Part 2 · Chapter 6

As soon as she left, he got up, locked the door, ripped open the package Razumihin had brought over that night and re-tied, and started getting dressed. Weirdly, he seemed totally calm right away - not a trace of the crazy episode or the panicky fear he’d been dealing with lately.

It was the first time he’s felt a sudden, weird calm. His movements were precise and deliberate; you could see he had a plan.

"Today, today," he mumbled to himself.

He knew he was still weak, but he felt strong and confident thanks to his focus. He hoped he wouldn't fall in the street. Once he was dressed in a whole new outfit, he looked at the money on the table and slipped it into his pocket after a moment. It was twenty-five rubles.

He also grabbed all the loose change from the ten rubles Razumihin had spent on the clothes. Then he quietly unlocked the door, went out, slipped down the stairs, and peeked into the open kitchen. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, getting the landlady's samovar fired up.

She didn’t hear a thing. Who would’ve thought he’d even leave, seriously? A minute later, he was out on the street.

It was almost eight o’clock, and the sun was setting. It was still super muggy, but he was practically inhaling the stinky, dusty city air. His head felt a little dizzy; a wild energy flashed in his feverish eyes, and his face was pale and yellowish.

He didn't know where he was going, and he wasn’t even thinking about it - he only had one thought: "This has to end today, once and for all, right now; he wouldn’t go home without it, because he couldn't keep living like this. But how? With what?

He had no clue, and he didn't even want to think about it. Thinking just stressed him out. He pushed those thoughts away; they were torturing him. All he knew, all he felt, was that everything had to change "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and unwavering determination.

Out of habit, he headed toward the Hay Market. A young guy with dark hair and a barrel organ was standing on the road in front of a little general store, grinding out a really sentimental song. He was playing for a fifteen-year-old girl who was standing on the sidewalk in front of him.

She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle, and a straw hat with a bright orange feather - all really old and beat-up. In a strong but rough voice, raspy from singing on the street, she sang, hoping someone would toss her a coin.

Raskolnikov joined a few other people listening, pulled out a five-kopeck piece, and handed it to the girl. She stopped mid-note on a sentimental high note, snapped at the organ grinder, "Let’s go," and they moved on to the next store.

"Do you like street music?" Raskolnikov asked a middle-aged man standing nearby.

The man looked at him, surprised and confused.

"I love hearing someone sing with a street organ," Raskolnikov said, his tone a little off. "I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn nights - they have to be damp - when everyone has pale, sickly faces, or even better when wet snow is falling straight down, with no wind - you know what I mean? - and the streetlights shine through it..."

"I... I don’t know... Excuse me..." the stranger mumbled, freaked out by the question and Raskolnikov’s strange vibe, and he crossed the street.

Raskolnikov kept walking and ended up at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they weren’t there now. Recognizing the spot, he stopped, looked around, and addressed a young guy in a red shirt who was staring at a corn chandler’s shop.

"Isn’t there a guy who sets up a stall with his wife at this corner?"

"All kinds of people hang out here," the young man said, giving Raskolnikov a dismissive look.

"What’s his name?"

"What he was called at baptism."

"Aren’t you from Zaraïsky too? Which region?"

The young man looked Raskolnikov over again.

"It’s not a region, your honor, but a district. Please excuse me, your honor!"

"Is there a tavern upstairs?"

"Yeah, it’s a restaurant and there’s a billiards room, and you might even find princesses there too... La-la!"

Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner, there was a huge crowd of peasants. He pushed his way through the thickest part, checking out their faces. He suddenly felt like talking to people. But the peasants totally ignored him; they were all yelling in groups.

He stood there, thinking for a bit, and turned right toward V.

He’d crossed that little street that turns, leading from the market to Sadovy Street, a bunch of times. Lately, he’d been drawn to wander around this area when he was feeling down, just to feel even worse.

Now he walked along, thinking about nothing. There’s a big block of buildings there, all rented out as bars and restaurants. Women were constantly running in and out, without hats and in their indoor clothes.

