The Cleansing Flames

The arsonists had chosen their target well. The warehouse was wooden and it contained barrels of vodka, produced at the nearby distillery on the small island in the Malaya Neva.

Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky stood on Alexandrovsky Prospect, looking up at the burning building. Brilliant orange tongues licked out from the windows, questing the black night. Virginsky could sense the fire gorging itself on this plentiful fuel. More than that, he could hear its savage, drunken roar, as it grew in force and intensity. A series of booming explosions, like gigantic belches, resonated within. So far the structure was holding out, but its collapse was surely imminent. The smoke was thick with the stench of burning resin from the timbers as they started to catch. Weightless seeds of fire swirled in the hot eddies above and around the building, an aura of destruction. It was in the fire’s nature to spread itself, consuming and converting everything in its path. These sparks were the emissaries of that intent. The surrounding apartment buildings, exposed in a tremulous glow, seemed to shiver as they awaited its approach.

The choice of location had a symbolic resonance, as the avenue had only recently been named in honour of the Tsar.

They had chosen their day carefully too. Easter Sunday night. Even Virginsky had been shocked by this. He considered himself an exemplary freethinker and indeed was not afraid to call himself an atheist, at least not in the privacy of his own conscience. But even he, that day, had paid a seasonal visit on his departmental head, Prokuror Liputin, to declare Christ risen and exchange kisses with his colleagues.

Virginsky thought now of the extended embrace in which Porfiry Petrovich had held him, as if peculiarly unwilling to let him go. After the kiss, the older man had looked searchingly into his eyes. His look held a challenge, and seemed to sense Virginsky’s unease. Certainly, Virginsky had attended largely as a matter of form, for reasons of professional prudence. It would not do for a magistrate to absent himself from the Departmental Head’s home on Easter Sunday. It would certainly be noted, and a black mark placed against his name. The question asked by Porfiry’s glance seemed to be:
Can you really not believe?
Perhaps for that day, he did. He at least saw the wisdom of pretending to. The unease that Porfiry’s gaze identified was the spiritual imbalance caused by hypocrisy.

Perhaps that was why he had rushed out to see the fires. He was in awe of those who had started them. By adding blasphemy to the crime of arson, they proved that they were not afraid of the old superstitions; by bearing witness, Virginsky could perhaps expiate some of his earlier pusillanimity.

One thing was for sure, Virginsky was not there in his capacity as a magistrate. He was not wearing his civil-service uniform and was dressed instead in an old overcoat from his student days that he hoped would not draw undue attention. Had he been observed by anyone from the department, or by a spy working for other departments, he would have been able to argue that it was within his remit to familiarise himself with the nature of the criminal damage being perpetrated. Should any fatalities result, he and his superior – Porfiry Petrovich – may well have been called upon to lead an investigation. He was simply acquainting himself with the scene of a crime on his own initiative.

Except, as Virginsky knew, there was a little more to it than that.

The fire drew him elementally.

The splendour of it gripped his heart. This was an idea, a terrible, wonderful, ineluctable idea, made manifest. A radical fervour lived in the restless twists of the flames, in their eager stabs and sallies. It was an idea that towered over him, that threatened to destroy him, even though it was – at that moment – an idea he believed in, an idea he hungered for.

He welcomed its heat on his face, almost as if he was welcoming the prospect of his own annihilation. If he must become nothing for the sake of the all-conquering fire, then so be it.

Virginsky was not alone. A crowd of mostly students – the fire was not far from the university district – together with some lowly looking clerks, and even a number of junior army officers, was gathered there. Like the fire, the mood was constantly fluctuating. At times, a wild elation spread through them. Their shouts rode on the crack and hiss of the flames. Then, suddenly, it was as if they were cowed by what they were witnessing. They knew that something had been unleashed. Perhaps among them were the individuals who had unleashed it. Just as suddenly, the memory of the grievances they held, on their own and others’ behalf, shook them out of this muted depression. They spat and fumed. Anti-tsarist slogans jostled with calls for universal destruction.

