He paused outside the building where the Bourlovs lived, in the fashionable boulevard of mansions and apartment houses that edged the Fontanka Canal, and looked up. The large windows of the expensive first-floor apartment glinted in winter sunshine, a chandelier gleamed behind heavily draped velvet. Not for the first time Victor wondered if he had been wise in agreeing that his daughters should be allowed to spend too much of their time in such surroundings; but then the offer of free education was hard to resist, and the Bourlovs had been very keen to have the companionship of her cousins for their daughter Katya; and at the moment the Bourlovs were to be cultivated. It would be only for a while. The girls were growing apace, husbands must soon be found for them. Perhaps Varya Petrovna was right at least in this; here in Petersburg their chances of an advantageous match might be better than in Moscow. Until then they might as well pick up as much polish and confidence as they could; it could do no harm.
Victor brushed the snow from his shoulders, straightened his hat and ponderously mounted the steps to the huge revolving door that led into the vestibule.
* * *
Mikhail Mikhailovich Bourlov, black eyes gleaming, eyed his brother-in-law with considerable if hidden amusement. Against all odds – and Victor himself would certainly never have believed it – Mikhail Mikhailovich harboured some rueful glimmering of something like affection for Victor. The man was a bore and sometimes a pompous one at that, but there was no doubting his intelligence, nor yet his strict and fussy sense of honour, at least where business was concerned. Mikhail Mikhailovich, known to friend and enemy alike as Mischa, found Victor’s attitudes to business quaint in the extreme; and was aware that his brother-in-law’s unease about Mischa’s own somewhat piratical practices must disturb a tender conscience considerably. He could not be blamed, he considered, for taking a mild and graceless pleasure in the situation. ‘I insist,’ he said, smiling. ‘The loan is interest-free for the first two years. After that, if repayments haven’t been made, well, we’ll see.’
‘Mischischa,’ Zhenia had said, glinting at him from beneath the mass of fair hair that was the only attribute she shared with her sister Varya, ‘for me? Stupid Victor’s solid gold, and you know it – he’ll starve himself and everyone else rather than get behind on the repayments. To you it’s such a little sum. The stock must be worth as much. Andrei says they have some very fine instruments. And there’s some talk of a good contract in the offing. You can afford it. It will make Victor Valerievich happy. And if Victor’s happy then Varya will be happy. And if Varya’s happy –’ She had laughed a little, and the attraction she still held for him had stirred, lazily, making them both smile, ‘– she’ll be so very much easier for her poor sister to cope with!’
Victor was hard put not to show his relief. Low interest he had hoped for if not expected, but an interest-free loan would take much of the anxiety from these initial, difficult months. He felt, however, honour bound to protest further. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Mikhail Mikhailovich,’ he began, stiffly. ‘The normal terms of business –’
‘Nonsense.’ Mischa was brisk. ‘I’m delighted to be a part of the new venture. Andrei has quite a reputation here in Petersburg, you know. Though it’s generally accepted that his work will never perhaps be as good as it used to be he’s counted still a great craftsman, despite his handicap. And his young apprentice – the young violin maker who has joined him – he too is making a name for himself and for Shalakov and Sons. I heard that the Princess Venskaya held a charity concert last week at which the young von Vecsey played his famous Stradivarius with a Shalakov bow. The Princess is a music lover and a patron of Andrei’s, I believe. Such contacts can only bring great prestige, and in Petersburg prestige and success tend to walk hand in hand. So let’s hear no more of it. You’re satisfied with the premises in the Nevsky?’
‘More than satisfied. The workshop is already in operation, or will be within the next few days. The shop will be open in a very few months I hope.’
‘Good.’ Mischa reached into his pocket and brought out a flat gold cigarette case that gleamed dully in the winter sunlight that slanted through the window. He offered the box to Victor, who refused it with a shake of the head. Mischa leaned back in his chair, extracted a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully upon the box.
