“But I will never see him again.”
“I advise you to forget about him,” said Porfiry.
“But how can I? Everywhere I go I am reminded of him.”
“Then leave St. Petersburg. Travel is often an aid to recovery in cases like this.”
“Switzerland,” murmured the prince distractedly. “We once talked of going to Switzerland together.”
“Wherever he is, I’m sure that he thinks of you-with warmth and affection.” Porfiry felt a sudden stabbing ache in his frontal lobe. “And love.” He allowed himself to blink. He couldn’t stop. He felt that he would never be able to stop.
Porfiry closed his eyes tightly and placed one hand over them. When he took his hand away and opened his eyes, he saw that the prince was gone. His fit of blinking had passed too.
He bowed again, to the empty space where the prince had stood. Without looking at Zamyotov, he went into his chambers.
Porfiry leaned his back against the closed door and finally took out his cigarette case. He busied himself in lighting a cigarette. The headache eased as quickly as it had come. He gazed across the room at the window. A low sun blinded him to the details of his chambers. All he could see was the cloud of exhaled smoke, a swirling trap for sunlight.
He tried to remember what day it was. He could not shake off the feeling that there was something he should be doing. And yet whatever it was, it was not as important to him as leaning against this door and watching the smoke from his cigarette.
The ash fell unheeded to the floor. Porfiry was absorbed in the shifting smoke, studying it as if it were a mystery that could be solved. When he had finished the cigarette, he squeezed the glowing tip, feeling its sharp heat between his thumb and forefinger, and strode away from the door. The room became visible to him, and he knew it was New Year’s Eve. Later, he would be expected at Nikodim Fomich’s house.