A Razor Wrapped in Silk pp-3

by R. N. Morris

  The door to Porfiry’s private apartment opened and Slava came through carrying a steaming samovar.

  Virginsky turned his incredulity on Porfiry. ‘Already?’

  Porfiry blinked quizzically at the force of the question. ‘Slava was able to begin his employment immediately. Neither of us could see any reason to delay.’

  Virginsky shook his head in dismay.

  ‘Did I hear someone say there has been a breakthrough?’ said Slava blithely, as he dropped the samovar heavily on Porfiry’s desk in his excitement.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Porfiry, frowning at his new servant’s apparent ineptitude. ‘In the case that Pavel Pavlovich is investigating — the case of the missing boy.’

  ‘I see.’ Slava’s voice plummeted with disappointment as he hastily poured a glass of tea for his new master. The liquid slopped onto the desk, where Porfiry’s lunch tray remained. Slava dabbed at the spillage with a large grey handkerchief produced from his pocket. ‘I thought you were talking about the case of Yelena Filippovna. That is the case that …’ He seemed to catch himself in his enthusiasm. ‘Everyone is interested in,’ he added, more circumspectly.

  ‘You were listening at the door,’ accused Virginsky.

  Slava did not deign to answer the charge.

  ‘What we must do,’ said Porfiry, taking the glass from Slava, ‘is seek a positive identification of one of these corpses you have traced to the Medical-Surgical Academy. I suggest we take a conveyance to the Rozhdestvenskaya District forthwith, in order to collect Maria Petrovna. She will be able to tell us for sure whether we have indeed found the boy Mitka.’

  ‘Maria Petrovna?’ Virginsky loaded the name with challenge.

  ‘I believe she would be the best person.’

  ‘You would put her through that?’

  ‘I see no alternative.’

  ‘There is another teacher at the school, is there not? A man.’

  Porfiry sipped his tea and frowned distractedly.

  Slava had not poured a glass for Virginsky, and showed no intention of doing so. But neither did he seem inclined to withdraw, with or without the dirty plates. Virginsky glared at him pointedly, then, admitting defeat, helped himself to tea. It was tepid, he noted with disgust.

  ‘We do not know that this other teacher knew the boy.’ Porfiry drained his glass in one noisy gulp. ‘Perhaps the other teacher will be willing to make the identification on Maria Petrovna’s behalf. Perhaps she will insist on making it herself. I rather think the latter will be the case, knowing her as I do.’ Porfiry turned to Slava, apparently with surprise. ‘You may clear the lunch things away now, Slava.’

  His new servant made no move to obey him. ‘But what about the tunic?’ Slava asked eagerly. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to find out about the tunic?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Porfiry. ‘Thank you for reminding me. In all the excitement, I had almost forgotten about the tunic. Well, Pavel Pavlovich? What did Dr Pervoyedov have to say about the stains on the tunic?’

  ‘It is blood,’ said Virginsky heavily.

  ‘Yes. We expected that, I believe. And was he able to distinguish what type of blood it is? Whether venous or arterial?’

  There was no doubt it irked Virginsky to have to relinquish his advantage over Porfiry before he had been able to make use of it. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Ah no! You cannot embroil me in a wager now! Not now that you are privy to the outcome of his analysis.’

  ‘I am not seeking to embroil you in anything,’ said Virginsky with an involuntary smile. ‘I do confess, it was not the result I was expecting.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘And I am curious to know whether it is the result you were expecting.’

  ‘Given what you have said, I would imagine that Dr Pervoyedov found it to be venous blood. You would naturally have been expecting arterial blood, believing as you do that Captain Mizinchikov is Yelena Filippovna’s murderer.’

  ‘And you do not believe that?’ The question, enlivened by delight, came from Slava.

  Porfiry Petrovich rose from his desk. It could not be said that he rose to any imposing height, but the full bulk of his body was nevertheless impressive. ‘It is time for Pavel Pavlovich and me to be on our way. Be so good as to bring my furs. There is a freezing fog out, by the looks of it.’