Virginsky felt his heart enlarged by the transgressive spirit of those around him, though he was careful not to join in the shouting.

But more than anything, the dramatic tension of the building’s fate held them. This was more than spectacle, it was theatre. They could hear the clanging bells of the approaching fire carts, close now, very close. But still, would the engines arrive in time to save the warehouse? Surely not. At any moment the fire would take hold of the building’s shell in earnest. Conflagration and collapse were only moments away.

The first of the fire carts thundered into the avenue, pulled by a team of two horses. It seemed to be heading straight for the crowd, which scattered at its approach. The men of the St Petersburg City Fire Company were standing on running boards either side of the steam pump engine. They rode the jounces of speed skilfully, ducking and rising on their knees, their Achilles helmets bobbing like puppets’ oversized heads. But as the cart banked to pull up, the firemen swayed precariously. One man fell from the cart. He toppled like a surprised acrobat. His helmet somehow came off in the fall. The speed of it all made it difficult to be certain but he must have hit the ground with his head, because Virginsky saw immediately that he was not going to get up.

The cheers of some of the students shocked him. But when the second fire cart came on the scene, and the fallen fireman was trampled under the horses’ hooves, they were silenced. They turned away from his mangled body as if from a distasteful outburst.

And then, at almost the same moment, there was another sequence of explosions from the warehouse and the roof was suddenly no longer there. Huge orange waves burst out, a sea of fire lashing the night sky. The fallen fireman was forgotten.

The crews were too late. In almost the same instant, the walls of the warehouse fell in with a low, grumbling crash. The building was no more. There was only fire.

The horses, though blinkered, were naturally uneasy; they whinnied as they strained their heads away from the heat, shifting their hooves in agitation. The men, though, were too intent on the task in hand to pay any heed to the animals. As they jumped down from the carts, they seemed pathetically tiny in comparison to the vaunting flames. They set to with a grim energy, trailing draw-hoses into the river. (Fortunately, the warehouse was situated within pumping distance of the Malaya Neva, at the point where the Alexandrovsky Prospect joined the recently constructed embankment at the southern tip of the Petersburg Quarter.)

The steam engines began pumping, pistons heaving and sliding with mesmerising monotony. Two white jets shot high into the air, breaking up and vaporising before they reached their target, puny and ineffectual for all the red gleam and glissando power of the fire engine. The crackle of the fire was like laughter on a vast, inhuman scale.

All they could hope to do now was contain it.

More fire carts arrived on the scene, smaller ones, some drawn by just one horse, others pulled by men. These pumps were manually operated, and the jets they produced were weaker than the steam-driven ones.

It seemed to Virginsky that all this was a waste of energy and, in light of the fallen fireman, of life. The fire would prevail. There was nothing men could do. They must give it its head, let it have its way. They could empty the Neva onto it and it would do no good. The fire would stop only when it was ready to. And even if they succeeded in putting this fire out, another one would be lit somewhere else.

The arrival of the firemen embarrassed him. They reminded him that he was a government official. What was he doing standing and watching while they risked everything to fight the fire? The fact that one of them had died made matters even worse. Besides, the police had turned up now. The crowd was thinning. It was time to make his exit.

He fell into step beside a tall, rather shabbily dressed man with a high narrow face that was somehow reminiscent of a bespectacled axe head. The man wore a workman’s cap pushed back to his crown and an old service greatcoat with the insignia stripped off. The two regarded one another warily. It seemed to Virginsky that the other man was keener to get into conversation than he himself was. Virginsky’s overriding instinct was to keep his own counsel.

‘It is unfortunate about the fireman,’ said the man.

Virginsky nodded minimally.

‘Still and all,’ continued the other, his voice brimming with daring, ‘there must be sacrifices.’

This rankled with Virginsky. ‘It’s easy to call for others to sacrifice themselves. And cowardly.’

