A Razor Wrapped in Silk (11 page)

‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘Nor I you, Maria Petrovna.’

‘This is a terrible business.’

Porfiry nodded gravely.

‘Naturally, I will do whatever I can to help.’

One or two people watched them with half-aroused interest, latching on to any novelty as a relief from their boredom. Porfiry sensed their attention. ‘Perhaps you would care to step outside?’

They entered the dimly lit corridor.

‘May I ask you about Yelena?’

The name sapped Maria Petrovna’s face of energy and colour. Her eyes shot downwards. ‘Poor Yelena. It’s so horrible.’

‘You were good friends?’

‘I had not seen her for many years. But we were once close.’

‘I am very sorry. Death is always difficult to bear, but the death of one so young, under such circumstances, it touches everyone.’

‘Her fiancé must be devastated,’ said Maria.

‘Yes, I am sure.’

‘When I saw him, he appeared strangely calm.’ Maria Petrovna’s voice became distant.

‘Do you know the officer concerned? Captain Mizinchikov?’

‘I had never seen him before tonight.’

‘And what of Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov?’

‘I do not know that man at all.’

‘Can you shed any light on Yelena’s relationship with Captain Mizinchikov?’

‘No. I’m sorry. As I said, it is many years since we last spoke. I regret – I greatly regret – that I did not get the chance to speak to her tonight. I only know what Aglaia Filippovna told me.’

‘You spoke to Aglaia Filippovna?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was this?’

‘Before the performance. At the time of the terrible scene in the entrance hall.’

‘Ah yes. The slapping.’

‘Yes.’ Maria Petrovna’s face was pinched with disapproval.

‘Aglaia Filippovna spoke about her sister?’

‘Yes. She said that the man called Bakhmutov had once kept her as a mistress and that she was his to dispose of as he wished.’

‘I see. Certain things are beginning to make sense. I thank you, Maria Petrovna.’

‘Porfiry Petrovich?’

‘Yes?’

‘May I see her?’

Her eyes oscillated wildly, as if seeking escape from the prospect she had just voiced.

Porfiry tried to calm them with his own gaze. ‘I do not advise it. Do you want your abiding memory of her to be as she is now, or as she was when you were friends? She has been brutally attacked. These sights have a way of etching themselves on the soul. You are tired. Go home.’

‘You don’t understand. There are things I have to say to her.’

‘She cannot hear you. Go home. Kneel before the icon and pray for her soul. Give your words to God. He will pass on your message.’

‘You are a believer?’

‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.

‘Even with these sights etched on your soul?’

‘I have to believe. If I did not, I would go mad.’

‘But what if belief is itself a form of madness? There is no logic in it.’

‘On the contrary, it is supremely logical. It is the only thing that makes sense of … of everything.’

‘How did he kill her?’

‘Her throat was … cut open.’

‘Yes. That’s what people are saying. Was there a lot of blood?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must let me see her. Spare me the torment of imagining this!’

‘To see it is a greater torment.’

‘You have seen it.’

‘My profession requires me to.’

‘And my love … requires … me … to,’ echoed Maria Petrovna, though her final words were almost swallowed by her sobbing.

*

Porfiry led her down to the room. Neither spoke. Once, Maria Petrovna reached out and touched a wall, as if to convince herself of the reality of what she was experiencing.

They descended by a back staircase. Porfiry had a vertiginous sense of disaster. He tried to make his steps as quiet as he could, to make himself weightless, as if he believed he could float away from this.

He had no wish to see the dead woman again. However, he realised that he would have to watch Maria Petrovna as she confronted her friend. He wanted to witness the transformations wrought in her face. The recognition of this repellent curiosity created an invisible force of resistance against which he had to push.

A door as bland and blank as any other faced them as they reached the foot of the stairs. A
politseisky
stood to one side, the only indication of anything untoward.

‘She is here?’

Porfiry nodded.

Maria glared at the door with starting eyes; her hand shook as she reached for the handle.

‘You do not have to go through with this,’ said Porfiry, grasping her careening hand in his.

She looked down at his protective hold. A smile, small and faltering, flickered on her lips. Then she looked into his eyes, her gaze pleading and urgent. ‘Let me see her.’

