by A J Allen
“Anatoli Mikhailovich, you are the mayor of this town. You are, in civil terms, the Father of Berezovo. Spiritually, we have Father Arkady to guide us. Militarily we have Captain Steklov and for our protection we have Colonel Izorov. But you, you are the mayor. So it is to you that I, as the town’s physician, address my question. And it is from you that I expect an honest and direct answer. For what purpose have you secretly ordered forty sleighs to be built?”
Tortsov watched the red eye of the cigar glow angrily as the Mayor considered his question.
“Who told you this? I know nothing about any sleighs. You are mistaken.”
“No, your Excellency, I am not mistaken. It’s all true.”
“I demand to know who told you,” repeated Pobednyev.
“At the beginning of last week,” the doctor continued evenly, “you placed orders with Gleb Pirogov for ten sleighs, with Irkaly Ovseenko for twelve sleighs and with Averbuch for eighteen. Why?”
“The Jew was cheaper,” replied Pobednyev with a shrug, “but I had to give some business to our people.”
The doctor could not resist smiling at this answer.
“You misunderstand me, but no matter. Let me ask you another question. Why is it so important that they finish their work by the fourteenth of this month? What do you have planned?”
There was another silence while Pobednyev considered how best to reply. From the floor below came the sound of the last of the crowd taking their leave.
“Doctor,” he said finally, “I respect your position as a medical man, but, as you say, I am the civic father of Berezovo. If what you say is true… and I am not saying it is… then it is for a purpose that is so sensitive, so confidential that even if I wished, I could not tell you.”
From the darkness of the room he heard a snort of disgust.
“How many times have I heard that, Anatoli Mikhailovich?” the invisible voice asked accusingly. “How many times have things been hushed up in the name of delicacy or confidentiality, just to protect the ineptitude or plain criminality of public servants?”
“How dare you insult me?” the Mayor flared angrily. “I am the Mayor! What are you accusing me of?”
For the first time, Doctor Tortsov began to have doubts about his cause. If he had not seen the sleighs with his own eyes, he told himself, the Mayor’s outrage would have struck him as being the protest of an innocent man.
“Since you haven’t spoken plainly to me,” he countered, “I see no reason why I should speak plainly to you. However, I shall. I am accusing you of seriously compromising my capacity to declare this town under quarantine.”
“Quarantine?” repeated the Mayor in astonishment. “What quarantine? Nobody has mentioned anything to me about quarantine.”
“If you had read the reports I sent you,” retorted Dr. Tortsov, “or taken the least interest in what is going on in the surrounding villages, you would know that we are being threatened by the worst epidemic of typhus for four years.”
“Typhus?” repeated the Mayor in horror.
He tried to remember if the council secretary had mentioned anything about typhus. Since the whole business with Izorov had blown up, he had had little time for the day-to-day reports that landed on his desk. Surely he could not have forgotten being told something as important as this?
“It’s news to me,” he declared truthfully. “How soon will you need to isolate the town?”
The doctor hesitated. Pobednyev really was very convincing. He decided to try one last bluff.
“If the epidemic doesn’t abate, in a week. In ten days’ time at the latest. But I promise you, if I don’t get an honest answer from you tonight, I will post the order tomorrow. Now, what are you intending to do with those sleighs?”
Pobednyev took the cigar from his mouth and picked a shred of tobacco leaf from his tongue as he considered his options. Whatever Tortsov did, the prisoners would arrive. But it was one thing to prepare for their arrival; it was quite another to give a civic reception for a crowd of verminous Reds who had just travelled through an infected area. And if quarantine was declared they would have to stay in the town as well, for who knew how long? Suddenly, in the darkness of the hotel room, he had a terrible vision: his statue at the crossroads of Hospital and Alexei Streets, and on the plinth beneath it, carved deep in the stone, the single word: ‘Plaguebringer’.
