‘Obviously, he had nothing to do with it.’
Virginsky nodded. ‘That was my impression too.’
‘I don’t suppose Zakhar put any wine in there, did he?’
Virginsky shook his head.
‘Really, that man. He persecutes me terribly. One’s servants always do.’
Virginsky furrowed his brow in distaste at the joke. ‘Then don’t have servants.’
‘In which case, who would I have to persecute me? Or would you have me marry?’
But Virginsky had lost his appetite for the banter, as he had almost for the food. He pretended sudden interest in a somewhat pretentious dacha that was gliding past at that moment.
‘Any bread?’ said Porfiry. ‘I think I must be hungrier than I realised.’
They were driving north now on Izmailovsky Prospekt, having just crossed the Fontanka, when Virginsky stood up in the drozhki and called the driver to a halt. He leapt down from the cab and ran back some distance along the pavement towards a couple who had just come out of the entrance of an apartment building opposite the Novo-Alexandrovsky Market. A tall, well-to-do middle-aged gentleman was arm-in-arm with a very pretty and fashionably dressed girl about half his age. The gentleman’s expression when he saw Virginsky coming towards him was at first one of shock, which gradually gave way to shame-faced contrition.
‘Father!’ Virginsky called out. ‘You did not tell me you were coming to Petersburg.’
‘Why it’s Pasha!’ cried the young woman delightedly. At the same time she broke away from Virginsky’s father and threw her arms out towards Virginsky. He slowed his step and ignored the offered embrace.
‘Ah, my dear!’ Virginsky’s father at last began. ‘It all happened so quickly. There did not seem time. And besides. .’ His father suddenly seemed to think of something. ‘We thought it would be nice to surprise you!’ His voice rose brightly, but there was something not entirely trustworthy about his eyes at that moment. Virginsky felt a pang of depression.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked leadenly.
‘Oh, simply ages,’ said the girl, rolling her eyes. ‘It feels like a lifetime. Pavel Pavlovich has had all sorts of boring business to attend to with his boring old cronies. It has been the longest week of my life.’
‘A week?’
‘Now now, Natasha! Don’t exaggerate. Not a week, nothing like. A matter of days, that’s all. We were intending to pay you a visit once I had sorted out all my business affairs.’ Virginsky’s father smiled nervously.
Natasha, that is to say, Natalya Ivanovna, Virginsky’s young stepmother, placed her hand on his arm and turned him gently away from his father. He was aware of a wild excitement that her touch provoked in him, something closer to hatred than desire.
‘Pasha, you must rescue me from your father.’ Her eyes were imploring. But again he recognised in them a suspect quality. Oh, how they deserve each other, he thought bitterly. ‘He has been neglecting me awfully. He prefers to spend all his time with that old lecher Colonel Setochkin.’
‘What’s that?’ said Virginsky, his smile frozen anxiously.
Natasha addressed him over her shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t object, would you, dearest, if Pasha were to look after me for the next few days, while you sort out your affairs with Setochkin?’ Then to Virginsky she confided: ‘You wouldn’t believe it. I have to sit on my own in a tiny room with only the walls to talk to, while they lock themselves away discussing I know not what.’
‘Business matters. It would be even more tiresome for you to have to listen to it all. But yes! Why not? What a capital idea. Pasha, you could show your mother the sights of St Petersburg. The Hermitage, the Summer Garden, the Fortress. .’
‘No,’ said Virginsky quickly. He pulled away from the disturbing touch. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I have work to do. Now.’ He gestured back to the waiting drozhki.
‘Ah! The magistrate! Of course. Is that the great Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you not introduce us?’
‘Another time, perhaps. Right now we are engaged in urgent business. A case. Time is of the essence.’
‘I see.’ Virginsky’s father dropped his gaze to the ground in disappointment. He worked quickly to dispel it. ‘Of course. You must devote yourself to your work. I am glad to see you taking so well to it.’ And then he remembered: ‘The letter! It did the trick then, the letter I wrote?’
Virginsky frowned in annoyance and did not answer.
‘But what will I do?’ implored Natalya Ivanovna petulantly. ‘You men and your business, it is all you ever think about.’
‘Sweetest, I will make it up to you, I promise. I shall take you to the opera!’
‘Good day to you, sir. And you, madam,’ Virginsky cut in, tersely. He began to walk away without waiting for a response.
‘We’re at the Hotel Regina,’ called his father after him. ‘On the Moika Embankment. Charming view of the river. You must come and see us.’
Virginsky shook his head at Porfiry’s questioning face as he climbed back into the drozhki.
8
Inside, the dacha was hot and oppressively scented with pine. An uncomfortable tension showed in Ptitsyn’s face. He seemed wary and eager at the same time: holding back to take his lead from Virginsky, yet more than willing to do whatever was asked of him.
For his part, Virginsky felt hopelessly out of his depth as soon as they stepped inside, their footfalls met by the building’s creaking protests. The young politseisky’s expectant gaze only served to increase the sensation. Virginsky found himself wishing that Porfiry Petrovich was there with him. Then resentment drove out the wish.
‘Where is the girl now?’ said Virginsky, unconsciously voicing a thought that came to him, apparently randomly, as he looked around. He was looking at the divan that the maid had been sitting on the first time he had come to the dacha, willing the memory of her to solidify into her person.
‘Polina? She is lodging with a relative in the Spasskaya district. We know where she is if we need her.’
Virginsky experienced a pang of unearned jealousy. Ptitsyn had evidently conversed with the maid, from which Virginsky constructed a familiarity that tormented him. Of course, there was the question of class. Ptitsyn would naturally find it easier to talk to the girl, coming from a similar peasant background. There was none of the constraint that he himself would feel. Virginsky found himself envying the young policeman. Not knowing what to say, he nodded once tersely, but felt the gesture belonged more to Porfiry Petrovich than to himself and blushed. Then, quite self-consciously, he blinked rapidly, straightaway shaking his head at his own foolishness.
‘What are we looking for, Your Honour?’
‘A letter. It will be in the doctor’s study.’ Virginsky masked his uncertainty with a harsh, decisive tone. Ptitsyn smiled appeasement and led the way into the study, his step quick and untroubled, now that he had a direction to follow.
Ptitsyn made straight for a walnut escritoire and opened it. ‘There are letters here.’ He began to sift through the papers. ‘All sorts of correspondence.’
Virginsky joined him and looked down. He was aware of a frisson of transgression, a sense of himself as a voyeur that was both pleasurable and shaming. And yet, as he reminded himself, he had a right, a duty even, to pry. He tried to will his face into a mask of professional dispassion, as if by so doing he would suppress his inappropriate excitement.
He picked up a sheet at random and read a printed letter in which certain details had been handwritten:
Dear Dr Meyer,
We regret to inform you that your article ‘Notes on the Non-Sexual Transmission of Syphilis in Peasant Communes’ has not been selected for publication in The Russian Journal of Public Health. We thank you for your consideration in submitting to The Russian Journal of Public Health and return your submission herewith.