Master of Petersburg Read Online Free PDF Page A

not of derision but on the contrary of friendliness and forgiveness. He knows! he thinks: He knows and does not mind! A wave of gratitude and joy and love passes over him. Now there is sure to be a fit! he thinks too, but does not care. No longer holding back the tears, he feels his way back to the table, buries his head in his arms, and lets loose howl after howl of grief.
    No one strokes his hair, no one murmurs a consoling word in his ear. But when at last, fumbling for his handkerchief, he raises his head, the girl Matryona is standing before him observing him intently. She wears a white nightdress; her hair, brushed out, lies over her shoulders. He cannot fail to notice the budding breasts. He tries to give her a smile, but her expression does not change. She knows too , he thinks. She knows what is false, what is true; or else by staring deep enough means to know.
    He collects himself. Through the last of the tears his gaze locks on to hers. In that instant something passes between them from which he flinches as though pierced by a red-hot wire. Then her mother’s arm enfolds her; a whispered word passes; she withdraws to her bed.

5
    Maximov
    â€˜Good morning. I have come to claim’ (he is surprised at how steady his voice is) ‘some belongings of my son’s. My son was involved in an accident last month, and the police took charge of certain items.’
    He unfolds the receipt and passes it across the counter. Depending on whether Pavel gave up the ghost before or after midnight, it is dated the day after or the day of Pavel’s death; it names simply ‘letters and other papers.’
    The sergeant inspects the receipt dubiously. ‘October 12th. That’s less than a month ago. The case won’t be settled yet.’
    â€˜How long will it take to settle?’
    â€˜Could be two months, could be three months, could be a year. It depends on the circumstances.’
    â€˜There are no circumstances. There is no crime involved.’
    Holding the paper at arm’s length, the sergeant leaves the room. When he returns, his air is markedly more surly. ‘You are, sir, –?’
    â€˜Isaev. The father.’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Isaev. If you will take a seat, you will be attended to in a short while.’
    His heart sinks. He had hoped simply to be handed Pavel’s belongings and walk out of this place. What he can least afford is that the police should turn their attention on him.
    â€˜I can wait only a short while,’ he says briskly.
    â€˜Yes, sir, I’m sure the investigator in charge will see you soon. Just take a seat and make yourself comfortable.’
    He consults his watch, sits down on the bench, looks around with pretended impatience. It is early; there is only one other person in the ante-room, a young man in stained housepainter’s overalls. Sitting bolt upright, he seems to be asleep. His eyes are closed, his jaw hangs, a soft rattle comes from the back of his throat.
    Isaev . Inside him the confusion has not settled. Should he not drop the Isaev story at once, before getting mired in it? But how can he explain? ‘Sergeant, there has been a slight mistake. Things are not entirely as they appear to be. In a sense I am not Isaev. The Isaev whose name I have for reasons of my own been using, reasons I won’t go into here and now, but perfectly good reasons, has been dead for some years. Nevertheless, I brought up Pavel Isaev as my son and love him as my own flesh and blood. In that sense we bear the same name, or ought to. Those few papers he left behind are precious to me. That is why I am here.’ What if he made this admission unprompted, and all the while they had suspected nothing? What if they had been on the point of giving him the papers, and now pulled up short? ‘Aha, what is this? Is there more to the case than meets the eye?’
    As he sits vacillating between confessing and pressing on with the imposture, as he takes out