by A J Allen
He was expecting her to take him back to Jaques’ safe house, but instead she led him south, to a five storey building in the artist’s quarter. Stealing glances at her as they walked side by side, he found that she seemed at the same time more and less striking than the first time he had seen her. She was noticeably shorter than he remembered and possessed a fuller figure, but her face bore more character in its expression, and a smooth untroubled brow. He did not doubt for a moment that she was the most beautiful and the most elegant young woman he had ever met.
Walking beside him, she was telling him that he was to take a room on the third floor. It was only a small room, but it still cost fifteen francs a month. He was not to worry about the concierge; she would be squared. The old woman would probably believe that they were lovers. Fifteen francs! she had exclaimed. It was criminal but that was the price one paid if one wanted to keep one’s presence in this city a secret.
Turning a corner, they stopped in front of a tall town house. Following her into the cool darkness of its entrance hall, he asked shyly, “And where do you live, Natalya Sedova?”
She looked up at him in surprise.
“How do know my name?”
“I know everything,” he intoned solemnly.
“Then you’ll know where I live.”
“That I might have forgotten.”
“Well then,” she said, looping her arm easily around his as they emerged from the darkness and walked slowly across the inner courtyard in full view of the concierge’s open window. “I shall have to remind you. I live on the top floor of this building, in the studio. You see, we shall be neighbours.”
Damn! he thought as he closed the door of his room behind him. Love, if this was love, would be a colossal inconvenience.
Far below, he could hear Natalya explaining his presence to the lady concierge.
Even if it was not love, he reasoned, but merely infatuation, he would find it difficult to concentrate on his work with the knowledge that she was only two floors above him. He considered how he might postpone his return to London for a few days. He was sure that Vera and Jules would not mind, but Nicolai? He imagined Nicolai’s cruel smile and Nadezhda’s disapproving frown when they deciphered his message. No, Nicolai would not like it, and he would use it against him.
Perhaps this was a test…
Momentarily, his face darkened with suspicion as he recalled that he had once mentioned in passing Natalya’s name to Vera. Had she shared this confidence with Nicolai? The question nagged at him. Who had decided to send Natalya Sedova to meet him in the bar, and not Paul the Pole? Jaques or Nicolai? He thought it unlikely that Nicolai would trust a young Sorbonne student with such a task, but if she was really…
He became aware that he could no longer hear Natalya’s voice. Money had changed hands; the concierge had been quietened. He stiffened as the sound of the outer door closing echoed up the shadowy spiral stairwell. Moving quickly across the room, he silently opened his door. Instead of returning to her art lectures as she had said she intended, Natalya Sedova was now climbing the six flights of stairs towards him. Closing his door he stood for a moment, motionless, his ears alert as he listened to her footsteps grow nearer.
He shouldn’t care, he told himself, he had important work to do.
He saw that his suitcase was still standing by the door where he had dropped it. Bending down he picked it up and threw it onto his bed. Wetting his lips, he began whistling an old folksong he had learnt from his mother as she worked in their farmhouse kitchen.
“Yonder stands a mountain high…”
He opened the suitcase and started to unpack his clothes.
Had the boots stopped? Was she listening to him?
No, the elegant ankle boots had not stopped, had not even hesitated, but were still climbing purposefully towards his landing. Straightening up, his felt heart beating in his chest like a long-forgotten gong. He let his whistling die on his lips and, holding a crumpled shirt in his hands, turned to face the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday 4th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
At a quarter to seven that evening Berezovo’s town librarian, Alexander Vissarionovich Maslov, was sitting in the mezzanine lounge of the Hotel New Century. Stacked beside him on the cushions of the sofa stood a pile of play scripts, their virgin pages still wrapped in the thick sheets of yellow paper in which they had arrived ten days before. Filled with a sense of quiet anticipation, he laid a limp hand protectively over the pile as he watched people enter the room. Three of the drama committee had already arrived: the schoolmaster Nikolai Dresnyakov, the land surveyor Andrey Roshkovsky and himself. It only remained for Dr. Tortsov and Yuli Belinsky to appear and they could call the meeting to order.