They’d gather in groups on the sidewalk, especially around the entrances to various lively places on the lower floors. From one of them, a loud din, singing, the sound of a guitar, and shouts of laughter spilled out into the street.

A bunch of women were crowding around the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the sidewalk, others were just standing and talking.

A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the street, cursing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but he’d forgotten where he was going. One beggar was arguing with another, and a guy completely wasted was lying right across the road.

Raskolnikov joined the group of women, who were talking in low voices. They were without hats and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women in their forties and some not even seventeen; almost all had dark circles under their eyes.

He felt strangely drawn to the singing and all the noise and chaos coming from the saloon below... you could hear someone inside dancing wildly, tapping their heels to the music of a guitar and a thin, high-pitched voice singing a catchy tune.

He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeking in from the sidewalk.

"Oh, my handsome soldier, don’t beat me for nothing," trilled the thin voice of the singer.

Raskolnikov suddenly felt like he had to understand what he was singing, like everything depended on it.

"Should I go in?" he thought.

"They’re laughing. From drinking. Should I get drunk?"

"Won’t you come in?" one of the women asked him.

Her voice was still musical and less husky than the others; she was young and not off-putting - the only one of the group.

"Wow, he’s cute," he said, straightening up and looking at her.

She smiled, really pleased by the compliment.

"You’re really good-looking yourself," she said.

"But he’s so skinny though!" another woman observed in a deep voice.

"Did you just get out of the hospital?"

"They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they all have turned-up noses," interjected a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat.

"Look how happy they are."

"Get lost!"

"I’ll go, sweetie!"

And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.

"Hey, sir!" the girl shouted after him.

"What?"

She hesitated. I’m always happy to spend an hour with you, kind sir, but now I’m feeling shy.

"Give me six copecks for a drink, there’s a nice young man!"

Raskolnikov gave her whatever he had - fifteen copecks.

"Oh, what a generous guy!"

"What’s your name?"

"Ask for Duclida."

"Seriously?" one of the women said, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don’t even know how you can ask like that. I’d be mortified..."

Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a woman with scars, maybe thirty, covered in bruises, with a swollen upper lip. She made her criticism quietly and seriously.

"Where is it," he thought.

"Where have I read that someone facing execution says or thinks, an hour before they die, that if they had to live on some high rock, on a tiny ledge where they could barely stand, with the ocean, endless darkness, endless loneliness, endless storms all around, if they had to stay on a few square feet for their whole life, a thousand years, forever, it would be better than dying right then!"

"Just to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it is!... How true it is! Good God, how true! People are messed up!... And messed up is the person who calls them messed up for feeling that way," he added a moment later. He went into another street.

Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking about the Palais de Cristal. But what was I even trying to remember? Oh yeah, the newspapers... Zossimov said he’d seen it in the papers.

You got the papers?" he asked, going into a really spacious and clean restaurant, with several rooms, though it was pretty empty. A few people were drinking tea, and in a room further away, four guys were drinking champagne."

Raskolnikov thought Zametov might be one of them, but he couldn't be sure from that distance.

"What if it is?" he thought.

"Vodka?" asked the waiter.

"Tea and the papers, the old ones from the last five days, and I’ll give you something."

"Sure thing, here’s today’s. No vodka?"

The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and started flipping through them.

"Ugh... these are the news blurbs. An accident on a staircase, a shopkeeper combusted from drinking too much, a fire in Peski... another fire in the Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter... Ah, here it is!"

He finally found what he was looking for and started reading. The words seemed to dance on the page, but he read it all and started eagerly looking for more in the next papers. His hands shook with nervous energy as he turned the pages. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table.

He looked up - it was the head clerk Zametov, looking exactly the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and slicked back, with the sharp waistcoat, a worn coat, and questionable shirt.

He seemed in a good mood, at least he was smiling really cheerfully. His dark face was flushed from the champagne he’s been drinking.

"What, you here?" he began, surprised, talking like he’d known him forever.

"Razumihin told me just yesterday you were out cold. How weird! And do you know I went to see you?"

