R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘I don’t understand.’

‘If Mizinchikov really is a murderer, then why he has not long ago dispatched such a father must surely baffle us. It can only be because he has not yet got round to it. Even such placid and indisputably loving sons as you and I, whose fathers are — or were — by comparison paragons of paternal virtue, even we must have felt at times the provocation to parricide. What son has not? How much more strongly must a man in whom the homicidal propensity is already awakened feel it?’

‘I wonder that you can be so flippant, given what you have said about the circumstances of your father’s death.’

They reached the ground floor and stepped out into the drizzle-soaked gloom. ‘I did not kill my father, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I did not mean to suggest that you had.’

Porfiry said nothing. They stood on the front steps considering the bleak prospect before them without enthusiasm. The mist seemed to sap their will to action. Porfiry’s voice came thickly, his words directed to the mist: ‘My father was a good man. In many ways, an extraordinary man. He had a gift. I think I told you that he was a mining engineer. His gift, however, had nothing to do with that, and in many ways stood at odds with his professional outlook, which you could describe as highly rational. He was an exemplary scientist, except in one particular.’

‘Go on,’ prompted Virginsky.

‘He was able to heal people. Perhaps he was what we would call a faith healer, though he never referred to his gift in those terms.’ Porfiry started walking, taking the first turning into Sadovaya Street. It took Virginsky a moment to catch him up.

‘Indeed, he hardly ever referred to his gift at all, certainly not in polite circles. It was almost as if it embarrassed him. It seemed to undermine everything that he had spent his life building up. He feared, I think, that if his superiors found out about his gift, it would be the end of him professionally. He never spoke even about his faith, but I am convinced he was a believer, otherwise how would he be able to do it?’

Virginsky did not attempt an answer.

‘I know, I know,’ said Porfiry, meeting a point that had not been raised. ‘That begs an interesting question. Would God choose to work His miracles through a non-believer? Indeed, would that not produce more compelling evidence of his existence, at least for the non-believer concerned? But I ask you, is God really in the business of proving or disproving his own existence?’

‘You know my opinions on the subject of God.’

‘At any rate,’ continued Porfiry, as if he had not heard Virginsky’s terse interjection, ‘my father could not fail to believe in his own gift, however inconvenient and possibly even frightening it was for him to do so. People would come to our house, peasants for the most part. They would present themselves at the tradesmen’s door. My father would have them come in, take them to his study and sit them down. He would talk to them quietly and calmly. And at the end of ten minutes’ chat about the harvest, or the frost, or whatever newfangled machinery their master was intending to introduce, he would lay his hands on their afflicted area, and they would go away somewhat eased in their pain.’ Porfiry gave a chuckle. ‘He was deeply loved. Many hundreds came to the funeral, all the old peasants whose stiff joints he had loosened. He knew his limitations and that was his secret.’ After a pause he added: ‘It’s difficult to live up to such a father.’

‘I’m sure he was proud of you.’

‘No. I am sure that he was not. And I don’t blame him. At the time of his death, I was not a son to be proud of. I was young, a student of law like you once were, at the university here in Petersburg. I was living beyond my means. You could say I had fallen in with a bad lot, or perhaps I was the bad lot others had fallen in with. At any rate, I spent my leisure time in expensive dissipation. My letters home were a constant stream of reproaches, relieved only by selfish and manipulative demands for money.’

Virginsky cast a quick sidelong glance at Porfiry but said nothing.

‘There was one among my fellows who happened to come from Pinsk, which is near to my home village of Dostoeve. I would not say he was a friend of mine. It was merely the accident of originating from the same region that threw us together. He was a strange individual and it was unnerving to be in the same room as him, especially alone. He had a way of looking at you and not looking at you at the same time. But more than that he awoke a powerful frisson of unease in me, almost a revulsion. Perhaps this was my own debased version of my father’s gift in operation. My father traced his family to Siberia, you know. Sometimes it amuses me to imagine a tribal shaman amongst our ancestors.’

‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Virginsky wryly.

‘This fellow student of mine was the son of the local priest and had heard about my father. He seemed fascinated by my father and would often ask me questions about him. To my shame, I saw this as an opportunity to vent my spleen over what I saw as my father’s unjustified parsimony. “So your father is a wealthy man?” he would ask. “Oh, yes. He has pots of money,” I think I may even have replied.’

Virginsky bowed his head, tactfully silent.

‘Well, something unpleasant happened at the university, a disciplinary matter, and he was expelled. He returned to his home village. Soon after, he made a point of seeking out my father. He pretended some affliction, knowing this would gain him admittance. But it was he who laid hands upon my father. He strangled him. I imagine that as he tightened his grip around my father’s neck he demanded to know where the money was hid. He may even have said something like, “I know you have money. Your son told me.”’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Well, there was no money. My father’s fears concerning his career had proven true. His superiors, learning of his healing activities, had presented him with an ultimatum. Give up the charlatanry, as they termed it, or give up his position. Of course, there was more to it than disapproval of his miraculous gift, which they claimed brought the department into disrepute. Professional jealousy played a part too. My father tried to stop, he really did. But the people kept coming to him, and how could he turn them away? This was the excuse his enemies needed and he was relieved of his post.’

They had come to Stolyarny Lane. The corner of the department building was like the prow of a ship breaking through the mist. The two men instinctively halted beneath it, allowing Porfiry to finish telling his story.

‘His dismissal had occurred months before the visit from my murderous fellow student. My father had not informed me of his change in fortune, out of pride, or perhaps for fear of worrying me. When I returned for his funeral, I found the letters I had written placed neatly in a drawer in his study. I was never able to ask his forgiveness. I stole them away and burnt them, in my shame. The boy who had killed him was easily caught and quickly confessed. It was not about the money, not really. His fascination with my father had crossed over into a dangerous obsession. He believed, or so he claimed, that my father’s gift came from the devil and that a voice had told him to kill him. As is often the case, he seems to have been driven by a whole range of motivations, some of which contradicted others. He was exiled to Siberia, ironically the source of my father’s powers, and has no doubt grown old in a labour camp.’

There was a moment of silence. Virginsky’s expression, though, was strained with impatience. There was evidently something on his mind. ‘Porfiry Petrovich, what did you mean earlier when you talked about your own version of your father’s gift?’