Part 4 · Chapter 6

When he remembered the scene later, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.

The noise behind the door got louder, and suddenly it cracked open a bit.

"What’s going on?" Porfiry Petrovitch snapped, clearly annoyed.

"Didn't you all hear me? I gave you orders!"

For a second, there was no answer, but it was obvious there were a bunch of people at the door, pushing someone back.

"What’s going on?" Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, looking uneasy.

"They brought in Nikolay, the prisoner," someone said.

"He’s not needed! Take him away! Let him wait! What's he doing here? This is so messed up!" Porfiry yelled, rushing to the door.

"But he..." the same voice started, then stopped short.

Just two seconds, not even that, were spent in a brief struggle, then someone shoved really hard, and a man, super pale, walked into the room.

This guy looked really strange at first. He just stared straight ahead, like he couldn't see anything. There was this intense look in his eyes, but also this sickly pallor on his face, like he was being led to the gallows. His lips were twitching slightly.

He was dressed like a construction worker and was average height, really young, thin, with a buzz cut and sharp features. The guard he’s shoved followed him in and managed to grab him by the shoulder, but Nikolay yanked his arm away.

A bunch of people crowded into the doorway, peeking in. Some of them tried to squeeze in. It all happened super fast.

"Back off, it's too soon! Wait to be called for!... Why did you bring him here so fast?" Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, totally frustrated and thrown off.

But Nikolay suddenly dropped to his knees.

"What’s happening?" Porfiry asked, surprised.

"I’m guilty! I did it! I’m the murderer," Nikolay blurted out suddenly, a little breathless, but speaking loudly.

There was total silence for ten seconds, like everyone had been frozen; even the guard stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood still.

"What’s going on?" Porfiry Petrovitch asked, shaking off his shock.

"I... am the murderer," Nikolay repeated after a brief pause.

"What... you... what... who did you kill?"

Porfiry Petrovitch seemed totally confused.

Nikolay was silent for a moment again.

"Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I... killed... with an axe. Everything went dark," he added suddenly, then fell silent.

He was still on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood there for a few moments, like he was thinking things over, but then he snapped to attention and waved away the nosy onlookers. They instantly disappeared and closed the door.

Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved toward him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seemed unable to hold back, darted at the latter.

"You’re rushing things," he shouted, almost angrily. "I didn’t ask you what went wrong... Speak, did you kill them?"

"I’m the murderer... I want to give a statement," Nikolay said.

"Ach! What did you kill them with?"

"An axe. I had it ready."

"Ach, he’s in a hurry! Alone?"

Nikolay didn’t understand the question.

"Did you do it alone?"

"Yeah, alone. And Mitka’s not guilty and had nothing to do with it."

"Don’t hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters saw you both!"

"It was to throw them off the trail... I ran after Mitka," Nikolay replied quickly, like he’s rehearsed the answer.

"I knew it!" Porfiry exclaimed, frustrated. "He’s not telling his own story," he muttered to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.

He seemed totally caught up in Nikolay, and for a second, he’d totally forgotten about Raskolnikov. He was a little thrown off.

"My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!" he rushed up to him, "this isn’t gonna work; I’m worried you have to go... it’s no good you sticking around... what a surprise!... Bye!"

And grabbing him by the arm, he showed him to the door.

"You weren’t expecting this, right?" said Raskolnikov, who, though he hadn’t fully gotten what was happening, had found his nerve again.

"You weren’t expecting it either, my friend. Look how your hand’s shaking! He-he!"

"You’re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!"

"Yeah, I am; I didn’t expect it."

They were already at the door; Porfiry was eager for Raskolnikov to be gone.

"And your little surprise, aren’t you gonna show it to me?" Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.

"Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You’re a sarcastic dude! Come on, until we meet again!"

"I think we can say good-bye!"

"That’s in God’s hands," Porfiry muttered, with a weird smile.