Raskolnikov knew he’s going to talk to him. He put down the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new look of annoyed impatience in that smile.

"I know you did," he answered. "I heard about it. You were looking for my sock... And do you know Razumihin’s got a thing for you? He says you’re with him at Luise Ivanovna’s - you know, the woman you tried to befriend, the one you winked at the Explosive Lieutenant and he didn’t get it. Remember?"

"How could he miss it - it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?"

"What a hothead he is!"

"Are you talking about The Explosive one?"

"No, your friend Razumihin."

"You must have a great life, Mr. Zametov; free admission to all the best places. Who’s been pouring champagne down your throat just now?"

"We were just... having a drink... You’re talking about pouring it into me!"

"Seriously? A fee? You’re profiting off everything!"

Raskolnikov laughed, then clapped Zametov on the shoulder.

"I’m not just messing around, my dude," he added.

"I’m just joking, like that worker of yours said when he was scrapping with Dmitri over the old lady’s case..."

"How do you even know about that?"

"Maybe I know more than you do."

"You’re so weird... I’m pretty sure you’re still really sick. You shouldn’t even be out."

"Oh, do I seem weird to you?"

"Yeah. What are you doing, reading the papers?"

"Yeah."

"There’s been a lot about the fires."

"Nah, I’m not reading about the fires."

He looked at Zametov mysteriously, a mocking smile twisting his lips.

"No, I’m not reading about the fires," he repeated, winking.

"But come on, my friend, you’re dying to know what I am reading about, aren’t you?"

"Not really. Can I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?"

"Listen, you’re a cultured, educated guy, right?"

"I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," Zametov said, a bit stiffly.

"Sixth class! Wow, a real fancy pants! With your hairstyle and your rings - you’re a man of means. Seriously! What a cool kid!"

Raskolnikov burst into a nervous laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter stepped back, more stunned than offended.

"Seriously, you’re so weird!" Zametov repeated, looking genuinely concerned.

"I’m starting to think you’re still delirious."

"Delirious? You’re lying, fancy pants! So I’m weird? You think I’m strange?"

"Yeah, a little."

"I’ll tell you what I was reading about, what I was searching for. Look at all these papers I had them bring me. Suspicious, huh?"

"Well, what is it?"

"You’re listening, right?"

"What do you mean, ‘listening’?"

"I’ll explain later, but right now, I swear to you... no, better ‘I’m telling you straight’... No, that's not quite right. ‘I’m putting it on record for you.’ I’m telling you I was reading, searching..."

He narrowed his eyes and paused.

"I was searching - and came here on purpose to do it - for news about the murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he said almost in a whisper, leaning in close to Zametov’s face.

Zametov stared back, unmoving. What he’d remember later was the silence that followed - a full minute - as they just looked at each other.

"What if you’ve been reading about it?" he finally blurted out, sounding confused and impatient.

"That’s none of my business! So what?"

"The same old woman," Raskolnikov continued in the same whisper, ignoring Zametov’s explanation, "the one you were talking about at the police station, remember, when I fainted. Get it now?"

"What do you mean? Understand... what?" Zametov asked, sounding increasingly worried.

Raskolnikov’s intense, serious face suddenly changed, and he broke into that same nervous laugh, like he couldn’t hold it back.

And in a flash, he vividly remembered a moment from the recent past - standing with an axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and men outside swore and shook it - and he suddenly wanted to yell at them, to curse them, to stick his tongue out at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!

"You’re either crazy, or..." Zametov began, then stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought.

"Or? Or what? What? Come on, tell me!"

"Nothing," Zametov said, getting annoyed. "It’s all nonsense!"

They were both silent. After his sudden outburst of laughter, Raskolnikov became quiet and melancholy. He rested his elbow on the table and leaned his head in his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence stretched on for a while.

"Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s getting cold," said Zametov.

What? Tea? Oh, yeah...

Raskolnikov sipped the glass, took a bite of bread, and suddenly seemed to remember everything, pulling himself together. At the same moment, his face went back to its usual sarcastic look. He kept drinking his tea.

