Berezovo

by A J Allen

  “Don’t be so ridiculous!” she would retort. “It’s not a question of liking them or disliking them. They invite me for who I am, not for myself alone. I am the wife of the most senior government official in Berezovo. I attend those ‘at homes’ because I am obliged to, not because I choose to. It is my duty and I accepted it when I agreed to marry you and brought you my fortune. But what are they? Merely the wives of sellers of rabbits’ fur and kindling. I am under no obligation whatsoever to invite them into my home, or even mix with them socially. If I should wish to do so out of personal friendship then I would, but I don’t. To me, they shall always be little more than peasants who have made good.”

  She had been careful not to add the words ‘just like you’, not that it had been necessary. Her second husband had been under no illusion of her opinion of him. Now, as she watched Mariya pass between her guests with the plate of almond cakes, she thought of the satisfaction his ghost must be gaining from the scene being played out in her salon. Times had indeed changed.

  The knowledge that her party was still incomplete – that Madame Pobednyeva had still to arrive – filled her with gloom. The Mayor’s fat wife was more awful than the two women on the sofa opposite put together. For her own purposes, Anastasia Christianovna knew that she had no choice but to grant the wretched woman a special dispensation from her displeasure. Although Madame Pobednyeva would remain unaware of it, she travelled under the protection of circumstance. Until her hostess was more certain of her facts, she would enjoy a certain degree of immunity. But if her suspicions were proved correct, if the Governor General was expected, then the dogs of war would be loosed. That august official was a distant relative on her mother’s side of the family. He would have no choice but to listen to his own kin, especially when she had so much to tell him about the rottenness of this outpost of his province? About what had happened to the money for the cholera sanatorium? About Tolkach and the fate of his poor wife? About the banker Izminsky and his schemes with Kuprin, who had all too easily succeeded her second husband as revenue officer. She had it all written down. All that she asked was that the Heavenly Father would grant her the strength during the few precious months she had left to bring down the whole cancerous edifice.

  The figure of Mariya appeared before her, offering her a replenished glass of tea. Automatically she accepted it and found that so powerful was the emotion that coursed through her, her hand was shaking uncontrollably. Gratefully she allowed Yeliena to take it from her.

  She at least will be safe, she thought.

  True, Tortsov was only a country doctor, not a man of the calibre of some of the Professor’s acquaintances, amongst whom were numbered several now hailed as pioneers in Russian medicine. But he was a professional man nonetheless, with the distinction of having a practice geographically only slightly smaller than France. A man who knew his duty and, with the help of only one assistant, Chevanin, did it as best he could.

  Her anger began slowly to ebb away, to be replaced by a feeling of melancholy. At the back of her mind was the knowledge that soon, perhaps very soon, Yeliena Mihailovna would need her and she was afraid that somehow she would fail her friend. It would happen through a lack of percipience, or through being too busy with this Pobednyev business, or simply because she was a frail old woman. Too old, too frail, too near the brink of the grave to be of any use to those still rooted firmly in the mess of life.

  From far away she heard her name being called out. Bewildered, she looked at each of her guests in turn, unsure as to whom had spoken her name.

  “Back with us, dear?” asked Tatyana Kavelina shrilly. “That’s good. We were just telling Yeliena Mihailovna here that we are looking forward to the drama committee’s next production.”

  Madame Wrenskaya scowled at the timber merchant’s wife. Why was she shouting at her? she wondered. Did the woman believe her to be an idiot?

  “So refreshing after the theatre in Tiumen,” continued Madame Kavelina loudly, dabbing at her lips daintily with her napkin. “I do hope it won’t be anything too shocking. I hear that Colonel Izorov has already banned it once. Still, it’s so brave of the doctor to try to bring culture to the masses, that’s what I say.”

  “You are mistaken, I think,” replied Yeliena. “The play has not been banned or even cancelled. It has merely been postponed. It will still be performed, only a week later than originally planned.”

  Tatyana Kavelina cast an amused glance at her companion.

