He thrust some papers in front of Porfiry. 'Sign this. And this.' After a moment, he added, 'And this.'

'Begging your pardon, Alexander Grigorevich, but what exactly am I signing?'

'You want a poster printing up, don't you? That's what I understood you to say.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Then you have to sign the necessary chit. Even you are not exempt from that, Porfiry Petrovich,' added the clerk sarcastically.

'I appreciate that, naturally,' said Porfiry, signing his name on the first of the sheets. 'And this one?'

'For a statement to be released to the newspapers. And this one is for an advertis.e.m.e.nt to be placed, calling for witnesses to come forward.'

'There you are.'

'You haven't filled them in.'

'Can't you fill them in? I'm rather busy. I have signed them, as you requested.'

'I don't know the details,' objected Zamyotov.

Porfiry's face sagged with despondency.

'I'll fill them in, if you wish,' volunteered Virginsky.

'Thank you, Pavel Pavlovich. That would indeed be a great help.'

Zamyotov stomped from the room as if he had been cheated of something.

Yarilo.

That night there were more fires. However, Virginsky did not venture out to view them.

On the way home from the department, he had called in at Gostinny Dvor and purchased the samovar he had promised himself. And so he sat up drinking strong tea into the early hours.

He found it hard to sleep, once he had turned in, and sweated more than usual in the night. Perhaps it was the constant ringing of the fire alarms, or perhaps it was the tea. He thought a lot about what Porfiry Petrovich had said to him: 'Sometimes, I mistake you for someone you are not.' What on earth had the old man meant by the remark?

And yet, Virginsky did not need to ask the question.

Sometimes, he mistook himself for someone he was not.

As soon as he admitted this, he was able to drift off. He fell immediately into an overwrought dream: he was running through St Petersburg away from a fire. Suddenly, he felt his progress impeded. Something was dragging at his feet. He looked down to see that the pavement was carpeted with a thick layer of handbills printed with various manifestos. With each step he took, the paper carpet increased in thickness, rising first past his ankles, then up to his knees, and rapidly reaching his waist. It was no longer a paper carpet, but a paper quagmire. He could hardly move at all now. Looking behind him, he saw that the swamp of manifestos stretched away into the distance. He saw too that it was on fire, and that the fire was racing towards him. He turned to flee the approaching flames, but became distracted by the words of a manifesto right beneath his nose. That was how high the layer of handbills had reached now.

The manifesto that caught his attention was ent.i.tled 'Samovars for All.' Now he was floating in a sea of lukewarm tea, and all the anxiety that the earlier phase of the dream had induced in him evaporated. He knew that he was no longer threatened by fire, but he was hot and thirsty. Whenever he wanted a drink, all he had to do was incline his head and lap from the sea of lukewarm tea.

Somehow the reality of his situation, independent of his dream, forced itself on him. It was simply that he was once again bathed in sweat. He woke.

The darkness of the room seemed to squat upon him, pinning him to the bed. There were matches and a candle on the desk, but he couldn't bring himself to grope for them. He felt that if he concentrated hard enough, the vague mood of the dream would form itself into a resolution that he could act upon. At the same time, he half-suspected that he knew already what the dream was trying to tell him. He knew too that he did not like its message, even though he had not consciously articulated it. And so the dream still held him; he was as incapable of movement now that it was over as he had been during it.

As he lay there, he felt his muscles and joints lock. There was a sense of surrendering to his immobility, of conspiring in it, even. This strange paralysis, he suddenly realised, was the product of his own will.

Life was so much simpler when you were incapable of taking part in it.

It occurred to him that in none of the manifestos he had read, and in none of the books on Socialism and Social Utilitarianism from which they were derived, had there ever been any allowance made for dreams.

The morning's newspapers were spread out on Porfiry Petrovich's desk. The magistrate's face was hidden by a copy of the St Petersburg Gazette and so he could not have seen Virginsky enter his chambers. This did not prevent him from observing, 'You look terrible, Pavel Pavlovich.'

'But you '

'That is to say, judging by your shuffling step, and the fact that you walked into the door frame as you entered, I imagine that you must look terrible.' Porfiry at last laid down the paper and looked at his junior colleague. 'I see I am not mistaken. A bad night?'

