Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk (19 page)

Matvei Bentsionovich had a shameful weakness (in fact in his profession it was positively detrimental): he was terribly afraid of dead bodies, especially if one turned up that was half-decayed or mutilated. Colonel Lagrange's corpse, to give it its due, still looked more or less decent. The white, motionless features of the face had even acquired a certain expression of significance, not to say grandeur—qualities that had been quite uncharacteristic of the police chief's physiognomy when he was alive. Berdichevsky's sensitive heart was tormented far more by the cadaver of an old monk lying on the next zinc table. In the first place, the old man was completely naked, and in a man of the church this natural human condition seemed improper. But even worse was the fact that the monk had expired in the course of a surgical operation on his abdomen, during which they had managed to cut him open and even extract some of his viscera, but they had not bothered to sew them back in again. The deputy public prosecutor had deliberately sat with his back to the nightmarish corpse, but even so he was feeling rather sick. It was best not to think about the kind of dreams he would have that night.

Matvei Bentsionovich scratched away with his pen, frequently wiping the sweat off his bald patch, although it was very far from hot in the mortuary—there was a cold draft from the half-open door of the ice room, out of which the police chief's body had been wheeled on a trolley. Eventually the most unpleasant part of the job was over. The assistant public prosecutor ordered the trolley to be wheeled back into the cold room and sighed in relief as he went through into the next room, where the suicide's belongings were in store.

“Where's he going?” asked the servant of the faith who followed him into the room, wiping his hands on his greasy cassock. “Will you take him back to the World or is he going to be buried here?”

Berdichevsky did not immediately appreciate the meaning of the question. But when he realized that “the World” was what they called the mainland here, he was struck by the picturesque quality of the monks’ terminology. It was as if they lived not on islands in a lake, but in Heaven.

“We'll take him away. When I go back, I'll collect him. Where are his things? Where are his clothes?”

The investigator did not discover anything worthy of note in the traveling bag. The only things that caught his attention were an impressive store of fixative for curling mustaches and a little Parisian album of indecent photographs—Felix Stanislavovich must have brought it to look through on his journey. At a different time and in a different place, where there were no witnesses, Matvei Bentsionovich would have leafed through the frivolous little volume himself, but just now he was not in the mood.

The investigator paid special attention to the weapon used for the suicide—a forty-five-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. Berdichevsky sniffed it and scraped the inside of the barrel for sooty deposit (there was some) and checked the drum (five bullets in place, one missing). Then he set it aside and started on the clothes, which were folded in a neat pile, with each item numbered. On item number three (a jacket) just below the left breast pocket there was a hole with singed edges, such as a shot at point-blank range would leave. Matvei Bentsionovich compared the hole with the holes in items number five (a waistcoat), number six (a jersey), number eight (a shirt), and number nine (an undershirt). Everything matched up perfectly. There were traces of blood visible on the shirt and undershirt and also some on the jersey.

In short, the general picture was perfectly clear. The suicide had held the gun in his left hand, with his wrist twisted a long way up. That was why the bullet had followed a course to the right and upward. This was rather strange—it would have been far easier to grasp the handle of the long-barreled revolver in both hands and fire the bullet directly into the heart. But then, the act itself was strange, to put it mildly: no one in his right mind would shoot a hole in himself anyway. He had probably just stuck the gun against his chest any old way and fired.

“And what is this?” Berdichevsky asked, lifting up between his finger and thumb a white lady's glove bearing the label NO. 13.

“A glove,” the servant of the faith replied indifferently.

The assistant public prosecutor sighed and formulated his question more precisely. “What is it doing here? And why is there blood on it?”

“It was lying on his chest, under his shirt,” the monk said with a shrug. “Worldly nonsense.”

On closer inspection the fine silk also proved to have a hole in it.

Hmm. Matvei Bentsionovich decided to refrain from drawing any conclusions concerning the glove for the time being, but he set the intriguing item to one side, together with the letters and the revolver. He put the items he required for the investigation into Lagrange's traveling bag (after all, he had to carry them in something) and left an appropriate receipt with the list.

In the next room the monk was singing something to himself in a quiet voice as he sewed up the old man's belly. Berdichevsky listened carefully and made out some of the words: “Weeping and sobbing, always do I think of death, and see our beauty, created in the image of God, lying in the grave, defaced, hideous, and inglorious …”

The Breguet watch in his pocket jingled: once quite loudly and twice quietly. The excellent little device, a genuine miracle of the Swiss mechanical genius, had been a gift from Father Mitrofanii for Berdichevsky's tenth wedding anniversary. The jingling signified that it was now half past one in the afternoon. It was time to visit the father superior of New Ararat.

THE CONVERSATION WITH Father Vitalii proved to be short and unpleasant.

The archimandrite was already in a state of great annoyance when he greeted the provincial official. In fact, Matvei Bentsionovich had deliberately contrived to upset the ruler of New Ararat by writing his letter in a peremptory tone and indicating the precise time of the meeting—on the one hand, to remind Vitalii that a power higher than that of the father superior was involved here, and on the other, to provoke him into speaking abruptly and without restraint: he would probably reach the truth of this business more quickly that way than by being obsequious and equivocal.

Well, Berdichevsky had certainly succeeded in provoking an abrupt response—too abrupt, in fact.

The reverend father was striding impatiently to and fro in front of the porch of his residence, wearing an extremely old cassock, which for some reason was tucked up almost as high as his waist to reveal a dirty pair of tall boots, and waving a round turnip watch in his hand.

“Ah, Mr. Public Prosecutor,” he exclaimed on catching sight of Berdichevsky. “Three minutes after two. Why do you keep me waiting? Isn't that too insolent altogether?”