  *

  The school was over a carpenter’s shop, surrounded on all sides by gigantic, smoke-blasted factories. It seemed as unlikely as a flower growing in a wall. Porfiry and Virginsky had driven east in a black departmental carriage, watching the quality of the fog change as they approached the heavily industrial area. Around Stolyarny Lane, the shifts of swirling grey had a wispy ethereal quality, a kind of innocent playfulness. It lifted the heart to wander through them: the squalor of the Haymarket District concealed, it was possible to imagine one’s self transported anywhere. But here, in the Rozhdestvenskaya District, deep within the noose of industry that encircled the city, there was more coal ash than water vapour in the choking curtain through which they had to push. It was a relief to step inside, where the sawdust itch emanating from the workshop seemed by comparison wholesome. As they climbed the stairs, hammer blows and the wheezing of saws gave way to childish voices raised in song.

  Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka maya …

  Virginsky could hear Maria’s voice underpinning their warbling efforts, deeper, steadier, leading them with unwavering clarity and strength. Her voice at that moment, it seemed to him, was the pure expression of her love for her charges. And how earnestly the children sing! thought Virginsky. They put their souls into it. He could picture their faces clearly, before even he set foot in the schoolroom.

  And then he remembered why they had come for her, and where they were intent on taking her.

  They had reached the top of the stairs and now he could see her. The door to the schoolroom was open, the scene just as he had imagined it. She was standing by an easel-mounted blackboard, pointing out the words to the song. Her hair was pinned up. She was wearing a simple grey dress with a white apron. He saw that she was utterly absorbed in the song and in the children, of whom there were barely a dozen, seated on two rows of benches, their slates on their laps.

  Perhaps the song would never come to an end, and she would never look up and see them, and they would not have to take her there.

  But she caught sight of them before the song was ended. Her face was instantly sapped of the energy and enrapt joy that her absorption in the music lesson had lent it. Her voice faltered momentarily, before she rallied herself to deliver one last chorus. She no longer pointed out the words but pumped her arms and stamped her feet in a stationary march. The beat of the song fell in with the hammering of nails downstairs. A beaming smile was splayed across Maria Petrovna’s face. Her head turned from side to side like a mechanical doll’s, driven by the song and the carpenter’s hammer. Roused by her display of enthusiasm, the children strained their voices to match hers. The song ended with a resounding shout, which collapsed into a voluble babble of excited chatter.

  ‘Silence!’ called Maria Petrovna, with a finger to her lips. The children obeyed instantly, though the pounding from the workshop continued recalcitrantly. Maria softened the abruptness of her command with a smile of appreciation at their obedience. It occurred to Virginsky that if he were one of her class, he would do whatever she asked of him on the promise of that smile.

  ‘Now then, children,’ she continued. ‘You see I have written the words to the song here. I have to talk to these gentlemen …’ Twelve faces swung round as one to get a look at Porfiry and Virginsky. Porfiry raised his hand to the level of his chin and waved his fingers with a simpering smile. Virginsky frowned. ‘While I am talking to them, I want you to copy down the words. Please get on with your work. I shall not be long.’

  She walked the length of the classroom with brisk steps and closed the door behind her.

  ‘You have found him? Mitka?’ Her face was drained of colour, her voice b
reathless.

  ‘We cannot say for certain.’ Porfiry’s gaze locked onto hers. She did not seek to evade those ice-coloured eyes. ‘A number of children’s bodies …’

  Maria put a hand to her mouth to stifle her distress. ‘A number? Oh my God!’

  ‘That in itself is nothing to be alarmed about,’ said Porfiry. ‘The bodies have come to light at the Medical-Surgical Academy, which routinely receives bodies for teaching and research purposes. I am afraid to say that children die in St Petersburg all the time, for all sorts of reasons. The fact that there are a number of bodies is not significant. The children we are looking for may or may not be amongst them. We need you … to identify them, if you are able.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be you,’ put in Virginsky quickly. ‘There is another teacher here, I believe. He could do it.’

