Porfiry held toward him the hand that contained the present for Vera.
“I meant the other hand.”
“Don’t you want to know what I got for her? I chose it very carefully.”
Salytov didn’t answer.
“Look! Look at it!”
Salytov stood up to open the package. It contained a pair of painted wooden figures, a hussar and his lady, with crudely carved but cheerful faces. “What’s in your other hand?” demanded Salytov, without commenting on the toys.
Porfiry opened his palm to reveal a small glass vial. The label said LAUDANUM.
The cabinetmaker Kezel’s wife opened the door. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her nose had become a broad glistening mound of purple and yellow.
Salytov pushed past her. “Where’s Virginsky?” He possessed the apartment with his straight posture and searching glance. The place was immaculately clean, the furniture simple but new, solid and well made. “No sign of blood,” said Salytov to no one.
Porfiry came in more hesitantly. He looked into the woman’s eyes for a long time, finding something there that he almost understood.
“He isn’t here.” Her voice was empty.
“Why does your husband beat you?” Porfiry asked. He sounded startled by his own words.
Fear and perplexity rippled her face.
“You would be pretty if he didn’t beat you.”
“When was he here last? Virginsky?” Salytov barked. “Come on! Come on!”
“Just now.” She was still looking at Porfiry as she answered, as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. She had found something answering in his eyes.
“What state was he in? Did you notice anything unusual about him?” demanded Salytov.
The woman looked to Porfiry for an explanation.
“Was there any blood on him? Did he have to clean himself up?”
Kezel’s wife nodded numbly. “He had blood on his hands.”
“Just on his hands?” asked Porfiry. “What about his clothes? Did he have to change his clothes?”
The woman flinched, as if expecting a blow. She closed her eyes and forced out, “I don’t know.” Her voice was high and strained, on the edge of tears. “I don’t think so,” she squeezed out.
“It’s all right,” said Porfiry softly. “But tell me, why did he hit you this last time? Was it to do with Virginsky?”
Her eyes swelled with panic. “It was the samovar.”
“The samovar?”
“It went missing. Someone stole it.”
“Someone stole your samovar?” Porfiry was incredulous. He couldn’t understand how he came to be having a conversation about a stolen samovar so soon after what he had just seen. He sensed Salytov’s impatience. Meeting it with a glance, he nodded as Salytov indicated that he was going into Virginsky’s room. “He beat you because someone stole your samovar?” Porfiry welcomed the rage that he felt rushing through him. He said to himself that if Kezel came home now, he would kill the man without regret. He imagined closing his hands around the cabinetmaker’s neck.
Porfiry was suddenly disgusted by his own self-pity and self-delusion.
“Do you know who stole the samovar?” Porfiry felt a strange hilarity threatening to burst out. He had to struggle to keep his face straight.
The woman shook her head tensely.
Porfiry closed his eyes. The image of blood-splashed icons forced itself on him. “Who did your husband think had taken the samovar?” He saw Vera playing in the snow with her friends. But her face was smashed and bloody. She came toward him and tried to speak. Her nose flapped loosely every time she opened the raw gash that had been her mouth. No words came out, but she dribbled bloody mucus. Porfiry opened his eyes and studied the bruises on Madame Kezel’s face. He wanted to touch the places where her skin had ruptured.
“Pavel Pavlovich,” she answered at last.
“Virginsky,” Porfiry nodded. “And was he right?”
Kezel’s wife looked down at the floor.
“He didn’t steal it though, did he? You gave it to him. You gave it to him knowing that your husband would miss it-how could he not miss it? — and knowing that your husband would take it out on you. My dear, you love Virginsky almost as much as you hate yourself.”
“I don’t hate myself,” she answered firmly. “I hate my husband.”
“Of course. Like every good Russian, he loves his tea. What a perfect way to punish him, to give away the samovar. So tell me, what did Pavel Pavlovich want with the samovar?”
“He pawned it. He said he would get it back. He was going to get it back now. When he saw what Kezel had done to me.”
“He was going to the pawnbroker’s?”
Salytov came out of Virginsky’s room. “I found more vials of laudanum. And this.” He handed Porfiry a scribbled note.
Father,
I am your son. I see that now and cannot deny it. I am as foul and as loathsome and as capable of crime as you. I have proved myself capable of the worst crimes imaginable. And I hate myself more than I have ever hated you. I can’t live with what I have become. A criminal and a coward. I shall throw myself in front of a galloping troika. It is the only way for a Russian to kill himself. I will be free of you and you will be free of me.
But you shouldn’t have beaten her. How could you beat her?
Your son, Pavel Pavlovich.
The bell complained fussily as Salytov threw open the door to Lyamshin’s. Porfiry was aware that he was allowing the policeman to take the lead now. Remembering his exchange with the Jewish pawnbroker, he had an uneasy feeling.
The last time he had set foot in the shop, the objects around him had seemed enticing. He had chosen to invest them with mystery and desire. He had plunged his fingers between some of them. Even the sense of tragedy they had inspired was romantic. It moved without touching him. Now the feeling they provoked in him was more visceral and stifling. These were not neutral everyday objects; they were the forms of despair. Despair was the one raw material from which they had all been shaped, not porcelain or brass or Karelian birch. And they were imbued with a destructive malevolence.
Porfiry recognized the man behind the counter and could tell that he had been recognized. Distrust closed the man’s features.
Porfiry put a restraining hand on Salytov’s shoulder. “Please, Ilya Petrovich, let me talk to him,” he said in an undertone.
Salytov writhed away from his touch. “What does it matter?” he said angrily.
Porfiry walked past Salytov, up to the counter. The pawnbroker shifted uncomfortably, waiting. “You remember me,” said Porfiry.
The pawnbroker nodded.
“The last time I was here, we talked about the student Virginsky. Have you seen him recently?”
“He came in yesterday.” The man’s eyes darted from side to side, as if looking for escape.
“To pawn a samovar.”
“That’s right.” Surprise and a reluctant admiration showed in the man’s eyes.
“Did he not come in today, just now, to redeem it?”
The pawnbroker shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“Perhaps one of your assistants dealt with him?”
“But the samovar is still here. He hasn’t redeemed the pledge.”
“Can you show it to me?”
The pawnbroker pointed high up behind Porfiry. Porfiry turned to see a shelf of samovars. “It’s the one on the end. The end nearest you.”
Porfiry winced to think that Madame Kezel had received a beating over the loss of such a tarnished and battered object. It was an ugly, ordinary samovar. He signaled his dejection to Salytov. They left the shop without further questions.
They came out into the echo and blur of the flea market and the excited bustle of the great Apraxin Arcade. The scent of pine trees and spiced pastries rushed them. Porfiry felt weak and suddenly hungry and nauseous at the same time.
“What will you do?” asked Salytov.
“Stay here. Watch.”
“You think he’ll come here?”