The Cleansing Flames Part 27

'I am not a coward.'

'I require you to prove it.'

'I have brought you this information.'

The man made a dismissive gesture with his hand. 'We knew it already.'

'Lie.'

'No matter. Whether it is a lie or not is irrelevant. It is not enough. We require more of you.'

'What?'

'Names. The names of police agents who have infiltrated revolutionary cells.'

'Can't your spies in the Third Section discover this for you?'

'There is a list. But it is not widely circulated, even inside Fontanka, 16.'

'And do you think I would have access to it?'

'Oh, but it is essential that you should. As I am sure your superiors will agree. Tell them that you have the opportunity to infiltrate a terrorist cell yourself. Tell them as much of our history as you think is necessary to make the story persuasive. They will naturally give their consent. However, at this point, you will raise an objection. What if there is already a police agent in place? That would seriously complicate matters, and might put both of you in an awkward position. You would be working against one another, rather than together. If you are to undertake such a dangerous task, it is only reasonable that you should be forewarned with this information. They will see that. You will be given the list.'

'I'm not convinced your plan will work.'

'So far I have asked you to perform two tasks for the cause. You have raised objections to both.'

'I can only do what is possible. If you ask me to reach down the moon . . .'

'I would expect you to do it.'

'Is there not a danger that if I broach the subject of infiltrating a cell, it will arouse my superiors' suspicions? Furthermore, I will be expected to supply them with information about the cell to make the story credible.'

'Of course. We will select what you tell them. There is something that is very like information, but is in fact its opposite. Disinformation, you might call it.'

'There's no need to talk in such a roundabout sort of way. It serves no purpose. I understand perfectly well what you are talking about. Disinformation. Just say it.'

'So you will do it?'

Virginsky poured another vodka.

'Go easy on that, my friend. Remember, you are no use to us if we cannot rely on you. The cause requires sobriety and dedication. An almost ascetic devotion to the furtherance of our great task. Study the lives of the martyrs. You must become a contemporary martyr. No more fish pies and vodka. You must learn to live simply. To endure privation. And pain. Are you capable of that?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'My friend. We are not ungrateful. We realise that you have put yourself at some risk. That you brought us the information about Rakitin in good faith.' Virginsky detected a softening in the man's tone. 'We recognise in you considerable potential. We wish to encourage you, but you must be made aware of what lies in store for you if you continue down the path you have set out upon. In a word, danger. There will be rewards too, of course. When the time comes, you will be in a position to reap them.'

A waiter brought over a fresh candle. In its glow, Virginsky saw that the hatchet-headed man was smiling. His smile was almost kindly, and for once without any sarcasm. But as soon as the candle was placed on the table, the man stood up, as if the presence of light repelled him.

'Where are you going?' Virginsky's question had an edge of desperation to it.

'A friend of mine is having a party. It is his name day.'

Virginsky drained his gla.s.s and slammed it, more heavily than he had intended, on the table. A wave of vertigo rocked through his head as he sprang to his feet. 'Take me with you.'

'My dear magistrate . . .'

'My name is Pavel Pavlovich.' After a moment, he added, 'Virginsky.'

'I know that.'

'And what may I call you? It is absurd, if I am to accompany you to a party, for me not to know your name.'

'I have not yet said that I will take you.'

'Do I not deserve some reward for what I have brought you?' Virginsky's tone was becoming strident.

The other man looked around the tavern warily. The clientele was universally absorbed in its own dramas and drunkenness. No one was paying any attention to them. Even so, when next he spoke, his voice was hushed: 'We do not operate like that. Either an individual is committed to the cause, or he is not. The motivation must come from within and must be capable of withstanding every discouragement.'

Virginsky's crumpled expression suggested that he was far from being up to that challenge.

Perhaps the man took pity on him; certainly, his expression was contemptuous. 'My name is Alyosha Afanasevich.'

Virginsky tracked his implacable back as he left the tavern.

24.

The name-day celebration.