  ‘Apollon Mikhailovich? But he did not teach Mitka.’

  ‘He will have seen him at the school.’

  ‘No. It has to be me. You have come to take me there now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ began Virginsky, his face contorted with anguish.

  Maria held firm. ‘You must allow me a moment to inform Apollon Mikhailovich. He will be able to take the little ones.’

  Porfiry and Virginsky stepped back against the wall to allow her to pass along the narrow landing to a closed door at the opposite end. There was a lull in the sounds of construction from downstairs. In the unexpected silence, they heard raised voices coming from behind the door.

  Maria paused at the door. ‘That sounds like Father Anfim. Apollon Mikhailovich will insist on goading Father Anfim. And sadly, Father Anfim always rises to the bait.’

  She knocked and opened the door to a second classroom. A familiar looking shovel-bearded man was perched on the edge of the teacher’s desk, as if to address the class, but there were no children present. Instead, an imposingly tall and grey-bearded cleric dressed in the long black robe of the Orthodox priesthood was pacing the room. The two men turned to face Maria as she came in, a look of wry amusement on the first man’s face, while the priest’s expression was frozen in thunderous rage. This melted somewhat at the sight of Maria Petrovna, to be replaced by reluctant contrition.

  Both the men took in the presence of Porfiry and Virginsky with guarded suspicion. Porfiry narrowed his eyes at the shovel-bearded man in half-recognition.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, gentlemen. Please moderate your voices. Do you want the children to hear you arguing?’

  ‘I apologise, Maria Petrovna, for raising my voice.’ Father Anfim’s face was red and strained. He stared stiff-necked at a point on the floor. ‘However, I must tell you that I have been subjected to the most extreme provocation by … this man.’

  ‘You are shouting again, Father Anfim,’ said Maria, gently.

  ‘It’s nonsense, of course,’ commented Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin, launching himself off the edge of the desk.

  ‘He says he will take down the icon! And the portrait of the Tsar! He even says he will take down the map! The map of the empire, my good lady! I am here to inform you … it is my duty, as the representative of the Holy Synod charged with the sacred responsibility of ensuring the moral probity of the schools in the Rozhdestvenskaya District … if he carries out just one of these intentions, I will have no alternative … No alternative, I tell you.’

  ‘But Father Anfim,’ objected Maria, ‘do you see the icon?’ She pointed to the corner from where the icon of the Virgin Mother looked down.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the priest.

  ‘And do you see the portrait of his Imperial Majesty? And the map of Russian territories?’

  The priest had to agree that these images were also in place.

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘But he says he will take them down!’ spluttered Father Anfim.

  ‘Did you, Apollon Mikhailovich?’ It seemed to Virginsky that the tone she adopted was the one she would use with a naughty schoolboy.

  ‘No!’ denied Perkhotin emphatically. ‘The subtleties of my position have been lost on the reverend father.’

  An explosion of bluster escaped from the priest’s mouth.

  ‘Then what did you say?’ asked Maria calmly.

  ‘I said that there would come a day, before too long, possibly within our lifetime, certainly within the lifetime of the children we teach, when such symbols will not only be taken down, but also will be destroyed.’

  ‘Is that what you are teaching?’ screeched Father Anfim. ‘It is revolution!’

  ‘Nonsense. In the first place, I do not teach it. The inevitable cannot be taught. One may as well attempt to teach the tide to come in. Whether one likes it or not, these things will happen. And to observe as much implies neither approval nor its opposite. It is morally neutral.’

  ‘There!’ cried Father Anfim triumphantly. ‘Condemned by his own words … Morally neutral! It is not your place to be morally neutral, sir. It is your place to teach loyalty to the Tsar … and devotion to God, while you’re at it.’

  ‘But what about the principles of science?’

  ‘The principles of the One True Church. That is your priority. You are producing the Tsar’s future subjects. It is your duty to impose most emphatically upon them …’

  ‘To impose what, father?’

  ‘A sense of their place in his empire whilst assuring them of his fatherly love for them.’

