A Razor Wrapped in Silk pp-3 Read online

  The karet had come to a halt, signalling the termination of the discussion. The two horses shifted restively, the clop of their hooves tolling a despondent knell. Panic entered Maria Petrovna’s eyes and seized her voice, raising it a good half octave: ‘You are just like the police. You don’t care.’

  ‘I am merely trying to place myself in the position of one of these unfortunates. It is a fundamental technique of the investigator. If I were faced with a life of soul-destroying drudgery, I would do everything in my power to escape it.’

  Maria Petrovna’s voice, though still charged with passion, returned to its original pitch and firmness of tone. ‘They have. Escape for them was the school. And that is why I know something terrible has happened to them.’

  ‘Let us sincerely hope not.’

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you will do? Sincerely hope? Are you not a father yourself?’

  Porfiry gave a single slow blink. ‘No, I am not. However-’

  ‘But you were once a child?’

  Porfiry tensed a smile.

  ‘Do you not owe it to the child you once were to find out what has happened to my children?’

  ‘We will look into it. You have my assurance.’ Porfiry broke off and peered through the rain-spattered window. A single mass of heavy grey cloud seemed intent on absorbing the city with a cold and soulless greed. The building that faced him, distorted by the prisms of moisture through which he viewed it, appeared almost impossibly dilapidated. It was strangely familiar too, like the architecture of a dream. ‘What street is this?’

  ‘Stolyarny Lane,’ answered Virginsky. ‘We are back at the department.’

  4 A scene at the Naryskin Palace

  In a city of palaces, the Naryskin Palace did everything it could to assert its pre-eminence, shouldering out of the way its neighbours on the Fontanka Embankment. Built on a plot of land assigned to the first Prince Naryskin by Peter the Great, in gratitude for his services in the war against Sweden, it overlooked the river with a flamboyantly remodelled facade, a blushing pink celebration of Russian baroque.

  The evening light exploded softly over it. The day had been clear and bright, a welcome break in the sullen dampness that had squatted over the city for the past week or so. This was autumn’s other face, golden-hued and expansive, but all too briefly seen. The falling leaves had a brittle-edged crispness. There was a crunch, rather than a squelch, underfoot. But it felt like remission. To be shown their glittering city for a day only reminded the citizens of St Petersburg of what they were soon to lose, irretrievably, under the dark, endless months to come. They were days away from the first snows, and they knew it.

  Maria Petrovna gazed up at the stone figures on the facade with some sympathy, seeing in their abashed poses a symbolic representation of her own uneasy relationship with the houses of the rich: that of the attached outsider. This was, after all, the world she came from, although the opulence and scale of the Naryskin residence far outstripped that of her own or any other noble family’s home.

  But the Naryskin Palace was not so much a place to live as a declaration of self-importance. Ostentation was the guiding aesthetic, even in the private apartments, as if the Naryskins themselves were the ones who most needed reminding of their own wealth and status.

  The rooms of the palace were rescued from an intimidating marble coldness by the crowds of portraits and busts purchased from the capitals of Europe at great expense. It was in the same spirit perhaps, to preserve his home from a devastating emptiness, that the current head of the family, Prince Nikolai Naryskin, occasionally threw open his doors, if not to the public, then to that section of the city’s populace that is usually termed ‘society’. It did not inconvenience him to do so. The palace had been planned to accommodate such gatherings. It housed a respectable concert hall, a grand ballroom, and even a theatre, which, though rather more intimate in scale, was nonetheless lavishly decorated.

  Prince Naryskin was known to be an enthusiastic patron of the arts, as well as a generous supporter of a number of charitable causes. This evening it pleased him to host a gala of literary, dramatic and musical entertainments, to be held in the theatre, for the benefit of Maria Petrovna’s school. It’s true that there were some amongst his circle of acquaintances who questioned the worthiness of such a cause. The argument had been advanced that the inevitable result of educating the poor could only be increased criminality and unrest. A large attendance was therefore not expected, despite the considerable attractions: students from the St Petersburg Conservatoire were to perform a series of interludes devised by their young professor of composition; a number of celebrated authors were to read from their works; and, as a climax to the evening, the distinguished literary gentleman Prince Makar Alexeevich Bykov, recently returned from a prolonged stay in Switzerland, was staging scenes from his play The Vanished Lover. The theatrical performance was to be given added interest by the participation of Yelena Filippovna Polenova, whose engagement to Prince Naryskin’s son Sergei had recently been announced.

