Part 3 · Chapter 6

"I don’t believe it, I seriously can’t believe it!" Razumihin repeated, trying to wrap his head around Raskolnikov’s arguments.

They were getting close to Bakaleyev’s place, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been waiting for a while. Razumihin kept stopping, totally caught up in the discussion, buzzing with confusion and excitement - it was the first time they were really talking openly about it.

"Don’t believe it, dude!" Raskolnikov said with a cool, detached smile. "You were oblivious as usual, but I was paying attention to every single word."

"You’re being paranoid. That’s why you were analyzing their words... hmm... yeah, I get it. Porfiry’s tone was weird, and that guy Zametov was even worse! You’re right, there was something off about him - but what was it? Why?"

"He’s changed his mind since last night."

"Totally the opposite! If they actually had that idea, they’d try to hide it, keep their cards close to their chest, you know, to catch you later... But this was all just careless and blunt."

"If they had real facts - I mean, solid proof - or even just a reason to suspect something, they’d definitely try to cover their tracks, hoping to dig deeper (they’d have started snooping around a long time ago too). But they have nothing, not a single thing."

It’s all smoke and mirrors - vague and unclear. Just a random thought floating around. So, they’re trying to rattle me with their arrogance. And maybe he got frustrated because he had no facts, and just blurted it out in anger - or maybe he has a plan... he seems smart.

"Maybe he wanted to scare me by pretending he knew. They’re playing mind games, man. But explaining it all is just a headache. Stop!"

"And it’s insulting, seriously insulting! I get where you’re coming from. But... now that we’re being open about it (and it’s a good thing we finally are - I’m glad), I’m just going to be straight with you: I’ve noticed this idea in them for a while now."

Of course, just a hint, a little nudge - but why even that? How dare they? What’s their basis for it? If you only knew how furious I’m been! Just think!

Because a poor student, messed up by poverty and hypochondria, on the verge of a crazy, sick episode (take note of that), paranoid, arrogant, proud, who hasn't spoken to anyone in six months, in rags and boots with no soles, has to deal with some low-life cops and put up with their attitude; and this unexpected debt shoved under his nose, the I.O.U

. from Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a suffocating atmosphere, a crowd of people, talk about the murder of a person where he’s just been, and all that on an empty stomach

- he could totally faint! And that’s what they’re basing it all on! Ugh, I feel for you, man. I get how annoying it is, but if I were you, Rodya, I’d laugh at them, or better yet, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in every direction.

"I'd lash out in every direction, and clean them up, and be done with it. Seriously, don’t feel down about it."

"He’s really putting it well, though," Raskolnikov thought.

"Ugh, the cross-examination again, tomorrow?" he said bitterly. "Do I really have to explain myself to them? I’m already annoyed that I even bothered to talk to Zametov at the restaurant yesterday..."

"Seriously! I’m going to Porfiry myself. I’m going to pry it out of him, like he’s family: he needs to spill all the details! And as for Zametov..."

"Finally, he sees through him!" Raskolnikov thought.

"Hold up!" Razumihin shouted, grabbing him by the shoulder again. "Hold up! You’re wrong. I’ve been thinking about it. You’re wrong! How was that a trap? You said the question about the workmen was a trap."

"But if you’d done that, could you have said you’d seen them painting the flat... and the workmen? Nope. On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would admit that?"

"If I’d done that, I totally would have said I saw the workers and the flat," Raskolnikov answered, sounding super reluctant and honestly disgusted.

"But why talk bad about yourself?"

"Because only farmers or totally clueless newbies deny everything flat-out during questioning."

If you’re even a little smart and experienced, you’re gonna admit the facts you can’t dodge, but then you’re gonna try to explain them differently, twist things around, give them a new meaning, put them in a new light.

"Porfiry probably figured I’d do exactly that, say I saw them to seem truthful, and then try to explain it away."

"But he would’ve immediately told you the workers couldn’t have been there two days before, and that meant you had to have been there the day of the murder at eight o’clock. He would’ve caught you on a tiny detail."

"Yeah, that’s what he was counting on - me not having time to think, rushing to give the most likely answer, and forgetting the workers couldn’t have been there two days before."

"But how could you forget that?"

"Easy. That’s where even the smartest people trip up. The more you think you're clever, the less you suspect you'll get caught on something simple. The more you think you’re cunning, the simpler the trap has to be. Porfiry isn’t as dumb as you think..."

"He’s a jerk then, if that’s the case!"

Raskolnikov couldn't help but laugh. But then, he realized how open he’d been, and how eager he was to explain it all, even though he'd been acting totally repulsed the whole time, probably because he had to.