Matvei Bentsionovich did not reply to the cleric or even greet him. He merely jabbed his finger in the direction of the clock adorning a rather grand bell tower that appeared to have been built only recently. The minute hand of the clock had only just begun to creep toward the figure twelve. And just at that moment, as if by deliberate design, the chimes rang out—all in all, the effect was quite striking.

“I have no time for making conversation—I've got too many things to deal with!” Vitalii growled even more angrily. “We can talk as we walk. Over that way.” He pointed toward a log-walled shed that was visible some distance away, outside the monastery wall. “We're taking down the old pig shed and we're going to put up a new one.”

So that was the reason for the tucked-up cassock and the waders. The audience took place in a farmyard that was ankle-deep in mud and excrement—Matvei Bentsionovich's shoes and trousers were filthy in an instant.

Monks tore the shingles off the roof of the shed with gaffs, with the father superior supervising them, so that Berdichevsky had to expound the essence of his business to the sound of cracking, rumbling, and shouting, and Vitalii did not even appear to be listening properly.

That alone would have been enough for the assistant public prosecutor to take a dislike to the archimandrite, but another circumstance soon increased this initial antipathy to an extreme degree. Father Vitalii rested a keen glance of a kind only too familiar to Matvei Bentsionovich on the hooked nose of this emissary from Zavolzhsk, on his gristly ears and the distinctly non-Slavic blackness of his thinning hair, and then the father superior's face assumed a distinct expression of disgust.

After listening to an explanation of the investigation into the suicide and the concern felt by the provincial authorities over the marvelous events at New Ararat, the archimandrite said darkly, “I'm a straightforward man. Write as many complaints as you like afterward—I'm well used to that. But don't you dare to stick your long nose into the affairs of the church. Take the suicide. Tinker with that loathsome abomination as long as you like. But the other matter is none of your business.”

“And what do you mean by that?” asked the assistant public prosecutor, almost choking on his indignation. “And by what right, Your Reverence, do you instruct me as to what—”

“By this right,” Father Vitalii interrupted him. “Here on the islands, I am in charge of everything, and I am also answerable for everything. Especially in matters that concern the spiritual sphere. For such matters, your national origins are inappropriate. I regard it as an affront from my superior to have sent such an investigator to Ararat. What is needed here is a sensitive, Russian heart, one that is full of faith, and not …” The father superior stopped without finishing what he was saying and spat. And that was the crudest insult of all.

Berdichevsky saw that things were heading toward a scandalous confrontation and he refrained from answering insult with insult. “In the first place, Holy Father, allow me to remind you that according to the Apostle Paul there is neither Jew nor Hellene, but we are all one in Christ,” he said in a quiet voice. “And in the second place, I am an Orthodox Christian, exactly like you.” The words came out with such calm dignity (although, of course, everything inside him was quaking and shuddering) that Matvei Bentsionovich even admired himself.

But what good is dignity against a rabid anti-Semite?

“Only a Russian can understand and accept our Russian faith in its entirety,” Father Vitalii hissed, twisting his lips. “And the Orthodox faith is especially unsuited to the heart and mind of Jewish arrogance and egotism. Get back, keep your claws off our sacred Russian beliefs! And as for your being christened, the people have a saying for that: a Jew christened is like a thief forgiven.”

And so saying, the archimandrite turned his back on the assistant public prosecutor and strode off, champing through the mud into the pig shed that was being demolished—a tall, black figure as straight as a ramrod. Berdichevsky walked out of the monastery, fuming in fury.

Because the conversation had been so brief, occupying less than ten minutes, there was a lot of time left before his next meeting, with Dr. Korovin. In order not to let this time go to waste, and at the same time to calm himself by taking a little exercise, the assistant public prosecutor decided to walk around the town and familiarize himself with its distinctive topographical, institutional, and other features.

It was quite remarkable: those very same streets that at first acquaintance had produced on Matvei Bentsionovich an uplifting impression of carefully tended order and cleanliness now seemed hostile and even malevolent. The new arrival's attention was caught more and more often by the grimly pursed lips of the female pilgrims, the excessive profusion of churches and chapels of every possible kind, and the ethnic uniformity of the faces that he met; not a single face with swarthy skin, a hook nose, black eyes, or even slanting eyes—nothing but Great Russian brown hair, gray eyes, and snub noses.

Never in his life had Berdichevsky ever felt such a keen sense of hopeless isolation as here in this Orthodox paradise. But was it really paradise? A dozen strapping monks with truncheons on their belts went marching past him—a fine Eden this was. Just try living under the rule of an obscurantist and rabid Slavophile like this Father Vitalii. In the bookshops there was nothing but spiritual reading; the only newspapers available were the
Church Herald
, the
Torch of Orthodoxy
, and Prince Meshchersky's
Citizen.
No theater, no brass band in the park, and no dance hall—God forbid. But countless eating places. Eating and praying—that's all there is to this heaven of yours, Matvei Bentsionovich thought maliciously.

However, once his sense of hurt and anger at the archimandrite had abated somewhat, following his customary intellectual principle of
audi alteram partem
, Berdichevsky began thinking that Vitalii was not really all that far wrong about him. Yes, Matvei did suffer from intellectual pride. Yes, he was a skeptic, entirely unfitted for a simple-hearted faith. And if he was absolutely and totally frank with himself, then his religious feelings were founded not entirely on a love of Christ, whom Matvei Bentsionovich had never actually seen, but on a love of His Grace Mitrofanii. That is, if he imagined that Mordka Berdichevsky's spiritual father had not been an Orthodox bishop, but some wise sheikh or Buddhist bonze, then the collegiate counselor would have been walking around in a turban or a conical straw hat. Only in that case, my dear sir, you would never have made any sort of career for yourself in the Russian Empire, thought Matvei Bentsionovich, castigating himself even more bitterly and sinking into a state of self-abasement.