  So far, the only people gathered in the entrance hall seemed to be those taking part in the proceedings, to judge from the nervous expectancy turned upon Maria Petrovna as she entered. Almost immediately, something like disappointment transmitted itself through the assembly, leaving Maria feeling both aggrieved and at fault. But then she remembered that a highly important personage was rumoured to be attending. The Tsarevich himself had intimated in a letter to Prince Naryskin that he would find time to support the benefit, despite the fact that the cause of educating the masses could not be said to be close to his heart. His interest in the evening remained a mystery, though it was by no means certain that he would put in an appearance.

  The atrium was the full height of the palace. A wide marble staircase, transposed from an Italian villa, swept away through a theatrical arch, upwards towards a highly ornate neo-classical ceiling. Most of those milling there appeared cowed by the grandeur of their surroundings, or perhaps by the imminent arrival of the distinguished spectator.

  The one exception was the individual Maria recognised as Yelena Filippovna Polenova.

  Maria was shocked by the quickening of her own heart. It was seven years since she had seen Yelena and they had not parted on the best of terms. Maria could not claim that she was unprepared for this encounter: she had seen the programme in advance and noted the part of her former school friend. However, the idea of someone in the abstract is far more manageable than their presence in the same room.

  She cast around for Apollon Mikhailovich. She was in the habit of referring to him as her rock. Perhaps she said it too often for it to seem quite sincere, and her mentor’s smiles of self-deprecation had recently become tinged with embarrassment, as if he believed himself unworthy of the compliment. Apollon Mikhailovich never could stand flattery, or deception of any kind. When he had been their teacher at the Smolny, he had laid great emphasis on the distinction between deference and fawning. Genuine respect, he had argued, not only allowed honesty, it demanded it. He taught them that they should never be afraid to tell the truth to anyone, no matter how unpalatable the truth to be imparted. Given that he was addressing a classroom of girls, some of whom might reasonably expect one day to be married to — or if not, mistresses of — the most powerful men in the empire, the lesson was not without point. And of course, he taught by example: the respect he afforded them as young gentlewomen was characterised by a candour that was never brutal or spiteful, but neither was it compromised by self-seeking. He taught them the meaning of integrity, and the fact that he deemed them worthy of the lesson awoke in many of them, Maria Petrovna included, the first stirrings of social, and even political, consciousness.

  Such was the man she sought out now, but without success. Perhaps he was there, she couldn’t say. Her eyes only saw one person now: Yelena Filippovna.

  In anticipation of this meeting, she had practised a few polite words thanking Yelena for her involvement in the evening. Perhaps she also imag
ined a brief kiss and the warm embrace of friendship renewed. Strangely, however, none of the words she had put into Yelena’s mouth quite rang true, so that there was a stilted falsity to the projected exchange. She now realised that the point about Yelena was that she would always say and do the very thing that no one could anticipate. The realisation provoked a fluttering dread in Maria’s stomach.

  The cruellest imaginable thing that Yelena could do now, and therefore surely the most likely, would be to pretend not to remember Maria. Was it really possible that Yelena could bear a grudge after so many years? It little mattered that the grudge was not hers to bear. Yelena had always had a talent for putting others in the wrong. Knowing this somehow gave Maria the courage to face Yelena, and to bear with equanimity whatever construction she might place upon the past.

  But before she could approach her, another young woman whose face was familiar to Maria interposed herself between them.

  ‘I know you,’ said the young woman. ‘You’re Maria Petrovna. You used to be Yelena’s friend.’

