He lit a cigarette without knowing he was doing so.
Porfiry looked into the eyes of each of them in turn. And something about the way they returned his gaze suggested that he had broken the one taboo of the house. But in their eyes he saw no depravity, only detachment. This was all they had in common. In other respects, they presented different faces behind their makeup: boredom, fear, stupor, and desperation. They affected expressions of licentiousness, but mechanically.
It was immediately apparent that Lilya Semenova would have been the youngest and prettiest of them.
“This is all of them?” asked Porfiry, with an exhalation of smoke.
“All that are available. Is none to your taste?”
“You know it is not a question of that.”
“If you say so, mein Herr. Who then will you choose? We have Olga. Nadya. Sonya. Raya.” A succession of ragged curtsies broke out along the line, the satirical nature of which was confirmed by a further embellishment from the final girl. She pulled down her chemise to bare one conical breast for Porfiry’s benefit.
“Please. There is no need for such exhibitions.”
“Raya is very exuberant. Everything is natural to her.” And yet it was Raya in whose eyes Porfiry had detected fear.
Porfiry sighed heavily. “Very well. I choose Raya.”
Her hands were on his face. He removed them methodically.
The bed filled the room, so much so that one was practically forced onto it as soon as one entered. There was a screen on the far side of the bed, embroidered with kingfishers in flight. A silk kimono was slung over the top of the screen.
“Do I not please you?”
He took in the fact of her naked skin. Her blond hair seemed distilled from its pallor. “You’re not Russian?”
“I’m Finnish. I am sorry.”
“There’s no need to be sorry. Do you know Lilya?”
“Yes, of course. But she doesn’t work here anymore. Fräulein Keller says-”
“How old are you?”
“How old do you want me to be?”
“I am a magistrate. You must answer honestly.”
“I am twenty-seven.”
“And how long have you been a prostitute?”
“I can’t remember. I don’t count the years.”
“Do you know Konstantin Kirillovich?”
“What is this about?”
“Have you heard the name Konstantin Kirillovich?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think carefully.”
“I think perhaps I have.”
“Who is he?”
“A photographer. He takes photographs of the girls sometimes. And prints them up.”
“Has he ever taken your photograph?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He likes them younger.”
“Has he taken photographs of Lilya?”
“Once, I think.”
“It’s not so bad, having your photograph taken. There are worse things, I should imagine.”
Raya shrugged. She did not give any indication of resenting his eyes on her.
“Konstantin Kirillovich. Konstantin Kirillovich. What is his family name? I have forgotten.”
“Everyone knows him only as Konstantin Kirillovich.”
“That must be why I can’t remember it.” Porfiry smiled and blinked. “You touched my face. Why did you touch my face?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps it is because you wish me to touch your face?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Porfiry placed a hand flat against her cheek. Her skin was hot, and the makeup on it greasy and granular. He closed his eyes. Then felt her hand on his thigh.
“No,” said Porfiry, pulling his hand away and standing up. He distanced himself from Raya’s lingering touch.
“Why did you come?” asked Raya, looking up at him in wonder. Her eyes were very blue, he noticed.
“Where will I find Lilya, do you know?”
“It’s Lilya you want?”
“I wish to ask her some questions. Do you know a student called Virginsky?”
Raya shook her head. Her silk-fine hair opened and closed like a fan.
“How about Goryanchikov? The dwarf?”
“I know the dwarf. He’s a regular here. He always asks for Lilya. Perhaps he is her new boyfriend?” she wondered.
“Impossible. He’s dead.”
The alarm in her eyes intensified.
“It’s likely that he was murdered.”
“You think it was Lilya?”
“Where will I find her?”
“She’ll be with Zoya Nikolaevna, I should think.”
“Who is Zoya Nikolaevna?”
“The old prostitute who looks after Lilya’s child. They share a room and Lilya’s earnings.”
“Did Lilya not board here?”
“Not during the day. Fräulein Keller would not allow the child here.” Raya shivered. She was dressed only in underwear. However, it was not cold in the room.
“Cover yourself up,” said Porfiry.
Raya reached across the bed and pulled down the kimono from the screen. Slipping it on, her face was confused as well as fearful.
“I will tell Fräulein Keller that you pleased me,” he reassured her.
“I don’t understand. Do you want nothing more of me?”
“An address? For Lilya.”
“I don’t know it. How would I know it?”
“No matter.”
“Zoya lives somewhere near the Haymarket, I believe.”
“Thank you. That is very helpful.”
“Are you sure you want nothing more of me? Fräulein Keller says I am to do whatever you ask.”
“Is it not a relief to you?”
“It makes no difference to me. It’s why I am here, after all.”
“Are you really so indifferent?”
She reached out and lifted one of his hands to her face again. He pulled it away. Her reaction was as if he had struck her.
“Please, there’s no need.”
Her habitually cowed expression changed into one of cunning. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.
“I’m looking for Lilya.”
“Lilya is the only one who can please you.”
“Not in the way you think. I merely wish to speak to her.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re a man. And I know why you won’t sleep with me. It’s because you want my gratitude.”
“It makes no difference to me.” There was something pointed in the way his intonation, as well as his words, matched hers. To soften this, he added, “I would prefer it if you’re not grateful. You have nothing to be grateful for, after all.”
“Will you go now?” she asked, as if his presence made her uncomfortable.
He came close to telling her that she hadn’t the right to dismiss him. Instead he said, “What are you frightened of, Raya?”
The question took her aback. “The same as everyone,” she answered after a beat. “Getting old. Losing my looks. Not being able to work.”
“It frightens you that you will one day be free of this place?”
“Hunger isn’t freedom.”
Porfiry lit another cigarette and smoked it through completely in silence. “You’re an intelligent girl,” he said at last. Then he looked into the blue of her eyes and left.
A Well-Ordered Household
The following morning, as he had promised, Porfiry Petrovich called for Virginsky. He brought with him a pair of laborer’s boots. They were not brand-new but they were in good condition.
Virginsky sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at the boots between his feet. His toes poked out of threadbare stockings. The nails were overgrown and yellow. The skin in places burned an angry red.
“Why have you brought me these?”
“You are in need of a stout pair of boots.”
“I am in need of many things. Do you consider it your duty to provide me with it all?”
“I need your help. I want you to come with me to the house in Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”
“I told you enough to find it, didn’t I?”