"There have been a ton of these crimes lately," said Zametov. "Just the other day I read in the Moscow News that a whole crew of counterfeiters got caught in Moscow. It was like a whole operation. They were forging tickets!"

"Oh, that was ages ago! I read about it a month back," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you think they’re criminals?" he added, smiling.

"Of course they are."

"Them? They’re kids, simpletons, not criminals! Half a hundred people getting together for something like that - what a plan! Three would be too many, and then they want to trust each other more than they trust themselves! You just have to spill your guts after a few drinks and it all falls apart."

Simpletons! They hired shady people to change the money - what a thing to trust a random stranger! Well, let’s say these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and then what? Each one’s stuck depending on the others for the rest of their lives! Better off hanging themselves right away!

And they didn’t even know how to change the money either; the guy who was changing the money took five thousand rubles, and his hands were shaking. He counted the first four thousand, but totally missed the fifth thousand - he was so eager to stuff the cash and run. Naturally, it raised suspicion.

"And the whole thing crashed because of one goofball! Seriously, is that even possible?"

"That his hands were shaking?" observed Zametov.

"Yeah, that’s totally possible. I mean, sometimes you just can’t handle it."

"Can’t handle it?"

"Why, could you handle it? No, I couldn’t. Risking everything for a hundred rubles to face something like that? Going into a bank where it’s their job to spot that kind of thing with fake bills! No way, I wouldn’t have the guts to do it. Would you?"

Raskolnikov suddenly felt like "rolling his eyes." Shivers ran down his spine.

"I’d do it completely differently," Raskolnikov began.

"This is how I’d change the money: I’d count the first thousand three or four times, going back and forth, looking at every bill."

Then I’d move on to the second thousand; I’d count that halfway through and then hold a fifty-ruble bill up to the light, turn it, hold it to the light again - to see if it was legit.

‘I’m worried,’ I’d say, ‘a relative of mine lost twenty-five rubles the other day because of a fake bill,’ and then I’d tell them the whole story. And after I started counting the third, ‘No, excuse me,’ I’d say, ‘I think I messed up the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I’m not sure.’

And so I’d give up on the third thousand and go back to the second, and so on to the end.

And when I was done, I’d pick one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, ‘Change them, please,’ and totally stress out the clerk so he wouldn’t know what to do with me.

"When I was finished and had left, I’d come back, ‘No, excuse me,’ and ask for an explanation. That’s how I’d do it."

"Whoa, the terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But that’s just talk. I bet when it came down to actually doing it, you’d mess up. I think even a seasoned, desperate guy can’t always count on himself, let alone you and me."

"Take an example close to home - that old lady murdered in our district. The murderer seemed like a desperate guy, he risked everything in broad daylight, was saved by a miracle - but his hands shook, too. He couldn’t even rob the place, he couldn’t stand it. It was clear from the..."

Raskolnikov seemed totally offended.

"Seriously? Why don’t you catch him then?" he snapped, giving Zametov a nasty dig.

"Well, they’re gonna catch him."

"Who? You? You think you could catch him? That’s a huge challenge! Your big clue is whether or not someone’s blowing cash. If they’re broke and suddenly start spending, that’s gotta be them. Any kid could fool you."

"The thing is, they always do that," Zametov replied. "Someone can pull off a super clever murder, risking everything, and then immediately hit up a bar. They get caught flashing money - they’re not all as sly as you are. You wouldn’t go to a bar, would you?"

Raskolnikov frowned and stared intently at Zametov.

"So, you’re enjoying this and want to know how I would act?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"I’d really like to know," Zametov answered, sounding serious.

He started to seem a little too intense, both in his words and his expression.

"Really are you serious?"

"Yes I am. Totally!"

"Okay, fine. Here’s what I would have done," Raskolnikov started, leaning in close to Zametov again, staring him down and whispering so that Zametov actually shuddered. "This is what I would’ve done."

I’d have grabbed the money and jewels, walked out of there, and headed straight to some secluded spot with a fence and hardly anyone around - maybe a forgotten garden or something.

