is.’
A startled energy transmitted itself between Botkin, Kirill Kirillovich and Varvara Alexeevna. It was Varvara Alexeevna who spoke for them alclass="underline" ‘You are accusing one of us! Oh, you are very clever, but you will come unstuck! The truth will come out in the end. We’ll wind in the pail and discover it cracked.’
‘Naturally, we will communicate what you have said to the central committee,’ said Botkin. ‘They will decide what is to become of you. I warn you, they do not look kindly on those who would betray the cause.’
‘Do what you must do,’ said Virginsky. ‘I have nothing to fear.’
Botkin nodded sharply and deeply, his head scything the air like an executioner’s blade.
*
Kirill Kirillovich stayed with him for the rest of that day, refusing, however, to enter into conversation of any kind. All Virginsky’s questions — ‘When will Botkin be back?’ ‘Has he gone to consult with the central committee?’ ‘How long will it take them to come to a decision?’ And even, ‘Is this how it was with Pseldonimov?’ — were met with resolute silence. There was an element of punishment to this, of course. But Virginsky also got the impression that the other man did not quite trust himself. Either he was afraid that he would give away something that might be useful to a potential enemy of the cause, or that he would be swayed by Virginsky’s persuasive arguments.
Virginsky expected the central committee to act swiftly. That is to say, he expected the end at any moment. But the hours dragged on, even without Varvara Alexeevna’s ormolu clock to mark them out.
When Varvara Alexeevna herself returned at the end of her working day, she gave Virginsky a new look. Her usual suspicion was shadowed, for the first time, by something Virginsky recognised as doubt, the source of which seemed to be the copy of the Police Gazette she was clutching. She took Kirill Kirillovich into the bedroom for an urgent conference.
Soon after this, Botkin returned. The three of them came together into the main room, bearing down on Virginsky with the angry glowers of wolves that had been cheated of their prey. ‘It seems you have been granted a reprieve,’ said Botkin. ‘According to the late edition of the Police Gazette, your magistrate’s condition has deteriorated sharply. The central committee has decided to await the outcome of your attack before determining your fate. If he dies, you will be hailed as a hero of the revolution.’
‘And if he lives?’
‘If I were you, I would pray that he dies. And that his death is verifiable.’
‘And in the meantime, I am to be treated like a convict?’
‘Of course. Or, to be more exact, like a condemned man who has received a stay of execution.’ The old sarcastic smile settled once more on Botkin’s lips, like an animal that had been driven from its lair at last returning.
‘What will it be like to die?’
He had the sense of someone standing over him.
Give up the fight, my dear! It’s time to give up the fight.
It was his father’s voice, but where was his father? Did his father exist now just as a voice?
Release your grip! Let go!
‘Papa?’
I am inside you. The pain — that pain that you feel — you do feel it, don’t you? That pain is me.
‘You can heal me!’ cried Porfiry. He opened his eyes. And opening his eyes was like throwing open the shutters of a window in a Swiss chalet. In fact, that was what he was doing. He was in the bedroom of a Swiss chalet, throwing open the shutters. A blinding light rushed in, with the eagerness of a sniffing hound. The initial fierceness of the light settled into an amber glow on the planks of the chalet’s cladding.
Porfiry turned to where the voice of his father had come from. He had the sense that it had been located in the corner of the room. But his father had said that he was inside him. Did that mean that his father had lied?
The man standing in the corner of the room was not his father. It was Prince Dolgoruky but somehow Porfiry confused him with another prince. He remembered a question that had been on his mind, one that he very much wanted to ask the Prince for whom he mistook Dolgoruky. ‘Did you find him?’
‘He’s not here,’ said Dolgoruky, as if he too mistook himself for someone else.
‘No,’ said Porfiry, as if he had expected this answer. Another question occurred to him. ‘Where are we? In Switzerland?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Prince Dolgoruky.
‘What will it be like to die?’ asked Porfiry.
Give up the fight, my dear! You must give up the fight.
Porfiry looked up. It seemed to him that his father’s voice came from above.
A terrible weight was pushing down on him now. He was lying on his back, pinned to the ground by an enormous stone. It seemed to be a stone, but he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he had to push it off him. Otherwise it would crush him.
Give up the fight!
His father’s voice was in the stone now. His father’s voice was crushing him.
‘Heal me!’ pleaded Porfiry with the weight of the stone.
Don’t you think if I could, I would have healed myself?
‘But God?’ implored Porfiry. ‘There is a God?’
His father’s answering laughter was devastating.
It is not so difficult. Simply decide that you will give up the fight, and lo!
His father’s voice seemed to be answering a question that Porfiry had asked earlier.
‘Why can’t I see you?’
You must give up the fight if you want to see me.
Porfiry closed his eyes and pushed with both hands. The great weight suddenly became nothing. He looked down to see that he was holding a painted egg in his hands. And somehow, he was standing again.
He heard children’s laughter. The five Prokharchin children circled him, arms outstretched, hands linked. They moved around him with half-dancing, half-skipping steps.
Porfiry was overjoyed to see them. ‘You did not die after all! It was all a ruse!’
The children giggled back at him. There was a mindless, empty quality to their laughter that began to unsettle Porfiry. He decided that he wanted no part of it. ‘That’s enough now, children.’