Read Online The Cleansing Flames by R. N. Morris - Free Book Online Page A

not hold out against the wholesome smell.
    As they moved about the fairground, the clash of sounds around them constantly mutated. An ever-shifting power struggle was being waged. One moment, a trombone band dominated, blaring out a snatch of ‘The Petersburg Theatre Goer’. The next, it was an organ grinder singing along to ‘Katenka Goes Throughout the Village’; he turned the brass handle of his street organ to grind out the melody, as if it were a form of auditory sausage meat. The shimmer of a balalaika swayed in time with the swinging cradle in which a young man serenaded his sweetheart. The shrieks of children running in and out of their legs were chased away by the yelps of a hungry dog. A moment later, screams of unfettered delight from the slopes of the artificial ice mountains sent their gaze soaring.
    And all the time, the barkers’ cries rang out from competing booths.
    Porfiry took in the sideshows with the air of a wine connoisseur given free run of a well-equipped cellar – with an unhurried excitement, in other words, and in the full expectation that he would not be disappointed. His promiscuous eye ranged over the dizzying choices. The flash and dazzle of the fire-eater’s torches held him entranced until all the flames were swallowed out. He gasped at the speed of a juggler’s batons spinning in the air. He felt his mouth kink into an anticipatory grin at the sight of an actor in harlequin costume, who was balancing on one of the balconies of an enormous booth, as if about to leap off into the crowd below. The fellow raised himself on his tiptoes and stretched his arms out to either side like wings. The assembled spectators drew in their breath as one, as the performer flexed his body with a few lithe dance steps on the balcony rail. At the next balagan window, puppet masters with magnificent priestly beards perched on the sill, dangling their brightly coloured marionettes or turning the wooden heads of their child-sized dummies. The most imbecilic displays were strangely compelling: a dog in a tutu dancing on its hind legs; a monkey in a hussar’s costume riding a tricycle. Porfiry smiled at them both and turned to see if Virginsky shared his delight. He did not seem to notice the younger man’s sullen glare.
    Staggering like a drunk, Porfiry walked straight into a boy pushing a handcart of pastries for sale. He had finished his potatoes and was hungry for something else to consume, but the child got away from him, perhaps frightened off by his uncontrolled bulk. At the same time, his nostrils caught the scents from a nearby gingerbread and oranges stall. He was tempted by the cries of the ice seller: ‘Ice! Ice! Chocolate, vanilla, coffee and rose! Who will taste my delicious ice?!’ But in the end he settled on a gingerbread man each for himself and Virginsky. The younger man took the biscuit with a quizzical frown.
    The next stall along sold puppets and dolls. Virginsky shook his head warningly at Porfiry, who seemed unduly interested in the goods on display.
    ‘Are you quite well, Porfiry Petrovich?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘First you buy gingerbread men, now you are casting longing glances at these childish trifles. I fear you have reverted to some infantile stage of your existence.’
    Porfiry gave a heavy sigh. ‘Perhaps I am trying to recapture my lost youth. Can you blame me for that? Or it may be that I’m simply trying to get the smell of death out of my nostrils.’ He craned his head towards some cherubs carved from wax, hanging from a willow branch. ‘It amounts to the same thing, does it not?’ He held out a hand towards one of the cherubs, and set it spinning. ‘Even here I am reminded of what I seek to escape. It could be made from Dr Pervoyedov’s adipocere, could it not?’ Turning from the stall with a wistful smile, he surveyed the balagan booths, ready to make his choice at last. ‘Pulchinella!’ he announced, happily, and set off with renewed