by A J Allen
“What sort of demands?” asked another Deputy.
“Mainly about allowances. You’ve got to realise, it’s less than easy to spin out the money up here. If you have to survive only on what the State allows you, it means a weekly diet of one twelfth of a pound of meat, half a pound of bread, one half stick of sugar and eight potatoes. That leaves you just about enough to rent a space on somebody’s workshop floor, unless you want to sleep with the Ostyaks.”
“And we have sixty copecks less than that!” exclaimed one of the deputies in disgust.
“What about the medical facilities?” asked Dr. Feit. “How many doctors are there?”
Ziborov laughed.
“Doctors?” he repeated incredulously. “There’s only the one. An old grouser called Tortsov. He lives in Berezovo. We only ever see him once a twelvemonth, and that’s if we are lucky. Still, you can’t blame him,” he added, “considering the size of his practice. Nearly as big as France, they reckon. There’s only one hospital too. That’s at Berezovo also.”
Dr. Feit was appalled.
“You’re not serious?” he said in shocked tones. “Just one man? From here to the Arctic Circle?”
“Well, there is another medical man,” Ziborov informed them, “but he is an exile so they won’t let him practise. They consider it a privilege which he has forfeited. So yes, just the one, and he covers the area south of here too. He’s a good fellow though, old Tortsov. Been here for years. Knows his business. Just as well really, considering the present epidemic.”
“What epidemic?”
It was Ziborov’s turn to look surprised.
“You mean you haven’t heard?”
Dr. Feit shook his head.
Glancing furtively at the women and children, Ziborov leant forward. Turning his face away from the others so that they could not read his lips, he silently mouthed the word “typhus”.
Trotsky watched the Doctor’s face blanch.
“Where?” he whispered back.
Ziborov shrugged and mouthed “everywhere”.
“How many dead so far?” asked Trotsky quietly.
Holding up one hand, Ziborov extended four fingers.
“That’s in Belogoryia alone and it’s only a small place,” he said. “It’s far worse up north. You’ll see that for yourself. If you’re going all the way to Obdorsk, you’ll be travelling through about the worst of it.”
“It is no wonder that we are travelling so fast,” mused Dr. Feit. “A minimum of fifty versts a day. They are trying to outrun the epidemic.”
The questions continued for another ten minutes, then the group broke up. Catching the Doctor’s eye, Trotsky beckoned him over to where Sverchkov lay. Squatting down beside him, the two men examined the feverish figure.
“You don’t think…?” Trotsky began fearfully.
“No!” the Doctor interrupted him. “It’s very unlikely. We’ve seen no sickness yet, whatever our friend might say. There is no way your friend could have come into contact with the infected population without the rest of us doing so as well.”
“Perhaps we have, and Sverchkov is just the first to fall sick?”
Dr. Feit stood up and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“Granted he has the beginnings of a fever but he hasn’t reported headache, nausea, or diarrhoea, and there are no signs of rash.”
The two men looked steadily at each other.
“For God’s sake, Lev Davidovich,” Dr. Feit hissed, “don’t let’s have any of this talk. Can you imagine what they will do if they think we have become infected?”
Standing side by side they listened to the sound of rattling dice in the room next door and the occasional shouts of the drivers.
“They’ll cut us down like dogs,” muttered the Doctor, “men, women and children. We can’t risk that. Sverchkov’s got a bad chill, that’s all. And that’s official.”
Chapter Nine
Thursday 9th February
Berezovo
Knowledge, reflected Dr. Tortsov as he ate his supper besides a silent Yeliena, did not bring happiness. Happiness was not a function of knowledge. What knowledge brought, in compensation, was power; in his case, the power to effect change and prevent disgrace.
It had come as a great surprise and a cause of deep unhappiness to him to have learned from his assistant that his wife had been on the point of leaving him because of the business of the casting of Modest Tolkach. It had been even more of a surprise to discover that the Hospital Administrator had carnal designs on his wife. Once he had recovered from his shock and dismay he had moved as swiftly as he could to scotch his superior’s plans. That very morning, accompanied by his assistant Anton Ivanovich Chevanin, he had had a meeting with their boss at the hospital during which his primary problem had been skilfully resolved. As young Chevanin had predicted, Tolkach had fallen for Anton Ivanovich’s ruse; he had agreed to accept the central role of Tolkachov in the second play, A Tragedian In Spite Of Himself. Now the Doctor was engaged upon what he regarded as the critically important and less straightforward task of repairing his marriage.
The atmosphere at No 8 Ostermann Street had become increasingly strained. He had first noticed it on the Tuesday morning when Yeliena had not appeared at the breakfast table. Katya had tremulously informed him that her mistress was feeling unwell and had asked not to be disturbed. The following morning Katya had reported that Yeliena was feeling a little better but was insisting on taking her breakfast in her room. He had since realised, with a sense of irritation, that on both occasions the maid had been covering for his wife.
