R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

Was it winter already ? he wondered.

He wondered too what he could expect from the day and what the day would demand of him. His dreams had taken him so far out of the immediate context of his life that he felt himself bereft without them. He had dreamt of his father, he remembered that much. Then it came to him more specifically that he had dreamt of his father and his father’s younger brother, Uncle Prokofy. In fact, he now remembered, his dreams had been crowded with relatives, the living and the dead. In one, a host of them had been crammed into his apartment for some kind of party. It was clear that the celebration had been in Porfiry’s honour. Was it a birthday party? No, it had not been that. Nor his name day. Strangely, the reason for the party had not been alluded to in the dream, as if out of tact. Only as the dream approached its climax did Porfiry realise that a terrible mistake had been made, and it was all his fault . His relatives were assembled there, he realised, to celebrate his wedding party, and the peculiar delicacy that seemed to affect his guests was due to the fact that so far there was no sign of a bride. Somehow, inadvertently, he had led them to believe that he was marrying Maria Petrovna. But carelessly he had failed to broach the subject with her; hence her absence.

The scenario of his dream was extremely painful to him, both at the time he had dreamt it, and now as he recalled it. He remembered that the tension of the dream had eased suddenly as his sleeping mind had caused all his relatives to disappear, all apart from his cousin Dmitri Prokofich, who had then acted as his manservant. The recollection of the humiliating role in which he had cast his good-hearted cousin provoked a surge of embarrassment in Porfiry. He was ashamed to realise that he had not seen Dmitri Prokofich for many years, indeed not since the affair of the student Raskolnikov, whose friend Dmitri had been. He resolved to look him up at the soonest opportunity, but then remembered the reason for their estrangement. Dmitri Prokofich had married Raskolnikov’s sister.

As far as Porfiry was concerned, that was no grounds for awkwardness, but he had always sensed on Avdotya Romanovna’s part a reserve bordering on aversion. It was clear that even if she did not hold Porfiry responsible for her brother’s fate, she at least found his presence in her home painful, serving as it did to remind her of those difficult times. Not wishing to be the cause of anguish to a blameless woman, he had, over a period of time, slipped out of his cousin’s life. The fact that the affable Dmitri Prokofich had allowed the distance between them to grow confirmed Porfiry’s fears. His cousin’s spirit was so generous and forgiving that he had continued to consider Raskolnikov a friend even after he knew the horrific nature of the student’s crimes. He had continued, in short, to believe in Raskolnikov. And, it seemed, he could not forgive his relative Porfiry Petrovich for his part in bringing Raskolnikov to justice.

Such was human nature, reflected Porfiry. He could not find it in himself to blame Dmitri Prokofich, although he wondered whether his cousin’s servile status in the dream was an attempt on his part to exact revenge. He did not care to pursue this train of thought. The dream did him no credit at all, but that was often the way with dreams.

The sound of someone moving about inside his apartment brought him back to the awoken reality of his life. With a lurching presentiment of doom, he remembered the man he had employed as a servant — almost as a joke, one of his characteristic pranks. But against whom was the prank directed, if not himself? He had brought into his home a stranger, a man he could in no way trust, whose life was now entwined with his own. What if Pavel Pavlovich was right, and Slava — if that indeed was his name — was a Third Section spy?

‘Speak of the grey one and the grey one heads your way,’ said Porfiry as Slava came into the room bearing the breakfast tray.

Slava looked about uncertainly, as if he expected to see someone else in the room. ‘You were talking about me? To whom?’

‘Only to myself. Thinking about you, that is to say.’

Slava laughed nervously.

‘I was merely wondering what on earth possessed me to employ you!’ Porfiry’s face expanded with delight. He began to laugh and could not bring himself to stop laughing for some time.

Slava’s discomfiture intensified. For one moment it looked as though he might drop the tray and bolt from the room. A metallic shudder convulsed the silverware. But he regained his composure quickly. ‘Have I failed to provide satisfaction in the execution of my duties?’

‘Good heavens, what a question!’

‘It is a simple enough question, I believe.’

‘Ah, but it begs another question, does it not? And that is, to whom do you owe those duties?’

‘I don’t understand. To whom else but you?’

‘Who else indeed!’

‘Are you suggesting that I serve two masters?’

Porfiry raised his hands in a pantomime of shock that was overdone even by his own standards. And then he winked at Slava.

‘Do you wish to terminate my employment?’ asked Slava tersely.

‘Do you ?’

‘There is the question of my honour.’

‘Is there really? Could you explain that to me?’

‘You have impugned my honesty …?’ But Slava did not seem at all certain that this was in fact what Porfiry had done.

‘In that case, you must do whatever you deem necessary.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Slava’s face was furrowed in confusion.

‘Apology accepted. Let us say no more about it. I am so glad we have had the opportunity to clear this up. Now, if you would be so kind as to deposit the tray on the table, you may then go about your other duties.’ At this, Porfiry winked heavily several times.

Slava regarded him warily, as if he were an unpredictable dog given to biting for no reason. He kept as much distance as possible between himself and Porfiry as he placed the tray down. He backed out of the room, flashing uneasy glances as he went.

Porfiry smiled to himself. But the smile drained from his lips when he looked down at the breakfast tray. His familiar silver-plated coffee pot stood as if it were turning its back on him. Four curly sausages huddled together conspiratorially on their plate, their curved shoulders excluding him. The thought occurred to Porfiry that if he could not trust the man who had brought him this food, how could he trust the food?

He told himself he was being ridiculous. The Third Section wanted to keep an eye on him, they did not want him dead. But what if Slava was not an agent of the Third Section, but represented far darker and more dangerous forces?

His dream came back to him. Perhaps he had been wrong in his interpretation. He had not wished to punish or humiliate his cousin. It was more complex than that. He now saw the dream as an expression of regret. He longed to replace his intimate reliance on this stranger, who had suddenly appeared in his life like a cuckoo chick, with the simple but lost love of his family, as represented by Dmitri Prokofich.

He remembered too that Maria Petrovna had figured in the dream, but as an absence not a presence. He sensed that there was something significant in this, but did not care to grasp it.

*

Porfiry lit a cigarette and turned his attention to the pile of correspondence on the desk before him. He chose to open first an envelope which bore the official stamp of the Obukhovsky Hospital. It was written confirmation from Dr Pervoyedov of the results of the blood analysis from the mirror, ring and tunic. Porfiry put it to one side. Next he opened a bulkier package, which turned out to contain the latest edition of a journal to which he subscribed. He began to browse the pages, but in a distracted manner, looking up eagerly at a knock on the door.