A Razor Wrapped in Silk

by R. N. Morris

  ‘You will show me the sleeping quarters. Now.’

  Granny Kvasova clicked her tongue and took her time. She led Virginsky through a door in the side wall of the canteen, directly into a dormitory. The beds, such as they were, consisted of a series of long wooden platforms, subdivided by partitions. Each of the sleeping booths created by this arrangement was numbered, and furnished with a coarse grey blanket. As there was no space separating each ‘bed’ from its neighbour, the children had nowhere to put any personal belongings. Indeed, it seemed doubtful that they possessed any. Worse still, there was no space for them to simply be. No chairs to sit in. No floor to play on. The room was severely purposed. You came into it, found your booth, and fell into it to sleep the sleep of the physically exhausted.

  It was cold but airless. The accumulated smells of humanity, or their ghosts, stirred resentfully at this unwonted daytime intrusion.

  ‘Which was Mitka’s bed?’

  ‘What difference does it make? Someone else has it now.’

  ‘He has been replaced?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Even so, show me where he slept.’

  Granny Kvasova approached one of the booths and bowed grimly at it. Virginsky rubbed his chin as he contemplated the empty space. In truth, he did not know what he was looking for. He wondered what Porfiry Petrovich would do, without reaching any definite conclusion. He realised he had only insisted on seeing the bed because he had been goaded by the old woman’s obstructiveness.

  He tried to imagine Mitka curled up on the bed. Of course, he had no idea what Mitka looked like. Instead, an image of Pasha, the boy he had spoken to that morning, flashed momentarily before him.

  ‘Are all the children who live here orphans?’

  ‘Yes, we get them from the Foundling Hospital.’

  The woman spoke of them as if they were a commodity, just another raw material to be processed in the factory.

  ‘What kind of a life is this for children?’

  ‘It’s not so bad. It keeps them out of trouble. How would they live if they were not here? Ask yourself that. By thieving and whoring, you can be sure.’

  ‘Not if they were educated.’

  ‘Educated! A lot of good it did Mitka!’

  ‘Why do you say that? Do you know what became of him? And no more of your scandalous lies, madam.’

  ‘Dead in a ditch, I shouldn’t wonder. That boy doesn’t have the sense to keep himself from falling in the canal. He wouldn’t survive a day outside here.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps he preferred one day of freedom to a lifetime of this.’

  ‘If that’s what her school taught him then it did him no favours.’

  Virginsky continued to stare at the tiny space allocated to Mitka to sleep in. Even the boy’s dreams, it seemed, had been confined and restricted.

  ‘Have you seen enough?’ squealed Granny Kvasova. ‘Do you know where to find him now?’ she added sarcastically.

  Virginsky shook his head. ‘At least I know what he ran from.’

  17

  The beggar’s song

  The following day a sluggish grey fog hung deliberately in the air, as if generated by the city to impede his investigation. Virginsky kept his head bowed as he burrowed into it. The moisture took possession of the urban spaces, forcing the human inhabitants off the streets. It brought with it a sense of spreading hopelessness. The squares and broader avenues were desolate because of it.

  He began with the hospitals. There were three children’s hospitals in St Petersburg, the Elizaveta, the Nikolai and the recently completed Prince of Oldenburg’s. The Nikolai was the closest to the bureau, with the Elizaveta about one and a half versts further on along the Fontanka, on the opposite side of the river. Midway between those was the Alexander Municipal Hospital, at which he also made enquiries. The Prince of Oldenburg’s Hospital was a long trudge east, on Ligovsky Prospekt in the Liteynaya District, at the far end of Nevsky Prospekt.

  None of the hospitals he visited had any record of admitting a boy called Dmitri Krasotkin, or any child of Mitka’s age or description, on or around the estimated date of Mitka’s disappearance.

  Virginsky stood on the top step at the entrance to the Prince of Oldenburg’s Hospital, somehow built as a neo-classical palace; its architect had obviously been more intent on asserting his patron’s nobility than serving the function of the building. But the pungent chemical smell that still lingered in Virginsky’s nostrils suggested that its doctors were familiar with the latest developments in surgical cleanliness.