The librarian did not regard Belinsky’s presence at the meeting was necessary, or even desirable. The builder was, in Maslov’s opinion, more of a rude mechanic than a bona fide committee member; to accord him equal status with Nikolai Dresnyakov was dangerous. And whatever tyro directors such as Dr. Tortsov might believe to the contrary, Nikolai Dresnyakov had command over the play as a whole. It was the school master’s job to mobilise the forces of the production, to devolve responsibilities to the other members of the drama committee and to co-opt people to help them.
That, Maslov regarded, was the crucial difference. Both he and Roshkovsky, as secretary and treasurer respectively, were full committee members, while Dr. Tortsov and Belinsky had been co-opted so that the drama committee could retain control of the production. It was not strictly necessary to inform the two co-opted members of matters that lay outside their spheres of responsibility. Yet Nikolai Dresnyakov – ever the democrat – insisted on striving for a consensus and upholding the principle of collective decision-making, even going on occasion to the lengths for taking votes. Knowing full well that democracy was a fine idea in theory but unworkable in practice, Maslov was not unduly perturbed. In a situation where the committee was split, Roshkovsky and Belinsky cancelled each other out and the chairman would always trust his secretary’s judgement rather than that of an inexperience director.
Taking a sip of his soda water, Maslov cast an expert eye around the hotel lounge as it began to fill with people. The one evening when the committee’s proceedings were thrown open to the public, casting night had become something of an event in the town’s sparse social calendar. Already he had recognised several faces that had appeared on previous occasions, most of whom could be dismissed as not being serious candidates for a role. It was a fairly safe rule that the people who arrived early never stepped forward; they had only come to watch and to mock those who allowed themselves to be coerced into taking a part.
Maslov wondered idly who Tortsov had in mind for the sole female character. He found it curious how, when it came to the fairer sex, the lure of the stage drew the most unlikely volunteers. Plain, homespun wives like Lidiya Pusnyena, standing there in the corner with her husband, longed to see themselves as beautiful heroines while Irene Kuibysheva, who at that moment was entering on the arm of Leonid Kavelin (Kavelin’s other arm being securely anchored by his wife Tatyana) shrank from that glare of public notoriety in which they basked for the remainder on the year. The coquette refused to dissemble; the dormouse longed to declaim. Nature was indeed turned upside down.
Some things did not change. Colonel Izorov was unlikely to put in an appearance. At least, he was not expected to appear: one never knew with Izorov. Neither would either of the Two Thieves, Fyodor Izminsky and Sergei Kuprin. Such proceedings did not attract the interest of serious men of business, much to the annoyance of their wives, who would have to rely upon a second-hand account of the casting from Madame Nadnikova at the general store. At the opposite end of the social scale, omitting the peasantry (one always omitted the peasantry) a few of the lesser tradesmen were already present. There was Kuzma Gvordyen, the baker, talking to the butcher Svortsov, while their wives were trying to attract the attention o
f M. Delyanov. But the haberdasher was cutting them and going to where the money was; talking with easy deferential gestures to Mesdames Nadnikova and Kavelina, the latter turning a blind eye to the continued subtle assault Madame Kuibysheva was making upon her husband.
From his seat on the sofa, Maslov could see all this and more. Nikolai Dresnyakov, now deep in conversation with Pavel Nadnikov, might be the chairman but it was he, Alexander Maslov, who was the magister ludorum, the master of the games. It was he who was the official spokesman of the drama committee. Roshkovsky might be the treasurer, but it was he, Alexander Maslov, with whom the suppliers had to deal. It was on his library’s small printing press that the playbills were designed and printed. It was he who could determine even the choice of play, merely by saying that one script was temporarily unavailable or had been withdrawn by the censor, and that another play might be more suitable instead. For as long as Nikolai Dresnyakov held the post of chairman (and he showed no desire to relinquish it) then it would be the Secretary who held the power. Maslov was confident that, in the end, even Dr. Tortsov would come to recognise this fact. It was therefore with a large degree of personal satisfaction that he now surveyed the chattering company that had come to witness the birth of what was, de facto if not de juro, another Alexei Maslov production.