“Vasili Semionovich,” he said candidly, “Now I understand your concern, but you must believe me when I tell you that you are utterly and completely mistaken if you suspect that the sleighs have anything to do with this matter of a quarantine. I can say no more. Anything else you wish to know… If my word is not good enough for you… you should ask Colonel Izorov. You must trust me. But if you don’t, well… Since you know of their existence, though God knows how, I can tell you that they are being built on the colonel’s orders, and not mine. I merely relayed the message.”
He took another puff of his cigar and gave the doctor time to digest what he had said. When he spoke again, it was in a more conciliatory way.
“You see, Doctor, just as you have your duty towards your patients, so I have towards Kostya Izorov. He trusts me and it isn’t for me to betray that trust. Indeed,” he added with a shake of his head, “given the special circumstances, I dare not. Take my advice. Don’t involve yourself in this matter.”
The Mayor paused again, and it seemed to Dr. Tortsov as if he was about to say something further. But then, as if he had thought better of it, he turned away from the doorway and began walking back across the landing.
Dr. Tortsov felt the anger rising within him. All the day’s wasted journeys, culminating in the Mayor’s stubborn refusal to take him into his confidence, drove him to a last furious outburst of impotent energy. Stumbling after Mayor Pobednyev in the darkness, he walked full tilt into the edge of the iron bedstead, violently scraping his right shin. With a small cry of pain, he began to hop after the Mayor. By the time he had reached the top of the stairs, Mayor Pobednyev was already descending the lower flight of steps that led to the landing outside the lounge.
“Wait, Anatoli Mikhailovich!” he called out.
But the Mayor continued downwards and had already reached the landing of the mezzanine floor.
“Damn you, Pobednyev!” he swore as Pobednyev disappeared from view. “You won’t get away with this!”
Clutching the banister rail for support, Dr. Tortsov began to hobble after him as quickly as he was able, still calling out imprecations at the top of his voice.
“Your Excellency, I warn you! Come back here!”
“Goodnight, Tortsov.” The Mayor’s smooth voice floated up to him as he reached the vestibule and gathered up his hat and coat.
Leaning over the banisters, the doctor shouted hoarsely down the stair well.
“I won’t let you do it, whatever it is! I’ll stop you!”
But the Mayor had already gone. Exhausted by his emotion, and by the events of the day, Dr. Tortsov slowly limped down the staircase. Reaching the last step, he sat down and cradled his head miserably in his hands.
The day had turned into a nightmare. All he had wanted to do, he told himself, was to heal the sick and direct a play. Was that too much to ask of Heaven? It seemed so. He had succeeded only in catching a cold, making a fool of himself in front of the Mayor and nearly breaking his own leg.
Hearing a discreet cough, he looked up. Fyodor Gregorivich was standing in front of him, smiling sympathetically. In his arms he carried the doctor’s hat and coat.
“Time to go home, Doctor.”
Resigned to his defeat, Dr. Tortsov got to his feet and allowed the proprietor to help him on with his coat.
Fyodor Gregorivich is right, he thought. It is time to go. No doubt tomorrow will bring its own crop of humiliations.
Fyodor Gregorivich watched Dr. Tortsov follow the Mayor out into the night and shook his head sadly. There was something about the artistic temperament, he decided, that made people go a littl
e mad. Picking up a tray, he went into the lounge to see if there were any more glasses for the kitchen staff to wash.
Book Two
The Rising Storm
Chapter One
Monday 5th February 1907
Berezovo
It was still dark on the morning after the casting of the actors when Anton Chevanin locked his door and carefully felt his way down the iron fire escape that was attached to the side of the decrepit building where he boarded. Once he had reached the ground he patted the pockets of his overcoat and, having satisfied himself that he had not forgotten the keys to the surgery, set off for work. In the summer months it took him no more than ten or fifteen minutes to walk from his rooms in Tower Street to the corner of Hospital Street and Skinners Street where the Doctor had his surgery. This morning, because of the heavy fall of snow during the night, he had allowed himself half an hour to complete the journey.
Out of habit, he glanced up at the tall fire tower which gave the street its name, and saw that the sentry’s lamp was still lit. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he ignored the soldier’s cheery wave as he trudged towards the hospital at the far end of the street. He had made a fool of himself at the Tortsovs’ and he knew it. Worse: his sense of honour would not allow him to forget that he had insulted the woman for whom he cared so much. At that moment he would have given all he possessed to relive that hour he had spent with Madame Tortsova and repair the damage to his self-esteem. Life had never looked bleaker.
Although he knew that he should not blame his employer, he still felt that the situation had in part been the Doctor’s fault. Pirogov’s wife was as strong as a horse and the birth – which he had personally attended – had been without complications. There had been no cause for the Doctor to visit her on a Sunday, unless it was to check up on him. If Dr. Tortsov had not rushed off after the church service to see her, none of what had subsequently occurred would have happened. But the Doctor had gone to Pirogov’s workshop, and Chevanin had escorted Madame Yeliena Tortsova home and there was nothing to be done about it.
It was not uncommon for the Tortsovs to invite him to join them at their midday meal. Over the course of a year Chevanin shared his employer’s table often enough for him to be able to count upon it supplementing his frugal diet. The offer of a free meal and an afternoon’s good conversation in warm and comfortable surroundings was not to be refused. Besides the small salary that he received from the Doctor, he had only an allowance of some 300 roubles per annum that had been settled upon him after his graduation from the medical school by a distant uncle in Tiumen. As generous as this sum was, it only amounted to six roubles a week; barely enough to cover the rent to Nidovsky and a change of bed linen. In the beginning he had felt uncomfortable about accepting these invitations, but he had allowed himself to be persuaded by the Doctor’s insistence that, in time, he would be in a position to return their hospitality. Nor did the invitations cease when Dr. Tortsov was absent from Berezovo, attending to his far flung practice. On the contrary, on those occasions Chevanin became almost a fixture at No. 8 Ostermann Street, helping Madame Tortsova to while away the dreary Sabbath afternoons.
It was these invitations that Chevanin treasured most. In her husband’s absence, Yeliena Mihailovna could occasionally reveal glimpses of a happier and gayer side of her nature than the world normally saw. Conscious that it was his ability to amuse her that contributed to his enjoyment of these Sunday afternoons, Chevanin took pains to memorise the jokes, scandals and odd snatches of conversation that he sometimes overheard in the surgery waiting room and around the town. If he was able, he mimicked the speakers; his repertoire extending from Colonel Izorov’s ominous growl as he enquired after the health of a malingering subordinate to Nidovsky’s shifty evasiveness when confronted with a list of complaints from his tenants. Then Yeliena Mihailovna would laugh and for a few seconds the mask would slip revealing behind her staid exterior another, younger and more attractive, woman. Celebrating his power to effect this transformation, Chevanin had, in his innocence, never once considered that his behaviour could be regarded as harmful.
Not every visit was given over to high spirited jocosity. Sometimes they just sat quietly reading; he by the hearth, she on the sofa, enjoying the tranquillity of each other’s company. And, with the exception that Yeliena Mihailovna had not been reading but completing a long letter to her sister that would go with the post sleigh on the following Tuesday, so it had been while they had waited for Doctor Tortsov to return from his visit to Gleb Pirogov. In his seat beside the fire, Anton had perused an article on epidemic control that the Doctor had left out for him. Although he did not doubt the author’s expertise, he found the paper unhelpful on how to deal with the specific circumstances that now governed Berezovo. This was not unusual: too many journal articles addressed the treatment of diseases from an urban perspective and provided little or no practical guidance on the control of disease in outlying rural areas or within poorly served populations. The root problem was that the majority of factors that influenced health – ignorance, poverty, bad housing conditions, poor diet and education, unemployment and the tyranny of distance – were not within the power of medical men to remedy nor the editorial scope of their journals.
Casting the paper aside, he let his attention wander and his eyes had finally come to rest on the most decorative feature in the room, the person of his hostess Yeliena Mihailovna, who was occupied with writing her letter to her sister. He recognised that, as a doctor, the epidemic represented some personal danger to himself but he gave no thought as to his own death. He was, at that moment, wondering how the woman opposite him might react on hearing the news that he was stricken. Would she come to his bedside? It was possible.
He regarded her more closely. There was something in the look of concentration on her face, her absorption in her task, that made her seem passionless yet wholly admirable. He noted with pleasure the way that the lamplight by which she wrote cast gentle shadows against her cheek and the lashes that hid her downcast eyes, and illuminated the shapeliness of her neck beneath the luxuriant bun of her hair. Her pale complexion entranced him, its pallor continuing down the delicate curve of her jawline to melt against the starched whiteness of her ruffed collar. The only visible hint of colour upon her face was to be found upon her roseate lips with their slight upcurve, contoured by the faint lines that had become enigmatically engraved about her mouth. He felt himself becoming captivated by her lips and tried to imagine them in their private moments, first in anger and then whispering words of love. As he gazed at them he saw her smile tighten and then deepen. Looking up he realised with a shock that he had been discovered. She was now watching him and had been for he did not know how long.
He stammered an apology for his rudeness. He had been dreaming, he said. He had not meant to stare.
Furious with himself, he had pretended to continue his study of the journal article, fearing at any moment her quiet suggestion that he should take his leave. What explanation would she give to her husband on his return to explain his departure? Perhaps it would be better for him to take the initiative and invent some excuse for leaving? That would be the proper thing to do… Yet still he had sat in his chair, unable either to fight or flee until, with a sigh, she had laid aside her pen and asked:
“Tell me, Anton Ivanovich, what do you do with yourself after you have finished a day’s work?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, my husband cannot keep you working every hour of the day and night. What do you do? How do you entertain yourself?”
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Chevanin wondered what she meant. Surely she could not be asking him to tell her everything he did?
“Usually, after I’ve finished accompanying the Doctor on his rounds, I return to the surgery and prepare things for the following day. Then I go home and read for a few hours and then go to sleep.”
“What do you read?”
She sounded genuinely intereste
d. He groped for an answer. At that precise moment he could not recall the title of the last book he had read, or indeed of any book.
“Medical books mostly,” he lied. “I find they come in use if there is an emergency and Vasili Semionovich is not there.”
“I see,” Yeliena replied slowly. “And what about the times when you are not reading? Do you go out and visit friends?”
Chevanin shifted awkwardly in his chair. He had not previously let his social relationships (such as they were) intermingle with his professional life. Was this now proving to be a mistake?
“Sometimes. It depends on which day of the week it is. If it is a Friday or a Saturday, then I might arrange to meet a few friends at the Hotel New Century. Other times I might visit them in their rooms.”
“And these friends,” she persisted, “are they young men of your age, or older? Or are they young ladies, perhaps?”
“One or two of the fellows have lady friends,” he admitted, “and sometimes they, the ladies, bring their friends. But mostly it’s just fellows of my age.”
Apparently satisfied with the answers she had received, Madame Tortsova picked up her pen and resumed her letter.
Chevanin gazed unseeing at the pages before him as he turned the exchange over in his mind. Had it been intended as a rebuke, or had the Doctor and Yeliena Mihailovna been speculating on the nature of his private life? In the absence of any visible proof to the contrary, had the Doctor assumed he was friendless, or worse, abnormal? Was the reason behind Madame Tortsova’s questions that the Doctor suspected him of being a pervert? The thought appalled him.
“Yeliena Mihailovna,” he asked, “might I enquire why you ask?”
Looking up, the Doctor’s wife smiled disarmingly.
“It’s not important, Anton Ivanovich. Do not let it worry you. It was just something that Madame Wrenskaya said to me when I saw her last.”