  ‘Is it a father’s love that condemns them to a life of hellish drudgery and back-breaking toil out there?’ Perkhotin waved sweepingly at the casement window. The lights of the surrounding factories glowed dimly through the smog.

  ‘A father’s love may at times appear distant … his visage stern. But if those children place their trust in him … they will find … he will not let them down! Indeed, he is their best hope for protection. Was it not this tsar who lifted the yoke of serfdom? Even you must admit that! Well, now, he applies the same zeal … the same loving diligence … to, to, to …’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the question of factory regulations.’

  ‘Another commission that will come to nothing, its findings hidden away in some dusty departmental cupboard.’

  ‘The Tsar will consider its findings carefully, as he always does.’

  ‘Before giving his order: Bury it! As he always does.’

  ‘Please, gentlemen,’ broke in Maria Petrovna desperately. ‘This is fruitless. Father Anfim, you have my assurance that I will never consent to the removal of the icon.’ She spoke at a racing lick, her fluency inspired by necessity. ‘The same goes for the portrait of the Tsar and the map. Not only that, I can assure you that Apollon Mikhailovich agrees wholeheartedly with me on this. Is that not so, Apollon Mikhailovich? Is that not so, Apollon Mikh-?’ The final, repeated question fell away into tears.

  ‘Maria Petrovna! Whatever is the matter?’ Perkhotin took her hands in his. ‘If I have caused you any distress by my ill-judged remarks …’

  ‘My dear lady!’ cried Father Anfim, who appeared almost panic-stricken as he pressed in on her. The priest and the teacher jostled to assert their solicitude. ‘Do not upset yourself. I … I … Given your assurances regarding this individual … I accept unreservedly.’

  ‘Thank you, my friends.’ Maria Petrovna pulled her hands free from Perkhotin’s. ‘I must ask you to forgive my outburst. I assure you, it has nothing to do with either of you. It is simply that I must go with these gentlemen. They are magistrates. They have something they want me to look at.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Something sharper than concern, a look almost of cunning, pinched Perkhotin’s features as he considered Porfiry and Virginsky.

  ‘It’s to do with the children. The ones who went missing. There is the question of identification.’

  ‘I see.’ The words rasped at Perkhotin’s throat.

  ‘Oh my dear, how terrible for you. May God give you strength.’

  Virginsky felt impe
lled to speak up. ‘Of course, there may be a way to spare Maria Petrovna from this ordeal. If either of you gentlemen would be willing to make the identification in her place? That is to say, if the children were known to you.’

  ‘They were my pupils,’ insisted Maria. A desolate calmness had entered her voice. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point.

  ‘It’s the boy, isn’t it?’ began Perkhotin hesitantly. ‘Mitka? I know him. I could identify him, I believe.’

  ‘There are other children missing too, whom I do not think you know.’

  ‘I would know their faces, Maria Petrovna.’

  ‘No!’ The force of her objection shocked them all. ‘I mean to say, yes, you would know their faces, I’m sure. But I cannot ask you to do this. No one knows these children as I do. No one else can do this for me.’

  ‘But there is something you should be aware of,’ said Virginsky, with a desperate look to Porfiry.

  Porfiry shook his head warningly.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Her words came constricted by fear.

  Virginsky fixed his gaze on Porfiry. ‘We told you that the bodies were received by the Medical-Surgical Academy, for the purposes of teaching. The students have been at work on them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The heads have been removed.’

  The sound was something more than a groan. It was the throbbing churn of her living flesh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ continued Virginsky. ‘There was nothing we could do about it. It was part of their studies. It is important, however, that you are prepared for what is to come. To expose you to this without warning would be cruel.’ He cast a significant glance towards Porfiry Petrovich.

  ‘I will not permit you to subject yourself to this,’ said Perkhotin grimly. Then, as if he sensed her inevitable intransigence, he added: ‘Or at least allow me to accompany you.’

  ‘No.’ This time, she uttered the word of rejection softly, and Virginsky marvelled at how quickly she had regained her composure. ‘Though I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your offer. You must stay here for the children. And for me. I need you to take my class.’