  The fog was as impenetrable as a gauze bandage around his eyes.

  As so often with Virginsky, his emotions expressed themselves in thoughts of a vaguely political cast. His frustration led him to conclude that the very names of the hospitals served to remind the sick how much they owed to their imperial and aristocratic benefactors; so that the practice of philanthropy was seen to be just another weapon in the armoury of oppression. Medical care was in the gift of the autocrat and his friends. And instead of justified rage, this stirred a craven gratitude.

  He had learnt to keep such thoughts to himself. But now, as the cold fog smothered him in its obscurity, he felt emboldened to cry out: ‘Sweep them all away!’ He accompanied the cry with an appropriate sweep of his arm, unseen by anyone but himself. Almost immediately, after only a single pulse of numb silence, the low rumbling throb of male laughter came back at him. Virginsky felt his face flush, even though there was no reason to assume the laughter had been directed at him.

  He strained to listen and peered into the soft grey fuzz that filled the air. The laughter gave way to singing, or rather a tuneless baritone drone: ‘Save your soul. Give alms to save your soul. Pity a poor sightless sinner. I’ll pray for your soul if you give me a crust. If you haven’t a crust, I’ll settle for a kopek. If you haven’t a kopek, I’ll settle for a rouble. If you have no rouble, gold will do. Give alms to save your soul.’

  At first, the voice was right beside him, as though the singer was chanting the words directly into his ear. But he realised that that was just a trick of the fog. The beggar was ahead of him, below, on the street.

  With every step down he had the sense that he was stepping off the edge of a cliff into nothing.

  ‘I lost my sight in the service of the Tsar. God save the Tsar! God save his soul. I pray for the souls of all who give alms. Heaven awaits those who give alms.’

  As Virginsky moved towards the voice, he saw a soft white figure through the drifting mist. As he approached, the details of the man’s appearance became clearer. He was dressed, Virginsky realised with a flash of astonishment, in a white tunic, half of a Guards officer’s dress uniform. The tunic was grubby now; even so, Virginsky saw the rust-coloured stains, now muted by the layers of filth over them. Virginsky looked into the man’s face. It too was filthy, but for all that, it was a surprisingly handsome face, or once had been: the remnants of his looks were being swallowed up by the bloated effects of dissolution. He could have been aged anywhere between forty and sixty. His hair was long and matted. His eyes oscillated wildly in their sockets, searching desperately for a point of focus in their darkness.

  ‘You there!’ Virginsky held out an arm to catch hold of the man as he ran towards him. He could have sworn the beggar looked straight at him. His eyes were strangely compelling – enough so to give Virginsky pause as he closed in on him. In that moment, the beggar turned on his heels and broke into a run. Virginsky’s hand grasped the mist.

  Virginsky gave chase. He kept his eyes fixed on the tunic, which appeared strangely insubstantial. It flickered in and out of focus, subject to the shifting density of the fog. As Virginsky closed the gap between them, the tunic gained solidity, almost within his grasp now. The other man seemed to stumble. Then suddenly the flash of white flew up into the fog-filled air, like a kite snapped up on the wind. For an instant, Virginsky half-believed the beggar had taken wing. He came to a halt and craned his head. Something
white plummeted out of the infinite greyness, as if regurgitated. It fell flat onto the pavement, a sprawl of fabric.

  Virginsky bent down to retrieve the discarded officer’s tunic.

  18

  The fourth Robert

  Prince Naryskin surveyed the interior of the bank with a proprietorial gaze. He nodded approvingly at the artworks hung on the walls. A huge canvas depicting classical ruins in a romantic landscape caught his eye, provoking an onset of aesthetic salivation. He recognised it as the work of Hubert Robert, and believed it would go well with three similar paintings by the same artist in his possession (albeit purchased with money he had borrowed from this very bank). The painting before him showed the skeletal structure of a dilapidated amphitheatre, golden in the light of a dying sun. The few isolated human figures were dwarfed by the great stone remains, which stood to remind them of the vanity of human ambition. It answered his soul’s craving for an irrevocable solitude. Sometimes he believed that it was only the presence of other people, with their inconvenient desires and clamorous demands, that prevented him from being happy.

