At times he was beset by a quaking terror, convinced that Botkin would come for him at any moment, taking him to a desolate spot on the edge of the city, some blasted wasteland strewn with rubbish, overgrown with dingy weeds. And there, alone, weeping like a girl, begging shamelessly for his life, revealing himself at last to be the coward he had always known he was, he would stare down the barrel of his killer’s gun.
Some days Kirill Kirillovich sat with him, some days Totsky. He was never left alone with Botkin again, who perhaps now regretted all that he had divulged to Virginsky. There was also the possibility that others had decided that Botkin could not be trusted. Neither Totsky nor Kirill Kirillovich addressed a word to him, or responded in any way to the questions he asked.
Even when he shouted into Totsky’s face, ‘Surely this must be driving you insane!’ the young radical barely blinked. Virginsky was driven to torturing himself by making speculative remarks about Totsky’s relationship with Tatyana Ruslanovna. He felt sure that they must be lovers. He was inhibited from stating his fears so baldly by the possibility that they might prove founded. Totsky’s silence was infuriating, but in this case it was possibly better than a definite answer. At one time, Virginsky imagined he saw confirmation of one of his more daring insinuations in the curling of a lip and the flood of colour to the cheeks. He was tortured then by jealousy and despair, at which point the realisation hit him that he was in fact in love with Tatyana Ruslanovna. He reeled, as if from a physical blow. The realisation was not a happy one. If anything, he was more devastated after it struck him than before. It was more than likely that Tatyana Ruslanovna was one of those conspiring to kill him. To say that he was afraid his feelings would not be reciprocated was an understatement. On the other hand, it was perhaps equally true that he was conspiring in her arrest. At this moment, however, none of that seemed to matter anymore. All that he wanted was to live, and to be with her. He would have sworn allegiance to any cause, and meant it, to make that possible.
Now it was even harder for him to keep his bearings amid the staggering past of the hours. Varvara Alexeevna came and went; when she was not in the stagnant apartment, she was bringing new life into the teeming world. Food was prepared, and he was allowed to share in it. The curtains were kept closed at all times, to prevent him from communicating with anyone in the courtyard, even by looks and gestures.
And so he could not say with any certainty when it was, or how long after that momentous day when he had levelled a gun at Porfiry Petrovich, that Tatyana Ruslanovna came into the apartment and relieved Kirill Kirillovich from the unrewarding task of watching him. He noticed that she was wearing coarse peasant clothes that did not seem to fit her properly, as if they belonged to someone else. In all likelihood, she wore them to look more like one of the people. However, the ill-fitting clothes only emphasised her individuality, at the same time distancing her from the class she sought to assimilate. To Virginsky, she looked like a child dressing up. He found the effect of her clothes inexpressibly touching.
‘They will not speak to me,’ he said, as soon as they were alone.
But she did not speak to him either. She pulled him to her and closed her lips around his, just as he was forming the first of the questions floating into his consciousness. The breath went from him, so completely that it seemed she must have sucked it out of him. His heart was in spasm; he felt it thrashing like a fish stranded on the bank.
He gasped for air as she released him. Her gaze shone with admiration and — dare he say it? — love. His own gaze back was questioning.
‘He’s dead!’ she explained. ‘Your magistrate died. They published an obituary in the paper. And a date has been announced for his funeral. It seems you really killed him.’
‘Dead? Really? Let me see!’
‘There will be time for that later. Now.’ Her hands were on him again, exploring, guiding, compelling. Pulling away at the fastenings of his clothes. His hands were quick to reciprocate. It seemed an immense privilege to touch those coarse peasant clothes, as if he was being allowed to share in something deeply personal to her, as if his fingers were alighting on her mind. If he had been moved at the sight of the clothes, his feelings now, as he probed and peeled away their layers, were almost too much for him to bear.
And then the fact of her beauty — her complete beauty, revealed to him without shame or affectation, simple, absolute — was overwhelming. Most affecting of all was the trust that it implied. When he had been denied so much, to be granted this — the tears rose to his eyes. He dared not touch her naked beauty. She had to take his hands and guide him.
She pulled him down onto her, onto the sofa, into her, and the release from all his suffering came immediately, and he was shaking with tears of gratitude and fear, sobbing himself into her, a sobbing that came from the deepest part of him. And she held him and soothed him and stroked his hair.
She was more experienced than him, and her experience frightened him. But she put him at his ease and her hands resumed their exploration of his body, and he felt himself want her again, but without the desperate urgency of before: more calmly, more completely, knowing somehow that they had all the time in the world, and that she wouldn’t be taken from him, and that they were not just lovers but also equals in their love.
Once more, time meant nothing to him. A lifetime was lived, and everything that could be said or done in a lifetime was said and done.
At the end of that lifetime, she began to get dressed. He watched her in silence, and a strange, appalling grief gripped his heart, as if every item of clothing that she put on removed a part of her from him for ever. At the end of her dressing, she turned to him with a tender smile. ‘Come. You must get dressed too. Dyavol will see you now!’
‘Dyavol?’
‘Yes, of course! You have proven yourself. You killed Porfiry Petrovich.’
It was as if the words she spoke were true. The grief took him over completely now. He wept.
‘My God, you’re crying like a baby! If this is how you are when you get what you desire! Don’t worry, my darling, everything has worked out perfectly. I always had absolute faith in you. Dyavol is very eager to meet you. The central committee. .’
‘I don’t care about that.’
‘Oh, please don’t look at me like that!’
‘Hold me, Tanya.’
‘There is no time. We must not keep Dyavol waiting.’
‘You and Totsky — did you? What we have just done — have you done it with him?’
A pinch of displeasure constricted Tatyana Ruslanovna’s face. ‘I will not lie to you. Therefore, I beg you, do not ask me such questions.’
Virginsky began to dress with quick stabbing movements, his face an angry, raw pink above his full beard.
*
Even so, despite his unhappiness, he could not resist going with her, silent and resentful at her side. To his surprise, he discovered that she had hired a closed carriage, which was waiting outside. It was an undemocratic luxury perhaps, but she considered it warranted, given that the death of Porfiry Petrovich would rekindle the authorities’ efforts to capture him. Naturally, Virginsky did not believe in that death. But even if he had felt like talking, he could say nothing to disabuse her.