  Maria was slightly thrown by the abruptness of her manner. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  ‘Of course I do …’

  ‘Nobody remembers me. People only remember her. You didn’t even see me when you came in, did you?’ She made her self-deprecating remarks with a forced levity that did nothing to conceal her bitterness. ‘You saw only her.’ The girl who was speaking was handsome enough. The deep ultramarine silk of her gown complimented her pale complexion, though the fashionably tight-fitting dress did not sit altogether happily on her. She seemed to regret the boldness that had led her to choose such a plunging neckline, which left her pale shoulders and much of her bosom exposed. The usual adjectives of feminine attractiveness — such as pretty, charming — somehow did not apply to her. Her expression was not quite harsh, but it was sharpened by something that could have been hostility — or simply unhappiness.

  ‘But I do remember you, Aglaia Filippovna,’ insisted Maria.

  Aglaia Filippovna smiled begrudgingly before narrowing her eyes in suspicion. She formed her mouth to speak but let it go.

  The entrance hall was filling up. The performers began to relax, gratified to see their audience build. As they welcomed friends, the collective mood was transformed to one of excited volubility.

  ‘Will you be taking part in the evening’s entertainments?’ asked Maria.

  ‘I leave that to others.’

  ‘It is very good of you to show your support, at any rate.’

  ‘I hope that it will not be unduly tedious. Prince Bykov is rather too earnest to be amusing.’

  ‘I believe his play, in which your sister has the leading part, addresses the woman question, as well as other important issues of the moment.’

  Aglaia’s voice sank to a murmur: ‘You could not help looking at her even then, when you mentioned her. You always did have the most awful crush on her. Yelena used to laugh about it.’

  Maria felt herself blush and bowed her head. She could not speak.

  ‘You were not the only one. It’s the same now, except that it is men who are her admirers.’

  Despite herself, Maria cast a furtive glance in Yelena’s direction. Aglaia’s words seemed to be confirmed by the semi-circle of men now grouped around her sister; however, Maria could not be sure that it was admiration she saw in every face. She detected a kind of hunger in some of them, but a hunger conflicted by the dark emotions of hatred and fear. It was the kind of hunger felt by a man who knows the food he craves is poison to him. Only one man, an older gentleman with snow-white hair and imperial beard, gave the impression of being immune to her, and yet even his complacency was guarded, as if it held within it a secret store of desire. He seemed to be showing her off to the younger men. His smile was proprietorial. He watched their reactions avidly and seemed to take pleasure in the hold she had over them.

  Yelena Filippovna was often described as a beauty and yet, to Maria, this hardly did justice to the extraordinary quality of her presence. It seemed that Yelena possessed a knowledge not granted to other women, and it was this, or the promise of it, that made her so desired by men.

  ‘Go to her!’ Aglaia’s tone was angry and dismissive. ‘I know you want to.’

  ‘No. She despises me. Why should I want to expose myself to her contempt?’

  Aglaia Filippovna seemed to consider Maria anew. ‘That is the very thing you want. That is what they want, too. Weak natures such as yours …’

  ‘You think I’m weak?’

  ‘You will go to her, no matter what you say.’

  ‘Who are those men?’

  ‘The Seven Knights.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You know the story, The Dead Princess and the Seven Knights.’

  ‘The older man?’

  ‘That is Bakhmutov.’

  ‘He looks at her as if he owns her.’

  ‘He did once. She is his to dispose of. You see Velchaninov, the fresh-faced youth with him?’

  Maria looked at the young man. His cheeks shone with a babyish pink glow, and his hair was fair and silky, like an infant’s. He was standing very close to Bakhmutov, inclining his head towards Bakhmutov’s for a stream of confidences. All the time he kept his gaze on Yelena Filippovna, his eyes wide open in an expression that seemed to combine both naivety and greed.

  ‘A pretty young thing, isn’t he? And from a good family, though sadly impoverished. Fortunately, Bakhmutov, the eternal benefactor, bestowed ten thousand roubles on the young man. The only condition was that he take my sister off his hands.’

  Maria’s scandalised reaction must have been everything Aglaia had hoped for.

  ‘You are very innocent.’