  At any rate, the room was so in keeping with his taste that it seemed almost to be an annexe to his palace on the Fontanka.

  Perhaps his satisfaction was premature, as he had not yet signed the papers that would make him a director of the bank, adding the name Naryskin to those of Bakhmutov and von Lembke. He made a mental note: it would be better for all if it simply became known as the Naryskin Bank. What was the point of bringing in a genuine Russian aristocrat if they did not then exploit the association to the full? However, it was certainly a more pleasant sensation to enter the bank as a prospective director rather than in the humiliating position of a spendthrift in need of funds.

  Prince Naryskin looked with less approval on the pink-cheeked young man approaching him with a fawning smile. He recognised him as the one on whom Bakhmutov had attempted to settle Yelena. It struck him as an insult that Bakhmutov had sent this individual to greet him; but then again, Bakhmutov’s own person was hardly more pleasing to him.

  ‘Your Excellency, Ivan Iakovich and Baron von Lembke await you in the boardroom. May I take your hat and coat?’

  Prince Naryskin did not deign to look at the young man. He handed over his beaver and allowed his velvet top-coat, trimmed with a sable collar, to be peeled from him without any acknowledgement of the courtesy.

  ‘This way, Your Excellency.’

  *

  Prince Naryskin was gratified by the alacrity with which Bakhmutov and von Lembke rose to their feet. The German was puffing on a fat cigar. His eyes narrowed greedily as he took in the prince. An unexpectedly tiny pink tongue lapped out to moisten his lips.

  Bakhmutov’s posture was more relaxed, though affectedly so. He gave the impression that his suavity was something he could turn on, or off, at will.

  ‘My friend!’ Though seemingly casual, and warmly welcoming, his choice of greeting was deliberate and pointed, reminding the prince of Bakhmutov’s claims over him. To reinforce this he pulled the prince to him in a prolonged embrace, which von Lembke ogled with a sly grin. Prince Naryskin shuddered as he was held by the banker. The venal toady who had greeted him was bad enough, but to be pawed and petted by this Jew, while the fat German licked his lips as if he were a particularly tasty morsel of bratwurst, was more than he could endure. He would make them pay, that was for sure.

  Released from Bakhmutov’s grip, Prince Naryskin’s agitation was eased by the sight of a bottle of champagne cooling over ice. Next to it, three crystal flutes had been placed in readiness on a silver tray.

  Bakhmutov followed the direction of his gaze. ‘This is a great day.’ He nodded to a waiting lackey. ‘We must celebrate.’

  The lackey stepped forward, his white-gloved hands grappling with the wire around the neck of the bottle.

  Prince Naryskin felt an intense craving for the champagne. Even so, he had the presence of mind to object: ‘But we have yet to iron out the details of our arrangement. Perhaps we should postpone the celebrations until everything is agreed to our mutual satisfaction. The devil is in the detail, they say.’ His smile snapped into place as he fixed Bakhmutov with a challenging look.

  However, the champagne cork popped, and the lackey hastened to catch the foaming spillage in the first of the flutes.

  ‘Prince is right,’ barked von Lembke, with his characteristic terseness. ‘Detail first.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Bakhmutov impatiently. ‘However, I am confident we will be able to arrange things in a way that we all will find highly satisfactory. Let us first drink a toast.’ He took his glass from the salver and waited for the others to do the same. ‘To Prince Nikolai Naryskin, and the great family of Naryskin of which he is the wise and noble head.’

  Although they were meant to flatter, Prince Naryskin found the words strangely offensive: impertinent, in fact, coming from Bakhmutov’s mouth. ‘That’s all very well,’ said the prince, nevertheless sipping his wine. ‘But I have some demands.’

  ‘Demands! My friend!’ Bakhmutov beamed, as though in making demands Prince Naryskin was paying him the warmest compliment. ‘There is no need to make demands of your friends, when you know that your friends will freely give you everything you desire.’ Bakhmutov gestured expansively around him with his free hand. ‘This will be yours, all this, your bank, as much as it is ours. How do you like it?’

  ‘It will serve.’