"I’m kind of getting into this," he thought to himself.

But almost immediately, he got seriously uneasy, like a weird, alarming idea had just popped into his head. His anxiety kept building. They’d just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.

"Go in alone!" Raskolnikov blurted out.

"I’ll be right back."

"Where are you going? We’re right here!"

"I can’t help it... I’ll be back in half an hour. Tell them."

"Tell them what you want, I’m coming with you."

"You, too, want to mess with me!" he yelled, with so much bitterness and despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s hands just dropped.

He stood on the steps for a while, watching Raskolnikov walk away fast toward his place.

Finally, grinding his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he’d squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was already freaking out about them being gone so long.

When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing hard. He rushed up the stairs, went into his unlocked room and slammed the latch shut.

Then, in sheer terror, he darted to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he's hidden things; he stuck his hand in, and for a few minutes, he carefully felt around in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he stood up and took a deep breath.

As he was heading back to Bakaleyev’s, he suddenly worried that something - a chain, a stud, or even a scrap of paper with the old woman’s handwriting on it - might have slipped out and gotten lost in a crack, and then suddenly show up as undeniable proof against him.

He stood there, like he was totally lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half-crazy smile crept onto his lips. He grabbed his cap at last and quietly left the room. His thoughts were all tangled up. He wandered dreamily through the gateway.

"Here he is himself!" a loud voice shouted.

He looked up. The porter was standing at the door of his tiny room, pointing him out to a short dude who looked like a craftsman - you know, a long coat and a vest, and honestly, looked kinda like a woman from a distance.

He was hunched over, with his head hanging forward under a greasy cap.

His face was all wrinkled and soft; he looked like he was over fifty. His little eyes were hidden in fat and looked out, all grumpy and dissatisfied.

"What’s up?" Raskolnikov asked, heading over to the porter.

The guy glanced at him from under his eyebrows, checking him out carefully; then he slowly turned and walked out the gate into the street without saying a word.

"What’s going on?" Raskolnikov called out.

"Oh, he was asking if a student lived here, mentioned your name and who you lived with. I saw you coming and pointed you out, and he just took off. It’s weird."

The porter seemed a little confused, but not too much. After thinking for a second, he turned and went back to his room.

Raskolnikov ran after the stranger and spotted him walking down the other side of the street with the same steady, deliberate pace, staring at the ground like he was deep in thought. He soon caught up, but for a while, he just followed behind. Finally, he moved alongside him and looked at his face.

The man noticed him right away, glanced at him quickly, then dropped his eyes again; and they walked side by side for a minute without saying a word.

"You were asking for me... from the porter?" Raskolnikov said, but his voice was strangely quiet.

The man didn’t answer; he didn’t even look at him. They were both silent again.

"Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing... What’s the deal?"

Raskolnikov’s voice cracked, and he seemed to struggle to get the words out.

The man raised his eyes this time and gave Raskolnikov a dark, creepy look.

"Murderer!" he said suddenly, in a quiet but clear voice.

Raskolnikov kept walking beside him. His legs suddenly felt weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stop for a moment, then suddenly started pounding like it had been released. They walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.

The man didn’t look at him.

"What do you mean... what is... Who’s a murderer?" Raskolnikov muttered, barely audible.

"You are a murderer," the man answered, even more clearly and forcefully, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he stared straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and haunted eyes.

They had just reached the intersection. The man turned left without looking back. Raskolnikov stood there, watching him. He saw him turn around fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there.

Raskolnikov couldn’t see clearly, but he thought he saw him smiling that same smile of cold hatred and triumph.

With slow, shaky steps, with trembling knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his tiny room, feeling chilled to the bone. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving.

Then he sank onto the sofa, exhausted, and with a weak moan of pain, he stretched out on it. He lay there for half an hour.

He wasn’t thinking about anything specific.

Just random thoughts and images - faces of people he’d seen as a kid or met once and totally forgotten, the church bell tower in V., a pool table in a restaurant and some officers playing, the smell of cigars from some shady tobacco shop, a dark tavern room, a back staircase all gross with dirty water and eggshells everywhere, and the Sunday bells ringing in the distance...

The images flashed by, like a crazy whirlwind. Some he liked and tried to grab onto, but they vanished. All the while, there was this heavy feeling inside, but it wasn’t crushing, sometimes it was even kinda nice... The slight shivers still lingered, but even that felt almost pleasant.

He heard Razumihin’s hurried footsteps. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood in the doorway for a while, like he was unsure. Then, he tiptoed into the room and went carefully to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya whisper:

"Don’t bother him! Let him sleep. He can eat later."

