Master of Petersburg by J. M. Coetzee Page A

struggle he opens his eyelids. Ivanov is sitting in the middle of the bed, cross-legged, like an idol. Charlatan! he thinks. He closes his eyes. When he wakes, Ivanov is still there, sprawled across the bed, his hands folded under his cheek, asleep. His mouth is open; from his lips, small and pink as a baby’s, comes a delicate snore.
    Till late in the morning he stays with Ivanov. Ivanov, the beginning of the unexpected, he thinks: let us see now where the unexpected takes us!
    Never before has time passed so sluggishly, never has the air been so blank of revelation.
    At last, bored, he rouses the man. ‘Time to leave, your shift is over,’ he says.
    Ivanov seems oblivious of the irony. He is fresh, cheerful, well-rested. ‘Ouf!’ he yawns. ‘I must pay a visit to the toilet!’ And then, when he comes back: ‘You don’t have a scrap of breakfast to share, do you?’
    He conducts Ivanov into the apartment. His breakfast is set out on the table, but he has no appetite. ‘Yours,’ he says curtly. Ivanov’s eyes gleam, a dribble of saliva runs down his chin. Yet he eats decorously, and sips his tea with his little finger cocked in the air. When he is finished he sits back and sighs contentedly. ‘How glad I am that our paths have crossed!’ he remarks. ‘The world can be a cold place, Fyodor Mikhailovich, as I am sure you know! I do not complain, mark you. We get what we deserve, in a higher sense. Nevertheless I sometimes wonder, do we not also deserve, each of us, a refuge, a haven, where justice will for a while relent and pity be taken on us? I pose that as a question, a philosophical question. Even if it isn’t in Scripture, would it not be in the spirit of Scripture: that we deserve what we do not deserve? What do you think?’
    â€˜No doubt. This is unfortunately not my apartment. And now it is time for you to be leaving.’
    â€˜In a moment. Let me make one last observation. It was not just idle chatter, you know, what I said last night about God seeing into the crevices of our hearts. I may not be a proper holy simpleton, but that does not disqualify me from speaking the truth. Truth can come, you know, in winding and mysterious ways.’ He taps his forehead meaningfully. ‘You never dreamed – did you? – when you first clapped eyes on me, that one day we would be sitting down together, the two of us, and drinking tea in a civilized fashion. Yet here we are!’
    â€˜I am sorry, but I do not follow you, my mind is elsewhere. You really must leave now.’
    â€˜Yes, I must leave, I have my duties too.’ He rises, tosses the blanket over his shoulders like a cape, holds out a hand. ‘Goodbye. It has been a pleasure to converse with a man of culture.’
    â€˜Goodbye.’
    It is a relief to be rid of him. But a frowzy, fishy smell lingers in his room. Despite the cold, he has to open the window.
    Half an hour later there is a knock at the apartment door. Not that man again! he thinks, and opens the door with an angry frown.
    Before him stands a child, a fat girl dressed in a dark smock such as novice nuns wear. Her face is round and unexpressive, her cheekbones so high that the little eyes are almost hidden, her hair drawn back tightly and gathered in a brief queue.
    â€˜Are you Pavel Isaev’s stepfather?’ she asks in a surprisingly deep voice.
    He nods.
    She steps inside, closing the door behind her. ‘I was a friend of Pavel’s,’ she announces. He expects condolences to follow. But they do not come. Instead she takes up position squarely before him with her arms at her sides, measuring him, giving off an air of stolid, watchful calm, the calm of a wrestler waiting for the bout to begin. Her bosom rises and falls evenly.
    â€˜Can I see what he left behind?’ she says at last.
    â€˜He left very little. May I know your name?’
    â€˜Katri. Even if there is very little, can I