R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

Despite his initial tact, Virginsky now found himself following Porfiry’s example. He assessed the displayed contents of her reticule dispassionately, with an almost academic interest, as though they were exhibits in some diminished museum of femininity: a tortoiseshell comb, a porcelain cologne bottle with atomiser ball, a silver compact, and a lorgnette, also of tortoiseshell. It was apparently this last object that Princess Naryskina was looking for. She scooped everything else back into the reticule, including, inadvertently, the newspaper cutting, which she then only found by once again emptying the reticule.

Prince Sergei rushed to his mother’s side to help her replace the contents. ‘M-mother!’

Virginsky noted that the prince’s stutter had returned.

At last the princess was ready to begin the task. She unfolded the paper and held the lorgnette up to her face, moving it backwards and forwards to find the focal point.

‘Before you begin, madam,’ said Porfiry. He turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, may I have a word in your ear.’

Virginsky stooped, allowing Porfiry to whisper something that must have been extremely shocking, to judge by Virginsky’s glare of incredulity. Porfiry nodded emphatically.

Porfiry now addressed Princess Naryskina. ‘Now, madam, please don’t be alarmed, whatever happens. Especially do not be alarmed by what Pavel Pavlovich is about to do, which may indeed strike you as alarming.’ Porfiry nodded to Virginsky.

Virginsky moved to stand behind the princess. Suddenly he stretched his arms out, reaching over the princess’s shoulders, and let the towel unfurl in front of her face. He was careful not to touch her person; even so, their proximity had the awkwardness of enforced intimacy. He felt like a hairdresser might. The bloody towel added a bizarre twist. Prince Sergei stared in mute indignation. It seemed the arrangement was so outlandish it had robbed him of the power of speech entirely.

‘Now madam, if you are ready, please read the passage I have marked.’

Princess Naryskina cleared her throat thickly and tucked her chin against her collarbone. Her unnaturally deep, choked voice intoned: ‘The body of Innokenty Zimoveykin, 13, was discovered within the precincts of the Baird Shipbuilding and Machine Works, where he was employed as a labourer. This brings to four the number of child murders perpetrated in the city in recent weeks, death in each case being rendered by strangulation.’

It was here that Virginsky saw Aglaia Filippovna’s eyes start open. As Princess Naryskina continued reading, the two intense circles of turquoise flashed towards the bloody towel. The eyes widened. At the same time, Aglaia Filippovna’s hand came to life, struggling to pull itself free of Porfiry’s hold.

Her eyes swivelled briefly up to meet Porfiry’s.

‘Aglaia Filippovna, don’t be afraid. My name is Porfiry Petrovich. I am an investigating magistrate. I know everything, my dear. Everything. I am here to help you get better.’ Virginsky noticed that he was still toying incessantly with her hand, in particular turning an imaginary nut around an imaginary thread at the base of her thumb.

Aglaia Filippovna’s eyelids snapped to over the glorious colour of her irises, as if withholding something precious from the undeserving. The tension that had come into her body left it. She seemed to be lost to them again.

‘What did that p-pantomime achieve?’

‘It’s too early to say for sure,’ confessed Porfiry. ‘You may take the towel away now, Pavel Pavlovich. And, thank you, madam, for your assistance. You have helped me more than you can know. More than even I had hoped.’

‘Is that it?’ Prince Sergei voiced the question that was foremost in Virginsky’s mind. Porfiry’s experiment seemed to have ended in anti-climax. The same soft amber ripples flitted across the ceiling. Virginsky wondered if he had imagined the colour of her eyes.

That evening, Porfiry invited Virginsky to dine with him at Domenika’s on Nevsky Prospekt. He could not face going back to his apartment. A confrontation with Slava was overdue, but Porfiry had too much else on his mind to relish that prospect. And the thought of dining alone depressed him. Besides, he liked his young colleague. That said, he was not in the mood to talk over the events of the day, and he knew that that was what Virginsky would naturally wish to do. Porfiry felt unusually on edge. He craved distraction. He had a sense of the case as a vast but fragile lattice-work. Each of the pieces that comprised it was a supposition resting on an assumption. Somewhere at the base of it, perhaps, was a firm and irrefutable kernel of evidence. But so much had been built on so little that he could not now distinguish fact from speculation. If just one piece proved to be faulty, the whole edifice would collapse. He knew that what he should do was subject this mental construction to scrutiny, to see if it held up. But all he wanted to do was eat and drink, and afterwards, perhaps, divert himself with a game of billiards. He found the clack and clatter of balls from the billiard room comforting, and was saddened when the gypsy players struck up.

‘Is this a celebration, Porfiry Petrovich?’

‘What do we have to celebrate?’ Porfiry could not keep the weariness out of his voice as he shouted over the music.

‘ I know everything! Were not those your words to Aglaia Filippovna? So you have worked it out? You have solved the mystery?’

‘Ah, but perhaps that was simply part of my psychological experiment.’

‘ Perhaps ? How can you speak of your own actions with such uncertainty? Surely you know what was in your own mind?’

‘Does anyone? Ever?’

‘Please don’t take refuge in philosophical generalisations. It is only a reluctance to share your thoughts that leads you into obfuscation.’

Porfiry smiled and felt the tension of the smile in his facial muscles. He really did not have the energy for Virginsky’s challenging banter. He sighed morosely and fixed his attention on picking the bones out of a piece of sturgeon. ‘But I may be wrong, you see. And to voice my suspicions when I am wrong will be very damaging.’

‘For whom?’

‘For the one I accuse, of course. Surely you of all people should be mindful of that.’

‘You are not thinking of your reputation?’

‘It’s too late to concern myself with my reputation. My career is almost at an end, Pavel Pavlovich. No, there is no almost about it. I feel this may well be my last major investigation. It is not simply a case of physical energy, which is sadly all too lacking. I feel that my mental powers are waning too.’

Porfiry lit a cigarette to smoke as he ate.

‘But you acted with such confidence this afternoon!’

‘In truth, I do not know how I succeeded in summoning it. It was founded on nothing. The exercise has left me empty and exhausted. Prince Sergei was right. It was a pantomime that proved nothing. I was trying to force the issue, to bring about some decisive revelation. To shock Aglaia Filippovna into bearing witness. Instead, I merely made a fool of myself. Please, do not attempt to contradict me. There have been too many factors beyond my control in this case. You spoke of my reputation. I suspect I have the reputation of being an arch manipulator. People believe I am able to play the human soul like a pipe organ, pulling and pushing the stops to get the sound I want. But all along I have felt myself manipulated by outside forces and agencies. It has been very trying. I fear it may have forced me into making an elementary mistake. I have come to regard everything as part of one all-encompassing conspiracy. But what if it is not? What if there are merely a number of random events — or rather, events connected only by their awfulness? And what if this is an awfulness I can do nothing about? I know that Innokenty’s killer is beyond my reach, beyond justice, untouchable. He is protected by powerful parties, and I am too old, too fat, too weak, too scared to take them on. You were right, Pavel Pavlovich. I am Oblomov.’