Victor threw caution to the wind. Really, he could not allow it to be thought that Andrei was the only one with influence in this upstart city. ‘I too,’ he said, a little stiffly, ‘have acquired a patron. Of even greater worth, if I may say so, than the Princess Venskaya.’
Mischa had lit his cigarette. He blew a stream of smoke lazily to the ceiling. ‘Oh?’
‘I am as it happens about to sign a contract for the supply and maintenance of all stringed instruments to the Imperial Ballet School, the Music School and the Imperial Theatres both here and in Moscow.’ The words came in a rush. Victor felt unbecoming colour mounting in his cheeks. He had told no-one of this; it was a secret he had nursed, through bribe and negotiation, close in his heart. Almost superstitiously he had refused to mention the possibility to anyone, as if to speak of it would be to break the spell of good fortune. He had not even mentioned the chance that they might get the contract to Andrei. To hear the words actually spoken was both frightening and exhilarating. He leaned back, studiedly casual, crossing his legs, firmly suppressing as he had suppressed all through this affair his own distaste for the established mores of business in the Imperial capital. He had long realized that the choice was between starving self-righteously and accepting, sensibly, that in Rome one must enter the market place in the Roman way. Conscience be damned; at least he could show this buccaneering brother-in-law that he was not the only one in the family who knew how to pull strings to his own advantage. ‘As you know the schools and the theatres are subsidized by His Imperial Highness’s own Privy Purse,’ he said into the sudden, interested silence. ‘A five-year contract is on offer it seems. Not a fortune of course, but a good steady income that should see us through the first difficult times, and a great honour for the Shalakov name.’
Mischa was eyeing him through a cloud of smoke, his expression a mixture of mild if gratifying astonishment and a dawning, knowing amusement. ‘You actually have this contract?’
Victor shifted in his seat, a little uneasily. ‘As good as, yes.’ A slight edge of defensiveness sharpened the words.
‘I see.’ Mischa drew again, unhurriedly, at his cigarette, then added gently, ‘And may I ask how?’
Victor waved a worldly hand. ‘There have been – negotiations – in hand for some time.’
‘Victor Valerievich, who have you been bribing?’ There was open laughter now; laughter with a touch of friendly mockery that set Victor’s teeth on edge.
‘Most –’ He hesitated, delicately, very much upon his dignity, ‘– contact – has been made through a man by the name of Pavel Petrovich Donovalov. He approached me originally in Moscow, when it became known –’ He stopped at Mischa’s sudden movement. ‘You know him?’
Mischa had leaned forward, elbows on desk, his eyes sudden, sharp needlepoints of interest. He remained so for a moment, then sank back again into his chair, smiling through smoke. ‘My dear Victor, in Petersburg everyone knows anyone who is bribable. And Pavel Petrovich is probably the most bribable of them all. He’s got his sticky fingers into the Privy Purse now, has he? My, my! When I knew him he was a common or garden junior official in the War Ministry. Put a few contracts my way. For a consideration, of course. A weasel. Pure and simple. One of the nastiest pieces of work it’s been my misfortune to do business with, I’d say. There’s even talk – did you know? – that the death of his wife last year was not – how shall I put it? – not entirely lacking in questionable circumstances. But it was never followed up. The man has contacts in the most unlikely places. As I said: a weasel. Well, you’ve met him; I dare say I don’t need to say more?’
‘Indeed not.’ Victor was abstracted. ‘I wonder – since you apparently
know the man?’
‘Yes?’
‘In your opinion –’ Victor hesitated, embarrassed, then pressed on, ‘will he deliver what he promises?’
Mischa shrugged. From the corridor outside a light and musical voice called. Laughter rang like a chime of bells and quick footsteps hurried upon the parquet floor. ‘If it suits him.’ Already he was turned towards the door, smiling. ‘Just go through any contract with a fine-tooth comb and don’t trust him any further than your pretty little Varya Petrovna could throw him. Oh.’ He was already standing, moving towards the door. ‘And keep him away from your girls. He has a reputation that would make a self-respecting dog retch. Katya, my dear. Is this the dress I’ve heard so much about? Well come, let me look at you – let me see the sight for which I’ve beggared myself.’