I’d have scouted out a huge stone beforehand, like a hundred pounds or more, that’s been sitting in a corner since the house was built. I’d lift that stone - there’s bound to be a hollow underneath, and I’d stash the jewels and money in that hole.

"Then I’d roll the stone back, so it looks normal, press it down with my foot, and walk away. And for a year or two, maybe even three, I wouldn’t touch it. And then, they could search! There wouldn’t be a trace."

"You’re crazy," Zametov said, and for some reason, he, too, whispered and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were gleaming.

He’s gone deathly pale, and his upper lip was twitching. He leaned in as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips started moving without making a sound. This went on for about half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but couldn’t stop himself.

The terrifying word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it would burst out, in another moment he would let it go, he would say it.

"And what if it was me who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he blurted out suddenly - and instantly realized what he’d said.

Zametov stared at him wildly and turned as white as a sheet. His face wore a twisted smile.

"But is that even possible?" he stammered.

Raskolnikov glared at him angrily.

"Admit you believed it, yeah, you did?"

"Not even a little bit! I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried out quickly.

"I got you! So, you believed it before, if now you believe it even less?"

"Not at all," Zametov said, clearly embarrassed. "Have you been trying to scare me into this?"

"You don’t believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I left the police station? And why did that wild lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, waiter!" he shouted to the waiter, getting up and grabbing his hat, "how much do I owe?"

"Thirty kopecks," the waiter replied, rushing over.

"And twenty kopecks for vodka. Look at all this money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with bills in it.

"Real cash, twenties and twenty-fives. Where did I get it? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I didn’t have a single kopeck. You’d have cross-examined my landlady, I bet... Well, that’s enough! Assez causé! See ya!"

He bolted out, shaking like crazy from this wild, messed-up feeling - a weird mix of excitement and dread. But he was also super bummed and totally exhausted. His face was all twisted up, like he's just had a major meltdown. He got more tired fast.

Any little shock or annoying thing would instantly give him a boost, but then he’s drained just as quickly when it stopped.

Zametov, left alone, sat there for ages, deep in thought. Raskolnikov had unknowingly flipped a switch in his brain and basically made up his mind for him.

"Ilya Petrovitch is a total airhead," he decided.

Raskolnikov barely opened the restaurant door when he bumped into Razumihin on the steps. They didn't see each other until they almost crashed into each other. They stood there checking each other out for a second.

Razumihin was seriously shocked, then anger - real, burning anger - flared in his eyes.

"So there you are!" he yelled, his voice booming - "you ditched your bed! And I’ve been searching for you under the couch! We went all the way up to the attic. I almost punched Nastasya because of you. And here he is! Rodya! What’s the deal? Spill it! Confess! Are you even listening?"

"It means I’m done with all of you and I just want to be left alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly.

"Alone? When you can barely stand, when your face is whiter than a ghost and you’re gasping for air! You’re such an idiot!... What were you doing at the Crystal Palace? Tell me everything now!"

"Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to push past him.

That was the last straw for Razumihin; he grabbed him tight by the shoulder.

"Let you go? You’re telling me to let you go? Do you know what I’ll do with you? I’ll scoop you up, wrap you up like a package, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!"

"Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov started quietly, seeming calm - "can’t you see I don’t want your help? You’re being way too clingy. Why did you even look for me when I was sick? Maybe I was hoping to die. Didn't I tell you today that you were stressing me out, that I was... sick of you?"

You seem to want to make people miserable! Honestly, that's seriously messing with my recovery because it’s constantly getting under my skin. You saw Zossimov just left to avoid annoying me. Just leave me alone, please! What right do you have to keep me here by force?

"Don’t you see I’m totally with it now? How can I convince you to stop smothering me with your kindness? I might be ungrateful, I might be a jerk, just let me be, for God’s sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"

He started calmly, already planning all these nasty things to say, but ended up panting for breath, a total mess, just like with Luzhin.

Razumihin stood there for a moment, thought it over, and let his hand drop.

