Berezovo

by A J Allen

  “Yes, at eight o clock,” the secretary repeated. “Perhaps, Your Honour, the files of the allocation of the Cholera Relief Fund ought to be brought up to date? There may still be one or two irregularities…”

  “Shut up!” Pobednyev snapped.

  Picking up the note, the Mayor crumpled it in his fist and thrust it into the pocket of his morning coat. Then, pushing himself away from the desk, he stood up and walked over to the window that overlooked the length of Alexander III Boulevard. The distant prospect of the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary was still shrouded in darkness and even the corner of Alexei Street and Hospital Street, where two evenings before Dr. Tortsov’s maidservant had narrowly escaped being trampled by the gendarme’s horse, was invisible in the gloom. The only moving creature he could see was a well wrapped figure sweeping the snow from the front steps of the Hotel New Century.

  The Mayor stared uneasily at the hotel’s weather-beaten wooden portico. It awoke uncomfortable memories of an occasion seven years before, when it had been called the ‘Hotel de Paris’. Fyodor Gregorivich had just taken over the management following the death of his uncle and, characteristically, the new proprietor’s first action had been to throw open the dining room for a lavish banquet to celebrate his inheritance. It had been a glittering occasion, as far as any occasion in Berezovo could be described as ‘glittering’. The engraved invitations were coveted even among the barines and not just because the meal was free. To be able to display such an invitation in one’s home spoke volumes about the recipient’s standing in the town.

  Many of the townsfolk who had not been invited to the banquet, and quite a few of those who had, predicted that the event would prove a costly mistake. The young owner was widely regarded, even by his own uncle, as a prodigal wastrel. The common wisdom in the town at that time had been that if Fyodor Gregorivich’s intention was to ingratiate himself with his new clientele (which, in truth, it was) then he had misjudged his fellow men. Once the evening was past, and the lucky few had rolled home to their beds, they would soon forget his generosity; whereas those who had been excluded from the dinner would for a long time bear a grudge against the new patron. Fortunately for Fyodor Gregorivich, these prophets of doom had underestimated the enduring power of their own envy and the dinner marked not the demise but the regeneration of the Hotel as a fashionable meeting place where even the most ordinary citizen could, for the price of a glass of tea or coffee, if not actually rub shoulders with his or her social superiors at least observe their public comings and goings.

  It was not the memory of the banquet itself but of its aftermath that was now troubling the Mayor. Once the banquet proper had ended and the women packed off home in droshkis, Fyodor Gregorivich had been persuaded to remove his serviette from his arm and join his remaining guests at their tables. Many a toast had been drunk by the time poor Wrensky the revenue officer, who was later to die so mysteriously, had stood up and, swaying unsteadily, suggested that since the hotel had a new proprietor it was only fitting that it should receive a new name. They had pounded the tablecloths with their palms in agreement and a further succession of toasts had swiftly followed, each guest suggesting a suitable name. At the height of the contest, as each suggestion was becoming more absurd than the last – would anyone really want to stay at the Hotel Ukraine, for instance? Or at Obview? – the Mayor had been seized suddenly with inspiration and, before he knew it, he was on his feet rapping his spoon on his table for silence.

  “No, no, gentlemen!” he had declared, “There is only one name that is suitable.”

  He had paused dramatically and lifted his glass.

  “In the hope of better times, I give you the Hotel New Era!”

  The Mayor’s toast had been greeted with acclaim. Everyone had seemed quite happy with the name and it was not until shortly afterwards, when he had risen from his chair and was making his way with some difficulty out of the dining room and along the corridor towards the downstairs lavatory, that the Mayor had become conscious of Colonel Izorov padding silently by his side. One glance at the angry expression on the policeman’s face had told him that something was wrong. Despite the amount of vodka, champagne and brandy he had already consumed, Pobednyev found himself rapidly growing sober.

  “Well, Kostya,” he had greeted the Chief of Police amiably, “what a party, eh? By Christ, we shall suffer for this in the morning!”