‘Mischischa, darling!’ The girl who burst into the room was of medium height, fair-haired, brown-eyed, tiny of waist and full of breast; as the dress she was wearing showed to every possible advantage. Of coral silk trimmed with green, it swirled about her in a shimmer of colour. She spun into a few dance steps, ended in a deep and graceful curtsy. ‘There! Isn’t it just lovely? Oh, hello, Uncle Victor. I didn’t know you were here.’
Victor rose, stiffly and well upon his dignity. ‘Yekaterina Mikhailovna.’
Her eyes brightened with laughter at the formality. With an openly mischievous glance at her father, she straightened, folded her hands and proffered a cool, equally formal cheek. She moved in a cloud of perfume, heady and sweet. Victor kissed her awkwardly. Then, the game palling, she spun away from him again, her eyes on her father. ‘What do you think, dear Mischischa? Isn’t it worth it? Isn’t it?’
Her father stood, solemnly eyeing her. ‘We-ell –’ He hesitated, pretending a frown.
Katya laughed, threw her arms about him. ‘You know it is! You know it is! Oh, Mischischa darling, it is quite the loveliest dress I have ever seen in my whole life! Thank you. Thank you so much!’
Victor found himself thinking that no business associate of Mikhail Mikhailovich Bourlov would have recognized the fond smile that softened his face and gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘You look wonderful, my darling. Absolutely wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Sir. Thank you kindly.’ She broke away from him, dipped into another curtsy, openly impudent this time and coquettish. Then she swirled to where Victor still stood. ‘Uncle Victor, when is Anna coming? And Lenka of course? I’m quite dying to see them.’ If the expression and tone of the words were a little less enthusiastic than the words themselves Victor chose to ignore it. The girl was a minx and should have been taken in hand long ago. He was not alone, he knew, in his astonishment that his brother-in-law Bourlov, a man to be respected in most quarters – and more than a little feared in many – could allow himself such indulgence where this all but uncontrollable child of his was concerned. Some man was going to have the devil of a job when he took the girl to wife. If indeed anyone could be found to take on such a task, fortune or no fortune. Again he found himself wondering, was it wise to let Anna and Yelena spend time in this opulent house with this hoyden as companion? Then he remembered the loan, so important until the Privy Purse, always notoriously slow to open, actually started to pay out, and he smiled as best as he could.
‘Whenever you like, my dear. Next week, perhaps? After we are well settled in the apartment? I know they’re as anxious as are you for the reunion.’
‘Next week.’ Katya tossed her fair head, slanted a mischievous glance at her father. ‘Good. Perhaps having Anna and Lenka here will stop Monsieur Drapin nagging me so. I do hope so. In fact I’m quite counting upon it. Anna and Lenka are so very clever.’ The word was dismissively and unrepentantly amused. ‘I’m sure they’ll keep M’sieu happy for me whilst I pursue my own lazy ways. Misch’, darling, Mama asked me to remind you that you’re due at the Kerelovs’ this evening, and there isn’t much time.’
Mischa sketched an elegant, apologetic gesture in the air in the general direction of Victor. Victor blushed furiously. ‘I really must go,’ he said. ‘I’ve already taken up too much of your time.’
‘You’re sure you won’t take tea?’ The offer was polite, but far from pressing.
‘No, no. Varya Petrovna will be waiting. My respects to your wife, Mikhail Mikhailovich. Good day, Katya, my dear.’
After he had gone Mischa turned to his daughter, only half-laughing. ‘Katya, Katya! You really mustn’t do such things, you know!’
‘But he’s such a bore!’ Katya smoothed the coral silk, smiling as the gleaming, delicate material glinted between her fingers. ‘It’s really difficult to believe that he and the beautiful Andrei are brothers, isn’t it?’
