R. Morris: A Razor Wrapped in Silk

But Mitka knew the place assigned for him only too well: between the yawning jaws of the spinning mule, beneath the cotton strands.

The gatekeeper appeared isolated by the choking blanket of grey. His bulky form came and went, like a figure in a nightmare, an embodiment of fear, partially glimpsed. Uncle Pyotr was warming his hands over a brazier, his greatcoat buttoned up against the raw air. He was sharing a joke with some of the men.

Mitka held back, so as not to be seen. But then he heard the heavy clomp of bark shoes, coming up behind him. Stepping to one side, he peered through the fog as a new group of men came into view. Judging by their grubby peasant shirts and kaftans, not to mention their wild beards and crude haircuts, they were unskilled workers, not long up from the country. There was a burst of sharp, unpleasant laughter as they drew level with the huddle at the gate. Mitka followed in their wake and ducked behind them, clearing the factory yard.

He could hear Uncle Pyotr teasing the country bumpkins: ‘Careful you don’t fall in the river, you lads. Mind, with those boats on your feet, you’ll probably walk to the other side!’

His cronies provided a chorus of appreciative braying. Their smart, almost dandified city clothes, glimpsed by Mitka as he dashed past, marked them out as spinners.

The bleat of a barge’s foghorn sounded from the nearby Bolshaia Neva. Mitka could smell the river and hear its lapping water, but not see it. It would be straight ahead of him. With Uncle Pyotr’s facetious warning in mind, he turned sharply to the right.

He saw the glow of a street lamp ahead of him.

The boy experienced a giddy sense of liberation as he walked.It was as if the fog had not merely masked but obliterated the factory. Softly, silently, and with infinite stealth, it had conjured away the great evil that loomed so high over his life, and weighed so heavily upon it.

But the fog also contained within it the promise of another life, the life he was walking towards, street lamp by street lamp.

In the fog, anything seemed possible; everything was equally real and unreal. An idea, a vision, a hope, had as much substance as a factory wall. And a voice, like the voice suddenly heard now, owed its existence to no one, to nothing but the fog. The voice of the fog was singing to him. His heart tripped as he recognised its song: Kalinka !

Her song, the one she sang to the children.

Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka maya …

The street lamps led him towards it.

Under the pine, under the green pine ,

Lay me down to sleep …

The ghostly shapes of two feathered horses stood in the beam of a carriage lamp. Mitka couldn’t see a driver behind the glaring light. The carriage itself glowed feebly from within, as if lit by the warmth of the voice that came from it.

Aida, Lyuli, Lyuli, aida, Lyuli, Lyuli ,

Lay me down to sleep!

As Mitka approached, the door to the carriage swung open. The steps were already down.

Something new escaped with the voice. A scent — her scent? — of cleanliness and flowers. Now that he could hear it more distinctly, he began to believe it was her voice, and that his Mother had come ahead to fetch him.

Beautiful maid, dear maid ,

Please fall in love with me …

He climbed into the song and into the scent. The carriage hardly registered his presence as the door clicked shut behind him. The voice of the fog gave a final muted chorus of Kalinka, Kalinka, Kalinka maya , then ceased.

An ear-piercing shriek jolted Porfiry Petrovich from his reverie: the squeal of metal grinding on metal as the locomotive’s brakes were applied. The train juddered to a halt. Porfiry looked out of the window of his third-class compartment through the slanting rain. They had pulled up alongside a cemetery. The sight of the damp headstones and moss-covered monuments was so in keeping with the melancholic cast of his thoughts that it seemed he had summoned them. However, he recognised it as the Volkovksy Lutheran Cemetery, just south of St Petersburg. He was nearing the end of his journey.

For the first time since he had boarded the train he regretted his economy. Lifting his head to scan the graveyard, he felt a sharp twinge in his neck, and then a second duller, longer ache in the lower right of his back. He realised that he had been holding the same position since leaving Tver, a good ten hours ago.

He closed his eyes on the grey, rain-soaked scene. The image of Zakhar’s face came back to him. He remembered how it had seemed like the sculpture of a face, carved out of cork and covered with a waxy sheen. Strangely, in recollection, it seemed more real, more alive. He saw it just at the moment that his old servant had opened his eyes for the last time, showing whites tarnished with veins, a wan cloud dimming each iris. The eyes had swum with a desperate vitality, as the old man strained to lean forward to address a stream of inarticulate grunts to his former master.

It had been left to Porfiry to close his eyes. At the still warm touch of Zakhar’s skin he had felt something steely enter him, like a shot of fortifying liquor.

He had picked up a bedbug from the dead man’s wrist, crushing it between his nails in a small explosion of blood. Was this humiliating incident the only memory of his faithful servant that he would retain?

He remembered the words he had said to the ancient woman who was Zakhar’s sister. ‘He was a good man. I shall miss him.’ But he had been thinking of another man as he said them, one long dead. For a moment he had once again been a grieving son, standing in need of consolation. Did that make the words a lie, the sentiment insincere? Or could the words apply to both Zakhar and his father?

Porfiry felt the train begin to move, but kept his eyes closed. He tasted again the smoke that had filled the tumble-down hut. He felt it tease the tears from his eyes, which he was forced to unclench.

The Lutheran church rang out the hour, its bell unexpectedly loud and resonant. Porfiry turned away and met the sympathetic and half-expectant gaze of a young man in a Swiss travelling cloak opposite.

‘It’s good to be home,’ said Porfiry, knuckling away his tears.

The young man’s face lit up. ‘Oh yes!’ he agreed, with an intense enthusiasm that seemed disproportionate to the platitude that Porfiry had uttered. ‘That’s precisely how I feel!’

There was something so sincere, and so open-hearted, about the young man’s response that despite its naivety, it could not fail to cheer Porfiry.

*

The black bulk of the Putilov locomotive, idling after its exertions, continued to hiss and vent steam. The surplus vapour curled along the platform, as if seeking out individuals to enshroud and obscure, before rising to disperse beneath the girder-meshed vault of the Nikolaevsky station.

Porfiry Petrovich, laden with valise, stepped down from the train with the awkward skip of a man discovering himself to be heavier and more unwieldy than he had imagined. He screwed up his face at the itchy scent of machine oil. He then blew out his cheeks in a pantomime of surprise and scanned the platform with a distracted air. He pretended not to notice the unusual number of gendarmes, officers of the notorious Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery, their bright blue uniforms lightly spotted with rain. They confronted the detraining passengers with scowls of importance beneath their kepis.

Some instinct drove Porfiry to stride into a shifting cloud. He enjoyed his brief concealment, although he had no reason to hide from them. It was a game without purpose.