Chevanin’s revelations in the clinic may have provided a compelling explanation for her melancholia but they cast no light on the strategy that would provide the most efficacious solution. The previous evening, sitting by himself after dinner, Dr. Tortsov had reasoned that Yeliena must have felt both shaken and frightened by the news that she would have to act opposite the man who had been pursuing her in her husband’s absence. Why else would she have contemplated such desperate measures? Not for one moment did he countenance the possibility that she had encouraged the Hospital Administrator’s attentions. She was, he was certain, completely innocent in the affair and her behaviour above reproach.
He also had recognised that, illogical as it was, Yeliena seemed to be blaming him for her predicament. During dinner she had sat not in her usual place opposite him but in the seat beside him, thereby avoiding the need to look him directly. Her face had looked drawn and haggard, the dark rings under her eyes bearing witness to her lack of sleep. When questioned she had given monosyllabic answers and had been unreceptive to his offer to prescribe a tonic to help her regain her joie de vivre. More effective action was required.
The formulation of apologies did not come easily to the Doctor. As a medical man, he was untrained in either accepting the blame for errors of judgement or expressing regret for the unfortunate consequences of clinical mishaps and oversights. Despite the occasionally fatal consequences from his own misdiagnoses, he had maintained a strict adherence over the years to the code that the expression of regret and the voluntary acceptance of blame were damaging to the standing of his profession and therefore contrary to the interests of his patients. Nevertheless, he was genuinely sorry that the play was causing Yeliena so much distress and conceded that, in some small measure, he might have been unwittingly responsible for her unhappiness. A gentle expression of sympathy, presaged by an apology for having, inadvertently, put her in such an awkward position would, he felt, be the most appropriate solution. Women appreciated apologies as much as they liked receiving flowers.
Dr. Tortsov waited until Yeliena and he were alone after supper before he spoke to her. She had risen as soon as Katya had cleared away their dessert dishes and, pleading a headache, had asked to be excused but he had commanded her to stay and had guided her over to the settee. Sitting beside her, he reached over and took her hand in his.
“Lenochka,” he began, “it appea
rs that I owe you an apology. I am sorry that you were so upset about being asked to act with Modest Tolkach.”
“The damage has been done,” she said tonelessly.
Dr. Tortsov looked down at the hand he was holding. It felt unfamiliar, cold and unresponsive.
“I have asked him, and he has agreed,” he went on, giving her fingers a squeeze of encouragement, “to change roles and play the central character in the second play. His part as the ‘Bear’ will be taken by Anton Ivanovich.”
Yeliena looked at him incredulously and laughed.
“That’s hardly an improvement,” she observed.
“Well, it is a solution,” he reasoned, adding, “you must understand that originally I never had any intention of casting Tolkach to play the ‘Bear’. Such a thing had never occurred to me. He was forced on me at the casting session.”
Yeliena frowned at him, her forehead creased in concentration.
“I must understand that, must I?”
“Well, yes…” he faltered, puzzled by her response.
“I see. So there is one rule for me and one rule for you!” she snapped.
“Lenochka, I don’t…” he began.
“It seems,” she interrupted, “that I have to understand what you have said but you don’t have to understand what I have said. Namely that I never wanted to be in your silly play in the first place, or have anything to do with it. I told you that quite clearly in this very room, yet you chose to ignore me.”
Withdrawing her hand, she stood up and crossed to the hearth. Bending down she picked up the poker and began prodding the fire, sending sparks flying upwards from the glowing half logs.
Dr. Tortsov frowned. Their conversation was not taking the path that he had expected.
“I didn’t think that you were serious,” he confessed.
“Obviously not!” she said hotly. “Obviously what I feel about this situation, or any other situation, is of no account to you. It doesn’t matter to you at all. You just don’t care.”
“That’s not fair, Yeliena,” he replied quietly. Remembering his assistant’s persuasive argument, he added, “I suppose that, as my wife, I naturally expected you to support me not only with my work but also with the play. It doesn’t seem that much to ask.”
“I’m not your property, Vasili, to do with as you wish. Serfdom has been abolished for over forty years.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous!” he muttered.
Slowly she straightened up and turned to face him, the poker held tight in her hand.
“Is that how I appear to you?” she demanded loudly. “I am ridiculous?”
Dr. Tortsov regarded his wife uneasily from the settee. The tone of her voice had become uncharacteristically shrill. He blamed himself for not noticing it sooner. Was she becoming hysteric or could it be something far more serious? As a physician he was unfamiliar with the warning signs of the onset of pathological mania but he recognised that, in his present sedentary position, he would appear weak and vulnerable to her. Casually uncrossing his legs he arose from the settee and walked over to join Yeliena beside the hearth.
“No, I spoke in error,” he admitted gently as he reached down and disarmed her of the poker. “You are not at all ridiculous. It is quite reasonable for you to feel upset. But the situation has now been rectified and so you need have no further worries.”