Alyosha Afanasevich set a brisk pace, zig-zagging east from Haymarket Square in the direction of the Moskovskaya District. It was all Virginsky could do to keep up, but he was determined not to let the man out of his sight. Alyosha Afanasevich had not, in fact, explicitly consented to take Virginsky to the party, but neither had he flatly refused. Since leaving the tavern, he had not addressed a single word to Virginsky, ignoring the questions that Virginsky fired at his back. All this, together with the speed of his march across the city, could be taken as an indication that he was trying to shake Virginsky off. Certainly, Virginsky had the impression that the man would not have turned a hair if he had simply stopped following him. But he himself could not bear the thought of losing Alyosha Afanasevich.

They walked along the northern embankment of the Fontanka, pa.s.sing the riverside facade of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The sight of the building reminded Virginsky of an earlier case, the first that he had worked on with Porfiry Petrovich. There would come a time, he imagined, when every building in St Petersburg would bring to mind one case or another.

It was a clear, mild night: under different circ.u.mstances, one for ambling unhurriedly alongside the river, antic.i.p.ating the pleasures of the white nights that lay only a couple of months ahead. But this was no romantic stroll.

The force of the pace, coupled with the vodka he had drunk, was causing Virginsky to overheat. Despite his indulgence over the last two nights, Virginsky was not a habitual drinker. He welcomed the exercise as an opportunity to clear his head.

As Alyosha Afanasevich turned right onto the Chernyshov Bridge, Virginsky put on a spurt to draw level with him. Their footsteps reverberated over the arching stonework. 'Isn't it a bit strange, you fellows celebrating name days? I thought you urged the desecration and destruction of everything connected with the Church. Name days, after all, are Orthodox festivals.'

As their feet came down on the other side of the bridge, Virginsky at last succeeded in provoking a response from his companion. It was perhaps not the one he would have hoped for: 'Once again you reveal your naivety through your remarks. I hope you do not say anything so foolish when we are at my friends' apartment. Indeed, it would be best if you did not say anything at all.'

'Will your friends not think me rude?'

'I will tell them you are a mute.'

'Would it not be better to educate me as to why my question was so foolish? Then I will guard against making similar mistakes in the future. To me, it seemed a perfectly reasonable question, bearing in mind the manifesto that you once gave me. To mark the saint's day corresponding to one's name one's Christian name does seem a little at odds with the notion of G.o.d the Nihilist, do you not think?'

Alyosha Afanasevich gave a heavy sigh. 'Naturally we do not celebrate name days as devout Orthodox Christians celebrate them. Indeed, amongst ourselves we do not use the names our parents gave us at all. We have given one another new names, names more in keeping with our roles and our destinies. And you may take it from me that we do not give a d.a.m.n for the calendar of saints' days.'

'What is yours?'

'What?'

'The name that your friends have given you? I take it they do not call you Alyosha Afanasevich.'

'No. To my friends, I am Hunger.'

'Hunger?'

'It is not a reference to physical hunger, to the hunger of appet.i.te, but rather to my hunger for the revolution.'

'I see.'

'Mine is the hunger of the flame.'

'Yes. Quite. But why then are we going to a name-day party?'

'Because it is not a name-day party.'

'What is it then?'

'A pretext.'

'Ah, I see.' Virginsky nodded his approval. His eyes widened as if in excitement, but he said nothing, and indeed kept silent for the rest of the way.

Alyosha Afanasevich led them to a four-storey stone apartment building at the corner of Kuznechny Lane and Yamskaya Street. The neighbourhood was noticeably run-down. Not surprisingly: the Moskovskaya District was a predominantly working-cla.s.s area, with a high proportion of peasant workers, migrants from the villages. Somehow, the dreariness of the area reflected the fact that the majority of its inhabitants were men living without women.

The nearby shops were all shuttered up, reminding Virginsky that there was also a significant Jewish population in Moskovskaya District. It was Friday, the Sabbath. While many of the shops on Nevsky Prospect might keep late hours tonight, those in Moskovskaya would not.

A few steps led down to the entrance of the building, below the level of the street. The porter nodded Alyosha Afanasevich in, as if he were a regular visitor.