"Well, go ahead and leave then," he said gently, thinking it over. "Stay," he roared, as Raskolnikov started to move.

"Listen to me. Seriously, you guys are a bunch of clueless posers! If you have any problems, you obsess over them like a hen with an egg. And you’re even copying each other in that! There's no spark of originality in you!"

You’re all just soft and bland, like you’re filled with something other than blood. I don’t trust any of you! The first thing you all need to do is be unlike anyone else! Stop!" he shouted, even angrier, noticing Raskolnikov was trying to leave again - "Just hear me out!

You know I’m having a housewarming tonight, they’re probably here by now, but I ran in - I just popped in - to greet the guests. And if you weren't a total goofball, a common idiot, a perfect fool, if you were original instead of a copy...

you see, Rodya, I know you're smart, but you're a fool! - and if you weren’t a fool you’d come over tonight instead of wearing out your shoes in the street! Now that you’re gone, there’s nothing I can do! I’d give you a comfy chair, my landlady has one... a cup of tea, some company...

"Or you could crash on the sofa - anyway, you’d be with us... Zossimov will be there too."

"Are you coming or what?" "No."

"Seriously? Razumihin yelled, getting frustrated. "How can you know? You can’t even decide for yourself! You don’t know anything about it... I’ve fought with people tooth and nail a thousand times and gone back to them afterwards... You feel bad and go back to someone!"

"So remember, Potchinkov’s place on the third floor..."

"Mr. Razumihin, I think you’d let anyone beat you just to be nice."

"Beat? Who? Me ? I’d snap his nose off just thinking about it! Potchinkov’s place, forty-seven, Babushkin’s apartment..."

"I’m not coming, Razumihin."

Raskolnikov turned and walked away.

"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him.

"I won’t even recognize you if you don’t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?" "Yeah."

"Did you see him?"

"Yeah. I did"

"And talked to him?"

"Yeah we talked"

"About what? Seriously, don’t tell me then. Potchinkov’s place, forty-seven, Babushkin’s apartment, got it?"

Raskolnikov kept walking and turned the corner onto Sadovy Street. Razumihin watched him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs.

"Seriously," he muttered almost to himself.

"He made sense, but still... I’m an idiot! As if crazy people don’t make sense! And that’s what Zossimov seemed worried about."

He smacked his forehead.

"What if... how could I let him go off alone? He could drown himself... Ugh, what a mistake! I can’t."

And he ran back to catch up with Raskolnikov, but there was no sign of him. With a curse he turned back quickly to the Palais de Cristal to ask Zametov.

Raskolnikov headed straight for X - - Bridge, stopped in the middle, and leaned on the railing, staring off into the distance. After splitting with Razumihin, he felt totally drained, barely able to make it to this spot. He just wanted to sit or lie down somewhere on the street.

Bending over the water, he mechanically watched the last pink glow of the sunset, the row of houses fading into the dusk, one distant window in an attic on the left bank flashing like it was on fire in the last rays, and the darkening canal water - the water seemed to grab his attention.

Soon, red spots flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed to be moving, the people walking by, the canal banks, the carriages - everything danced. Suddenly, he jolted, maybe saved from passing out by a creepy and awful sight.

He noticed someone standing on his right; he looked and saw a tall woman with a scarf on her head, a long, pale, gaunt face, and sunken red eyes. She was staring straight at him, but she clearly didn’t see him or recognize him.

Suddenly, she put her right hand on the railing, lifted her right leg over the edge, then her left, and jumped into the canal.

The dirty water split open and swallowed her up for a moment, but then an instant later, the woman surfaced, floating slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt puffed out like a balloon over her back.

"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" dozens of voices shouted; people ran up, both sides of the canal were packed with onlookers, and people on the bridge crowded around Raskolnikov, pushing up behind him.

"Oh, dear God, it’s our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully nearby. "Mercy! Save her! Kind people, pull her out!"

"A boat, a boat!" was yelled in the crowd.

But there was no need for a boat; a police officer ran down the steps to the canal, took off his jacket and shoes, and jumped into the water.

