R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

At first, the voice was right beside him, as though the singer was chanting the words directly into his ear. But he realised that that was just a trick of the fog. The beggar was ahead of him, below, on the street.

With every step down he had the sense that he was stepping off the edge of a cliff into nothing.

‘I lost my sight in the service of the Tsar. God save the Tsar! God save his soul. I pray for the souls of all who give alms. Heaven awaits those who give alms.’

As Virginsky moved towards the voice, he saw a soft white figure through the drifting mist. As he approached, the details of the man’s appearance became clearer. He was dressed, Virginsky realised with a flash of astonishment, in a white tunic, half of a Guards officer’s dress uniform. The tunic was grubby now; even so, Virginsky saw the rust-coloured stains, now muted by the layers of filth over them. Virginsky looked into the man’s face. It too was filthy, but for all that, it was a surprisingly handsome face, or once had been: the remnants of his looks were being swallowed up by the bloated effects of dissolution. He could have been aged anywhere between forty and sixty. His hair was long and matted. His eyes oscillated wildly in their sockets, searching desperately for a point of focus in their darkness.

‘You there!’ Virginsky held out an arm to catch hold of the man as he ran towards him. He could have sworn the beggar looked straight at him. His eyes were strangely compelling — enough so to give Virginsky pause as he closed in on him. In that moment, the beggar turned on his heels and broke into a run. Virginsky’s hand grasped the mist.

Virginsky gave chase. He kept his eyes fixed on the tunic, which appeared strangely insubstantial. It flickered in and out of focus, subject to the shifting density of the fog. As Virginsky closed the gap between them, the tunic gained solidity, almost within his grasp now. The other man seemed to stumble. Then suddenly the flash of white flew up into the fog-filled air, like a kite snapped up on the wind. For an instant, Virginsky half-believed the beggar had taken wing. He came to a halt and craned his head. Something white plummeted out of the infinite greyness, as if regurgitated. It fell flat onto the pavement, a sprawl of fabric.

Virginsky bent down to retrieve the discarded officer’s tunic.

Prince Naryskin surveyed the interior of the bank with a proprietorial gaze. He nodded approvingly at the artworks hung on the walls. A huge canvas depicting classical ruins in a romantic landscape caught his eye, provoking an onset of aesthetic salivation. He recognised it as the work of Hubert Robert, and believed it would go well with three similar paintings by the same artist in his possession (albeit purchased with money he had borrowed from this very bank). The painting before him showed the skeletal structure of a dilapidated amphitheatre, golden in the light of a dying sun. The few isolated human figures were dwarfed by the great stone remains, which stood to remind them of the vanity of human ambition. It answered his soul’s craving for an irrevocable solitude. Sometimes he believed that it was only the presence of other people, with their inconvenient desires and clamorous demands, that prevented him from being happy.

At any rate, the room was so in keeping with his taste that it seemed almost to be an annexe to his palace on the Fontanka.

Perhaps his satisfaction was premature, as he had not yet signed the papers that would make him a director of the bank, adding the name Naryskin to those of Bakhmutov and von Lembke. He made a mental note: it would be better for all if it simply became known as the Naryskin Bank. What was the point of bringing in a genuine Russian aristocrat if they did not then exploit the association to the full? However, it was certainly a more pleasant sensation to enter the bank as a prospective director rather than in the humiliating position of a spendthrift in need of funds.

Prince Naryskin looked with less approval on the pink-cheeked young man approaching him with a fawning smile. He recognised him as the one on whom Bakhmutov had attempted to settle Yelena. It struck him as an insult that Bakhmutov had sent this individual to greet him; but then again, Bakhmutov’s own person was hardly more pleasing to him.

‘Your Excellency, Ivan Iakovich and Baron von Lembke await you in the boardroom. May I take your hat and coat?’

Prince Naryskin did not deign to look at the young man. He handed over his beaver and allowed his velvet top-coat, trimmed with a sable collar, to be peeled from him without any acknowledgement of the courtesy.

‘This way, Your Excellency.’

*

Prince Naryskin was gratified by the alacrity with which Bakhmutov and von Lembke rose to their feet. The German was puffing on a fat cigar. His eyes narrowed greedily as he took in the prince. An unexpectedly tiny pink tongue lapped out to moisten his lips.

Bakhmutov’s posture was more relaxed, though affectedly so. He gave the impression that his suavity was something he could turn on, or off, at will.

‘My friend!’ Though seemingly casual, and warmly welcoming, his choice of greeting was deliberate and pointed, reminding the prince of Bakhmutov’s claims over him. To reinforce this he pulled the prince to him in a prolonged embrace, which von Lembke ogled with a sly grin. Prince Naryskin shuddered as he was held by the banker. The venal toady who had greeted him was bad enough, but to be pawed and petted by this Jew, while the fat German licked his lips as if he were a particularly tasty morsel of bratwurst, was more than he could endure. He would make them pay, that was for sure.

Released from Bakhmutov’s grip, Prince Naryskin’s agitation was eased by the sight of a bottle of champagne cooling over ice. Next to it, three crystal flutes had been placed in readiness on a silver tray.

Bakhmutov followed the direction of his gaze. ‘This is a great day.’ He nodded to a waiting lackey. ‘We must celebrate.’

The lackey stepped forward, his white-gloved hands grappling with the wire around the neck of the bottle.

Prince Naryskin felt an intense craving for the champagne. Even so, he had the presence of mind to object: ‘But we have yet to iron out the details of our arrangement. Perhaps we should postpone the celebrations until everything is agreed to our mutual satisfaction. The devil is in the detail, they say.’ His smile snapped into place as he fixed Bakhmutov with a challenging look.

However, the champagne cork popped, and the lackey hastened to catch the foaming spillage in the first of the flutes.

‘Prince is right,’ barked von Lembke, with his characteristic terseness. ‘Detail first.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Bakhmutov impatiently. ‘However, I am confident we will be able to arrange things in a way that we all will find highly satisfactory. Let us first drink a toast.’ He took his glass from the salver and waited for the others to do the same. ‘To Prince Nikolai Naryskin, and the great family of Naryskin of which he is the wise and noble head.’

Although they were meant to flatter, Prince Naryskin found the words strangely offensive: impertinent, in fact, coming from Bakhmutov’s mouth. ‘That’s all very well,’ said the prince, nevertheless sipping his wine. ‘But I have some demands.’

‘Demands! My friend!’ Bakhmutov beamed, as though in making demands Prince Naryskin was paying him the warmest compliment. ‘There is no need to make demands of your friends, when you know that your friends will freely give you everything you desire.’ Bakhmutov gestured expansively around him with his free hand. ‘This will be yours, all this, your bank, as much as it is ours. How do you like it?’