St. Petersburg by Andrey Biely

Author:Andrey Biely
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 1987-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

15

Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov, in his gray greatcoat and tall black cylinder hat, fled in fear to the main door.

Someone shouted his name; the black shape of a carriage moved forward into the range of the street light, exposing the coat of arms: a unicorn goring a knight. Apollon Apollonovich was about to jump into his carriage and speed through the fog when the main door was once more flung open and the scurvy little man, the purveyor of truth, appeared and fled down the street to the left.

Apollon Apollonovich changed his mind; touching the edge of his cylinder hat with his glove, he ordered the driver to return home without him. The history of his life in the past fifteen years held no record of such an act: pressing his hand to his heart, he ran after the little man, waving his other hand.

The wind swept his black cylinder from his head; Apollon Apollonovich squatted on his haunches to rescue it from a puddle; he shouted at the retreating back:

“H’m… listen! …”

The retreating back paid no attention.

“Stop, please!”

The person called then turned his head. Recognizing the Senator, he ran back to meet him; amazed at the spectacle, he promptly helped him to retrieve the cylinder from the puddle.

“Your Excellency! Apollon Apollonovich! By what ill fortune? … Permit me!” With these words the scurvy little man handed the cylinder to the eminent dignitary, who first wiped it with a coat sleeve.

“Where is your carriage?”

Apollon Apollonovich interrupted him:

“The night air is good for me.”

Both started in the same direction.

Apollon Apollonovich raised his eyes at his companion. He blinked and said, not without awkwardness:

“By the way … I’d like to have your address, Pavel Pavlovich.”

“Pavel Yakovlevich!”

“Pavel Yakovlevich. I have a poor memory for names.”

Apollon Apollonovich, unbuttoning his greatcoat, drew out a notebook bound in leather; they paused under a street lamp.

“My address is subject to change. More often I’m on the Vasilyevsky Island, Eighteenth Line, Number 17. At the cobbler’s, Bez-smertny’s. Address me as the district clerk, Voronkov.”

Apollon Apollonovich arched his brows; his features expressed astonishment:

“But how …” he began, “how …”

“You mean, how come my family name is Voronkov when I call myself Morkovin? … My real address is on the Nevsky …”

Apollon Apollonovich thought: “What can we do about it? Such figures are necessary in this transitional period, within the bounds of the law—it’s a sad necessity, but a necessity for all that.”

“Your Excellency, I’m engaged at present, as you know, in the work of detection.”

“Yes, you are right…”

“A crime of official importance is being plotted. … Be careful, there’s a puddle…. A crime is …”

“So that’s it?”

“Before long we expect to uncover it…. Here’s a dry place. Allow me to take your arm.”

Apollon Apollonovich was crossing a square: his fear of space was reawakened and made him cling to the little man.

He tried to summon his courage as an icy hand grasped his own and guided him past the puddles; the way seemed endless as he followed the icy hand; expanses ran to meet him.

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