  Bakhmutov chortled as if the prince had uttered a great witticism. ‘And the paintings! Did you notice the paintings?’

  ‘I did. One in particular … a landscape by Robert.’

  ‘I know the one. It is yours! We will have it packed up and taken round to Naryskin Palace this very day. A small token of our measureless esteem.’

  ‘A gift? There will be no strings attached?’

  ‘Merely your signature on the titles we have drawn up.’ Bakhmutov indicated some papers on the boardroom table.

  ‘It will certainly go well with the three other works by the same artist that I own already.’ But the thought of his Robert collection reminded the prince of less pleasant considerations. ‘What of the outstanding debt I owe to the bank? What will become of that?’

  ‘Well, once you are director, it could be said to be a debt you owe to yourself,’ said Bakhmutov cheerfully. ‘Which is an interesting position to be in.’

  ‘Could it not be cancelled?’

  ‘That is precisely the kind of bold and innovative thinking that we will value once you are signed in as a director,’ said Bakhmutov enthusiastically. More cautiously he added: ‘It is certainly a possibility. However, as I am sure you will understand, it is something that will have to be put to the board. But as the board consists in us, your friends, I can foresee little to prevent you achieving the outcome you desire.’

  ‘You would do that for me?’

  ‘Why should we not? For I feel sure that you would do the same for us, your friends.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the prince, suspiciously.

  ‘In fact, it would be truer to say that you would be doing it for yourself, because as a director of the bank, whatever is in the bank’s interest is in your interest too.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  Bakhmutov met Prince Naryskin’s darkly anxious enquiry with a deflective smile. ‘Why discuss it now? This is a celebration. The appropriate time to go into these matters fully will be at the next board meeting. I hope and trust we will have the honour of your attendance.’

  Prince Naryskin downed the rest of his champagne. He was not used to drinking in the morning. Something shifted within his perception of the room, a slight swimming of reality. His unease began to lift. He felt the situation simplifying. ‘I could have the Robert? It could be hanging in the palace today?’ Suddenly it seemed as though that was all that mattered.

  *

  ‘And what if he finds out it is a fake?’ demanded von Lembke as he and Bakhmutov crossed the foy
er of the bank, having seen a decidedly tipsy Prince Naryskin into his carriage. As the painting in question was being lifted from the wall, Bakhmutov paused to study it with a smile of deep satisfaction. He gave no indication of having heard his partner’s question.

  19

  The colours of blood

  Dr Pervoyedov stood back from the bench, his gaze fixed on the spectroscopic eyepiece attached to his microscope. A curved brass arm clasped a small circular mirror, as though holding it up for examination. It gave the eyepiece an air of raffish inquisitiveness, which was enhanced by a metal kiss-curl at the top of the instrument’s rectangular face. Dr Pervoyedov smiled to himself at the ingenuity of the device. The mirror, and the slit towards which it was directed, allowed a spectrum of natural light to be viewed by the observer alongside the spectrum created by the sample to be inspected, so that any significant discrepancies would be more easily detected.

  Outside, the first snow of the season was struggling to distinguish itself in a murky fall of sleet. The natural light in the pathology laboratory of the Obukhovsky Hospital was meagre. To compensate, Dr Pervoyedov had placed a kerosene lamp before a parabolic reflector, to direct light down towards the stage of the microscope.

  The material taken from the mirror had dissolved in cold distilled water, which did not rule out its being blood. The scrapings had been brown, consistent with oxidised blood, and the resultant solution had taken on a pale pink colour, the freshness of which again suggested blood. Residues of brown oil-based paint, for example, or dye, would not have reacted in that way. A drop of this solution was now between glass slides held by the frame of the microscope.

  Squinting one eye closed, Dr Pervoyedov stooped to place the other against the brass eyepiece. His field of vision was flooded with shimmering strips of colour, contained within an infinite vault of black. There was always something miraculous in the moment when the truth of a theory was revealed in a startling, living experience. White light is made up of all the colours of the spectrum: his mind had always been capable of grasping that fact. But now his soul was bathing in it. He gazed into the vibrant strips of colour, each one both irrefutably bold and tantalisingly insubstantial. The colours existed somewhere he could never reach.