  “Not necessarily,” Izorov had replied ominously.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It all depends on whether or not you can persuade that drunken rabble in there to adopt another name for this pile of rubbish.”

  “But Colonel,” he had foolishly protested, “what is wrong with the name Hotel New Era? It seems perfectly…”

  It was unclear what had happened next. After all, there were no witnesses, no passers-by in the narrow ill lit corridor. Perhaps he had stumbled, as the policeman had told the others afterwards. All the Mayor could remember now was that suddenly the policeman was holding him up against the wall with his face only inches from his own.

  “Listen, you drunken oaf!” Col. Izorov had snarled. “I don’t want any talk about a new era in this town. Not while I am Chief of Police. The next thing you know people will want to change the names of the streets and call them after Nechayev and scum like that. Do you understand me?”

  For a moment, the Mayor had thought that the colonel had been joking and had begun to laugh, but the sound died in his throat under the chilling threat of the iron grey eyes.

  “Certainly, Konstantin Illyich,” he had spluttered, “of course! You are quite right! I meant something quite different entirely. I meant the… Hotel New Century!”

  A grim smile of satisfaction had spread slowly across the policeman’s face as he slowly relaxed his grip. Raising his hand, he patted the Mayor’s cheek playfully, making Pobednyev flinch.

  “That’s right, Your Honour. The Hotel New Century.”

  And so it had been called and the affair had gone no further, but ever since, the Mayor had been wary of doing anything that risked antagonising the colonel’s sensibilities; political or otherwise. It was well within the Chief of Police’s power to submit a report to District Headquarters identifying him as an ‘unreliable’ public official that might trigger a governor’s inspection. The trouble was, he thought as he peered down into the dark street below, one could never be sure where one stood with Izorov.

  Turning away from the window, he ordered his secretary to fetch his overcoat. The man obeyed with alacrity, reappearing almost instantly carrying a heavy dark woollen overcoat with fox fur around the collar. As he helped him on with the garment, the secretary asked: “Are you going out, Your Excellency?”

  “Yes.”

  “If anyone should ask, when shall I say you will return?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “But if something happens,” the man persisted, “where can I reach you?”

  “I can’t tell you!” repeated Pobednyev testily, pushing him to one side. “It’s a confidential matter, do you understand? Confidential!”

  With as much dignity as he could muster, the Mayor strode from his parlour, leaving the council servant nervously tittering and executing little hopping steps in the fashion of a country dance upon the worn carpet.

  It took the Mayor less than three minutes to descend from his parlour and hurry the short distance to the police headquarters, his body bent against the biting cold. As he climbed up onto the boardwalk and stood hesitating in front of the uchastok’s iron studded door, he was joined by the director of the town’s prison, Dimitri Borisovich Skyralenko. The two men eyed each other warily.

  “Good morning, Your Honour! Have you come to see Konstantin Illyich?”

  The Mayor admitted that this was his purpose, adding casually as he reached for the door handle that he had received a note from the colonel summoning him to a meeting.

  “You too, Anatoli Mikhailovich?” muttered Skyralenk
o, drawing closer to the Mayor. “What’s it all about?”

  “I don’t know, but it must be important.”

  “In the note… did… did he say anything about burning it?”

  The Mayor nodded solemnly. The prison director let out a sigh of relief.

  “Mine too. I received mine at home. I thought that I had done something wrong. It’s hard to tell sometimes. But it can’t be so bad if you have been summoned as well.”

  “Safety in numbers, eh?” suggested Pobednyev doubtfully.

  The small man shrugged and fell silent. For a moment the two of them stood uncertainly, like two schoolboys waiting outside the headmaster’s office. Then impulsively the Mayor grasped the door handle again and, giving it a savage twist, pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.

  Immediately before them lay a neat outer office that served as the charge room, in the far corner of which stood a counter manned by a burly sergeant. Seeing them enter, the policeman got heavily to his feet.