*

Her cry shamed him. High, like a wheeling bird, it was the inarticulate voicing of flesh crying out to flesh, her throat opening without the intercession of thought, beyond consciousness, knowing only the need to voice.

He watched her face, as he had known he would. He watched and mentally recorded the rippling fluctuations of her horror and her suffering. He told himself that it was right that she should have someone with her as she endured this, some living person to reassure her that life triumphs over death. But it felt like a platitude. The thought came from somewhere:
that life should triumph over death is no consolation
to the dead
. Then he remembered that other life, the eternal life that comes after death, and marvelled that he had forgotten something so important, so central to his being. He had declared himself a believer but minutes earlier. But was it merely a pretence, empty words, another piece of play-acting?

He held out an arm to steady her. She clutched at it with both hands, like a bird clawing food. But instead of lifting him into the air, she pushed down with all her weight. His arm shuddered with the effort of keeping her upright. He had to shift position or she would take them both down. He stepped towards her, into her collapse, and held her with both arms around her body. Her head was on his shoulder, rolling in a strange, infinitely soft motion of denial. She clung on to him. He could feel the quivering spasm of her chest against his own. At some point their breathing became synchronised. He was very aware of the heat of her body.

Eventually, the burden of her physical weight eased, and a different weight replaced it. He felt it in his face and in his chest, a weight of longing and loss. They drew apart, their heads bent, each scrupulously avoiding the other’s eye.

The door swung open with a rude, intrusive force. Porfiry and Maria hastened to increase the distance between them.

‘Ah, Porfiry Petrovich, there you are.’ It was Virginsky. He held before him a black military hat, with a chain chin-strap and an extraordinarily long plume standing irrepressibly upright. As he took in the presence of Maria, and the quickly changing configuration of their bodies, his eyes contracted with suspicion. ‘One of the men found this,’ he said at last. ‘Outside.’

‘A shako,’ said Porfiry.

‘It’s Captain Mizinchikov’s,’ said Maria. ‘He was holding it earlier. When Yelena struck him.’

Porfiry took the hat and turned it in his hands. The name MIZINCHIKOV was sewn into the lining. ‘It would appear so. Apparently, he abandoned it in his haste to flee the palace. Possibly also to make himself less conspicuous.’ He handed the shako back to Virginsky. ‘Take it back to the bureau. But first we must see to it that Maria Petrovna is escorted safely home. Can you assign a
politseisky
?’

‘No, there is no need. I shall take a cab. No harm will come to me,’ protested Maria.

‘You have had a terrible shock. I know how hard it is to bear these things.’

‘Then why did you put her through it?’ demanded Virginsky, his face flushed with unexpected heat.

Porfiry met the accusation with a look of mild hurt.

‘Pavel Pavlovich, I asked to see Yelena,’ said Maria. ‘Porfiry Petrovich tried to prevent me.’

Porfiry hung his head and shied away from Virginsky’s sceptical scrutiny, as if he was unworthy of Maria’s defence.

‘I see,’ said Virginsky. He nodded slowly while he calculated
what his next words should be. ‘Then … I … apologise,’ came eventually.

Porfiry winced at the stilted tone. ‘We shall say no more of it.’ He fled the room with his head down.

10

At the Officers’ House

The knock, when it came, was not the one Afanasy had been expecting. At the time, he was sprawled on the sofa, one arm inside Captain Mizinchikov’s left boot. His other hand worked blacking into the leather with a soft rag. A pipe was clamped between his teeth, filling the room with the thick, scented fug of smoking tobacco.

Both ‘his’ officers were out for the evening and he did not expect them back until the small hours. This perhaps explained the liberty he took in polishing boots in the officers’ sitting room.

Despite his lolling pose, Afanasy was in a hurry to complete his evening duties, eager to have them out of the way by the time he heard Olga’s muted tap on the felt-lined apartment door. It was a sound that managed to be at once playful, timid and teasing. By now she would have put the little ones to bed, and her husband would be out of the way, off on one of his benders. Vanya, the
dvornik
, knew to admit her with a discreet wink, no questions asked. He was a good sort, that Vanya.

