“Lieutenant Salytov of the Haymarket District Police. I am conducting an official investigation. You must cooperate or face the consequences.” Salytov reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, then passed across the photograph of Ratazyayev. “Do you recognize this man?”
The landlord studied the photograph without comment. He blinked once with great emphasis, making his face a mask of imperturbability. “We get a lot of people in here,” he said finally, handing the photograph back.
“But do you recognize him?”
“Not particularly.”
“Not particularly!” shouted Salytov with sudden spluttering rage. “What on earth do you mean by not particularly? Either you recognize the man or you do not.”
“In that case, I should say, all things considered, I do not.”
“Are you trying to make a fool out of me? Is that your game? I warn you, do not try to make a fool out of me.”
One of the landlord’s eyebrows rose and fell eloquently.
“Do not raise your eyebrow at me! You dare to raise your eyebrow at me? Impertinent-” Salytov struck the man across the face with the back of his hand. The potboy jumped back in shock. But the landlord hardly turned his head and swung it back immediately as if eager for another blow. He faced Salytov now with lowered eyes. “That will teach you to raise your eyebrow at me.”
The landlord nodded in meek penitence.
“Now, I ask you once again, do you recognize this man? Look at the photograph carefully.” Salytov thrust the picture into the landlord’s face, so that he had to lean back to see it.
“Now that I think about it, perhaps he has been in here, once or twice.” The landlord’s voice was flat and calculated. He spoke deliberately, without a trace of fear.
“He is known to frequent the filthiest dives in the Haymarket area. Why would he not come in here?” When it seemed the witticism would not receive the appreciation it merited, Salytov continued his questioning. “When was the last time?”
“I don’t remember, your excellency.” Despite his readiness to use the honorary title, the landlord’s tone remained dangerously neutral. Salytov eyed him suspiciously, even nervously.
“Today? Has he been in here today?”
“No, your excellency.”
“Last night?”
“No. We haven’t seen him for a while, your excellency.” A new note, of strained impatience, crept into the landlord’s voice. He flashed a decisive glance at Salytov and risked: “Or the other one.”
“The other one? What other one?” The kindling of Salytov’s curiosity relaxed his aggression. He dropped the hand holding the photograph.
“He often comes in with another man.”
“Name?”
“I don’t know, your excellency. It’s not my business to inquire into the names of my clientele.”
“I could have you pulled in as the accomplice to a very serious crime.” But Salytov was distracted. The threat was delivered without conviction, almost out of habit. “You are guilty of aiding and abetting men wanted by the police,” he added sharply, as if remembering himself.
“I didn’t know they were wanted by the police, your excellency.” The landlord spoke with measured guile. “If I had, I would have made sure I got their names. As it is, I don’t know the names of any of these people.” He gestured toward the stupor-frozen faces peering out of the gloom. “They come in, they drink, they leave. I don’t interfere with them. Perhaps Kesha can help you.” The landlord nodded permissively to the potboy, whose face was suddenly stretched by panic at the prospect of having to talk to the police officer.
A slow sneer writhed over Salytov’s features. “Very well. You. Talk.”
Kesha’s gaze flitted anxiously between the landlord and the policeman.
Salytov held up the photograph. “So you know these men?”
Kesha nodded.
“Speak!” barked Salytov.
“Y-y-y-yes.”
“Names? Did you ever hear them address each other by name?”
“I think s-s-s-so.”
“Good. So what are their names?”
“That’s Ra-Ra-Ra-Ra….” The boy’s stammering dried up.
“Ra-Ra-Ra? What sort of a name is Ra-Ra-Ra, you imbecile?”
“Ra-Ra-Ratazyayev!” The name came out, eventually, in an angry rush.
“I know it’s Ra-Ra-Ratazyayev, you idiot. I don’t need you to tell me it’s Ra-Ra-Ratazyayev. I want to know about the other one. The man he comes in here with.”
“Govorov.” This time, the name was produced without stammering, in a sudden, involuntary regurgitation.
“Govorov? Are you sure?”
Kesha nodded frantically.
“So. Govorov. What can you tell me about this Govorov?”
Kesha’s shrug was anything but nonchalant. It was as much a wince anticipating pain as a gesture of helplessness. He was desperate to know what it was Salytov wanted to be told about this Govorov. Then he could get on with telling it. But only one thing came to mind: “He has photographs.”
“Go on.”
The boy’s lips rippled uncomfortably. Another spasm of a shrug shook him.
“Tell me more about these photographs. What were they of?”
“Stupid.”
“What is so stupid about them?”
“Just…stupid.”
“You are the stupid here, boy. Tell me exactly what you saw when you looked at the photographs.”
“Girls.”
“Girls? What is so stupid about that? Don’t you like to look at photographs of girls?”
“They had no clothes on.”
Salytov let out a great “Ha!” of amusement. “What’s wrong with you? That’s not stupid, that’s…” The word eluded Salytov. “Do you have any of these photographs?”
Kesha frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t like to look at them.”
“Come, come! A boy of your age! Listen, I will not arrest you for looking at a few smutty photographs. Tell the truth now, Kesha.” The boy was startled to hear his name from Salytov. “What did you do with the photographs?”
“I wouldn’t take them! I wouldn’t look at them!” insisted Kesha hotly.
“Why ever not? Are you a skopsy? Have you cut off your balls and dick, is that it? Or are you-” A look of horrified disgust came over Salytov.
“It’s nothing like that. It was their faces. They looked afraid.”
“They’re just whores.”
“They were-some of them-they were just little girls. I have a little sister. It’s not right.”
“They are born whores, girls like that. Why else do you think they do it?”
“I didn’t like to look at them.”
“You have a saint here, cleaning your pots,” Salytov joked to the landlord.
“He is a good boy, Kesha is.”
“He is a liar. I know boys. He is a liar, or worse.” Salytov looked at Kesha distastefully. “Tell me, skopsy, did he show these photographs to anyone else?”
“He was always showing them to people. He would sell them to whoever would buy them, and-” There was a warning look from the landlord. Kesha broke off.
The fire returned to Salytov’s complexion. “Damn you! What’s this?”
“I remember the man myself, now,” put in the landlord quickly. “Once he tried to pay for his kvas with some of these pictures.”
“Strange how your memory returns. Did you accept the pornography as payment?”
“He told me he was an artist. They are what he called artistic poses. Nobody said anything about pornography.”
“Get them.”
The landlord moved slowly, reluctance thickening his torpor. His eyes were the last part of him to turn.
“Hurry it up!” barked Salytov. He smirked at the landlord’s waddling gait as he hurried into the back room.
Approximately the size of playing cards, the photographs were no worse than many he had seen. True, the faces had a certain bewildered quality, but he found that only added to the piquancy. He shuffled through them briskly, ruthlessly, careful not to dwell on any one image or to betray an interest other than professional. And yet the luminous pallor of the flesh, the crisp darknesses of exposed and in some cases immature genitalia, drew his eye and hardened his pulse. He recognized, in among the stilted pageant, the young prostitute who had been brought into the station, accused of stealing a hundred rubles. In the instant that her photograph flashed before him, he assessed the fullness of her breasts.