  “Is the colonel in?” asked Pobednyev gruffly.

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  The sergeant, who at one time had been a school friend of the Mayor’s son, beckoned both men forward conspiratorially.

  “He’s talking to Captain Steklov,” he told them quietly.

  “I see,” said Pobednyev, giving Skyralenko a meaningful glance. “Please tell the colonel that we await his pleasure.”

  The sergeant acknowledged this request with a salute at the same time motioning the two men towards the warmth of a small pot-bellied stove. Coming out from behind his desk, he crossed over to the door marked ‘Col. K.I. Izorov’.

  It was an understandable error on the sergeant’s part to tell the Mayor and the prison director that the captain and the colonel were talking to each other. In his opinion, nobody would wish to venture into what was commonly called ‘Izorov’s lair’, unless he either had been summoned for an interrogation or had some urgent information to impart. The truth was that, besides an initial cool exchange of greetings, the two men had not addressed a single word to each other as they sat waiting for Pobednyev and Skyralenko to arrive.

  Whereas lesser men might have wilted under the strain of sitting in silence opposite the Chief of Police, Captain Steklov considered this lack of communication appropriate in the light of the difference in their circumstances. For his part, breeding and his uniform released him from any such commonplace pressures toward polite conversation. He had already spent ten months as commanding officer of the garrison at Berezovo and, although much of his time was occupied with his military duties, he was astute enough to have already formed his own impression as to how the Chief of Police regarded him. The colonel resented his youth, his money and his pedigree. He thought him weak, possibly even effete, because of the meticulous care he took over his grooming. In short, the policeman despised him.

  This troubled Captain Steklov not a jot. Not regarding himself as a professional soldier – his uncle, the prince, had purchased his commission after the death of his own son in the Far East – it amused him to see such a big fish in such a small pond become so annoyed by the presence of someone he could not bully. All this theatricality, with armed guards posted at the door and secret summonses in sealed envelopes. It was all such nonsense. How he yearned for the real drama of Petersburg! The sound of a coach and four rattling over the cobbles; the bright lights of the restaurants; the excited babble of a first night crowd. Eight months remained of his tour of duty in this miserable backwater. In September, provided nobody threw a bomb at the Tsar (God forbid!) or the rioting broke out again, he would be due a month’s leave. Until then, he had no alternative but to put up with whatever poor company the townsfolk provided. As his family’s sole heir, and with the expectation of receiving a sizeable fortune, it was not too great a hardship to endure. In the meantime, it was a positive relief that he had not had to engage this boorish policeman in inconsequential chit-chat, like some aged duchess at a ball. He felt that even the magnificence of his promised inheritance would be insufficient compensation for such an ordeal.

  There was a knock at the door and, glancing over his shoulder, Captain Steklov saw the head of the sergeant appear briefly around the door and give a nod to his superior. A moment later, His Excellency the Mayor Anatoli Mikhailovich Pobednyev and Prison Director Dimitri Borisovich Skyralenko were ushered into the office.

  Captain Steklov remained where he was as Colonel Izorov rose to greet the new arrivals. As the Mayor and the prison director settled themselves on either side of him, he acknowledged their presence with a languid inclination of his head then turned his attention back to his host. The three men watched in silence as Colonel Izorov unlocked the top drawer of his desk and drew out several pieces of paper before sitting down himself. As if he had suddenly become oblivious to their presence, the Chief of Police stared down at these documents, occasionally turning over a page with a frown, as if he were reading them for the first time. They waited for him to speak.

  The tension in the room grew as the silence lengthened. Pobednyev began to shift uneasily in his seat. Skyralenko coughed twice after which he removed his spectacles and began polishing them nervously on his sleeve. The passing seconds had become a minute and then a minute and a half. Even Captain Steklov, irritated by the deliberate delay, ceased his bored examination of his boots and waited impatiently for Izorov to begin. But the Chief of Police was not to be hurried. When at last he did speak, it was in a half whisper so low that his small audience leant forward as one man to catch his words.

