Cleansing Flames by R. N. Morris

Author:R. N. Morris [Morris, R. N.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571259151
Google: Rnw-YgEACAAJ
Amazon: B004U4RX02
Barnesnoble: B004U4RX02
Goodreads: 9671841
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2010-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

21

The house of the retired Arab

The further they got from Bolshaya Street, the muddier the streets became, and the more disreputable the dwellings. Most of these were tumbledown wooden hovels.

The Petersburg Quarter had once been the heart of the city, its streets lined with the homes of the wealthy and well-to-do. Peter the Great had built his first palace here, albeit a modest one, as an example to his nobles. But the rich had followed the power south, across the river, closer to the heart, rather than the edge, of Russia. They had left the bleak northern quarter, the unpropitious territory reclaimed from Finnish swamps, to be colonised by the poor.

The streets were mostly unpaved, many not even boarded. Compared to the broad, brightly lit avenues of more southern districts, these were mean, dark, dangerous alleys. In places, the area could feel like nothing more than a maze of filthy dead ends.

Tolya directed the drozhki driver down a boarded thoroughfare, which, in the absence of an official name, had been dubbed Raznochinnyi Street – the street of the classless ones. The wheels clanked over the loose planks. They bounced in its wake like the bars of one of Gusikov’s xylophones. At the far end of the street was Dunkin Lane, more a swamp of conjoined puddles, down which the driver quite sensibly declined to venture.

At Tolya’s lead, they walked a short distance down Dunkin Lane, pulling their feet high with each step to free them from the clinging mud. Tolya stopped in front of a house that had once, fifty or so years ago, been a pleasant enough timber cabin. He studied the yellow nameplate on the gate. ‘Yes, this is the place. The residence of the retired Arab.’

Salytov glowered at the nameplate. ‘What does that mean? The residence of the retired Arab?’

‘The gentleman who owns the house, Ivan Ivanovich – he is a retired Arab. That’s how I can be sure we have come to the right place.’

‘What in God’s name is a retired Arab?’

‘I don’t know. It was once explained to me but . . .’ Tolya trailed off despondently.

‘Right. We will get to the bottom of this.’ Salytov hammered on the gate with his cane. There was no bell.

Tolya took a couple of tentative steps backwards, away from the house, keeping his eyes on Salytov all the time.

‘Where do you think you’re going, lad?’

‘I’ve brought you here. You don’t need me anymore.’

‘Oh no you don’t. Only when I have Rakitin in my hands will I think of letting you go.’

‘But he may not be here.’

‘You had better hope that he is.’

An old gentleman, as pale as a candle from head to toe, dressed as he was in a white dressing gown and white tarboosh, came out from the house to open the gate for them. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Are you the owner of the house?’ demanded Salytov sceptically.

‘I am.’

‘The retired Arab?’

‘That is correct.’

‘You do not look like an Arab. Your skin is whiter than mine.’

‘I am not an Arab by race.

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