As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed a bunch of people staring at him. He saw the two guys who worked as porters from his building, whom he’s invited to the police station that night. They were standing there waiting.

But no sooner was he on the stairs than he heard Porfiry Petrovitch’s voice behind him. Turning around, he saw the latter running after him, totally winded.

"One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as for everything else, it’s in God’s hands, but as a formality, there are a few questions I need to ask you... so we’ll meet again, right?"

And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.

"Right?" he added again.

He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but couldn't get it out.

"You gotta forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what just happened... I lost it," began Raskolnikov, who had regained so much courage that he felt the need to act cool.

"Don’t mention it, don’t mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a bad temper, I admit it! But we’ll meet again. If it’s God’s will, we might see a lot of each other."

"And get to know each other inside and out?" added Raskolnikov.

"Yeah; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he squinted his eyes, looking intently at Raskolnikov.

"Are you going to a birthday party?"

"To a funeral."

"Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get better."

"I don’t know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had started to go down the stairs, but looked back again. "I’d like to wish you success, but your job is kind of a joke."

"Why a joke?"

Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to perk up at this.

"Why, how you must have been messing with Nikolay psychologically, after your own way, until he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he’s confessed, you’ll start picking him apart again. ‘You’re lying,’ you’ll say."

"‘You’re not the murderer! You can’t be! It’s not your own story you’re telling!’ It’s a wild situation!"

"He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it wasn’t his own story he was telling?"

"How could I help noticing it!"

"He-he! You’re quick-witted. You notice everything! You’ve really a playful mind! He-he! They say that was Gogol’s thing, among the writers."

"Yeah, of Gogol."

"Yeah, of Gogol... I’m looking forward to seeing you."

"Me too." Raskolnikov headed straight home.

He was totally spaced out and confused, so when he got there, he just plopped onto the couch for a good fifteen minutes, trying to get his head straight. He didn’t even want to think about Nikolay; he was just stunned.

He felt like Nikolay’s confession was something crazy, unbelievable - way beyond his understanding. But Nikolay did confess. And that meant trouble - serious trouble. They’d be after him again soon, he knew it.

Until then, though, he was free, and he needed to do something, because danger was right around the corner.

But how close was that danger? His situation started to become clear. Remembering the main points of his recent conversation with Porfiry, he shuddered with dread. Of course, he didn’t know all of Porfiry’s plans, couldn't see into his head.

But Porfiry had already shown his hand a bit, and Raskolnikov knew better than anyone how bad Porfiry’s moves had been for him. He’d almost spilled the beans completely, revealed everything. Porfiry, with his sharp eyes and understanding of people, was playing a risky game, but he was bound to win.

Raskolnikov had definitely messed up, but nothing concrete had come out yet. But was he seeing things clearly? Was he wrong about something? What was Porfiry trying to get at? Did he have a surprise waiting for him? And what was it? Was he expecting something or not?

How would things have gone if Nikolay hadn’t shown up so unexpectedly?

Porfiry had laid out almost all his cards - risking something by showing them, for sure - and if he really had something up his sleeve (Raskolnikov thought), he would have shown that too. What was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Did it mean anything?

Could it be hiding a fact, a piece of solid evidence? What about his visitor from yesterday? What happened to him? Where was he today? If Porfiry had any evidence, it had to be connected to him...

He sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in his hands. He was still shaking nervously. Finally, he got up, grabbed his cap, thought for a minute, and headed for the door.

He had a feeling that, at least for today, he might be safe. He felt a sudden surge of almost-joy; he wanted to rush to Katerina Ivanovna’s. He’d miss the funeral, of course, but he’d be in time for the memorial dinner, and there he’d see Sonia.

He paused, thought for a moment, and a sad smile flickered across his lips.

"Today! Today," he repeated to himself.

"Yeah, today! It has to be..."

But as he was about to open the door, it started opening on its own. He jumped back, startled. The door opened gently and slowly, and suddenly, there was a figure standing there - yesterday’s visitor from downstairs.

