At any rate, the room was so in keeping with his taste that it seemed almost to be an annexe to his palace on the Fontanka.
Perhaps his satisfaction was premature, as he had not yet signed the papers that would make him a director of the bank, adding the name Naryskin to those of Bakhmutov and von Lembke. He made a mental note: it would be better for all if it simply became known as the Naryskin Bank. What was the point of bringing in a genuine Russian aristocrat if they did not then exploit the association to the full? However, it was certainly a more pleasant sensation to enter the bank as a prospective director rather than in the humiliating position of a spendthrift in need of funds.
Prince Naryskin looked with less approval on the pink-cheeked young man approaching him with a fawning smile. He recognised him as the one on whom Bakhmutov had attempted to settle Yelena. It struck him as an insult that Bakhmutov had sent this individual to greet him; but then again, Bakhmutov’s own person was hardly more pleasing to him.
‘Your Excellency, Ivan Iakovich and Baron von Lembke await you in the boardroom. May I take your hat and coat?’
Prince Naryskin did not deign to look at the young man. He handed over his beaver and allowed his velvet top-coat, trimmed with a sable collar, to be peeled from him without any acknowledgement of the courtesy.
‘This way, Your Excellency.’
*
Prince Naryskin was gratified by the alacrity with which Bakhmutov and von Lembke rose to their feet. The German was puffing on a fat cigar. His eyes narrowed greedily as he took in the prince. An unexpectedly tiny pink tongue lapped out to moisten his lips.
Bakhmutov’s posture was more relaxed, though affectedly so. He gave the impression that his suavity was something he could turn on, or off, at will.
‘My friend!’ Though seemingly casual, and warmly welcoming, his choice of greeting was deliberate and pointed, reminding the prince of Bakhmutov’s claims over him. To reinforce this he pulled the prince to him in a prolonged embrace, which von Lembke ogled with a sly grin. Prince Naryskin shuddered as he was held by the banker. The venal toady who had greeted him was bad enough, but to be pawed and petted by this Jew, while the fat German licked his lips as if he were a particularly tasty morsel of bratwurst, was more than he could endure. He would make them pay, that was for sure.
Released from Bakhmutov’s grip, Prince Naryskin’s agitation was eased by the sight of a bottle of champagne cooling over ice. Next to it, three crystal flutes had been placed in readiness on a silver tray.
Bakhmutov followed the direction of his gaze. ‘This is a great day.’ He nodded to a waiting lackey. ‘We must celebrate.’
The lackey stepped forward, his white-gloved hands grappling with the wire around the neck of the bottle.
Prince Naryskin felt an intense craving for the champagne. Even so, he had the presence of mind to object: ‘But we have yet to iron out the details of our arrangement. Perhaps we should postpone the celebrations until everything is agreed to our mutual satisfaction. The devil is in the detail, they say.’ His smile snapped into place as he fixed Bakhmutov with a challenging look.
However, the champagne cork popped, and the lackey hastened to catch the foaming spillage in the first of the flutes.
‘Prince is right,’ barked von Lembke, with his characteristic terseness. ‘Detail first.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Bakhmutov impatiently. ‘However, I am confident we will be able to arrange things in a way that we all will find highly satisfactory. Let us first drink a toast.’ He took his glass from the salver and waited for the others to do the same. ‘To Prince Nikolai Naryskin, and the great family of Naryskin of which he is the wise and noble head.’
Although they were meant to flatter, Prince Naryskin found the words strangely offensive: impertinent, in fact, coming from Bakhmutov’s mouth. ‘That’s all very well,’ said the prince, nevertheless sipping his wine. ‘But I have some demands.’
‘Demands! My friend!’ Bakhmutov beamed, as though in making demands Prince Naryskin was paying him the warmest compliment. ‘There is no need to make demands of your friends, when you know that your friends will freely give you everything you desire.’ Bakhmutov gestured expansively around him with his free hand. ‘This will be yours, all this, your bank, as much as it is ours. How do you like it?’
‘It will serve.’
Bakhmutov chortled as if the prince had uttered a great witticism. ‘And the paintings! Did you notice the paintings?’
‘I did. One in particular … a landscape by Robert.’
‘I know the one. It is yours! We will have it packed up and taken round to Naryskin Palace this very day. A small token of our measureless esteem.’
‘A gift? There will be no strings attached?’
‘Merely your signature on the titles we have drawn up.’ Bakhmutov indicated some papers on the boardroom table.
‘It will certainly go well with the three other works by the same artist that I own already.’ But the thought of his Robert collection reminded the prince of less pleasant considerations. ‘What of the outstanding debt I owe to the bank? What will become of that?’
‘Well, once you are director, it could be said to be a debt you owe to yourself,’ said Bakhmutov cheerfully. ‘Which is an interesting position to be in.’
‘Could it not be cancelled?’
‘That is precisely the kind of bold and innovative thinking that we will value once you are signed in as a director,’ said Bakhmutov enthusiastically. More cautiously he added: ‘It is certainly a possibility. However, as I am sure you will understand, it is something that will have to be put to the board. But as the board consists in us, your friends, I can foresee little to prevent you achieving the outcome you desire.’
‘You would do that for me?’
‘Why should we not? For I feel sure that you would do the same for us, your friends.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the prince, suspiciously.
‘In fact, it would be truer to say that you would be doing it for yourself, because as a director of the bank, whatever is in the bank’s interest is in your interest too.’
‘What would you have me do?’
Bakhmutov met Prince Naryskin’s darkly anxious enquiry with a deflective smile. ‘Why discuss it now? This is a celebration. The appropriate time to go into these matters fully will be at the next board meeting. I hope and trust we will have the honour of your attendance.’
Prince Naryskin downed the rest of his champagne. He was not used to drinking in the morning. Something shifted within his perception of the room, a slight swimming of reality. His unease began to lift. He felt the situation simplifying. ‘I could have the Robert? It could be hanging in the palace today?’ Suddenly it seemed as though that was all that mattered.
*
‘And what if he finds out it is a fake?’ demanded von Lembke as he and Bakhmutov crossed the foyer of the bank, having seen a decidedly tipsy Prince Naryskin into his carriage. As the painting in question was being lifted from the wall, Bakhmutov paused to study it with a smile of deep satisfaction. He gave no indication of having heard his partner’s question.
19 The colours of blood
Dr Pervoyedov stood back from the bench, his gaze fixed on the spectroscopic eyepiece attached to his microscope. A curved brass arm clasped a small circular mirror, as though holding it up for examination. It gave the eyepiece an air of raffish inquisitiveness, which was enhanced by a metal kiss-curl at the top of the instrument’s rectangular face. Dr Pervoyedov smiled to himself at the ingenuity of the device. The mirror, and the slit towards which it was directed, allowed a spectrum of natural light to be viewed by the observer alongside the spectrum created by the sample to be inspected, so that any significant discrepancies would be more easily detected.