‘What is his name?’ Elena inquired with interest.
‘Insarov Dmitri Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian.’
‘Not a Russian?’
‘No, he is not a Russian,’
‘Why is he living in Moscow, then?’
‘He came here to study. And do you know with what aim he is studying? He has a single idea: the liberation of his country. And his story is an exceptional one. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant; he came from Tirnova. Tirnova is now a small town, but it was the capital of Bulgaria in the old days when Bulgaria was still an independent state. He traded with Sophia, and had relations with Russia; his sister, Insarov’s aunt, is still living in Kiev, married to a senior history teacher in the gymnasium there. In 1835, that is to say eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov’s mother suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she was found murdered.’
Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped.
‘Go on, go on,’ she said.
‘There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a Turkish aga; her husband, Insarov’s father, found out the truth, tried to avenge her, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with his poniard.... He was shot.’
‘Shot, and without a trial?’