  ‘As well as weak? No doubt that is a deplorable combination in your eyes.’

  ‘It is unfortunate — for you. It doesn’t matter much to me. You are wrong to condemn Yelena, by the way. She would have nothing to do with their little arrangement, once she found out about it — and so it fell through. But you know, things have not been easy for her, for either of us. We lost our parents, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It happened while we were at the Smolny.’

  ‘Did Yelena tell you the details?’ Aglaia asked with an unseemly relish.

  ‘No. She never spoke of it.’

  ‘Papa blew his brains out over some scandal at the department. The usual financial misunderstanding. Mama found the shame unbearable. And then there were the debts. It broke her. It wasn’t long before she followed him, although her own chosen method of self-despatch was poison. She wrote a note saying that she did it for us, for Yelena and me.’ The laughter that broke out of Aglaia was as startling as a wild animal breaking cover. ‘Can you imagine? What she meant, I have no idea. And so we were left orphaned, friendless and without fortune. It was at that time that Bakhmutov began to take an interest in my sister. She saw him as her saviour.’

  ‘That word does not seem appropriate to such a man.’

  ‘You’re looking at him as if you believe him to be the devil! He’s just a man. But perhaps you have no experience of men.’

  ‘Thankfully, I have no experience of men of his type.’

  ‘Shall I introduce you?’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘He’s very rich.’

  ‘What’s that to me?’

  ‘Are you not trying to raise subscriptions for your school?’

  ‘Nonetheless …’

  ‘You cannot afford to allow your moral compunctions to stand in the way of your pupils’ welfare. Money is money. What matters is the use to which you put it, not from whence it comes.’ Aglaia’s cheeks glowed pink now, as if the exercise of cynicism invigorated her. She was almost panting for breath, baring her teeth, which for all their delicacy had a predatory form. Maria found herself fighting the urge to slap Aglaia, and the more she looked at her face, the stronger the urge became.

  It was as if the thought called
forth the deed, for the unmistakable sound of a hand striking skin was now clearly audible, bringing a sudden startling silence to the room. Maria instinctively looked towards Yelena.

  Yelena’s face was fired with outrage. A young Guards officer in a white dress uniform stood before her. Even with his head bowed, he towered over her; his inability to abase himself sufficiently seemed to add to whatever insult he was guilty of. He held his black shako in one hand, tucked back against the inside of his forearm, its enormous horsehair plume projecting stiffly like a miniature lance ready for the charge. His hair was dark, almost black, and he kept it long. It fell forward in two long bangs either side of his face, but failed to hide the patch of colour that blazed across his right cheek above his beard. Even allowing for the fact that anguish and embarrassment distorted his face, Maria could not help remarking on his ill-favoured features; she might have gone so far as to describe him as ugly. Even so, there was something compelling, something animalistic about his face, a barely controlled energy that seemed on the verge of breaking into wildness.

  ‘My God!’ cried Aglaia, finding voice at the same time as the rest of the room. ‘She struck Mizinchikov!’

  The officer deepened his bow and clicked his heels, then detached himself from the group around Yelena.

  Maria saw Velchaninov’s youthful cheeks flush even more brightly, as if he had been the one struck. His ear now almost touched Bakhmutov’s whispering lips. His eyes shone with an eager, unpleasant delight.

  ‘It seems the drama has begun already,’ said Aglaia, with evident satisfaction.

  5 Entertainments

  The scene between Yelena and the young Guards officer transformed the collective mood once more. The excitement tipped over into a wild nervous energy. Some people forgot themselves so far as to applaud, much to the disgust of Prince Naryskin. His long hair and large silk cravat marked him out as a liberal of the old school, one of the generation of the forties. But the hypertensive bulge of his eyes suggested that he was beginning to wonder if the conservatives had not been right all along. His wife, Princess Yevgenia Andreevna, sunken-cheeked and possibly consumptive, seemed particularly on edge. She could be heard insistently urging him to ‘do something’. And, indeed, there was a general sense that something should be done, though the Prince was not alone in being at a loss to know just what.