  “How intriguing,” she said. “Is there any particular reason for this change? Or is it just a clever ploy to build up a feeling of suspense before opening night?”

  “I am afraid I don’t know,” admitted the doctor’s wife. “You will have to ask Captain Steklov about that. It seems there was some confusion over booking the barracks hall for the production.”

  “Confusion?” echoed Irena Kuibysheva doubtfully. “Surely not on Captain Steklov’s part. I have always found him a most methodical gentleman.”

  Madame Wrenskaya cleared her throat noisily. It had been common knowledge that during the previous summer, Madame Kuibysheva had paid more than a passing interest in the manoeuvres of the garrison. Only the captain’s background and his sense of self-preservation had prevented the affair from becoming ugly.

  “I must say,” murmured Tatyana Kavelina, “and please, Yeliena Mihailovna, I mean no disrespect, but I do feel that a more business-like approach is needed to arrange these things.”

  “I agree,” chimed in Irena Kuibysheva. “It’s not that one doubts the doctor’s abilities – far from it – but surely he should be too busy tending to the sick to spare more than a few hours a week to the organisation of such an enterprise?”

  “I can assure you,” replied Yeliena, colouring, “that if for one moment my husband thought that his directing the play would jeopardise the health of a single patient, he would not have allowed himself to be persuaded to accept the post.”

  “Quite right!” broke in Madame Wrenskaya, glaring at the two women on the sofa. “In any case,” she added haughtily, “who else would be more suitable for the job? Surely neither of your husbands?”

  If the rebuke was intended to chasten her friend’s critics, it was unsuccessful. Throwing back her head, Tatyana Kavelina gave a screech of laughter.

  “Heavenly Father, no! Leonid Sergeivich is far too busy a man to waste his time with amateur dramaticals!”

  With a visible shudder, Madame Wrenskaya beckoned her maid who was standing against the far wall, almost invisible in the gloom.

  “Mariya,” she commanded in a loud quavering voice, “You may offer my guests a second glass of tea.”

  Chapter Five

  Great Tobolsk Highway

  The highway had narrowed as it left behind the larger settlements, forcing the drivers to reduce their teams from three to two and making the troikas unwieldy to drive. Trotsky moodily surveyed the passing landscape. Except for a line of trees in the distance, as faint as a hush of breath in the winter’s air, the whole world seemed cold, white and empty. At first, the continuous bumping and swaying of the sleigh had been merely uncomfortable. Now, as the versts disappeared in a blur beneath the hissing runners, Trotsky felt his body ache with hunger and fatigue.

  Sitting beside him on the wooden passenger seat, his new guard sat puffing contentedly on his pipe, his rifle cradled between his knees. In front them the driver urged his team forward, occasionally flicking his whip across the broad hindquarters of the inside mare. Even now the news of the convoy’s approach was racing ahead of them. How? That was the mystery. If pressed on the matter, the drivers only shrugged and said that the wind carried messages. What was evident was that before the convoy had started out from Tiumeni, the news of their journey had already been a day or two old on the road. In all probability, when they arrived at that night’s destination, there would be yet another band of exiles and local people gathered to greet them, the men holding clumsily fashioned red banners of welcome; the wome
n shyly bearing trays of freshly baked bread and cakes.

  Another headache for the sergeant, thought Trotsky.

  Since their journey had begun, the relationship between the prisoners and the majority of their guards had become more cordial. Only a small faction of the soldiers, led by an ugly looking corporal, took pleasure in sticking rigidly to the letter of their orders. Several times the senior NCO had remonstrated with them, but upon each occasion their leader, whose sympathy with the Black Hundreds was openly acknowledged, only laughed and threatened to report the sergeant for negligence of duty on their return to barracks.