Virginsky ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe away whatever ravages were evident there. 'I didn't sleep well.'

'No? Well, that is to be expected.'

'Why do you say that?'

'The fires, of course.'

'I had nothing to do with the fires,' protested Virginsky indignantly.

'I'm not suggesting that you did. I am merely stating that it is not easy for any of us to sleep easy while such atrocities are perpetrated around us. They set fire to an apartment building last night, I see.'

'An apartment building?'

'Yes. Not far from you. Bolshaya Morskaya Street. So far the number of dead is estimated to be . . .' Porfiry consulted the newspaper. 'Six. Five of whom were children. The sixth was an adult male. There are no further details of the victims given.'

'No,' said Virginsky quietly. The word was as much a protest as a denial.

'I'm afraid so. In fact, it is a miracle that so many were able to escape unharmed. It seems someone raised the alarm before the fire had taken hold in earnest. The devastation was largely confined to one floor. The fifth. Those living below that were evacuated safely. A blessed miracle, I say.'

'But do we know for certain that this was the act of arsonists?'

'There will have to be an enquiry, of course. And you are right to ask the question. It is easy to a.s.sume, in a spate of arson attacks, that every fire is deliberately started. In any individual case, there may be another explanation.'

'Indeed. And if you extend that logic, then it is possible to say that perhaps none of the fires have been started deliberately. The frequency of their occurrence may owe more to unsatisfactory building materials and dangerous living conditions.'

'It is simply that we are living in an exceptionally combustible city, is that what you are saying?' Porfiry smiled ironically.

'We are living in a city where men habitually drink themselves into a stupor and then reach for their pipes. I should add that it is invariably by gorging on cheap vodka, brought about by the Tsar's reform of alcohol taxation, that they attain this dangerous intoxication.'

'So it is the Tsar's fault? I thought it might be.'

'It is only the conservative newspapers, so far, who are laying the blame at the door of the students and radicals. And yet the idea seems to have caught hold. Everyone accepts it as the truth. Even you, Porfiry Petrovich. But you have to ask yourself, what could the radicals hope to achieve by these tactics?'

'There are some men who are, undoubtedly, motivated by a universal love of mankind.' Porfiry leant back in his chair as he warmed to his theme. 'But they find that the mankind they love does not correspond exactly to the sordid, ungrateful, greedy men and women they see around them. Those individuals, they do not love. In fact, they hate them, for they only get in the way. While continuing to nurture a deeply felt love of mankind in general, and pursuing aims that owe their origin to this love, they find themselves acting in a manner that is consistent with their hatred for men and women as they actually are.'

Virginsky exhaled loudly through his nose.

'You don't agree?'

'I wonder from where you derive such sentiments. From the editorials of The Russian Soil?' Virginsky picked up the newspaper in question from the desk and held it out accusingly. 'Or from the lurid serials they publish?'

'You forget, Pavel Pavlovich, I have observed such men at first hand.' Porfiry fixed Virginsky with an especially provoking gaze.

'You mean me?'

'I was not thinking of you.' Porfiry's expression softened. He regarded Virginsky solicitously. 'Please, sit down. You really do look dreadful. Would you like some tea?'

'No! No tea. I already feel rather bilious from drinking too much tea last night.'

Porfiry picked up the newspaper that Virginsky had just dropped on his desk. 'The Russian Soil has at least carried a piece about our body fished out of the Winter Ca.n.a.l. They have also published our announcement calling for witnesses to come forward.'

'I trust that the information is satisfactory in both cases?'

'Yes, thank you. I am grateful for your help with the requisite paperwork. Do you know when we might expect to take delivery of the posters?'

'With luck, we should see something later today, or perhaps tomorrow morning. I emphasised the urgency of the material in my application to the Imperial State Printing Works.'

Porfiry turned the pages of the paper. His eye was caught by an article headed 'The Devil's Professor'. 'Tatiscev, Professor Tatiscev. He must have taught you at the University, did he not?'

'Yes. What of it?'

'There is a piece about him. They call him "The Devil's Professor".'

'There you are! That proves my point.'