The librarian’s sense of well-being was short-lived. As he took another sip of his soda water, he saw over the rim of his glass Belinsky pushing his way through the group by the door, and hailing Fyodor Gregorivich who was that instant passing with a tray of chilled flasks of vodka. Quickly gathering up his scripts, Maslov rose from his seat with the intention of plunging into the safety of the crowd. But it was too late.
“Oi, Maslov!” hollered Belinsky, making directly for him. “What a turn out, eh?”
“Hello Yuli Nikitavich,” he greeted the builder. “Yes, it does seem as if the production has acquired a certain interest in the town.”
Looking around him, Belinsky nodded vigorously in all directions. It became obvious to Maslov standing beside him that the glass of vodka he now held in his hand was not the first he had imbibed that evening. He winced as the builder nudged him heavily in the ribs.
“Here, where’s our famous director then? Do you think he’s got cold feet?”
“I’m sure that the doctor will appear presently,” he assured the builder. “Excuse me…”
He tried to move away, but Belinsky stretched out an arm and effortlessly pulled him back.
“Hold hard a minute. Don’t rush off.”
Intimidated by the builder’s strength, Maslov disengaged his arm as gently as he could.
“What do you want?” he asked uneasily.
“I need to speak to him soon,” Belinsky breathed over him tipsily. “About the scenery, see? I mean, I’ve got to have designs for the sets, haven’t I? After all, I’m a builder, not a bloody artist.”
“No, quite,” agreed Maslov, taking a pace backwards.
“So get on to it, will you?”
“You’ll have to speak to the doctor about that, not me. Excuse me.”
Belinsky’s arm reached out to detain him, but this time the librarian was more adroit and was able to evade his grasp. Pushing his way through the crowd towards the door, he heard Belinsky’s voice boom out above the hubbub of conversation.
“Remember Maslov, I want those drawings!”
It’s all like a bad dream, Maslov told himself.
Standing together in the centre of the lounge, Irena Kuibysheva and Leonid Kavelin watched his flight with amusement.
“The little man is being hounded,” she murmured.
As the librarian drew closer, she called out to him.
“Good evening, Alexander Vissarionovich!”
Turning to see who had hailed him, Maslov caught sight of them and changed his direction, making his way over to where they were standing.
Irena held out an elegant hand for him to clasp. Clutching the play scripts in one hand and still flustered by Belinsky’s boisterousness, the librarian did what, in the cool light of day, he would later recall with a shiver of embarrassment. He took the proffered hand and, with a small bow, pressed it lightly to his lips. Irena’s cry of delight tinkled across the room. Standing a few feet away, Tatyana Kavelina quickly turned her head, took in the scene and then returned to her conversation with the haberdasher M. Delyanov.
“Good evening, Irena Alexandrovna,” said the librarian hurriedly. “Good evening, Leonid Sergeivich.”
“Good heavens, Alexander Vissarionovich, how kulturny you are tonight!” cooed Irena. “We were just saying that we hope the play this year shall be as exhilarating as those in the past.”
“I think I can offer you an excellent production,” he replied, conscious of the poor figure he was cutting and of Kavelin’s expression of annoyance.
“I hear that it is a work by Chekhov, is that correct?”
“Two plays, actually.”
“Two? That is ambitious,” she exclaimed. “And who do you think should be in them this year? Do you have any ideas?”
“Dr. Tortsov is the director this year,” Maslov informed her. “It’s really up to him to decide. But,” he added, bowing again to the man who was standing beside her, “if I could perhaps persuade Leonid Sergeivich here…? There seem to be a preponderance of male parts on offer.”
“Did you hear that, Leonid Sergeivich?” asked Irena brightly, turning to her escort. “A preponderance of male parts! That certainly bears thinking about, wouldn’t you say?”
Seeing the twinkle of amusement in her eye, Kavelin gave an embarrassed cough.
“I’m afraid that Dr. Tortsov shall have to look elsewhere,” he replied. “I’m far too busy to spend time acting.”
But Irena would not let him off the hook so easily.
“Nonsense!” she teased him. “I know you men of business. It’s not work that stops you. You’re just too shy to act.”
Turning back to Maslov, she sighed longingly.
“I’m sure that if the right part came along, I could not refuse it. As long as it was big enough, of course. And I had a strong man to support me.”
Kavelin coughed again and gave her a sharp glance of warning.
“I regret there is only one part for a lady this year,” Maslov informed them. “That is of a rich widow.”
Seemingly oblivious of the warm exchange of glances going on above his head, the small librarian looked round agitatedly.
“If you will excuse me, I really must see if I can find Dr. Tortsov. He will be able to answer all your questions.”
With another bow, he excused himself and plunged back into the crowd. Smiling, Irena watched him go.
“How would you like me if I was a rich widow, Leonid?” she asked.
“No better than I like you now,” muttered Kavelin.
His gaze was also turned outwards to encompass the crowd that surrounded him, nervously seeking to catch sight of his wife who had, it seemed, disappeared with her haberdasher.
Madame Kuibysheva laughed softly.
“Surely you aren’t jealous of little Maslov?”
“That worm? Good God, no! It’s just that I consider it unnecessary of you to permit him to kiss your hand like that. Damn it, Irena…”
“Hush,” breathed Irena. “Now don’t make a scene, I beg you. As you say, he is pathetic. All the same…”
She began to giggle. Exasperated, he turned back to face her.
“Perhaps you should take a leaf out of his book,” she suggested. “Such gestures make a woman feel appreciated. A kiss like that is so… so French.”
Kavelin was about to reply when, over her shoulder, he glimpsed his wife moving through the crowd in their direction. He raised a hand in acknowledgement.
“Allow me to fetch you a glass of water, Irena Alexandrovna,” he said loudly.
Turning to see who he was looking at, Irena gave Tatyana a radiant smile.
“Thank you, Leonid Sergeiovich. I would
be most grateful. For some reason, my throat has become quite dry.”
The lounge was becoming overcrowded as more people arrived to witness the casting ceremony and to take advantage of the drama committee’s hospitality. To avoid the crush, some of the assembly were spilling out onto the small landing outside the lounge. Worming his way through the press of bodies, Maslov was growing anxious about the delay in the proceedings. It was now half past seven and there was still no sign of the doctor. Furthermore, Fyodor Gregorivich was carrying in yet another tray of flasks. At this rate that the committee would be bankrupt before the plays were cast.
Well, he told himself, nobody could blame him. He had drunk nothing but soda water and he was quite willing to pay for that out of his own pocket should it prove necessary.
Unable to see over the heads of the people around him, Maslov stood on a chair and searched in vain for the other members of the committee. Nikolai Dresnyakov, pipe in hand, was talking earnestly with a group of parents over by the hearth while, by the far windows, Belinsky and Roshkovsky were having what appeared to be a row. Of Dr. Tortsov, there was no sign.
The sound of loud voices coming up the staircase that led from the hotel’s vestibule made him jump down from his vantage point and hurry out onto the landing. But instead of the doctor, he saw that the new arrivals were the Mayor and his wife, accompanied by a cheerful Modest Tolkach.
“And here is Alexander Vissarionovich!” Mayor Pobednyev boomed as the trio reached the top of the stairs. “Good man!”
Catching sight of the crowd within, he exclaimed, “What is this? A party? Are you celebrating even before the play has been produced?”
Maslov greeted them, bestowing a bobbing bow on each in turn.
“Good evening, Your Excellency, Madame Pobednyeva, Modest Andreyivich! I’m afraid that we are running a trifle behind schedule. Dr. Tortsov has still to arrive. Meanwhile,” he added, gesturing towards the lounge, “Fyodor Gregorivich has provided refreshments, although at the moment I am not sure who is paying for them. I fear that the committee’s funds are almost non-existent at the moment.”