It was easy to reach her: she was just a few yards from the steps, he grabbed hold of her clothes with one hand and with the other grabbed a pole a fellow officer held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out right away. They laid her on the stone pavement of the embankment.

She soon came to, lifted her head, sat up, and started sneezing and coughing, wiping her wet dress with her hands. She didn’t say a word.

"She’s drunk herself silly," the same woman’s voice wailed beside her.

"Totally out of it. Just the other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the store just now, left my little girl to watch her - and here she is in trouble again! A neighbor, a nice guy, a neighbor, we live close by, the second house from the end, see over there..."

The crowd dispersed. The police still surrounded the woman, someone mentioned the police station... Raskolnikov watched with a strange feeling of not caring and being numb. He felt disgusted.

"No, that’s gross... the water... it’s not enough," he muttered to himself.

"Nothing’s going to come of it," he added, "no point in waiting. What about the police station...? And why isn’t Zametov at the police station? The police station is open till ten..."

He turned away from the railing and looked around.

"Okay then!" he said resolutely; he left the bridge and walked toward the police station.

His heart felt empty. He didn’t want to think. Even his depression had passed; there wasn’t a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to end it all." Complete apathy had taken over.

"Seriously, it’s a way out," he thought, walking slowly and feeling totally drained along the canal bank.

"I’m just gonna end it, because I want to... But is it really a way out? Who cares! There’s like, a tiny space - ha! But what an ending! Is it really the end? Should I tell them or not? Ugh... shoot! I’m so tired! I wish I could just sit or lie down somewhere soon!"

"What I’m most embarrassed about is how unbelievably dumb it all is. But honestly, I don’t even care about that anymore! What crazy thoughts pop into your head, you know?"

To get to the police station, he had to go straight and take the second left. It was just a few steps away.

But at the first turn, he stopped and, after a minute of thinking, turned down a side street and went two blocks out of his way, maybe for no reason, or maybe just to stall for a minute and buy some time. He walked staring at the ground.

Suddenly, it felt like someone whispered in his ear; he looked up and realized he was standing right at the gate of the house. He hadn’t passed it, hadn’t been near it since that night. A weird, overwhelming feeling pulled him forward.

He went into the house, through the gate, then into the first doorway on the right, and started climbing the familiar stairs to the fourth floor. The narrow, steep staircase was really dark.

He stopped on each landing and looked around with curiosity; on the first landing, the window frame had been removed.

"That wasn’t like that before," he thought.

Here was the apartment on the second floor where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working.

"It’s shut up, and the door is freshly painted. So it’s available for rent."

Then the third floor and the fourth.

"Here!" He was confused to find the door to the apartment wide open.

There were guys inside, he could hear voices; he wasn’t expecting that. After a quick pause, he climbed the last few stairs and went into the apartment. It was being renovated too; there were construction workers inside.

That surprised him; he kind of thought he’d find everything as he left it, even maybe the bodies still on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it felt really strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the windowsill.

There were two construction workers, both young, but one was much younger than the other. They were wallpapering the walls with a new white paper covered in lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov felt intensely irritated for some reason.

He looked at the new wallpaper with dislike, almost like he was sad to see everything so changed. The workers had obviously stayed late and were now quickly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They didn’t notice Raskolnikov coming in; they were talking.

Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.

"She comes to me in the morning," said the older worker to the younger one, "really early, all dressed up. ‘Why are you getting all dolled up? I ask. ‘I’m ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch! That’s just ridiculous! She dressed up like a fashion magazine!"

"And what’s a fashion magazine?" the younger one asked.

He clearly thought the other guy was an expert.

"A fashion magazine is a bunch of pictures, colored, and they get sent to the tailors here every Saturday, by mail from overseas, to show people how to dress, both guys and girls. They’re just pictures."

"The guys are usually wearing fur coats, and for the ladies, the flounces are beyond anything you can imagine."

"There’s nothing you can’t find in Petersburg," the younger one cried enthusiastically, "except your dad and mom, there’s everything!"

"Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy," the older one declared seriously.

Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strongbox, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed really tiny without furniture. The paper on the wall showed where the icon case had stood. He looked at it and went to the window.

The older workman looked at him strangely.

"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.

Instead of answering, Raskolnikov went into the hallway and rang the bell. The same bell, the same cracked sound. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. That creepy, terrifying feeling he’s had before started coming back, stronger and stronger.

He shuddered with each ring and felt strangely satisfied.

"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, coming out to him.

Raskolnikov went back inside.

"I want to rent an apartment," he said. "I’m just looking around."

"It’s not a good time to look at rooms at night! You should come with the doorman."

"Have the floors been washed? Will they paint them?" Raskolnikov went on.

"Is there any... you know... blood?"

"What blood?"

"The old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a huge pool of it."

"But who are you?" the workman cried, looking uneasy.

"You really want to know ...Who I am?"

"Yes." "Are you sure, You want to know?"

"Then go to the police station, I’ll tell you."

The workmen looked at him in disbelief.

"It’s time for us to go, we’ll be late. Come on, Alyoshka. We need to lock up," said the elder workman.

"Okay, let’s go," said Raskolnikov casually, and heading out first, he walked slowly downstairs. "Hey, doorman," he called out in the entryway.

At the entrance, several people were standing, staring at people passing by; the two doormen, a peasant woman, a guy in a long coat, and a few others. Raskolnikov walked straight up to them.

"What do you want?" asked one of the doormen.

"Have you been to the police station?"

"I just got back. What do you need?"

"Is the station even open?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Is the assistant there?"

"He was there for a bit. What do you need?" Raskolnikov didn’t reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.

"He came to look at the apartment," said the elder workman, stepping forward.

"Which apartment?"

Where we’re working. ‘Why did you wash away the blood?’ he asked. ‘There was a murder here,’ he said, ‘and I’ve come to take it. And he started ringing the bell, almost broke it. ‘Come to the police station,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you everything. He wouldn’t leave us.

The doorman looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and confused.

"Who are you?" he shouted as loudly as he could.

"I’m Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil’s house, not far from here, apartment Number fourteen, ask the doorman, he knows me," Raskolnikov said in a slow, dreamy voice, not turning around, but staring intently into the darkening street.

"Why did you go to the apartment?"

"I just wanted to look at it."

"What’s there to look at?"

"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked out abruptly.

Raskolnikov looked over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones:

"Come on."

"Yeah, take him," the man went on more confidently.

"Why was he going in there, what’s on his mind, huh?"

"He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s wrong with him," muttered the workman.

"But what do you want?" the doorman shouted again, starting to get really annoyed - "Why are you hanging around?"

"You’re scared of the police station, then?" said Raskolnikov mockingly.

"Scared? Why are you hanging around?"

"He’s a weirdo!" shouted the peasant woman.

"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other doorman, a huge peasant in an open shirt and with keys on his belt. "Get going! He’s a weirdo, no doubt. Get going!"

And grabbing Raskolnikov by the shoulder, he tossed him out into the street. Raskolnikov stumbled, but quickly got his balance, looked at the people watching, and walked away.

"Weird dude!" the workman said.

"There are some seriously strange people around these days," the woman said.

"You really should have taken him to the cops," the man in the long coat said.

"Best to just stay away from him," the big porter decided.

"A total creep! Whatever he wants, you can bet it’s bad. Once you get involved, you’re stuck with him... We know that type!"

"Should I go or not?" Raskolnikov thought, standing in the middle of the street at the intersection, looking around as if expecting someone to tell him what to do.

But there was nothing, just a dead, silent feeling, like the stones beneath his feet - dead to everyone but him... Suddenly, at the end of the street, about two hundred yards away, in the fading light, he saw a crowd and heard people talking and yelling. A carriage was in the middle of the crowd...

A light shone in the street.

"What’s going on?"

Raskolnikov turned right and headed toward the crowd. He seemed to reach for everything and gave a cold smile when he recognized it, because he’s totally made up his mind to go to the police station and knew it would all be over soon.