Her father shook his head, theatrically despairing. ‘Katya-’
She kissed him, lightly. ‘Don’t say it, Mischischa. I know. I’m hopeless. A lost cause. I agree. Now, I’ll go and change my beautiful dress and then you and I have time for a game of chess before Mama steals you for the evening.’
* * *
‘Lenka, for goodness’ sake – can’t you move your idle self and help?’ Anna stood, hands on hips, eyeing in growing exasperation her sister who lay slumped upon the bed, curled about a book.
Yelena grunted.
‘Don’t you want the room to look nice?’ Anna hauled a heavy armchair close to the window, stood back looking at it critically. ‘Just because three of us have to share it doesn’t mean it has to look like a pigsty all the time! We might as well be comfortable!’ She tossed a cushion onto the chair, plumped it up and looked around again. The large room held a big bed for herself and her sister and a small one, little more than a pallet, for Margarita, who needless to say had made herself very scarce at first mention of work to be done. A large black stove belched heat from one corner. Books were stacked in heaps upon the floor, and clothes were scattered upon the bed. ‘Lenka, do move! You’re lying on my best skirt!’
Yelena, grumbling, moved a fraction.
‘What are you reading?’ Anna peered over her shoulder. ‘Dostoevsky? Again? Lenka, darling, you must know every word the man has written by heart!’
‘Very nearly.’ Yelena afforded her one of her rare smiles. ‘’Noushka, have you spoken to Papa yet?’
‘Er, no.’ Anna began to fold clothes, not looking at her sister. ‘I haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘But Anna, when? When will you?’
‘Just as soon as I can. Just as soon as the opportunity presents itself.’ Anna threw the blouse she had been folding onto the bed and turned, arms wide. ‘Oh, Lenka, you know how difficult Papa can be. If I catch him at the wrong moment –’ She shrugged, pulled an expressive face.
‘I know. I do know.’ Lenka threw herself back onto the bed, her arms behind her head. ‘It’s just so important, so terribly important to me –’
‘Yes.’ Anna stood for a long moment watching the other girl who lay, head averted, looking sightlessly through the window into the light and faintly sunlit winter skies. ‘I do know that, Lenka. Truly I do.’ She sat beside her, touched her cheek gently with the back of her hand. Ever since she could remember she had been fiercely and protectively devoted to this difficult sister of hers. Even as a small child she had sensed Lenka’s need of her; in their growing years the younger child, starved of affection from other quarters, had clung to her, looking to Anna for protection and for sympathy and rarely failing to find both in full measure. It had fallen automatically to Anna to mop her small sister’s tears, soothe her angers, gentle the storms that had so often shaken her; Varya’s motherly instincts barely extended so far to any of her children, and Victor, upon whom for most of the time Anna herself could rely, had been strangely and harshly impatient towards Lenka. And so a bond had grown between them, a bond that might have been irksome to Anna had she not been so deeply aware of her sister’s unhappiness. She knew that it might be said that Lenka, difficult as she could be, was her own worst enemy. Yet Anna was sure that it was their father’s inexplicable attitud
e to the child that had made her so. ‘I’ll talk to him, Lenka, I promise. Soon. Perhaps he’ll agree – oh, good heavens, is that the time?’ She rubbed at her forehead with a dusty finger. ‘I promised Mama I’d fetch Uncle Andrei up for tea at three and it’s ten past. I’d better go.’ She jumped up, brushing down her skirt, peered into the mirror, decided against any effort at tidying the wiry mass of her hair, scrubbed with a handkerchief at a smudge of dirt on her chin and the other her dirty finger had left on her forehead. ‘What a sight! Oh, do get up and do something, Lenka, please! At least get those books stacked on the shelves. I’ll go down and fetch Uncle Andrei. Tell Mama I’ll be back in five minutes or so.’
Strange Are the Ways Page 4