  “Gentlemen, we have been paid a terrible honour! We are asked to receive into our midst fifteen of the most desperate and vicious men to ever taint the soil of Holy Russia. I refer to the ringleaders of the St. Petersburg Insurrection.”

  The dramatic effect of this announcement, so long in the formulation, did not disappoint Colonel Izorov. He watched as the faces of the two civilians registered in turn their shock, disbelief and then dismay. Skyralenko opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. The Mayor, once the momentary relief that his personal safety and liberty were not at risk had passed, struggled to grasp the enormity of what he had heard. Even the imperturbable features of Captain Steklov seemed to tauten as he waited for the next piece of news to burst like a shrapnel bomb over his head.

  The Mayor spoke for them all.

  “My God!”

  “Exactly!” responded Izorov grimly.

  “But why us?” complained Skyralenko. “We don’t have the facilities for these people. To begin with…”

  “One thing at a time, Dimitri Borisovich,” Colonel Izorov interrupted him. “First let me explain the arrangements that have to be made, then I shall answer all your questions.”

  The prison director regarded him doubtfully but gave a shrug of submission.

  “Firstly,” continued the policeman, “I am glad to say that their stay here will be brief. They are expected to arrive on the afternoon of Sunday, the eleventh of February. They will depart two days later, on the morning of Tuesday the thirteenth.”

  “Assuming the weather is favourable,” Captain Steklov murmured quietly.

  “During their time here,” the colonel went on, turning to Skyralenko, “the prisoners will be billeted in the jail under your supervision, Dimitri Borisovich.”

  “But I haven’t the room,” insisted Skyralenko. “You know how small the cells are.”

  “I shall come to that,” Izorov assured him. “As I say, they will depart on Tuesday the thirteenth, by means of reindeer sleigh. The animals will be picked personally by yourself, Anatoli Mikhailovich. The cost will be met out of the Civic Fund.”

  The Mayor blanched, but said nothing.

  “Some of the prisoners have brought their wives and children with them. Escorting them is a company of thirty soldiers, under the command of a sergeant. During their stay, these guards will be billeted at the barracks. They will be your responsibility, Captain.”

  Captain Steklov n
odded curtly and watched as the man opposite him picked up one of the sheets of paper, looked at it for a few seconds then discarded it.

  “While the prisoners are within this town,” Izorov continued evenly, “they will be treated in accordance with the law. In Petersburg, the situation is still very fluid. The instructions I have received are quite specific about this. The convoy is to be provided with the best reindeer. The prisoners are to be given some opportunity to exercise, and will receive the most wholesome food and the most secure lodgings we can provide. At the same time, they will be under constant police surveillance. So, our watchwords shall be courtesy and vigilance.

  “Now,” he concluded, discarding the last of his notes, “I am certain that you have some questions. Fire away!”

  Pobednyev rose slowly from his chair and, with one hand on the lapel of his jacket and the other tapping the policeman’s desk to emphasise his words, he addressed his two companions.

  “Gentlemen, Konstantin Illyich is right when he says that we have been paid a terrible honour. But I believe that the citizens of Berezovo can rise to meet this threat, this challenge, just as our forefathers did over a hundred years ago when Prince Menshikov and Ostermann came amongst us. We must see to it that each one of us, and those under our command, give the colonel the full measure of our assistance so that he can discharge his onerous duty.”

  “Hear hear,” responded Skyralenko dutifully.

  “However,” continued the Mayor with a grave shake of his head, “having said that, it won’t be easy. I foresee many difficulties, especially with the purchase of these deer. We all know that the Ostyak traders are bandits. They are not like us Russians. Their first loyalty is to their pockets and not to the Tsar, God bless him. The prices they will demand for their deer will be exorbitant.”

  Colonel Izorov smiled affably up at the Mayor from behind his desk.

  “Are you suggesting that the Civic Funds are not able to bear the amount involved?” he asked silkily. “That is interesting.”