Salytov’s refusal to face Porfiry became pointed.
Porfiry frowned. “Ilya Petrovich, if I have offended you in any way…”
Salytov half-turned in Porfiry’s direction. But he could not bring himself to look the other man in the eye. “You have not offended me,” he said in a stiff tone.
“I’m glad to hear it. Then may I ask-” Porfiry broke off. “But no, I may be mistaken.” Porfiry’s reticence failed to elicit the openness he had hoped for from Salytov. He watched the other man closely before pressing: “Do I detect a certain antagonism in your demeanor, Ilya Petrovich?”
Salytov sighed deeply, making sure it could be heard, then faced Porfiry at last. A fierce and undisguised bitterness showed in his eyes. “I know my place. I am a simple police officer. I do whatever is required of me by the office of the investigating magistrate. If you have any complaints concerning the way I have fulfilled my duties, I suggest you take them up with my superior, Nikodim Fomich.”
“I have no complaints, Ilya Petrovich. I merely wonder why you dislike me so much.” Porfiry’s throat felt tight from shouting. His voice sounded hoarse.
“It is not necessary for me to like you. Or for you to like me.”
“Of course, but what I think you do not realize is that I have enormous respect for you. I specifically requested you to be assigned to this case so that we could work together.” Salytov’s expression was suddenly outraged, as if Porfiry had insulted him. “What have I said now?” demanded Porfiry.
“You do not know?”
“No.” Porfiry’s eyes pleaded.
“You insist that I tell you?” Salytov’s demand received a nod from Porfiry. “Very well. I know that you make fun of me. I know that you send me off on fools’ errands. You intrigue to get me the worst jobs. And here you have the boldness, the effrontery to say that you respect me!”
“You are wrong, Ilya Petrovich.”
“No, Porfiry Petrovich. I am right. I know that you are not to be trusted. You use the same tricks and techniques on your colleagues as you do on the criminals you interview. With me, it is flattery and disingenuousness. No doubt you would call it psychology.”
“Is that really fair, Ilya Petrovich?”
“You cannot even be straightforward with me now, when you have demanded honesty from me.”
Porfiry exhaled audibly through his nostrils. “Perhaps you’re right. It is interesting to see myself illuminated by your perception. Not a very flattering portrait you paint.”
“I do not flatter.”
“I know, I know. That is my method. Forgive me then. I will own up to everything you accuse me of. Obviously, I am not as subtle as I like to think.”
Salytov regarded Porfiry’s ingratiating smile coldly. He then leaned toward Porfiry, so that their bodies were pressed together. “You have never forgiven me,” he murmured, though he was close enough for it to be heard.
“Forgiven you? What is there to forgive?” Porfiry too spoke more quietly now.
“That it was to me that he confessed,” Salytov hissed with intimate antagonism.
“I really have no idea-”
“That student. Raskolnikov. He sought me out and confessed to me!”
“But I was pleased that it was so, Ilya Petrovich. I was glad that he was able to confess at all. It does not matter to whom. The important thing is he confessed.”
“Hypocritical nonsense! It was a blow to your vanity. Admit it. Have the decency to admit it.”
“I see that I will not be able to persuade you of something you’re so determined not to believe.”
“You cannot persuade me of your sincerity, if that’s what you mean.”
“Hmm.” Porfiry pulled away and flexed his brow. “I’m sorry you feel this way. It is painful to me.”
Salytov shrugged.
“We must simply agree to ignore our differences and concentrate our efforts on the case,” said Porfiry, as brightly as he could.
Salytov closed the gap between them again. “But will you be honest with me even in that?” His challenge had a pleading edge to it. “Will you honestly share with me all that you have discovered? Or will you-hold something back?”
“If I am guilty of holding things back, it is only because I have nothing certain to disclose. I have discovered nothing. The solution evades me as much as it evades you.”
“But you have your suspicions?”
“Perhaps. But suspicions at this stage of the investigation are worthless.”
“You see! You will not even share your suspicions with me!”
“I will say this. I do not believe that Borya killed Goryanchikov-or himself.”
“That is obvious. You have given me nothing.”
“As for the student Virginsky-”
“You let him go.”
“I had no choice in the matter. I believe that he provides the key to the mystery somehow. Everything comes back to that contract. At the very least it provides him with a motive. But I need more than a motive. And I suspect there is more to it than meets the eye. At any rate, I have put a tail on him. I think it is as well to know what he is up to. It may even save his life.”
“You think he is in danger?”
“If the murderer believes he can incriminate him.”
“Who do you think the killer is?”
Porfiry Petrovich sighed despondently. “I do have a fault, you’re right. It’s a very Russian fault. I’m superstitious.” Porfiry’s glance was momentarily shy, almost apologetic. “Did you know I come from Tartar stock? On my grandmother’s side. She was born into a Kezhig tribe. Married a Russian subaltern. In my more fanciful moments, I like to imagine she was the daughter of the tribal shaman. Perhaps that accounts for it, my superstition. At any rate, it is that which is to blame for any reticence you may have noticed in me. Nothing more. Incidentally, contrary to what you may think, I do not believe these mysteries are solved rationally, through the exercise of a cold, deductive reasoning. The thing that terrifies me-sometimes, when I allow myself to think about it-is that I don’t know how they are solved. One must go to a place within one’s self. It is a kind of Siberia of the soul. In the criminal, it is the place where these deeds are conceived and carried through. But we all have a similar place within us, or so I believe. I know that I have. I can’t speak for you, of course.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, one cannot see clearly there. One gropes one’s way. Occasionally figures come toward one. Perhaps one is able to glimpse the features of a face.”
Salytov relaxed heavily. He threw himself back and sat for a while considering Porfiry’s analogy. “Nonsense,” he shouted, at last. “You’re still trying to hoodwink me. You just want to guard your secrets in case I get there first. I must disclose everything I learn to you, but you can keep everything back.”
“This has been a very diverting conversation,” said Porfiry. He took out his brightly colored cigarette case and held it open toward Salytov. The policeman snorted his refusal. The drozhki began to slow. Porfiry put away the case without taking a cigarette.
Virginsky saw the tramp huddled in a doorway on Gorokhovaya Street, a coarse sack pulled over his head. He knew from the ragged felt boots sticking out at the bottom that it was the same man.
He was relieved that the man’s face was hidden. It saved him from confronting the fear that now obsessed him: that he would recognize himself in the stranger’s features. Somehow the idea had entered his mind that this figure dogging his steps was nothing other than his future self. The absurdity of it did not escape him. That he was incapable of religious faith but was prepared to entertain this stupidity as a literal truth.
I am mad! He almost laughed out loud.
His self-awareness offered hope.
I think I am mad, therefore I am not mad.
He sensed a movement in the sacking as he passed. But did not look. He was torturing himself with the notion that the instant he looked the tramp in the eye, he would merge with him. He would become his future. What a ludicrous and humiliating-yes, humiliating, everything about his life was humiliating now-superstition! And yet he believed in it enough to keep his eyes fixed firmly ahead.