But tonight, as he consciously had to remind himself, he was on official business. ‘Do not antagonise them,’ Porfiry Petrovich had said to him, as he handed over the photograph of Raisa Ivanovna Meyer. ‘You need to win them over.’ As always it galled him to receive advice from — to be patronised by — the investigating magistrate, especially when his own suggestions as to the management of the case were so flagrantly ignored. They had let the boy from the confectioner’s go! Unbelievable! It was not even clear that Porfiry Petrovich had informed the Third Section of the pamphlets found at the boy’s lodgings.
No. Salytov’s views had not been appreciated. And instead of following a genuine lead, he was sent to chase loathsome chimeras around the Haymarket.
The first girl that approached him was too young to remember Raisa Ivanovna in her working days, even allowing for the young ages at which most of them began their careers. He declined her mocking proposition with a shake of the head.
He made for a group of older women, who seemed to have given up any real expectation of trade, certainly at this early stage of the night, while there were still younger, prettier girls about. Instead, they were absorbed by their own hilarity, passing a vodka bottle around and cackling. At his approach, they began to preen and pout. Salytov felt a flinch of tension quiver in his face as he suppressed his disgust and allowed them their advances. God only knew with what diseases they were riddled. Their vile and filthy fingers came out towards him. Even in the soft whiteness of the night, the sores and pockmarks of their faces were discernible beneath the layers of make-up. Porfiry Petrovich’s words came back to him: ‘You need to win them over.’ But at what cost?
‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Some of you are old enough to be grandmothers.’ He could not help himself. It was the only way he knew.
Their responses to his reproach were good-natured, or perhaps their renewed laughter was simply a reflex. ‘Whores are like fine wines, dearie, they get better with age,’ came from one of them. Her wink seemed not to be for Salytov, but for her companions. She clung to the necks of two of them. There was a round of appreciative laughter.
‘So you admit to being whores? But what use is there in denying the obvious. I hope your yellow tickets are all in order?’
‘If it’s our yellow tickets you want to see, you know where to look for them!’ The voluble one unhooked her arms from her friends and spun around to present Salytov with a view of her backside, which she stuck out and wiggled.
‘Enough of that. Show more respect, woman. Here now. You must all look at this picture. That’s right, pass it around. Do any of you recognise her? She worked as a whore many years ago at a brothel run by one Madam Josephine. Our records show that this brothel no longer exists, or at any rate is no longer legally licensed. It is believed that Madam Josephine is dead. God knows how it is that any of you are still alive. The name of the woman in the picture is Raisa. She may have worked under a different name, however. Cast your minds back, if you have anything left of your minds. Come now, do any of you recognise her?’
There were murmurs of distrust now, heads were shaken, and the women began to back away. Some of them tried unsuccessfully to recapture their former mood, which this intrusion of the past, a reminder of the youth they no longer possessed, had muted. In particular, Salytov’s mention of Madam Josephine seemed to have had a sobering effect. And it was almost as if the picture of Raisa acted with a repulsive force on them.
The woman who had done most of the talking was the first to go, making a beeline for a solitary man whose drunken swerve marked him out as easy pickings. She paused only to cross herself as she passed the Church of the Assumption.
Soon only one of them remained. She was left holding the photograph of Raisa, her head bowed over it.
‘I remember her,’ she said. When at last she lifted her face, Salytov saw that her eyes were moist with tears.
‘Raisa. That was her name. She came from a good family, didn’t she? Yes, she was a nice girl, a good girl, really she was. I can see the way you’re looking at me, but believe me, it’s true. It happens, you know. Girls fall on hard times. Their families forsake them. What else are they to do?’
‘Nonsense. They have many options. They could enter service. If she was from a good family, and educated, why could she not have become a governess? Are you telling me that because she was too proud to find work as a seamstress, she became a whore instead? Only the lazy and the wicked go down your path.’
‘But there are many small steps on to it. Sometimes a girl finds herself friendless, that’s somehow worse than penniless and homeless. You have to imagine the depths of despair.’
‘Depravity!’
‘No. Despair. Then, at last, she finds a friend, or so it seems. She is taken in by a kindly soul who understands everything. She is given a bed, food, warmth, and nothing is asked of her in return. At least not at first. More and more she finds herself in the debt of this kindly soul, whose name may be Madam Josephine, or Fräulein Keller, or some such. She is reassured daily not to give the mounting debt another thought. Perhaps there are practical measures, not to mention expenses, that the girl needs help with. There is a way of getting into trouble that only girls have. These kindly souls know all the remedies. Then the day comes when the poor lost girl no longer feels herself poor or lost. She feels herself strong and ready to go out into the world again. But now she is reminded of the debt. Her ingratitude is thrown back at her. “But what can I do?” she asks. “I have no way to repay you. I have no money.” “There is a way,” says the kindly soul. And so begins her education. There will be tears, no doubt. But no one will hear them. In the meantime, the debt increases. It always increases, no matter how hard the girl works. And she begins to see herself as a spoiled, worthless creature with no way out, no life of her own, and more alone than she has ever been.
‘That was Raisa’s story, but not the whole of it. It did not end for her as it did for so many others. As it will for me. She got out. She met a man. A gentleman. He came to Madam Josephine’s and saw something in her eyes that moved him. He got her to tell him her story and was moved by that too. He slept with her, of course. He was not such a saint as to forgo that privilege. He promised her money to buy off Madam Josephine. It was not such a large sum as all that, though any sum is large when you have nothing. He gave her more. His address and the promise of another life. She left to find him. And the day she left was the last time I ever saw her. Tell me, is she happy now, do you know?’
‘She’s dead. It’s thought her husband killed her.’
The Vakhramevs’ apartment was in a respectably solid building on Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street, around the corner from 22 Nevsky Prospekt. Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged a startled look as they walked past that address, though neither felt inclined to comment.
‘These nights are deceiving,’ said Porfiry, looking at his pocket watch. ‘I always think it is earlier than it is. There is no need for you to come with me, you know. It is long past the hour when you are required to attend me.’ Porfiry’s tone became solicitous: ‘You may go home, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘No,’ said Virginsky. ‘There is nothing for me there.’