"Totally," answered Razumihin.

They both backed away carefully and closed the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, rolled onto his back, and clasped his hands behind his head.

Who is he? Who’s that dude who just popped up from nowhere? Where was he, what did he see? He’s seen everything, that’s obvious. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why is he just showing up now? And how could he see? Seriously?

Hm... continued Raskolnikov, feeling cold and shivering, and the jewelry box Nikolay found behind the door - was that even possible? A clue? You miss the tiniest detail and you can build a whole mountain of evidence! A fly saw it! Is that even real?

He felt suddenly disgusted with how weak, how physically weak he’d become.

"I should’ve known," he thought with a bitter smile.

"And how could I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, pick up an axe and spill blood! I should’ve known beforehand..." he whispered in despair.

Sometimes he’s just stuck on a thought.

"Nah, those guys aren’t wired like that. The real boss, who can do anything, storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, loses an army in Egypt, wastes half a million guys in the Moscow expedition, and then jokes around in Vilna. And they build altars to him after he’s gone, so it’s all good."

"Nope, those kinds of people aren’t even human, they’re made of bronze!"

One random, kinda funny thought almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a pathetic, skinny old lady - a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed - it’s a perfect puzzle for Porfiry Petrovitch to figure out! How can he even wrap his head around it? It’s just not artistic enough.

"Napoleon sneaking under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how gross!"

He felt like he was totally losing it. He was caught in a feverish, wired state.

"The old woman doesn't matter," he thought, hot and confused.

"She was a mistake, maybe, but that’s not the big deal! The old woman was just a sickness... I rushed things, I was too eager... I didn’t kill a person, but an idea! I killed the idea, but I didn’t go too far, I stopped short... I was only capable of killing."

And it turns out I wasn’t even good at that... An idea? Why was that goofball Razumihin trash-talking socialists? They’re hardworking, business-minded people; ‘the happiness of everyone’ is their thing. Nope, life’s only happening once for me, and I’m not getting another shot.

I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of everyone.’ I want to live my own life, or not live at all. I couldn't just stand by while my mom was starving, holding onto my single dollar while I waited for ‘the happiness of everyone.’

"I’m putting my little piece into making everyone happy, and that’s what makes my heart feel okay. Ha-ha! Why did you let me slip up? I only get one life, I want... too!" He suddenly burst out laughing like a maniac.

"Yeah, I’m definitely a loser," he kept saying, clinging to the idea, enjoying it, messing with it like it was a twisted game. "First off, because I can actually think that I’m one."

And second, because for the last month I’ve been bothering the universe, practically begging it to witness that I wasn’t doing this for my own selfish desires, but with a grand and noble purpose - ha-ha!

Third, because I tried to do it as fairly as possible, weighing everything, measuring, calculating. Out of all the losers, I picked the most useless one and planned to take only what I needed for the first step, no more, no less (so the rest would go to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!).

And what proves that I’m a total loser," he added, grinding his teeth, "is that I’m probably even grosser and more disgusting than the loser I killed, and I already knew I’d tell myself that after I did it. Can anything be worse than that? The cheapness! The lowdown-ness!

I get the ‘prophet’ with his sword, on his horse: Allah commands and the trembling world has to obey! The ‘prophet’ is right, he’s right when he sets off a bomb across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without even bothering to explain!

"It’s for you to obey, trembling world, don’t even think about having desires, because that’s not for you!... I’m never, ever forgiving that old woman!"

His hair was soaked with sweat, his trembling lips were dry, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"Mom, sister - I loved them so much! Why do I hate them now? Yeah, I hate them, I feel a real, physical hatred for them, I can’t stand being near them... I went up to my mom and kissed her, I remember... To hug her and think if she only knew... should I tell her? Maybe I will..."

She has to be the same as I am," he added, straining to think, as if battling a fever dream."

" Oh, how I hate that old woman now! I feel like I’d kill her again if she came back to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she even come in?... It’s weird though, why don’t I think about her much, like I didn’t even kill her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor, gentle souls, with gentle eyes... Dear women!"

"Why aren’t they crying? Why aren’t they moaning? They give up everything... their eyes are soft and gentle... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!"

He passed out; it was weird that he couldn't remember how he's ended up on the street. It was late, the evening shadows were deepening, and the full moon was getting brighter and brighter. But the air felt thick, almost suffocating.

The street was packed with people - workers heading home, business folks rushing by, and others just out for a stroll. There was a smell of wet cement, dust, and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, feeling down and really anxious.