'It seems you are a rare exception, Pavel Pavlovich,' said Porfiry as he scanned the article. 'By far the majority of his former students have gone on to be defence attorneys. And very successful ones, it seems, with extraordinarily high rates of acquittal for their clients. The Russian Soil links this to the demise of law and order, and the general decline of society.'

'Preposterous.'

'It makes the point that the state is being undermined in its own law courts.'

'Please, Porfiry Petrovich. I can well imagine what those reactionaries have to say about him. I do not need to hear you recite it.'

'In short, they lay all the evils of the present day at Professor Tatiscev's door.'

'It really does pain me to hear you parrot their venomous lies. It's almost as if you believe them.'

'I wonder what prompted them to write this article though.'

'They are his enemies. They print lies about him in almost every issue.'

'What is behind it though?' wondered Porfiry as he folded the newspaper carefully and placed it thoughtfully on his desk.

'Nothing is behind it. Or will you arrest people on the basis of libellous newspaper articles?'

'Not at all. You misunderstand me, Pavel Pavlovich. I rather wondered if they had not been put up to it. Perhaps by our old friends from the Third Section. Such tactics are not without precedent.' Porfiry consulted his pocket watch. 'My goodness, is it that time already?' He rose sharply from his seat.

'Where are you going?'

'Admiralty District. The medical examination is scheduled to take place there this morning.'

'Do you wish me to accompany you?'

'Unless you have something better to do?' Porfiry looked meaningfully at the sofa. 'Such as catch up on your sleep.'

'Would that be permitted?'

'Most certainly not, Pavel Pavlovich. Really, do you not know when I am teasing you, even after all this time?'

The gilt dome of St Isaac's Cathedral caught fire in a blaze of easy splendour. A roar of approval greeted the effect, although the stone angels on the cathedral roof seemed about to take wing in panic. The sudden flare gave them a weightless, flighty vivacity. Porfiry imagined the boundless blue around the cathedral filled with the celestial beings, swooping and flapping as they sought a safe alighting place in the G.o.dless city, like seagulls swarming a fishing boat. Of course, the appearance of combustion had been caused by a shift in the sun's position in relation to the one, wispy cloud in the sky. The angels remained attached to the roof, steadfastly static.

Below, under the gaze of the stone angels, crowds of people were streaming around the cathedral on every side, all heading in one direction: north, drawn by the noise and bustle that possessed Admiralty Square. One corner of the fair was visible from where Porfiry and Virginsky were standing, at the end of Malaya Morskaya Street where it joined St Isaac's Square. The carnival colours and teeming movement held their gaze.

There was an undeniably savage edge to the rumble of the crowd, a ferocious hunger for something other than the simple pleasures of the fairground. No doubt many of them were already drunk. The mood seemed fractious, rather than celebratory, bordering on nasty. The grating whine of the barrel organs, incessantly churning out fragments of melody, repeated and overlapping, unmusical, meaningless and quite unpleasant, did nothing to lighten it.

'Yarilo,' murmured Porfiry.

'I beg your pardon?'

'They greet the ancient deity of spring. Yarilo. Sometimes I wonder if we are a Christian nation at all.'

Virginsky offered no reply.

'Those who wish to remove the deity from men's affairs would do well to stand here and watch the crowds a.s.semble at the coming of spring. It is an old, elemental instinct, and it cannot be denied.' Porfiry turned to Virginsky and met his gaze without speaking for several moments. 'Only delayed.'

'You talk as though you wish to join them.'

'Oh but I do, Pavel Pavlovich. I would far rather go with them to the fair than go where we must go.'

With a dip of his head, Porfiry indicated a pair of high double doors standing open. Wide enough to admit a carriage, this was the entrance to the building used by the Admiralty District Police Bureau as stables and storeroom. All the various carriages and wagons belonging to the bureau were housed here, together with the horses required to pull them.

From time to time, an area of the storeroom was put aside for an altogether different purpose.

A distinguished-looking elderly gentleman, wearing the red and black ribbon of the order of St Vladimir, was seated on a stool that had been placed for him on the wooden pavement, to one side of the entrance. He was propping himself up with both hands on his knees, his face an unhealthy shade of grey, eyes standing out from his face in startled horror. He directed this alarming expression towards the sound of the paving boards creaking, as Porfiry and Virginsky approached.

A sickly sweet waft of something spirituous hung about him.