Afanasy had distractedly been aware of some kind of commotion, a hammering on the street door, voices raised, the stamp of boots on the stairs, but his attention had been directed inwards. He had a lot on his mind. It seemed Olga had recently developed a guilty conscience regarding her feckless husband.

She had threatened to break off their relationship altogether, only relenting when he had promised her more of the gifts – jewellery, silverware, money – with which he had won her affections in the first place, but which had not been forthcoming in recent months.

Times had been hard. His generosity to her depended much on the combined good fortune and gullibility of ‘his’ officers. But both Captain Mizinchikov and his co-lodger Staff-Captain Herzenstube had suffered extended runs of bad luck at the gaming tables of the Officers’ Casino, and so there had been little point touching them for funds. Afanasy had never resorted to open theft, though he did not scruple at lying, having invented for his perfectly healthy and unsuspecting mother a vague but life-threatening disease. Like any good Russian son, he wanted the best for his mother. But the best medical care was inevitably expensive and he was periodically overwhelmed by doctor’s bills he had no hope of paying. Fortunately, Captain Mizinchikov and Staff-Captain Herzenstube were also both good Russians sons, and it cut them to the quick to see their loyal and hard-working orderly in such a desperate predicament through no fault of his own, but through filial devotion – the noblest of sentiments.

He sincerely hoped their fortunes would change tonight, for he didn’t know how much longer he could count on ensuring Olga’s fidelity with promises alone.

These thoughts were interrupted by the explosion of raps on the apartment door. The harshness of the noise startled him. It sounded as though some hard metallic implement was being employed, with the intention of breaking down the door.

No, this was not Olga.

His heart was pounding as he leapt to his feet, one arm still
plunged into the boot. Hesitating only to take courage from a glance at the St George’s cross of the regimental banner, with its inscription ‘Awarded for conspicuous valour in the Battle of Kulm, 17th August, 1813’, he ventured into the corridor, holding his booted arm out in front of him, as both a shield and a weapon.

The violent rapping had ceased. Now the cry was raised for him to ‘Open up!’.

The face that he saw as the door sprung open took his breath away. It was hardly a face at all, more like an unfinished model executed by a poor craftsman. In places the skin was unnaturally smooth, and glistened with a lurid pink hue; in other places it was pitted and ridged. The mouth was a slit, the enlarged nostrils seemed almost to swallow up what there was of a nose. But the most unsettling feature was the eyes. As Afanasy stared into them, a shiver of revulsion passed through him. The lids were stretched taut and were without lashes. It seemed that it would have been impossible for them to blink, at least not without causing the possessor of this unfortunate face some discomfort. This gave the eyes a strange fixity of expression. In them burnt a constant fire of rage and resentment, as if those eyes held the world responsible for the disfigurement around them.

‘Where is Mizinchikov? We have a warrant for his arrest.’ The effort of barking these terse demands distorted the face into a sinewy, flushed knot.

‘He’s not here.’ It was only now that Afanasy took in the grey uniform and the kepi, beneath which sprouted strands of unruly red hair. He noticed too the silver-bossed walking stick in the police officer’s hand. Two other policemen crowded at his shoulder, together with a gentleman in a frock coat. The
latter seemed notably ill at ease and shifted distractedly, as if he was in a hurry to be elsewhere. ‘What’s this about?’ asked Afanasy.

‘I’ll ask the questions.’ Then, as if to prove his point, the officer with the disfigured face said, ‘What do you mean by brandishing that boot at me?’

Afanasy looked down at the boot on his hand and shrugged. ‘I was just cleaning it.’

The officer raised his walking stick and placed the tip against Afanasy’s chest. He held it there for a moment before thrusting it sharply forwards, forcing Afanasy to take a step back. He then lurched past him into the apartment, opening every door he passed.

‘Search every room,’ he barked over his shoulder. The two policemen rushed in like a small swarm, disappearing together into the first of the rooms, Afanasy’s own.

‘You won’t find him in there!’ protested Afanasy. ‘You won’t find him anywhere. He’s not here, I tell you.’