Replacing the poker in the brass shell casing that served as its container by the fireside, he took his wife gently by the arm and guided her back to her place on the settee before seating himself in his armchair beside the hearth. It was clear to him that the prospect of having to perform onstage had disturbed his wife. Reluctantly he came to the conclusion that kind words and sympathy might not suffice and that he would be forced to address the cause of her unhappiness rather than its symptoms. If she continued to protest, he decided, rather than try and persuade her that she was being irrational, he might be forced to make alternative arrangements for the play night.
As if she had read his thoughts, Yeliena said, “I don’t want to play Yeliena.”
“Then I will cancel The Bear and just put on the second play,” he conceded. “Would that content you?”
Yeliena shook her head impatiently.
“You can’t do that,” she told him. “The second play only lasts for about a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes at most. Nobody is going to pay two roubles for watch a play that brief.”
“Then I shall choose a different play to direct instead of The Bear,” he said with a shrug.
“You can’t do that either. Belinsky will have already started work on the scenery and will demand payment. And how would you choose the play, get it agreed, order the scripts and get a new cast? You don’t have the time.”
“Then I shall get someone else to play the part of Yeliena,” insisted the Doctor, becoming annoyed at being repeatedly contradicted. “I shall tell everybody that you are unwell.”
“That would complete our humiliation,” she retorted, brushing aside the alibi. “People will either say that you changed your mind because you realised that I would be an incapable actress or that I had refused and you had lost control of your wife. Congratulations, Vasili,” she added bitterly, “you have trapped us both.”
“‘Trapped’! Don’t be so melodramatic!” he scoffed. “How on earth are we trapped?”
“Of course we are trapped! We are both trapped!” said Yeliena urgently. “Look at us. Look at this house, and our marriage. We have been trapped for years! You own me and Modest Tolkach owns you.”
Angered by her outburst, Dr. Tortsov sprang to his feet.
“I won’t have you say that! I forbid it!” he warned her. “Why are you deliberately trying to vex me? Nobody owns me! I am a professional man, I am not a puppet. And though I may be responsible for you, I don’t own you.”
He began pacing backwards and forwards in front of her, agitated by their argument.
“This isn’t ‘The Doll’s House’, Yeliena,” he declared. “This is our home. We are not characters in a play. We are made of flesh and blood and we live in a real world where people have responsibilities and duties to one another. And, let me remind you, in a world where a lot of people are much worse off than we are. If you would come with me on my house calls and see how some of my patients live…”
“Oh God!” cried Yeliena, throwing herself back onto the cushions of the settee. “Spare me your patients! They are your excuse for everything!”
“What do you expect, Yeliena?” he protested. “You are the wife of a doctor. We have a position to uphold, as well as a duty to the town. You knew that when you married me.”
Yeliena looked at him bleakly and then looked away.
“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have married you,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, taken aback.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have married you,” she repeated. “You would have been happier. As it is, you don’t come near me, you don’t hold me, you don’t ask me about what sort of a day I have spent. We don’t talk about anything except about your work or things that you choose to talk about. We haven’t had one serious conversation in the whole of our marriage, not one; not even when Sasha died. I know nothing about you now. I don’t even know how much money we have, or whether we are over our heads in debt.”
Bewildered by how rapidly the terrain of their row had changed, Dr. Tortsov sensed that they were approaching a dangerous crossroads for which he was ill-prepared. A confusion of doubts assailed him. Had he miscalculated after all and an intimacy already existed between Modest Tolkach and his wife? Was that why she had refused to act with him, because their relationship would then become obvious to him? And why was Yeliena suddenly asking about his money and his investments? She had never done that before. This was territory that, on principle, he was determined to keep closed to her, at the very least for the next three months. Her challenge had taken him unawares, leaving him with limited room for manoeuvre. He felt that he
needed more insight, if not into her ultimate objective, at least to be able to distinguish between safe and unsafe ground.
More importantly, he thought, is this row only an uncharacteristic fit of temper, a sudden volcanic explosion of female hysteria, or is it the opening cannonade of a carefully rehearsed battle plan? What does she really want?
“Then why did you marry me?” he asked.
Yeliena rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“Why does any woman marry?” she cried. “Because I wanted security, Vasili! I wanted to be safe and to be cherished and to have nice things and to be cared for and not go hungry. I thought you were someone I could love and look up to and respect and that we would be happy and have children that I could hold and take care of. Why else would I marry you? Why did you marry me?”
“Because I loved you,” he replied automatically, “and still do.”
Yeliena shook her head in disbelief.
“How can you say that you still love me?” she asked.
“Because I do,” he told her earnestly. “And because I know that you made me complete. Without you I am not whole. There would be a gaping wound in my side which would leave me exposed to life’s cruelties and infections.”
Yeliena regarded him with a sad smile.
“So, in order to keep you whole, I have to stay chained to you in this cage?”
Dr. Tortsov shrugged.
“Well, you said you wanted security,” he replied.
He watched as the fight slowly went out of her, noticing with clinical interest how her body seemed to deflate in defeat. Where a moment before she had appeared powerfully enthroned on the settee, magisterial in her denunciation of her situation, she now sat with her shoulders bowed and her eyes downcast, staring at her hands cradled in her lap; an almost wretched figure slumped against the cushions.