‘I quite agree. I was not calling for sacrifices. Merely observing their inevitability. If only the Tsar would abdicate voluntarily, in order to hand power over to a socialist central committee.’ His mouth hiked up on one side sarcastically. ‘If such deaths occur,’ he continued, his voice serious again, almost icily so, ‘it is not the fault of those who wish to overthrow the unjust regime. You would do better to lay the blame at the feet of the regime itself. It has made such acts necessary by clinging on to power.’

Virginsky said nothing. He puckered his lips disapprovingly.

‘You were there, watching the red rooster rampage, I saw you,’ commented the other man.

Virginsky shot him a questioning glance.

‘Yes, I saw you. Indeed, I was watching you. Your face. You want . . . this.’ His eyes slid shyly back towards the fire. ‘As much as any of the others, though perhaps you were not as . . . vociferous. Still and all . . .’

‘One may approve the aims of those who wish to change society so that it functions along more just lines, without approving their methods. I cannot condone the loss of life.’

‘But was he killed by those who started the fire or was he killed by the St Petersburg City Fire Company who failed to ensure his safety as he travelled on the cart? Or indeed by the Governor of St Petersburg, who has failed to introduce statutory regulation to improve the safety record of fire engines? He is not the first fireman to take a tumble from a galloping fire cart. He was a worker – my comrade, my brother. I do not exult at his death. Unlike some of those . . . heartless . . . bastards. Still and all, I am not sure I must hold the fire-starters responsible. You will admit that they were scrupulous in attacking property – government property at that. The risk to life was minimal.’

‘This was not the only fire set tonight. His may not be the only death. And I doubt the people will thank them for burning the vodka.’

The same one-sided sarcastic smile returned to the man’s face. ‘As I said before, there must be sacrifices.’

Virginsky felt the man’s hand on his arm, pulling him to a halt; he glared resentfully at the presumption.

‘My friend, there is something I would like you to read.’ The man’s smile now was entirely lacking in sarcasm. It was strangely sweet and ingratiating, almost vulnerable. But he continued to hold on to Virginsky’s arm tightly, as though he would not release him until he had responded to the challenge in his last statement.

‘Kindly let go of my arm.’

‘Will you read it?’

‘I cannot say. I don’t know what it is.’

‘Do you realise what a risk I have exposed myself to in asking this of you?’ There was a strange glint in the man’s eye.

‘You have put me at risk too.’

‘No. The risk is greater to me. You may be an agent provocateur.’

‘And so might you.’

The man began to laugh. His laughter was like an axe hacking into soft wood. ‘We may both be. And we may unwittingly entrap one another.’

‘I do not find the prospect amusing.’

‘Permit me to assure you, I am not an agent provocateur.’

‘It matters nothing to me. And besides, you would say that, even if you were,’ observed Virginsky.

The other man smiled. ‘I am a sincere and well-intentioned citizen. I consider myself to be a patriot.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you?’

Virginsky shrugged. ‘This is ridiculous. I have nothing to say to you.’

‘If I release your arm, what will you do?’

‘Go about my business.’

‘That would be a shame. For you. And perhaps for us.’

‘Who is this
us
?’

‘A small group of people who think as you do.’

‘You do not know how I think.’

‘I saw your face!’ The stranger’s insistent cry sounded like a denouncement.

Virginsky cast a nervous glance over his shoulder; at the same time, he tried to pull away, though without conviction. The man tightened his grip. Virginsky clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Why do you hold on to me?’

‘I told you, I have something I want you to read.’ The man’s voice was hushed again. ‘If you will agree to read it, I’ll let you go.’

‘Why are you so concerned with having me read this manifesto of yours?’

‘I didn’t say it was a manifesto.’

‘What else would it be?’

‘It might be a poem.’

‘You mean a manifesto in the form of a poem. I’ve seen enough of those.’

‘So, it is not without precedent. That you would read a poem.’

‘Then it is a poem? I’m afraid I do not have an ear for poetry.’

‘That’s not true now, is it? You were very moved by the poetry of fire. Back there.’

‘Unhand me.’

The man released his hold. ‘You are free to go. Of course.’

But Virginsky did not move away. ‘Very well. I will read your damnable poem.’