They took the stairs up to the second floor. In truth, the interior of the building was better kept than Virginsky had been led to expect from the air of general neglect outside. The doors of the apartments they pa.s.sed were all closed, presenting blank, demure rectangles of respectability. Perhaps they were the apartments of Jewish families, devoutly observing the Sabbath within. But even the door to the apartment they were visiting was closed.

'This doesn't look like the apartment of someone who is celebrating a name day,' Virginsky observed, as they waited for Hunger's complicated series of knocks to be answered. He thought he could detect the murmur of voices within, tense rather than celebratory. 'If you wish to construct a pretext, you should do so more carefully.'

'We cannot afford to admit all and sundry.'

'Then it is clearly not a Russian party.'

'It is intended to be an intimate gathering of close friends.'

The door began to move, drawing Virginsky's attention. He felt the thump of apprehension in his chest, sensing that he was standing at the threshold, not simply to an apartment in the Moskovskaya District but to a formless and irresistible abyss to the future, in other words.

The face that greeted him, if such a look of hostility and suspicion could be said to be any kind of greeting, was elusively familiar to him. After a moment's concentration, he recognised the young 'Bazarov' who had discussed the physiology of the heart with Porfiry Petrovich at the office of Affair. Without opening the door to its full extent, the young man turned sullenly to Virginsky's companion. 'This man is a magistrate. Why have you brought him here? Have you betrayed us, Botkin?'

'Don't be stupid.'

Virginsky was struck by the fact that 'Bazarov' had used neither Alyosha Afanasevich nor Hunger in addressing the man.

'In the first place,' continued Virginsky's companion, 'I of course know that he is a magistrate. That is the very reason why I have brought him here. In the second place, you know better than to address me by that name.'

'Are you not Botkin?'

'Don't compound your stupidity with insolence!'

'If you have brought this magistrate here, then presumably you think you can trust him. And if you trust him, you will not object to him knowing your real name, Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin.'

'And what if I tell him your name?'

'I dare say he already knows it. He was at the office the other day.'

'I don't know your name,' said Virginsky to the young man.

'He is rather naive,' explained Botkin. 'Touchingly so, at times.'

'And so you think you will be able to manipulate him?'

'It is not a question of that. He wishes to help the cause.'

The young man regarded Virginsky sceptically, his expression slightly pained. 'I shall have to ask Kirill Kirillovich. It is his name day, after all.'

'That has nothing to do with anything, as you well know,' said Botkin.

'There are important people here. It is said that we are to be visited by a member of the central committee. Though, of course, none of us will know who he is.'

'How do you know that I have not brought him?' Botkin now treated the young man to the sarcastic smile he had practised on Virginsky.

The young man's expression grew unpleasant as he considered Virginsky afresh. 'Make up your mind. Either he is a new recruit who wishes to help the cause, or he is an important personage on the central committee. Which is it to be?'

'Let us in,' said Botkin, pushing at the door.

When it came to it, the young man did not resist. He let the door go with a strangely girlish laugh. 'On your head be it,' he threw out as he turned his back on them.

They followed him into an entrance hall with a number of doors coming off it. One door stood open, revealing a carelessly furnished drawing room where the a.s.sembly was already gathered, about twenty guests in all. The conversation was subdued, and in fact ceased completely as they entered. Virginsky was surprised to see women as well as men there. He thought he recognised some other faces from the office of Affair. Certainly he had the sense that he was recognised, and that the faces that were turned on him were far from welcoming.

A lean, somehow slovenly looking woman of about forty was handing out tea, which she served from a samovar on an oval table draped with a threadbare cloth. She bustled about the room with a sarcastic joviality, suggesting that she resented the presence of these guests in her apartment. She was taking great delight in keeping up the pretence of a name-day celebration. A man of about the same age as her, balding and anxious, rose from a sofa and approached Botkin. His face was careworn, brows pulled down in a permanent frown.

'Who is this?'

'Kirill Kirillovich, may I introduce Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky. A magistrate who wishes to perform a great service for the movement.'