Although I have encountered similar wounds in the execution of my duties over the years.’
At a further signal from Dr Pervoyedov, the diener turned the body onto its back again.
‘He was a Jew?’ said Porfiry.
‘Apparently so, although I have read studies by physicians who call for the removal of the foreskin on hygienic grounds.’
Porfiry watched as Dr Pervoyedov began the Y-shaped incision that would allow him to open the body up, across from shoulder to shoulder, and down from sternum to groin. No blood raced to his scalpel blade, of course. Instead, Porfiry felt the thump of his own quick pulse. He was intensely aware of the churning turmoil of his heart. It was almost as if he were willing himself to bleed on the dead man’s behalf. He experienced a core of weightlessness in his being, a kind of empty intoxication where his soul should have been. It was an unbearable sensation, in which the instability and fragility of his organism overrode any other consideration. The sense of dread he felt was undeniably personal. It was a moment in which he was horrifically aware of his mortality. And yet he forced himself to continue watching, as Dr Pervoyedov teased his scalpel blade beneath the epidermis.
The skin came away in tatters, large looping holes where the formation of adipocere disrupted it.
‘All flesh is as grass,’ said Dr Pervoyedov, as the sheet of skin fell apart in his hands. ‘Except when it is soap.’ The doctor handed the remnants to his diener and turned back to the body.
‘Look at this, Porfiry Petrovich.’
More than anything in the world, Porfiry did not want to accept that invitation.
He took a step closer. Dr Pervoyedov was probing the white mounds that had formed on the chest with a long metal implement. ‘Here the adipocere goes deep. The heart has all but gone, it seems. I will be able to tell more when I cut the ribs away.’
‘His heart has gone?’
‘Yes. Turned to soap.’
Porfiry felt unspeakably sorry for the man on the table.
*
The air had never tasted fresher. Porfiry drew in great, bursting draughts as if he had just been rescued from drowning. He cocked his head to one side and listened to the riotous sounds of the nearby fair. And then lit a cigarette.
‘We must not resist it, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘But should we not get back to the department?’
‘Yes, of course. But first we must greet Yarilo.’
‘I would rather not.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘What do you mean? Of what could I possibly be afraid?’
‘It takes courage to acknowledge every aspect of one’s personality.’
‘One may acknowledge the aspects to which you are referring without being enslaved to them.’
‘Yarilo, god of regeneration. Of resurrection. Of life, reborn out of death. Striking how these ideas recur, is it not? As if there is some deep, eternal truth behind them.’
‘Or rather, it is because they answer some deep, eternal need in man. Man creates his gods to meet his needs.’
‘Perhaps. But I have always loved the balagany .’
‘I find them rather tiresome. If it is all the same to you, I shall see you back at your chambers.’ Virginsky gave a curt nod.
Porfiry answered with a flurry of angry blinks. His smile hardened. ‘As your superior, I command you. You will come to the fair with me.’ Porfiry’s hand tightened around Virginsky’s wrist. ‘Furthermore, you will enjoy yourself.’
*
Porfiry treated Virginsky to hot boiled potatoes from an old woman selling them out of her apron. He led the way through the crowd, holding his napkin of potatoes reverently out in front of him, as if it were a holy relic in procession.
He was happy to go where the crowd let him, carried along by the press of jostling shoulders. Every now and then, the throng eased around him and he would take the opportunity to guzzle a mouthful of potato. Following listlessly in Porfiry’s wake, Virginsky left his fare untouched for as long as possible. But eventually even he could
At a further signal from Dr Pervoyedov, the diener turned the body onto its back again.
‘He was a Jew?’ said Porfiry.
‘Apparently so, although I have read studies by physicians who call for the removal of the foreskin on hygienic grounds.’
Porfiry watched as Dr Pervoyedov began the Y-shaped incision that would allow him to open the body up, across from shoulder to shoulder, and down from sternum to groin. No blood raced to his scalpel blade, of course. Instead, Porfiry felt the thump of his own quick pulse. He was intensely aware of the churning turmoil of his heart. It was almost as if he were willing himself to bleed on the dead man’s behalf. He experienced a core of weightlessness in his being, a kind of empty intoxication where his soul should have been. It was an unbearable sensation, in which the instability and fragility of his organism overrode any other consideration. The sense of dread he felt was undeniably personal. It was a moment in which he was horrifically aware of his mortality. And yet he forced himself to continue watching, as Dr Pervoyedov teased his scalpel blade beneath the epidermis.
The skin came away in tatters, large looping holes where the formation of adipocere disrupted it.
‘All flesh is as grass,’ said Dr Pervoyedov, as the sheet of skin fell apart in his hands. ‘Except when it is soap.’ The doctor handed the remnants to his diener and turned back to the body.
‘Look at this, Porfiry Petrovich.’
More than anything in the world, Porfiry did not want to accept that invitation.
He took a step closer. Dr Pervoyedov was probing the white mounds that had formed on the chest with a long metal implement. ‘Here the adipocere goes deep. The heart has all but gone, it seems. I will be able to tell more when I cut the ribs away.’
‘His heart has gone?’
‘Yes. Turned to soap.’
Porfiry felt unspeakably sorry for the man on the table.
*
The air had never tasted fresher. Porfiry drew in great, bursting draughts as if he had just been rescued from drowning. He cocked his head to one side and listened to the riotous sounds of the nearby fair. And then lit a cigarette.
‘We must not resist it, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘But should we not get back to the department?’
‘Yes, of course. But first we must greet Yarilo.’
‘I would rather not.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘What do you mean? Of what could I possibly be afraid?’
‘It takes courage to acknowledge every aspect of one’s personality.’
‘One may acknowledge the aspects to which you are referring without being enslaved to them.’
‘Yarilo, god of regeneration. Of resurrection. Of life, reborn out of death. Striking how these ideas recur, is it not? As if there is some deep, eternal truth behind them.’
‘Or rather, it is because they answer some deep, eternal need in man. Man creates his gods to meet his needs.’
‘Perhaps. But I have always loved the balagany .’
‘I find them rather tiresome. If it is all the same to you, I shall see you back at your chambers.’ Virginsky gave a curt nod.
Porfiry answered with a flurry of angry blinks. His smile hardened. ‘As your superior, I command you. You will come to the fair with me.’ Porfiry’s hand tightened around Virginsky’s wrist. ‘Furthermore, you will enjoy yourself.’
*
Porfiry treated Virginsky to hot boiled potatoes from an old woman selling them out of her apron. He led the way through the crowd, holding his napkin of potatoes reverently out in front of him, as if it were a holy relic in procession.
He was happy to go where the crowd let him, carried along by the press of jostling shoulders. Every now and then, the throng eased around him and he would take the opportunity to guzzle a mouthful of potato. Following listlessly in Porfiry’s wake, Virginsky left his fare untouched for as long as possible. But eventually even he could
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