He knew he's left his place with a purpose, that he had to do something fast, but he couldn't remember what it was. Suddenly, he stopped and saw a guy across the street, waving him over.

He crossed over, but the guy immediately turned and walked away with his head down, like he hadn't even signaled him.

"Hey, did he really wave me over?" Raskolnikov wondered, trying to catch up.

When he was about ten steps behind, he recognized him and felt a jolt of fear - it was the same guy with the hunched shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him from a distance; his heart was pounding. They turned a corner, and the guy still wasn’t looking back.

"Does he know I’m following him?" Raskolnikov thought.

The guy went into the gate of a huge house. Raskolnikov hurried to the gate and peeked in, hoping he’s look back and signal him. In the courtyard, the guy did turn around and seemed to wave him over again. Raskolnikov immediately followed him into the yard, but the guy was gone.

He must’s gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow, steady footsteps two floors above. The staircase felt strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moonlight shone through the glass with a sad, mysterious glow. Then he reached the second floor.

"Wait, this is the apartment where the painters were working... but why didn’t I recognize it right away?"

The footsteps above had faded.

"So, he must’s stopped or hidden somewhere."

He reached the third floor, should he keep going? There was a silence that was creepy... But he kept going. The sound of his own footsteps scared him. It was so dark! The guy must’s hiding in a corner here. Oh wow, the apartment door was standing open, he hesitated and went inside.

It was really dark and empty in the hallway, like everything had been taken away. He crept along on tiptoe into the living room, which was flooded with moonlight. Everything was the same as before - the chairs, the mirror, the yellow sofa, and the pictures in their frames.

A huge, round moon, copper-red, looked in through the windows.

"It’s the moon that makes it so still, weaving some kind of mystery," Raskolnikov thought.

He stood and waited, waited a long time, and the more silent the moonlight, the faster his heart beat, until it was painful. And still, the same quiet. Suddenly, he heard a quick, sharp crack, like a piece of wood snapping, and then it was quiet again.

A fly buzzed up suddenly and hit the window with a sad little sound. At that moment, he noticed something hanging on the wall, in the corner between the window and the small closet - a cloak.

"Why is that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn’t there before..."

He crept up to it quietly and felt like someone was hiding behind it. He carefully pulled back the cloak and saw an old woman sitting in a chair in the corner. She was hunched over so he couldn’t see her face, but it was her. He stood over her.

"She’s freaked out," he thought.

He quietly took the axe from the rope and swung it at her - one blow, then another on her skull. But weirdly, she didn’t move, like she was made of wood. He was totally creeped out, leaned in closer and tried to see her face, but she just ducked her head lower.

He bent right down to the ground and peeked up at her face from below. He peeked, and suddenly felt ice-cold with terror: the old woman was sitting there, laughing. She was shaking with silent laughter, trying her hardest for him not to hear it.

Suddenly, he thought he heard the bedroom door open a crack, and there was laughter and whispering inside. He lost it and started hacking at the old woman's head with all his strength.

But with every swing of the axe, the laughter and whispering from the bedroom got louder, and the old woman was just shaking with amusement. He tried to bolt, but the hallway was packed with people.

The doors to the apartments were open, and on the landing, on the stairs, and everywhere below, there were people - rows of heads, all staring, but huddled together in silence and anticipation. Something squeezed his heart, his legs were frozen, they wouldn’t budge... He tried to scream and woke up.

He took a deep breath - but his dream felt super weird, like it was still happening. Suddenly, his door burst open, and a dude he's never seen before stood there, totally staring at him.

Raskolnikov barely opened his eyes and instantly slammed them shut again. He lay on his back, not moving a muscle.

"Is this still a dream?" he wondered, and slowly, almost without realizing it, lifted his eyelids again.

The stranger was still standing there, still watching.

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door behind him, walked over to the table, paused for a sec, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and quietly sat down in the chair by the sofa.

He tossed his hat on the floor next to him and rested his hands on his cane, chin in his hands. It was clear he was ready to wait forever. As far as Raskolnikov could tell from quick glances, he was a guy who wasn’t exactly young anymore - stout, with a full, light-colored, almost white beard.

Ten minutes passed. It was still light out, but starting to get dark. The room was totally silent. Not a peep came from the stairs. Just a big fly buzzing and fluttering against the window. It was seriously unbearable. Raskolnikov suddenly jumped up and plopped down on the sofa.

"Alright, spill it. What do you want?"

"I knew you weren’t asleep, just faking it," the stranger replied, kind of strange, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov - allow me to introduce myself..."