‘Us?’
‘Outsiders. You, a Jew. Me, a foreigner.’
‘I am not a Jew. I am a Christian.’
‘In their eyes, you are a Yid. Always will be. You are Iakov’s son. Me, I’m no foreigner. I’m as Russian as you. But I have a foreign name. That’s enough for them.’
‘Your friends in the finance ministry will not back them. Which means the Tsar will not tolerate it. The Tsar is a father to all Russians.’
‘Don’t put your faith in this tsar. He lost heart after the reforms. They were meant to make everyone love him. Instead, they start taking potshots at him. We can all go to hell as far as he is concerned. And the next tsar — a real Jew-hater. Friend of the Slavophiles. Their campaign against foreign money — he’s on their side. Russian industry in Russian hands, that’s what they say. This affair gives them another stick to beat us with.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘The decadent, sensualist Jew. Corrupter of Russian virgins.’
‘But I am not a Jew, I tell you.’
‘So, you do not deny the other charge.’ Von Lembke gave a smoky chuckle. ‘They are talking about founding a bank of their own. A Russian bank.’
‘This is a Russian bank. It has a Russian name on the plaque.’
‘The Tsar has already given his approval.’
‘Well, let them. There is room for another bank.’
‘And what if our Russian investors transfer their deposits to them?’
‘That will not happen. Our clients are our friends. Besides, we have reserves. And our loan business is turning over a good profit. We are a well-run bank.’
‘Owned by a Jew and a German.’
‘What’s wrong with that? The Finance Minister himself is a German. The Tsar surrounds himself with Germans.’
‘Public opinion is turning against the German influence at court.’
‘I care nothing about public opinion.’
‘Then you are a fool. At least be thankful we don’t have a French partner. However, if our aristocratic friends decide they prefer to pay interest into Russian pockets …’
‘My pockets are Russian. This suit was tailored here in St Petersburg!’
‘This is no laughing matter. The situation is grave.’
‘Our friends will not desert us.’
‘And our enemies? What if Mizinchikov was put up to it by our enemies?’
‘You’re being absurd. Mizinchikov loved her. He didn’t kill her because someone told him to. He killed her because she rejected him.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. I don’t pretend to understand love.’
‘You, but even you …’
‘Business. That’s what we must concentrate on.’
‘I agree, up to a point. However, I fear there is nothing we can do.’
‘Not true. We must bring a Russian in. A true Russian. Not a Yiddish convert. An old Russian. Get a proper Russian name on the plaque. That’ll carry some weight.’
Bakhmutov sipped his coffee without commenting on von Lembke’s proposal.
12 The story of a love affair
The following day, Porfiry Petrovich awoke to a sluggish depression. An obscure sense of guilt infected him, no doubt the emotional ripple of a dream he could not remember. He had overslept. Stabbing his arms into his dressing gown, he hurried from his bedroom into the main room of his private apartment. His depression sharpened into annoyance when he saw the table had not yet been laid for breakfast.
‘Zakhar!’ Immediately he realised his mistake. He slumped into a seat, his elbows on the table, face in his hands. Only the chiding tick of the grandfather clock disturbed the silence of the apartment.
He heard the door to the kitchen open. There was a rattle of pots.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Zakhar …’ It was Katya, her voice strained to its usual unnaturally high pitch, in the way of so many Russian peasant women.
‘I know.’
He heard her put the tray down heavily.
‘Will there be anything else?’
Porfiry looked up, as though surprised by the question. She was the cook whose services he shared with the other residents of the apartments provided by the department, for the most part magistrates and senior police officers and their families. She prepared food for him every day, the food which Zakhar brought to him, but it was a long time since he had laid eyes on her. She had aged. He remembered her as a strong bustling woman, agile, despite her weight. She had filled out even more and there was an arthritic stiffness to her movements now. Though her face still shone with health, there were deep lines scoring the ruddy glow.
‘Thank you, no.’
She nodded and left with a haste that saddened him. He half-raised an arm after her. The apartment was cold and gloomy; the chill of autumn had taken possession. The stove had not been lit. But it was not simply on account of the unlit stove that he regretted her departure. He wished he had been able to talk to her of Zakhar.
The drapes were still open from the day before. He had not drawn them himself and there was no one else to do it. The windows were flat planes of grey, through which a meagre light seeped. Porfiry did not have the will to look out at the raw, damp day. He felt the saturated moisture of the air in his chest, and dwelt for the moment on the rattle and wheeze of his breathing; a precise dread of the inevitably worsening weather, of the inescapable winter ahead, entered him.
What saved him from complete lethargy was the desire for a cigarette.
Three cigarettes later, there was a knock at the door of his apartment. The intrusion seemed to set off a coughing fit, which served as his greeting to Virginsky, who pointedly wafted the fuggy air and frowned his bemusement at the sight of Porfiry in his dressing gown.
‘Are you unwell, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘Perfectly well, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry as he at last poured himself a cup of coffee. The cold bitter liquid caught at his throat and merely renewed his hacking fit. He sat down to absorb it.
As Porfiry settled back in his chair, drawing a splayed hand across his face, he caught the indulgent amusement now in Virginsky’s eye. ‘What are you smiling at, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘You remind me of Oblomov.’
‘How can you possibly say that! Oblomov is nothing like me!’
‘Goncharov describes him wearing a dressing gown just like yours.’
‘Nonsense. His is more oriental.’
‘Well, it’s a dressing gown. He wastes away the day in his dressing gown.’
‘This is nonsense. I am a man of action. Not a lethargic wastrel consumed by ennui and indecision.’
Virginsky contented himself with a sceptical pinching of his lips.
‘I am surprised at you, Pavel Pavlovich. You of all people should know that when I am sitting still and smoking a cigarette, I am never simply sitting still and smoking a cigarette. I am at work, active. My mind races. The very thing I am not, however, is an Oblomov.’
‘Oblomov is a very lovable character. The Russian reading public took him to their heart.’
‘I am not lovable, Pavel Pavlovich. Not by any means. If I were lovable, then … there would be someone here, a loving creature, loving me.’ There was no self-pity in Porfiry’s voice as he offered this opinion. If anything, there was a triumphant delight in his own logic.
‘But I thought there was someone. Last night, you hinted …’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I was sure … Perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘No doubt. I will see you in my chambers in ten minutes.’
‘Very well.’ Virginsky nodded and turned to go. At the door, he hesitated and added: ‘I thought you would be interested to know that Aglaia Filippovna regained consciousness.’
‘Excellent.’
‘But only briefly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She is in a coma now.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think it would be best if you spoke to her doctor yourself. I cannot explain it.’
‘I am most eager to speak to him. An eagerness which I shall act upon … imminently, if not immediately.’ Porfiry took out another cigarette and lit it.