Berezovo

by A J Allen

  Faintly, he heard the bell of Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary toll nine times. Swearing to himself, he abandoned his search for her tie. There were too many other things to do. He had to boil up the water so that he could shave; polish his boots and still allow himself a good twenty minutes to walk to the schoolroom without hurrying. Pulling on the trousers of his best suit, he began to fumble with the buttons. There was no time to lose.

  When he reached the schoolhouse, Chevanin found that Alexander Maslov had arrived before him and was already busy feeding fuel into the single plate stove. Chevanin’s expression of disappointment mirrored that of the librarian.

  “Good morning, Chevanin,” said Maslov, carrying an armful of sawn logs to the stove. “It really is too bad of Nikolai Dresnyakov not to have already heated this room for us. He knew very well that we would be using it for our first rehearsal. I don’t know what the Doctor will say when he finds it so cold.”

  When the librarian straightened up, Chevanin saw that the logs he had been carrying had covered the front of his jacket with wood flakes. Reluctantly, he offered to help, but Maslov refused.

  “No, thank you. Very kind of you, but it won’t be necessary. These things have to be done and as I took care to arrive in plenty of time, naturally I have to do it. Though why the Doctor did not take up my offer to let him have the library for his rehearsals eludes me. It’s far more comfortable than this place.”

  Divesting himself of his worn overcoat, the Doctor’s assistant walked over to stand beside the stove and congratulated Maslov as he did so on the heat he had already conjured.

  Mollified, Maslov began brushing himself down.

  “You look very smart today,” he remarked, returning the compliment. “Is it somebody’s name day?”

  “No, Alexander Vissarionovich. I just felt like dressing up.”

  “Yes, but you should take care, you know,” Maslov said seriously. “It wouldn’t do to become known as a fop.”

  “A fop?” Chevanin repeated, laughing. “I don’t think I will ever be that.”

  “A good thing too. People want someone sensible and down to earth when they are ill,” warned the librarian, adding, “all the same, it’s quite proper for a gentleman to take pains over his appearance. So many young people nowadays dress as if their house had just burnt down.”

  Maslov joined him by the stove as, high above them, the church bell tolled the hour. Pulling out a pocket watch, he consulted it and shook his head despondently.

  “Ten o’clock. You would think that the Doctor would be in time for the first reading, wouldn’t you? As it is, he’s left himself precious little time to direct his plays. I calculate that we can only have nine rehearsals, including the dress rehearsal, before the curtain goes up and I don’t believe that he’s seen Belinsky yet about the scenery.”

  “I’m sure the Doctor will manage,” replied Chevanin loyally.

  “Yes, but is ‘managing’ enough? I do hope that you don’t intend to keep him long with whatever business it is you have with him. It’s essential that everything runs according to time. I have promised Nicolai Dresnyakov that I would return the keys to him before his luncheon and I have to close the library at one o’ clock.”

  Chevanin looked at him blankly.

  “What business?”

  “Whatever business it is you are here to see him about,” said Maslov, picking off the last of the wood flakes off the sleeves of his jacket with fastidious care.

  “But I am here about the play,” Chevanin explained. “I am playing the part of Smirnov, ‘The Bear’.”

  “No, no, no!” exclaimed Maslov testily. “Modest Tolkach is playing the Bear.”

  “I beg to correct you, Alexander Vissarionovich, but on Thursday the Doctor gave Modest Tolkach the role of Tolkachov. We all had quite a long talk about it and it was decided that the part of Smirnov was too small for Modest Alexeivich’s talents. So I am taking it over instead.”

  “Tolkach is playing the lead ‘Tolkachov’ in the Tragedian?” asked Maslov in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “But… but… that’s impossible!” protested the librarian loudly. “What happened to Svortsov? I thought…”

  “He changed his mind.”

  “But Tolkach is nothing like Tolkachov! For a start, Tolkachov still has a wife – that’s the whole point of the play!”

  “Perhaps it is what is meant by ‘dramatic licence’,” suggested Chevanin mischievously.

  “My God!” cried Maslov, clutching his forehead. “But that means I will be playing opposite him.”

  A gust of cold air swept the schoolroom as the outer door was opened and then rapidly closed again. A few seconds later the thick curtain that covered it was lifted to reveal the bundled figure of Dimitri Borisovich Skyralenko.

  “Good morning, Chevanin! Good morning, Maslov!” he greeted them cheerfully. “It looks as if it’s getting set for a blow again.”

  “Dimitri Borisovich, is what I hear true?” Maslov demanded.

  “The weather?” asked Skyralenko vaguely, surprised by the librarian’s belligerent tone. “Oh yes, I should think so.”

  “No, not the weather! Is it true what Chevanin has just told me? He says that Doctor Tortsov has given him the part of the ‘Bear’ instead of Modest Tolkach?”

  “Oh, has he? Congratulations, Chevanin! Welcome to our merry band. I must say,” the gaoler added confidentially, “I much prefer the idea of acting with you rather than with Modest Tolkach. The man is an ogre!”

  “That’s just what I was saying,” interrupted Maslov. “And now Chevanin tells me that Modest Alexeivich is to play opposite me instead!”

  “O ho!” cried Skyralenko, clapping the unhappy librarian on the back. “Bad luck, Alexander Vissarionovich! But don’t worry, we won’t let him eat you!”

  “That’s good of you,” observed Maslov. “But what I want to know is…”

  But whatever it was the town’s librarian wanted to know the other two men were never to learn, for at that moment another icy blast announced the arrival of Doctor Tortsov and Madame Tortsova.

  “Ah, heat!” the Doctor exclaimed, as he held up the door curtain for his wife to pass through. “Anton Ivanovich, make room for Yeliena Mihailovna, there’s a good fellow. Good morning Dimitri Borisovich! Good morning Alexander Vissarionovich! Ready for the fray?”

  Maslov returned his greeting coldly.

  “Doctor, what’s this I hear about Modest Tolkach being transferred to the part of Tolkachov? Is this true?”

  Dr. Tortsov glanced quickly at Chevanin, who grimaced apologetically.

  “Yes, well,” he answered evasively, “we thought that the part of the ‘Bear’ was too small for a man of Modest Alexeivich’s talents. He’s far happier playing the part of Tolkachov. It’s something he can get his teeth into.”

  “I’m sure that he will play it perfectly,” agreed Madame Tortsova brightly. “The part of the ‘Bear’ really wasn’t suitable for him at all.”

  “It’s all very irregular,” lamented Maslov. “All this chopping and changing at the last moment. It alters everything. I will have to change the advertisements and the printing on the playbill…”

  “Come, come, Alexander Vissarionovich!” interrupted the Doctor briskly. “We haven’t even started yet. These are early days.”

  But the librarian was not to be so easily placated.

  “Vasili Semionovich!” he announced, drawing himself up in a pose of offended dignity, “As my director, it is only proper that you know I have very serious reservations about appearing on the same stage as that man. I may have to reconsider my position.”

  “Oh really, Maslov!” Skyralenko chided him good naturedly. “What are you worried about? He won’t hurt you. You’re a man!”

  Dr. Tortsov, Yeliena and Chevanin glanced knowingly at each other.

  “Very well, Maslov,” responded the Doctor. “Since we are not reading your play until half past eleven, I will g
ive you until then to reach your decision. In the meantime, I consider it only proper that I acquaint Modest Tolkach with your reluctance to act opposite him, so that he too might have the same opportunity to withdraw.”

  The librarian looked at him aghast.

  “No, Vasili Semionovich! There’s really no need to do that.”

  “I’m afraid that you leave me with no alternative. It’s the only honourable way.”

  “At least,” Maslov pleaded, “don’t speak to him until I have considered what is best for the production.”

  Smiling grimly, Dr. Tortsov nodded his assent.

  “Very well. Until then, would you mind leaving us to get on with reading The Bear? We are already running a little late, I fancy.”

  “If you like, I could stay,” offered Maslov. “In case you should need assistance with the stage directions and so on.”

  “There’s no need, I assure you,” the Doctor replied.

  Looking from one face to another, the librarian failed to detect any enthusiasm for his remaining. With as much dignity as he could muster, he took his leave.

  As the outer door closed behind him, Dr. Tortsov let out a sigh of relief.

  “Alexander Vissarionovich can be such an old woman at times.”

  “That’s very unfair, Vasili,” his wife corrected him gently. “Old women don’t act like that at all. For example, Madame Wrenskaya would have slammed the door shut.”

  “Or at least ordered her maid to do it,” joked Chevanin.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said the Doctor. “Enough of that. It’s time to get to work.”

  Seating himself at Nicolai Dresnyakov’s desk, he signalled to the three players that they should take their places on the front bench. With great ceremony, he took his reading spectacles from his pocket and settled them comfortably on the bridge of his nose.

  “Let us begin,” he intoned solemnly.

  Opening his copy of the play script the Doctor began to read aloud.

  “The Bear, by Anton Chekhov. Characters: Elena Ivanovna Popova, a landowning little widow with dimples on her cheeks.”

  Peering over the rim of his spectacles, he smiled at his wife.

  “That’s you, my dear.”

  “Yes, Vasili. I know.”

  “Gregory Stepanovich Smirnov: a middle aged landowner. That’s you, Anton Ivanovich. Don’t worry about the padding. I have already made plans for that.”

  “Thank you, Vasili Semionovich.”

  Chevanin smiled warmly at Yeliena, who was sitting on the other side of the prison director.

  I must find her tie, he thought. I should be wearing the tie she gave me.

  “And Luka: Madame Popova’s faithful assistant,” continued the Doctor. “That’s you, Dimitri Borisovich. I don’t think we shall need any extra padding for you, eh?”

  “If you say not, Doctor!” agreed Skyralenko cheerfully.

  Leaning back in his chair, Dr. Tortsov peered benignly at the expectant faces of the three people in front of him.

  “This morning,” he explained, “we shall just read the play through to get the sense of it. There will be nothing complicated to do. Please bear in mind that I would like to be finished with you and let you go before the cast of the second play arrive for their reading.”

  Holding out his copy of the script at arm’s length in front of him, Skyralenko asked:

  “Shall I start?”

  “One moment,” said the Doctor. “I shall just set the scene.”

  Clearing his throat, he began to read.

  “A drawing room in Madame Popova’s house. Madame Popova is dressed in deep mourning and has her eyes fixed on a photograph. Luka,” he announced, pointing to Skyralenko, “is haranguing her. That’s your cue, Dimitri Borisovich.”

  Taking out his fountain pen, Dr. Tortsov wrote the word “photograph” quickly in the margin of his copy of the script. As he did so, Chevanin stole a glance again at Madame Tortsova and their eyes met over Skyralenko’s bowed head. Oblivious to the silent communication that was passing between them, the Prison Director began to read in a loud declamatory style.

  “It isn’t right, Madame… You’re simply killing yourself!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday 10th February 1907

  Berezovo

  Standing at the window of his office, Colonel Izorov watched as on the opposite side of the street Madame Kuibysheva walked casually through the front doors of the Hotel New Century. He had seen Leonid Kavelin enter less than five minutes before and he was glad that, as yet, it was no business of his. Illya Kuibyshev had been gone the best part of two months. Too long, thought Izorov, to leave a wife like Irena Kuibysheva.

  Thinking about the fur merchant, he found that he was mildly curious as to the reason for his prolonged absence. He had heard the rumours, of course: there were always rumours. Kuibyshev was prospecting for gold in Mongolia. