Berezovo

by A J Allen

  “Don’t you worry, Alexander Vissarionovich,” advised the Mayor, slapping him on the back. “You can tell everyone that I am covering the cost of the drinks.”

  Madame Pobednyeva began to protest, but her husband quietened her.

  “After all, it’s in a worthy cause,” he went on. “I would like to be thought of as, among other things, a patron of the arts.”

  “You are very generous,” Maslov said gratefully.

  “Don’t mention it. Just make sure that you tell Nikolai Alexeyevich, so there’s no confusion, eh?”

  “Certainly, Your Excellency.”

  With a magnanimous wave of his hand, the Mayor led his grim-faced wife and a watchful Modest Tolkach into the lounge. Their appearance together took sufficient numbers of people by surprise for there to be a noticeable dip in the level of noise, but the moment soon passed. Besides the occasional nudge of an elbow or upraised eyebrow, the company the Mayor chose to keep was not openly remarked upon. As the Pobednyevs progressed through the crowd with the hospital administrator in tow, only the slight tightening of smiles amongst the wives of the men they greeted indicated that, for Modest Tolkach, the road back to public esteem promised to be a long and difficult one.

  Still standing out on the landing, Maslov was on the point of abandoning his watch and advising Nikolai Dresnyakov to open the meeting without further delay when the sound of heavy footsteps made him turn and he spied the top of the doctor’s grey head as he climbed the stairs.

  Clutching the top of the banister rail and almost dancing with anxiety, he exclaimed: “Doctor, where have you been? The meeting should have started half an hour ago.”

  Stooping with fatigue, the doctor did not reply, until he had joined the librarian on the top step.

  “Good evening, Maslov,” he said. “I apologise for being so late. I have been wasting my time trying to locate our worthless Mayor. He isn’t at his house. They thought he was at the hospital. So I went there but, no…”

  As he paused for breath, Maslov said quickly, “But he’s here! You’ve been keeping him waiting along with everyone else.”

  “Here,” echoed the doctor incredulously. “The Mayor’s here?”

  “Yes! Come on!”

  Leading him by the arm, Maslov pushed his way into the crowd, crying out, “Make way for the director! Make way, please!”

  Ironic cheers greeted the doctor’s arrival.

  “About time too!” shouted Belinsky from the back of the room. “Get a move on!”

  Standing on a chair, Nikolai Dresnyakov called for silence.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Before I call the meeting to order, I wish to say a few words.”

  The schoolteacher ignored the chorus of groans that arose on every side of him as if they were no more than gusts of wind in the bulrushes on the riverbank.

  “A few words of welcome, first,” he continued imperturbably. “A warm welcome to you all, and thank you for coming tonight, and also to Dr. Tortsov here, who has agreed to be our director in this year’s production. I’m sure that you will all join me in expressing our confidence in his powers to entertain us and in thanking him for taking up such an arduous position.”

  By the time he had finished speaking, Dresnyakov found that Maslov was at his side, tugging at the hem of his frock coat. While the crowd dutifully applauded his little speech, he leant down and allowed the librarian to whisper in his ear.

  When the clapping had stopped, he straightened up and continued, “On behalf of the committee, I would also like to thank His Excellency the Mayor, who has so kindly agreed to meet the cost of all the… ah… liquid refreshments we have consumed tonight.”

  The applause that greeted this news was markedly more vigorous than that which had preceded it.

  “I now call upon Vasili Semionovich,” concluded Dresnyakov, “to read us the list of roles that are to be cast.”

  With a nod to the doctor, the school teacher stepped down from his chair. Removing a hurriedly written batch of notes from his jacket pocket, Dr. Tortsov settled his spectacles on his nose and faced the crowd.

  “Thank you, Nikolai Alexeyevich,” he began. “Your Honour, councillors, ladies and gentlemen, I must first apologise for keeping you waiting for so long. It was unavoidable and I regret it. Secondly, although I believe one or two of you already know, I wish to announce the title, date and location of the production – or should I say productions? For this year, there are two of them; two one act plays. They are The Bear and A Tragedian in Spite of Himself. Two comic sketches by one of our finest modern writers, Anton Chekhov.”

  “Hear hear!” cried Maslov, bring an immediate response of a hoarse raspberry from the back of the crowd. Belinsky grinned drunkenly at those around him.

  Undeterred, the doctor pressed on.

  “There will be one performance only of each piece, separated by a musical interlude. The plays will be performed on Sunday, the eighteenth of February at the barracks, by kind permission of Captain Steklov.”

  Lowering his notes, he addressed the crowd directly.

  “We now move to the main business of the evening, namely the casting of the roles. I shall follow the usual procedure of first asking for volunteers and then, if I fail, Nikolai Alexeyevich here will press unwilling volunteers into service.”

  Dr. Tortsov waited until the crowd’s nervous laughter had subsided before dropping his bombshell.

  “However, I shall depart from tradition in one instance. As I have said, there are two plays. They have a total of five speaking parts and five walk-on parts. Only one of these is a female role. Not wishing to cause dissent, I have therefore taken the precaution of already casting this part.”

  He paused again and then, raising his voice above the expectant buzz, he announced:

  “My wife, Yeliena Mihailovna, has graciously agreed to play the part of…”

  The rest of his words were lost in the outbreak of outraged comment. Maslov glanced first at the drama committee’s chairman, trying to gauge his reaction, and was rewarded by a look of amusement as Dresnyakov puffed contentedly on his pipe. The land surveyor Roshkovsky, who had come to stand beside the librarian during the doctor’s opening remarks, said admiringly, “Well, he’s a cool one, I must say.”

  “Did you know about this?” whispered Maslov.

  “No,” the land surveyor admitted, “but it’s a good idea.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Don’t you see? A little controversy like this can’t fail to help our box office.”

  The noise showed little sign of abating. Calmly removing his pipe from his mouth, Nikolai Dresnyakov called for order. As the crowd fell quiet again, the Mayor thrust himself forward to the front, bringing Tolkach with him.

  “Personally,” he remarked loudly,” I think that the doctor has made an excellent choice.”

  “I agree!” a female voice out from the middle of the crowd. The cry was taken up.

  “The following roles, therefore, remain unfilled,” continued the doctor. “First, the speaking parts…”

  Again the crowd fell silent, hushing those who still were murmuring their dissent.

  “Gregory Stepanivich Smirnov, better known as ‘The Bear’. Luka, an aged footman. Ivan Ivanivich Tolkachov, a professional gentleman; and his friend, Alexey Alexeyevich Murashkin. The remaining five non-speaking parts include a gardener, a coachman, a workman, a secretary and a maid. Now,” he said, regarding the crowd with a wintry smile,” do I have any brave volunteers? First of all, for the speaking parts?”

  Despite much good natured nudging and winking, no hand was raised.

  “Remember,” threatened the doctor, “if nobody comes forward, Nikolai Alexeyevich here will pick who he chooses.”

  The silence was broken by a familiar voice.

  “I should like to volunteer our good friend Modest Tolkach for the role of ‘The Bear’,” cried Pobednyev, adding, with a leer, “because when we are in his clutches, we are quite defenceless.
So now it is our opportunity to get our own back!”

  Although the Mayor’s heavy pun was intended as a reference to the town’s hospital over which his protégé had sovereign control, it had precisely the opposite effect to that which its author intended. His words were widely interpreted by the assembled company as a reference in the worst possible taste to the fate of the late Madame Tolkacha. For the first time, the crowded room was shocked into a complete silence.

  Taken aback by his sudden proposal, the hospital administrator stared open-mouthed at his ‘patron’. Other than vague hints throughout the afternoon that it might help his candidacy for the council if he was to court popularity more assiduously, Modest Tolkach had received no warning of the Mayor’s intentions. The realisation began to dawn upon him that Pobednyev had engineered his presence there that evening specifically to thrust him clumsily into the public gaze. As the silence lengthened, he prayed that the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole. When no such salvation offered itself, he seemed to lose his wits. Turning on his heel, he lowered his head and tried to charge through the crowd towards the exit.

  “I second the Mayor!” bellowed Belinsky tipsily from the back of the room.

  Uncertain, Dr. Tortsov looked quickly at Dresnyakov, who shrugged helplessly.

  “Accepted,” noted the doctor grimly, and pencilled the name ‘Tolkach’ against the role of ‘Gregory Stepanivich Smirnov’.

  With an outburst of angry protest from some of the crowd, the hospital administrator’s progress towards the door was checked. As he was being pushed back into the centre of the room, it became clear that a few of the wives were preparing to leave the proceedings in protest.

  Maslov turned to Roshkovsky. “Is that controversial enough for you?”

  The land surveyor gave a rueful smile.

  “Once is genius. Twice could be a disaster,” he agreed.

  Facing the truculent crowd, Dr. Tortsov licked his lips nervously.

  “Anyone else?”

  Noting the hostile expressions on the faces of the people closest to him, he appealed to Pobednyev to step forward.

  “Come on, Your Excellency. What about you?”

  But the Mayor, his arm held in the vice-like grip of his wife, quickly shook his head.

  Catching sight of the baker Gvordyen, Dr. Tortsov cried out desperately, “Kuzma Antonovich? What about you? Didn’t you have a part last year?”

  The baker gave a mirthless laugh.

  “Once was enough, thank you. Let someone else have a go.”

  Looking around him, Gvordyen caught sight of the portly figure of Skyralenko, surreptitiously helping himself to another glass of vodka from a tray. Waiting until the prison director had lifted the drink to his lips, the baker said, “But I will nominate Dimitri Borisovich Skyralenko for the part of the aged footman.”

  With a roar of approval, Belinsky, who was standing close by, gave the prison director a congratulatory slap on the back, causing him to swallow the drink at a single gulp. People around them started to laugh.

  “Any objections, Dimitri Borisovich?” enquired the doctor.

  His eyes streaming and incapable of speech, Skyralenko began to choke noisily.

  “Well done,” said the doctor, adding, “that’s a nasty cough you have there. You should take care of it.”

  He dutifully wrote down Skyralenko’s name opposite the word ‘Luka’. There was a second small ripple of laughter from the back of the room.

  “If there are no more volunteers, then I shall have to ask that Nikolai Alexeyevich does his duty.”

  There were no more volunteers. Stepping onto his chair once more, the schoolteacher glanced across at the group of people clustered around the door who were still determining whether or not to leave in protest at the proceedings, and then looked down with mock severity at the rest of the crowd.

  “Very well, ladies and gentlemen. The next person who either moves, laughs or speaks, be it man or woman, will be given the part of Alexey Alexeyevich Murashkin.”

  Immediately the room became still. It was an old game; one that they all had played as children and which, in the intervening years, had lost none of its power. As the seconds ticked by, the silence broken only by Skyralenko’s continuing gasps, bodies began to shake with suppressed laughter. A full minute passed. The tension rose. Fuelled by the vodka, tears began to trickle from the corners of eyes.

  “Come on, friends!” Maslov coaxed them. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Thank you, Alexander Vissarionovich,” Dresnyakov said quietly. “You will do nicely.”

  Stunned at his own blunder, Maslov gaped at his chairman. Surrounded by relieved, laughing faces, he began to protest. “No, wait a minute, Nikolai Alexeyevich… No I can’t…”

  Each appeal was greeted with renewed laughter and cries of, “Don’t worry Maslov. There’s nothing to be afraid of!”

  “But I… I am a committee member! It isn’t fair on the others.”

  “Sorry, Alexander Vissarionovich,” said the doctor as he wrote the librarian’s name down against the part. “I can’t help you now. Besides,” he added with a hint of gentle malice, “your experience of the theatre will be invaluable to the production, I am sure.”

  Good humour having been restored, the casting continued more smoothly. Svortsov the butcher, spurred on by his wife, fell for the part of Tolkachov. Knowing that the crowd would not be caught twice by the same trick, the doctor concentrated next on filling the non-speaking roles, which, after a great deal of good natured joking and persuasion by Dresnyakov, was duly accomplished.

  As the meeting drew to a close, Dr. Tortsov congratulated himself. Despite an unfortunate beginning, the roles had been successfully cast. Gathering up his notes, the doctor kept an eye on the Mayor. When he saw that his party was showing signs of departure, he took his leave of Dresnyakov and began pushing his way through the crowd towards them. He caught up with the Mayor just as he was about to descend the stairs.

  “Anatoli Mikhailovich! I must speak with you urgently.”

  Mayor Pobednyev smiled knowingly.

  “Oh no, you can’t catch me like that, Doctor! I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “It has nothing to do with the play,” Dr. Tortsov insisted. “It’s an official matter and very serious.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. I must speak with you now.”

  “Very well then,” the Mayor sighed. “Why don’t you come home with us for a night cap? We can talk about it on the way.”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “No, Your Excellency. I must speak with you now and alone. It’s a matter best settled between men.”

  Caught off guard by his tone, Mayor Pobednyev hesitated. To his ears, the doctor’s words sounded like nothing so much as the prelude to a duel. His attention was momentarily distracted by the appearance of Fyodor Gregorivich, carrying yet another tray of vodka up the stairs for the hangers-on in the lounge. Indicating to the doctor that he should wait, he beckoned the hotel proprietor to his side.

  “Fyodor Gregorivich, the meeting is over now. There is no need to serve more drinks. You can take those back,” he added, “and send your bill to my chamber in the morning. Incidentally, have you a room I can use for a few minutes? I have some private official business to take care of and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Private official business?” repeated the proprietor in bafflement.

  With a shrug, he nodded towards the upper storey.

  “All the rooms are free, your Excellency, but there’s no heating.”

  The Mayor thanked him. Casting a look of annoyance at the doctor, who had moved closer to him to ensure that he did not escape, he quickly made arrangements for Modest Tolkach to escort his wife home, adding further to Madame Pobednyeva’s displeasure.

  “Come on then,” he grunted as he led the way up the wooden stairs that led to the guests’ accommodation. “Couldn’t you have
called earlier, Doctor? This is damned inconvenient.”

  “I did call at your house before coming here, but you had already left.”

  “Yes. We had promised to collect Modest Andreyevich and bring him here. He’s a good man, is Tolkach. It’s a pity that you don’t get on with him better.”

  Unwilling to be drawn from his purpose, the doctor held his peace.

  Reaching the second landing, the two men stood looking down the darkness of the unlit corridor.

  “Well?” asked Pobednyev briskly.

  “I would prefer to talk in one of the rooms,” insisted the doctor. “It’s more private.”

  The Mayor gestured towards the nearest door.

  “Will this do?”

  Still keeping his eyes on the Mayor, Dr. Tortsov nodded and taking a few steps forward, tried the handle of the door. It opened. He stood to one side, in order that the Mayor might pass, but Pobednyev warily motioned him to enter first. Without a word, the doctor walked in. The Mayor followed him, stopping just inside the threshold. The air inside the room was markedly colder than out on the hallway.

  “It’s freezing in here,” the Mayor said, shivering. “You don’t mind if we leave the door open, do you?”

  “As you wish.”

  Unsettled by the doctor’s strange manner, Mayor Pobednyev rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a long thin leather case.

  “Would you like a cigar?” he offered hopefully.

  “No, thank you.”

  Standing by the far wall, Doctor Tortsov waited for the figure dimly outlined in the doorway to light his cigar before he began to speak. As he talked, his voice unconsciously took on a tone unfamiliar to the Mayor; a tone which few people had heard twice in their lives. It was the voice he used when he had to tell an apparently well man or woman who had come to him complaining of a sudden stomach ache, or a blurring of vision or of a persistent backache, that they had something from which they were unlikely to recover. He spoke slowly, using simple words; his manner deliberately grave because sometimes people laughed in disbelief, as Madame Roshkovskaya had done. He spoke clearly, because sometimes people’s minds distorted the words. Later, Mayor Pobednyev would recall the experience as being like listening to the voice of a prosecuting angel.