“No. I don’t know. She’s never told me. Why are you interested?”
“There is quite a little mystery concerning your friend Lilya. A man, one Konstantin Kirillovich, family name unknown, accused her of stealing a hundred rubles. She says he gave it to her. She was brought in for questioning, but her accuser having disappeared, she was released.”
“I can tell you now, she is no thief.”
“I believe you. She didn’t want the money when it was offered to her. Have you ever heard her speak of this Konstantin Kirillovich?”
“No.”
“I should very much like to talk to Lilya again.”
Virginsky offered nothing in return.
“I believe I might pay her a visit. What was the name of the establishment she works at? Something German. Keller or Kellner. It was there on her license, I remember,” said Porfiry.
“Keller. The madam is a German woman.”
“Is that where you met her?”
Virginsky winced, as if in pain. He came to a stop. “Once, with a group of friends-no, not really friends, acquaintances. People from my school days. There had been a dinner. Drinking. I was taken to that establishment. She was there. Something about her touched me. I saw how young she was. I couldn’t go through with it. I gave her money and left. I–I met her again by chance in the street. It may seem unlikely to you, but we became friends.”
“On Sadovaya Street, isn’t it?”
“Beneath a milliner’s. These places usually are.”
“Can you remember anything else about it?”
Virginsky shook his head, and they continued in silence, until they came to a closed door that bore the sign PATHOLOGY.
The smell of formaldehyde overwhelmed everything else. The room was large, with high workbenches running its length. Virginsky had expected to see cadavers and body parts scattered about. But if there were any, they had been hidden away. The surfaces and instruments were gleaming. He saw jars and bottles of various sizes, as well as enamel basins and test tubes in racks. Microscopes were distributed regularly about, at some of which stood men in white laboratory coats. One of these, a young man with unruly hair, looked up. His face showed recognition, and he came toward them.
“Ah, Porfiry Petrovich! Our esteemed Porfiry Petrovich!” he cried, shaking Porfiry warmly by the hand.
“Dr. Pervoyedov, good day to you.”
“You were right, Porfiry Petrovich. There can be no doubt about it, you were right!” The physician beamed with excitement.
“You have finished your report?”
“No, no! You’ve seen the corridors? The beds are taken up with influenza victims. There’s no time for writing reports.”
“I understand. But I fear others may not.”
“The prokuror will get my report in due time. But don’t you want to know what I’ve discovered?”
“Of course I’m interested in your preliminary findings. However, there is a more pressing matter. This gentleman”-Dr. Pervoyedov bowed to Virginsky-“may be able to identify the victims for us.”
Dr. Pervoyedov’s face became grave. “I understand.” He addressed Virginsky directly: “What you are about to see…you must prepare yourself.”
“I am prepared,” said Virginsky.
Dr. Pervoyedov addressed the next question to Porfiry: “You have told him what to expect?”
“I have told him everything that’s necessary,” Porfiry answered with a flutter of his eyelids.
The doctor stared intently into Virginsky’s eyes. “I’ll get you a seat. It’s better if you sit down.” He dragged a stool over. “I’m afraid the pathology laboratory is not furnished for comfort.”
Porfiry took Dr. Pervoyedov to one side. “Do you think he’s up to this?”
“Will it make any difference to you, Porfiry Petrovich, if I say he is not?”
“Of course. I will postpone the identification.”
“Give me a moment.”
Dr. Pervoyedov returned to Virginsky, who was now perched unsteadily on the stool. He passed a hand in front of the student’s face, then said, “Open your mouth, please.” With a wooden spatula, he pulled back Virginsky’s lips and examined his teeth and gums. “Hold out your arms, please.” After a moment’s delay, Virginsky complied. “Could you bend your right arm?” The doctor gripped Virginsky’s bicep. Virginsky winced as he bent the arm. “That hurt?” asked Dr. Pervoyedov.
Virginsky closed his eyes on the pain.
“Any other joint pain?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. I hadn’t noticed. Not much. Sometimes.” Virginsky opened his eyes with a challenging look.
“Straighten your arm again, please. Keep it out in front of you. Now push up against my hand.”
Virginsky was unable to move the hand that the doctor had placed on top of his own.
“Relax now.” Dr. Pervoyedov’s expression for Porfiry was critical as well as concerned.
“Well?” asked Porfiry.
“There are signs of malnutrition. Slow reaction times. Joint pain. Muscular atrophy. Weakness. Really, I put no effort into holding down his hand. And dizziness, of course. You can see for yourself how he’s swaying. His teeth and gums are in a shocking condition.” After a pause the doctor added, “It’s the sort of thing I see every day.”
“He has eaten recently. I saw to it.”
“Then possibly it is the best we can hope for.”
“Pavel Pavlovich,” said Porfiry to Virginsky, “do you feel able to proceed?”
“What is the alternative?”
“We could come back. Another time.”
“But there is no escaping it.” He said this with fatality.
Even though it was not a question, Porfiry nodded.
“I’ll do it. Now.”
“I’ll get them then,” said Dr. Pervoyedov. The doctor crossed to the far end of the laboratory and returned pushing a trolley, on top of which were two large specimen jars. As the trolley got nearer, Virginsky saw the eyes in the first jar, staring out of a murky amber liquid.
His first impulse was to deny that this thing had any connection with him, even on the most basic level. It could not be what it seemed to be. It could not be a head, a human head. Then he saw the gaping mouth and the strands of hair and beard. But that was not hair or beard, there. That was something else trailing, something sinewy and dark. And what was that above the eyes? It seemed to be a second, cruder mouth set vertically in the forehead. He looked into the colorless pulp revealed there.
“Do you recognize him?” asked Porfiry.
Virginsky nodded.
“It is your friend Goryanchikov?” pressed Porfiry.
Virginsky could not take his eyes off the wound in the preserved head. He gazed at it with urgency, as if he hungered for the sight of it and was afraid that it would be taken from him. It was obscene, but like all obscenities it pulled at his soul. “It was him,” he said at last.
“I am very sorry,” said Porfiry. He nodded to Dr. Pervoyedov, who wheeled the trolley around so that the second specimen jar was at the front. “Do you recognize this man?”
Virginsky felt calm now. In fact, he was conscious of his calmness and astonished by it. He felt capable of the utmost callousness.
“It’s not a man. It’s a head,” he said.
“But do you recognize it?”
“It’s Borya.”
“Who is Borya?”
“It’s strange. If you look. Goryanchikov’s head fills its jar more completely. His head really was big. I always thought it an illusion, caused by the smallness of his body. Borya’s head is tiny in comparison.”
“Please, I need to know more about Borya.”
“He was not a great thinker, so perhaps it should not surprise us.” Virginsky began to giggle unpleasantly. “Goryanchikov, on the other hand, thought too much. As we can see, it has had an effect on his brain. What is the word for it when something grows too large? Hypertrophy?”
“He is delirious,” observed Dr. Pervoyedov.
“On the contrary, doctor. I have never felt more lucid. To see this, to be granted this, I thought it would sicken me. I find I am not in the least nauseous. My appetite, I have not lost my appetite at all. Should I be sad? Goryanchikov was a friend, I loved him as a friend, but he was a difficult man to like. And Borya, Borya-who could not love Borya?”