Salytov wrapped the razor back in the silk and pocketed it. He turned his attention to the other contents of the drawer, a bundle of letters tied up with a ribbon, also of red silk. He untied the ribbon and watched the letters spring apart, as though they couldn’t abide each other’s company.
At the thump of boots behind him, Salytov almost guiltily removed his hand from the bundle.
‘No sign of him,’ one of the policemen announced.
‘I told you,’ said Afanasy.
Salytov said nothing. His hand returned to the letters. He lifted the first one and read.
I have never loved you, any more than I have loved any man. I have tried on the idea of loving you, as I might a dress. But it did not fit. I could not walk freely. I was not myself. You might even say the idea of loving you clashed with my complexion. Console yourself with the knowledge that I do not love Naryskin. The idea of loving Naryskin is absurd. Naryskin is absurd. But the idea of marrying Naryskin is not absurd. Naryskin is a Prince. I have always dreamed of marrying a Prince. The fact that he is rich is also in his favour. If only you had been richer, I might have married you. If you had been richer, you would not have sullied yourself and insulted me by that shameful act. Poverty cannot but be shaming.
Of course, it is horribly cruel of me to confide this to you, of all people. I do it so that you should know the character of the woman who has betrayed you, so that you might feel less torment at my betrayal. I do it out of kindness and generosity. I do it to set you free. Consider yourself to have had a lucky escape.
You may also consider that you have brought this on yourself. How could I love you now?
In the same spirit, let me inform you that I have tried on the idea of loving many men, and none of them suited. Be under no illusion, as with you, so with them. That is to say, I gave myself to them completely. One cannot try on the idea of loving a man without trying on the man. You must know by now that it pleases me to express myself in such crude
‘What shall we do now, sir?’
Salytov swallowed thickly and put the letter back with the bundle. ‘No wonder he killed her, the whore.’ He looked at the letters distastefully. ‘There are some letters in this drawer. Gather them up and bring them back to the bureau.’
‘You can’t take them. They’re Captain Mizinchikov’s private property,’ cried Afanasy. But the cold glare of Salytov’s eyes drained the conviction from his voice even before he had finished his protest.
11 An extraordinary meeting
Bakhmutov saw the tramp on the corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Yekaterininsky Canal. He had just breakfasted and was looking out of his dining room window to gauge the day, prior to going down for business. The sight of a destitute would not normally have engaged his attention, but this man was staring fixedly at the bank as if he had some business with it. The beggar’s overcoat hung off him in ragged strips; only the turned-up collar was intact. There was something pathetic about the way the man’s head sank down into the flimsy band of cloth, the only protection against the weather that his old coat still had to offer. The man also wore a soft cap, pulled down as far as possible. It was almost as if he believed his head was the only part of him worth preserving.
A carriage passed between the beggar and the object of his attention. When it had gone, his gaze shifted up to the top storey window from which Bakhmutov looked out. Bakhmutov instinctively shrank from the man’s accusing eyes.
‘The poor will always be with us,’ he murmured to himself, pulling the drape in front of him. But he knew that there was something more personal in the beggar’s challenging look.
*
For a wealthy man, Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov lived almost frugally in the four-roomed apartment he kept above his bank. He maintained only one servant, for example. However, this was occasioned by an unwillingness to share his private life, any more than was necessary, with people who might conceivably come to bear a grudge against him. Tittle-tattle was the poor man’s weapon against the rich, and it was a powerful one.
If his own apartment was furnished comfortably rather than extravagantly, the public rooms of the bank evinced a discreet commitment to the aesthetic of wealth. The marble-clad walls breathed affluence from their mineral pores. Art hung over the marble, huge canvasses within massive gilt frames that hinted at the gold locked away in the vaults. This was a business calculation on Bakhmutov’s part. He had argued successfully to his board that such expenditure was necessary to inspire confidence in a financial institution.
The back room of the bank, the counting house, was more functionally done out. The clerks’ stools were not upholstered in watered silk, nor were their desks carved from mahogany. But they served their purpose well enough.
Velchaninov looked up and greeted his employer with a wincing smile. Bakhmutov gave a slight nod to acknowledge the other man’s solicitude.
‘Baron von Lembke is waiting for you, sir.’
Bakhmutov wrinkled his mouth distastefully. ‘Ardalion Gavrilovich, there is a disreputable individual loitering outside the bank. Some kind of tramp. Kindly see to it that he is moved along.’
‘I shall see to it myself, Ivan Iakovich.’
‘No. That will not be necessary. Get one of the doormen to do it.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Bakhmutov nodded to himself in satisfaction as his secretary sprang off his stool.
In the boardroom, von Lembke sat alone at the far end of the long oval table. Placed in front of him was a silver tray bearing a pot of coffee and two small cups, together with some pastries. The aroma of the coffee was overpowered by the cigar that von Lembke had just lit. At Bakhmutov’s entrance, von Lembke began to pour the coffee. ‘You’re late.’ Baron von Lembke was a man of bulk and yet there was something essential about his size. It was impossible somehow to imagine him being reduced to anything less than he was. There was a hard-boiled quality to his physique, though perhaps this was suggested by the utter baldness of his head. He held a cup out to Bakhmutov without looking up. Bakhmutov took the cup and walked to the far end of the table.
‘Late? Well, what do you expect after last night?’
‘I was not late. And I was there.’ Von Lembke had a way of barking out his words as if he were evicting them. ‘Here at ten o’clock sharp. And I do not have the advantage of living over the premises.’
‘It has been a terrible strain. I did not sleep at all.’
‘Terrible business. Terrible for business, too. For the bank.’
‘I fail to see the business implications,’ said Bakhmutov irritably as he took the seat at the opposite end of the table. ‘It is a private tragedy.’
‘It’s a scandal! No banking house wishes to be associated with a scandal. Reputation is everything. Confidence comes from reputation.’
‘But the bank is not associated with the scandal. There is no connection between what has happened and us.’
‘Don’t be naive. She was your mistress.’
‘Was. But no longer.’
‘You continued to take care of her. She lived in the apartment you provided. You put a carriage at her disposal.’
‘I was not so rash as to have the bank crest on the side of that carriage.’
‘Nevertheless, your name is linked to hers.’
‘But not in the financial pages, surely?’
‘Investors …’ Von Lembke took several deep puffs from his cigar, as if the smoke fuelled his irascibility, ‘don’t just read financial pages.’
‘I refuse to accept there is a financial aspect to this.’
‘There’s a financial aspect to everything. You know that the Moscow Merchants and their propagandists are always whipping up public opinion against us.’