The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without saying a word, and took a step forward into the room. He looked exactly the same as yesterday - same look, same clothes, but his face had changed a lot; he looked totally defeated and sighed deeply.

If he’s just put his hand up to his cheek and tilted his head a bit, he’s look exactly like a peasant woman.

"What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, frozen with terror.

The man stayed silent, but suddenly he bowed almost to the ground, touching it with his finger.

"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.

"I’ve done wrong," the man said softly.

"How?"

"With my thoughts."

They stared at each other.

"I was seriously stressed. When you showed up, maybe you'd been drinking, and told the guys to go to the police station and asked about the blood, I was so annoyed they let you go and just thought you were drunk. I was so stressed I couldn't sleep."

"And remembering the address we came to yesterday and asked for you..."

"Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly trying to remember.

"I did. I messed up."

"So you’re from that house?"

"I was standing at the gate with them... don’t you remember? We’ve been doing business at that house for years. We tan and prepare hides, we take work home... I was really stressed, though..."

And the whole scene from the day before at the gate flashed clearly in Raskolnikov’s mind; he remembered there had been several people there besides the guys, including women. He remembered one voice suggested taking him straight to the police station.

He couldn’t remember the person’s face, and even now he didn’t recognize it, but he remembered he’s turned around and given them some kind of answer...

So, this was the solution to yesterday’s mess. The craziest part was that he’d almost lost it, had almost completely messed himself up over something so small. This guy could only talk about asking about the apartment and the bloodstains.

So Porfiry, too, had nothing but that crazy delusion, no facts but this psychology that could go either way, nothing concrete. So if no more facts come to light (and they can’t, they absolutely can’t!), then... then what can they do to him? How can they even convict him, even if they arrest him?

And Porfiry hadn’t even heard about the apartment until just now.

"Was it you who told Porfiry... that I’d been there?" he cried.

Then he was hit by a sudden thought. "What Porfiry?"

"The head of the detective squad?"

"Yeah. The guys didn’t go there, but I did."

"Today?" "Yes, I got there two minutes before you. "

"And I heard, I heard it all, how he was freaking out about you."

"Where? What? When?"

"Right next door. I was sitting in there the whole time."

"What? Seriously? Then you were the surprise? But how did that happen? No way!"

"I saw that the guys didn’t want to do what I asked," the man began; "it’s too late, they said, and maybe he’ll be mad we didn’t come at the right time. I was really stressed and I lost sleep, and I started asking around. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went today."

The first time I went he wasn’t there, when I came an hour later he couldn’t see me. I went a third time, and they let me in. I told him everything, just as it happened, and he started pacing around the room and punching himself on the chest. ‘What do you guys mean by it?

If I’d known about it, I would have arrested him!’ Then he ran out, called someone and started talking to them in the corner, then he turned to me, scolding and questioning me.

He scolded me a lot; and I told him everything, and I told him that you didn’t dare to say a word in response to me yesterday and that you didn’t recognize me.

And he started pacing around again and kept hitting himself on the chest, getting angry and running around, and when you were announced he told me to go into the next room. ‘Sit there a bit,’ he said. ‘Don’t move, whatever you hear. And he put a chair there for me and locked me in.

"‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘I might call you.’ And when Nikolay’d been brought in, he let me out as soon as you were gone. ‘I’ll call you again and question you,’ he said."

"And did he question Nikolay while you were there?"

"He got rid of me just like he did you, before he talked to Nikolay."

The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed, touching the ground with his finger.

"Forgive me for my bad thoughts, and my lies."

"May God forgive you," answered Raskolnikov.

And as he said this, the man bowed again, but not to the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room.

"It’s a double-edged sword, seriously," Raskolnikov mumbled, and he headed out feeling way more sure of himself.

"Alright, let’s go for it," he said, flashing a wicked grin as he walked down the stairs.

It wasn't about anyone else - he was totally roasting himself, remembering how he'd been a total scaredy-cat.