City of Ghosts by Ben Creed (most important books of all time txt) 📕

no idea, then, what happened to make such a devout man turn away from his God?’

The old priest shook his head. As he did so, the straggly piece of beard he had tried to smooth earlier popped out from his head and became crooked again.

‘No, but we came to believe that Father Tikhon had purposefully cultivated the mould we found on the consecrated Eucharist.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Why?’ The archimandrite’s eyes grew misty but what they saw was hidden by the flames of the candles.

‘I do not know why. But for some reason known only to himself, he began to first corrupt the body of our blessed Lord and then consume it alone, in secret, as he declaimed his perverse prayer. May God have mercy upon his soul.’

*

Rossel’s guide, a novice, was barely out of his teens. Apart from the wispy, apologetic beard that all young priests and monks had to endure, he had pale skin, blond hair, light blue eyes and a sprinkling of pockmarking across his brow and cheeks. Archimandrite Pimen had given Rossel permission to see where Father Tikhon had lived and worked and, beyond that, any part of the monastery he cared to examine. They had no secrets, said the archimandrite. Rossel rather doubted it.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about Tikhon’s cell. Bleak, spartan and cold, like every other cell in the brothers’ living quarters. As for where he had worked, that was apparently in the field beyond the monastery walls, growing vegetables and herbs for the refectory. And all the fields were deep under snow.

The novice reached down into the pocket of his black cassock and took out a heavy bunch of iron keys. Then selected the biggest and fitted it into the large and ancient lock that opened the gatehouse door that led back outside the monastery walls.

Rossel fished into his own pocket as he waited and pulled out his cigarettes. He was trying a new type, Jubilee. He took one out and pushed it between his lips.

‘Not while you are on the monastery grounds,’ said the novice. ‘It is forbidden.’

Rossel put the cigarette back into the cardboard pack, wondering if the power of prayer and some religious observance might lead to divine inspiration. He still knew almost nothing. This Father Tikhon might well be the tattooed body on the slabs back at Vosstaniya Street, but either the archimandrite, who was clearly a practised politician, was not being truthful about checking the past lives of those who were accepted into the brotherhood, or for some reason he did not understand, no one really had bothered to find out Tikhon’s true identity. The monastic life was not for everyone and perhaps they took who they could get. Either way, time was passing quickly and the trip to Pechory had barely taken him forward. If only Father Tikhon had confessed his secret. Sanctity of the sacrament or not, he was sure the archimandrite would have revealed it to him. The Orthodox Church had been almost entirely destroyed after the revolution but Stalin had seen its potential – history, nationalism and religious fervour. Just what the troops needed. He offered an ultra-pragmatic reprieve during the war to lift morale. After that, well, the MGB had its fingers everywhere. He sensed the old monk was a practical man who knew who to call if he needed his own guidance. And what it took to keep the MGB off the monastery’s back.

The boy’s key was sticking in the lock.

‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant, sometimes it won’t turn. I will only be a moment.’

‘Did you know Father Tikhon, when he was here?’ Rossel asked.

The novice’s hands fumbled at the lock. There was a click as the key turned. He stood back, turned the iron handle, pushed at the door and it opened.

‘Yes.’

‘You knew him well?’

The novice sighed. Then nodded.

‘We even shared a cell at one point.’

Rossel was startled. Then he realised the shrewd old archimandrite had not chosen his guide at random.

‘Did you notice the tattoos on his body?’ he asked.

The boy shook his head. ‘He never undressed in front of me. He was careful about that. He usually slept fully clothed in his black cassock. The other monks thought him eccentric and would comment on his crumpled robes but, at least for a while, the archimandrite seemed to put up with it. People just thought he was a little odd but I wasn’t so sure. I think he was hiding something.’

‘Hiding what?’

‘I never found out.’

‘Did you and Father Tikhon get on?’

‘Fine, at first. He was quiet, devout, kept himself to himself.’

‘At first?’

Even in the late afternoon, even under the lowering clouds, it was lighter once they were out of the shadow of the monastery walls. The novice did not head down the road into the town of Pechory but instead followed the line of the fortifications, into a ravine. The darkness returned. He stepped behind some trees and stopped.

‘May I have a cigarette?’ he asked Rossel. ‘It is forbidden but I am still getting used to life here and, well, I pray God will forgive me in exchange for helping the militia with uncovering the truth about a truly diabolical man.’ He crossed himself three times.

‘Here.’ Rossel lit a cigarette and handed it over. The novice placed it to his lips with reverence and exhaled with bliss. Rossel wondered what else he was finding difficult to give up.

‘How long have you been a novice?’ he asked.

‘Two years.’

‘And it’s the life for you?’

The novice shook his head.

‘It’s hard,’ he said. ‘I admit it. I was studying literature at university. But I got kicked out for . . . well, never mind. So I came here. There is food, peace and the occasional drink. l keep my head down.’

‘You were going to tell me about Father Tikhon.’

The boy took another puff and nodded.

‘After he left the monastery there were stories put about that he had set up his own parish out in the forest, on the shores of Lake Chudskoye, north of here.