R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘You’re a clever fellow.’

‘Yes, and I haven’t had no book learning. I picked it all up myself.’

‘I congratulate you.’

The gatekeeper grinned complacently.

‘Where exactly was Mitka employed in the factory?’

‘He worked for Oleg Sergeevich.’

‘Who is this Oleg Sergeevich?’

‘Ustyantsev. The spinner.’

‘And where will I find this spinner Ustyantsev?’

‘In the spinning-shop, I should think.’

‘Will you take me there?’

‘I cannot leave my post.’ The gatekeeper sucked self-importantly on his pipe, to remind Virginsky of the vital work he had to do there.

‘I shall make it worth your while.’

‘If I leave my post I shall lose my post, and nothing you can give me will make that worth my while. You’ll have no trouble finding Oleg Sergeevich. Everybody knows him. Mind, I would warn you that he will not take kindly to your intrusion. Oleg Sergeevich is a piece worker. He won’t appreciate you taking him away from his work, not unless you intend to compensate him.’

‘It is his civic duty to talk to me, as it is yours.’

‘If you rely on that, then I wish you luck.’ The gatekeeper at last granted Virginsky the privilege of his gaze. His eyes were narrowed almost to points, as if he were squeezing the life out of whatever vision came into them.

*

What struck Virginsky first was the noise. It was a resistant force that he had to walk into and through; it possessed and defined the room he had entered far more than anything else in it. There was a raw energy to it. It attacked his ears, took over his body, and drowned out all his other senses. The machines screeched like angry demons, their spinning parts whirling with the frenzy of the possessed.

The agitation of production was everywhere: the particles of white dust that filled the hot air danced and trembled in its vibrations; in fact, it was easy to believe they were particles of noise.

The rows of machines, mysterious in their purpose, solemnly tended by their human ministers, daunted him. This was a world he had not glimpsed before. That so much energy and unswerving concentration, so much hard metal and speed, should go into the production of fine cotton thread, was somehow both inspiring and shaming. He had the sense that he was staring into the future. He felt it drain the hope from his heart at the same time as he acknowledged its allure.

A man in a checked suit and bowler hat, evidently some kind of foreman, shouted something incomprehensible into Virginsky’s face. Virginsky shouted back the name Ustyantsev. The foreman replied with further shouts. It was a moment before Virginsky realised he was being asked, in bad Russian, ‘Who are you?’

He shouted back, ‘Magistrate.’

He was led between two rows of clattering machinery, some parts of which were pent with such violent force that it seemed that they would fly apart at any moment; or that the whole suite of machines would break loose from the bolts that fixed them to the floor and spin like massive seed pods into the air, to disseminate their monstrous din.

The man he was led to was dressed in a loose white shirt, with a garishly patterned waistcoat open over it. He wore his hair long, swept back from a face that could have been aristocratic, for all the arrogance of his expression. He was slowly walking a moveable frame of spinning bobbins away from a squatting, thread-spewing bulk, with the patience of a man leading an animal. There was a yelled conference between the foreman and the spinner, the details of which were lost to Virginsky. The outcome was a dark, suspicious glance in his direction.

An upward nod from the foreman invited Virginsky to draw near.

‘Ustyantsev?’ shouted Virginsky.

The man walking the frame confirmed his identity with the most minimal of nods, his eyes darting all the time along the lines of thread stretched across the widening jaws of the machine.

‘Can you stop the machine?’ Virginsky pointed at his ears and gave a wince of distress. His request and the gesture went ignored. ‘I need to talk.’ He nodded energetically. ‘And hear!’

The spinner gave a shrug that indicated eloquently how little this concerned him.

‘Mitka,’ shouted Virginsky, stepping backwards to keep pace with the spinner’s progress. ‘You know Mitka?’

‘Mitka’s gone.’ The spinner’s reply was clear enough.

‘What happened?’

‘Let me down, the bastard.’

‘Let you down? How?’

‘Ran off.’

‘Where? Where’d he go?’

Ustyantsev shook his head, his mouth set in a non-committal down-turn. ‘Dunno.’

‘Any ideas?’

The moving frame clanked as it reached the outward extent of its track. There was a slight lull in the noise of the machine, or at least a modulation of its frequency which seemed to hold out the promise of a more sustained conversation. However, Virginsky was distracted by the appearance of a small boy who darted out from under the vast skein of threads. Ustyantsev launched himself at the boy and landed a heavy blow across the side of the head. His face as he returned to the frame was defiant and grim.

‘Why did you do that?’ demanded Virginsky.

‘Keeps them on their toes.’

‘Do you not consider that they might work with more enthusiasm and effectiveness if you treated them more kindly?’

Ustyantsev’s expression was one of brutish incomprehension.

‘You are a working man yourself. Does it not shame you to oppress your fellow labourers? Especially as they are children?’

‘How dare you call me a labourer? I am a spinner, I’ll have you know.’ Ustyantsev’s affront was genuine.

‘Can I speak to the boy?’

‘The boy?’

Virginsky looked around but the boy had disappeared.

‘Be my guest,’ said Ustyantsev with a malicious grin.

‘Will you call him out?’

‘No.’

‘You expect me to get in there?’

‘He’s not in there. He’s in this one now.’ Ustyantsev turned to the machine opposite. ‘Mark you, if you distract him from his work and a single thread wants tying, I shall beat him mercilessly. And you shall not stop me.’

‘I see. Very well. In that case, I shall wait till the end of his shift.’

‘You’ll have a long wait.’ Ustyantsev turned his back on Virginsky and began to open the machine up. The noise, once again, was deafening.

*

By the time the whistle blast heralded the end of the morning shift, Virginsky’s legs were aching. His throat and lungs were clogged with cotton dust. A film of sweat lay between his skin and his underclothes. He was worn out and he had done nothing but stand and wait. To be fair, he had not been entirely idle. He had been monitoring the abuses perpetrated by the spinner against the boys in his employ, entering the number and severity of assaults into a notebook. This had failed to inhibit Ustyantsev. Far from it: as soon as he noticed what Virginsky was about, he seemed to increase the frequency of his attacks, flaunting his brutality with a perverse pride. It even occurred to Virginsky that the spinner might be acting in the misguided belief that he would gain his approval by such displays.

Released by the whistle, the boys came out from under the machines as dazed and hesitant as uncaged rats. Habituated to hold themselves hunched, and to walk with a flinching gait, they readied themselves for further blows. None came. It seemed that Ustyantsev refrained from such exertions during his lunch break.

Virginsky beckoned to the boy he had spotted earlier. The boy shied away with an instinctive suspicion of authority, deferring instead to Ustyantsev. The spinner tilted his head in a minute gesture of permission. With a heavy shuffle, and head bowed, the boy presented himself to Virginsky.