"It's all right," Polya said, a little surprised. "Just not very interesting."
The nameless man looked at him steadily, as if he really wanted to know. Even in this setting, his attention was sharp enough to be uncomfortable.
He decided to answer the last question first, as it was the easiest.
"It was a good opportunity. My parents were gone by then, and someone had to support my grandmother and little sister...."
Rakitin stopped, and shook his head. In the man's quiet gaze, anything less than full honesty fell flat.
"No, that's not it. That is, it is-- but not completely. Really, it's- Think of it this way."
He leaned forward slightly.
"At some point, everything makes sense. Even if the world is essentially random, the way it acts out that randomness has pattern and reason. It's another kind of language, one that can't lie. Like a blood sample. Look at it normally and it's only liquid. Look at it closer, ask the right questions, and the name of the poison writes itself in its own ink, and that in itself tells you the cure."
Polya was gesturing with one hand, as though its erratic motions would make his thought processes clearer.
"A body left somewhere - it's the most anonymous thing there is, isn't it? No voice, no connection to anyone. But it can tell you all sorts of things, if you know how to look for it. Where it came from, what happened, maybe even some of why. The victim of the simplest and least premeditated violence can lead right back to the perpetrator."
In the back of Rakitin's mind as he spoke, the past played, like an old film strip accidentally left in the projector.
He'd never known what it was that gave him away. His face, his voice, the way he held his hands as he told Lyova why Kira had come to visit him and he had come back alone. All shock and sympathy until Ippolit reported that the murderer had been found and sentenced on the strength of evidence recovered from the remains. Then the horror, slow and inexorable as flame licking along a piece of paper, transforming his old friend's face into a stranger's. "You did it. You sick little fuck. You took her apart yourself."
All the things that Ippolit knew were true, about funeral rites, and how it wouldn't be right to leave it to someone else, withered at the revulsion and discovery in the once familiar voice.
Rakitin paused, letting reality restore itself to full magnitude. He smiled ruefully.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-10-29 07:29 am (UTC)The nameless man looked at him steadily, as if he really wanted to know. Even in this setting, his attention was sharp enough to be uncomfortable.
He decided to answer the last question first, as it was the easiest.
"It was a good opportunity. My parents were gone by then, and someone had to support my grandmother and little sister...."
Rakitin stopped, and shook his head. In the man's quiet gaze, anything less than full honesty fell flat.
"No, that's not it. That is, it is-- but not completely. Really, it's- Think of it this way."
He leaned forward slightly.
"At some point, everything makes sense. Even if the world is essentially random, the way it acts out that randomness has pattern and reason. It's another kind of language, one that can't lie. Like a blood sample. Look at it normally and it's only liquid. Look at it closer, ask the right questions, and the name of the poison writes itself in its own ink, and that in itself tells you the cure."
Polya was gesturing with one hand, as though its erratic motions would make his thought processes clearer.
"A body left somewhere - it's the most anonymous thing there is, isn't it? No voice, no connection to anyone. But it can tell you all sorts of things, if you know how to look for it. Where it came from, what happened, maybe even some of why. The victim of the simplest and least premeditated violence can lead right back to the perpetrator."
In the back of Rakitin's mind as he spoke, the past played, like an old film strip accidentally left in the projector.
He'd never known what it was that gave him away. His face, his voice, the way he held his hands as he told Lyova why Kira had come to visit him and he had come back alone. All shock and sympathy until Ippolit reported that the murderer had been found and sentenced on the strength of evidence recovered from the remains. Then the horror, slow and inexorable as flame licking along a piece of paper, transforming his old friend's face into a stranger's. "You did it. You sick little fuck. You took her apart yourself."
All the things that Ippolit knew were true, about funeral rites, and how it wouldn't be right to leave it to someone else, withered at the revulsion and discovery in the once familiar voice.
Rakitin paused, letting reality restore itself to full magnitude. He smiled ruefully.
"I'm not making any sense at all, am I."