  Caught between the corporal’s increasing belligerence and the sergeant’s unwillingness to assert his authority, Dr. Feit had done his best to protect their group but it was clear to the exiles that some sort of explosion was likely. Already it had become daily practice for the faction to break ranks as they drew near to a village and rush ahead in order to ‘clear the way’ for the convoy. ‘Clearing the way’ in their terms meant driving whoever was waiting to greet them – man, woman or child – into the nearest ditch at bayonet point; using their rifle butts and boots whenever they felt it necessary. As the feeling of crisis grew, Trotsky had taken care to board only the sleighs in the charge of those troops he knew to be loyal to the sergeant’s command. The guard beside him now, for example – a Ukrainian in his late thirties – had seen too much of service life to be swayed by the growing hostility within the escort.

  * * *

  Still watching the passing snowdrifts, Trotsky’s interest quickened as the desultory conversation that the driver and the soldier had been conducting for the past half hour came round to the problem posed by the faction.

  “That corporal,” said the driver over his shoulder.

  “Who?” asked the guard

  “You know, the bastard.”

  “Corporal Krill?”

  “Yeah. Krill,” said the driver thoughtfully. “He’s a bit free with the rifle butt, isn’t he?”

  Trotsky heard the guard grunt noncommittally.

  “You know what?” the driver continued, “I only caught him thumping Matya here this morning as I was coming to get her harnessed up. The bastard said she had trod on his toe. I told him. I said, ‘If you’re not careful, it’ll be your head next time.’ I’ll teach him to hit my team. How does he expect her to pull a load for fifty versts a day if he keeps fucking hitting her with his fucking rifle? See how he’d like it.”

  “Which one’s Matya?” asked the soldier.

  In answer, the driver flicked his whip first over one pony and then over the other.

  “This one’s Matya and that’s Olga,” he explained. “I call her Olga because she reminds me of my wife. The minute I saw her ears I said, ‘Uh oh! Hello Olga!’ Nasty temper, she has.”

  Turning away from the scenery, Trotsky sat up and eased his aching limbs.

  “She seems well behaved to me,” he observed.

  “That’s because she’s stuck her in between the traces with me sitting over her with a bloody great whip, isn’t it? But get her on her own, pulling a trap for instance, and she can be the very devil.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Trotsky, “if she wasn’t always stuck between the traces with a whip hanging over her, she would be in a better frame of mind.”

  The driver laughed scornfully at the idea.

  “You might know about all sorts of things, friend, but I know ponies,” he retorted. “And don’t think I don’t know what you are getting at, because I do. Just because I’m a driver doesn’t mean I’m bloody stupid. After all,” he added meaningfully, “I’m coming back, aren’t I? Eh? So don’t waste your politics on me.”

  Leaning over the side of the sleigh, he spat forcefully into the roadway.

  “I’ll tell you this much, though. This one here,” he offered, pointing with his whip towards the inside pony, “could be bedded down in the Imperial stables every night and still not be fucking satisfied. She’s just like my old woman, she is, just like her. That’s why I call her Olga. All mouth and arse, she is, just like this one.”

  He flicked the disfavoured animal again with the tip of his whip.

  “Whereas this one,” he went on, pointing to the other pony, “little Matya here, she’s a beauty. Aren’t you, darling?” he called out loudly to the pony. “Reminds me of a girl I know. Works in an inn. Gorgeous bit of tail she is; lovely disposition. She’ll do anything for you. In fact, I’ve got a good mind to give her one tonight, see if I don’t.”

  “Oh? Does she live near here, then?” asked Trotsky.

  “Who?”

  “Matya.”

  “Christ, no! She’s on the road to Pokrovakoya. Works at the Golden Plough. No, son, I meant the pony.”

  Marking Trotsky’s expression of disgust and disbelief, the guard gave a short bark of laughter.

  “Only way to keep them happy,” the driver continued blithely. “Same as women. My old man told me the day I got married. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘there’s only one way to keep them happy and that’s pregnant and barefoot. It’s the only way.’ Of course, like a fool I didn’t listen. Now, every time I go home I have to put up with her nagging.”

  Hunching his shoulders in the imitation of a scold, he mimicked a shrill female voice.

  “‘Where have you been this time? What have you brought back for me? How are we going to eat?’”

  Straightening up, he slewed his body sideways on the driving board so that he could face both his passengers.

  “Mind you,” he admitted cheerfully, “he was a right bastard when he was at home, my old man. Used to belt our mum regular; never mind us kids. Still, I suppose she liked it. She stayed with him long enough, even when he was too drunk to work. That’s women for you, the same all over.”

  Sighing, he transferred the reins to one hand and, reaching under his seat, pulled out a large stoneware flask. Knocking off the cork that dangled by a knotted cord, he balanced the flask expertly on his forearm and raised it to his lips. When he had drunk off several mouthfuls, he passed to the guard, who took it in both hands.

  “What are the Ukrainian women like then?” the driver asked, watching as the soldier drank.

  “Much the same, I suppose,” replied the guard, nodding his thanks. “They tend to be a bit taller and darker looking where I come from. More like Tartars.”

  He offered the fiery liquor to Trotsky. Trotsky refused and turned away, demonstrably extending his refusal to include joining in their conversation. The guard took another swig and passed the flask back to its owner.

  “I had a Polish girl once,” the driver reminisced. “Had the body of a couch. Know what I mean?”

  The soldier nodded solemnly.

  “A man could just fall into her arms and do nothing,” the driver sighed. “Just lie there and still be perfectly happy. Lena, her name was. Lovely girl. She had a cunt like velvet.”

  Gathering up the stone bottle again, he drank deeply. Then, pulling it away from his lips, he clasped the bottle to his chest, threw his head back and roared. The sound came out of his body like a wordless cry, a primitive howl of longing.

  Trotsky shuddered and slumped lower in his wooden seat, huddling under the heavy reindeer skins that covered his upper torso. The crudity of expression, the gross appetite of the man, repelled him. He was reminded of the tales he had been told as a child on the farm at Yanovka of the demonic creature, the Bear that Walked Like a Man, who would trap the unwary and the drunk and devour them in the forests of the night.

  The man bellowed again, a full-throated cry that ended with a savage laugh as he lashed the startled ponies to greater speeds. The sleigh began to buck alarmingly. Glancing furtively at the guard, Trotsky hoped that he might take it upon himself to control the wild beast that sat in front of them. But the guard merely grinned back at him and gave a knowing wink. Gradually, the speed slackened off. The driver took another swig of vodka and passed the flask around again. This time Trotsky did not refuse, but dran
k with a gesture of desperate resignation, taking furtive care first to wipe the top of the flask.

  “Course,” observed the driver, “you people you believe in free love, don’t you, poet?”

  Trotsky winced but said nothing.

  Reaching over and retrieving the bottle, the driver repeated his question.

  “If you mean me,” Trotsky replied, “I am not a poet. I am a journalist.”

  “Well, you look like a poet to me,” replied the man gruffly. “But what about it, eh? I bet you get plenty of spare, what with all those students and red whores. You don’t believe in marriage for a start, do you?”

  “It’s a well-documented fact,” replied Trotsky. “All upsurges in revolutionary struggles correspond with the breakdown of conventional sexual mores. One need not take the evidence of recent events here in Russia but also all over Europe in 1848, and before that in France in 1789. As the masses grow more and more aware of the false and exploitative nature of orthodox morality, they shrug off the chains of sexual repression and reach out for liberation.”

  “Just as I said: free love,” interrupted the driver and belched loudly. “Mind you, you’re right about the Frenchies. Always hot for it, they are. Still, from what I’ve heard, some of your boys are a bit handy that way too.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Trotsky.

  The man seems deaf to any thoughts other than of smut, he thought sourly. He was surely a member of the degenerate peasantry.

  “Well, you know,” persisted the driver, “all those meetings in the woods and so on. You can’t tell me you spend your whole time making speeches and passing the hat around. I heard as how a troop of Cossack came across about a hundred and fifty of them one Sunday, all at it like dogs. Outside Moscow it was, up in the Sparrow Hills.”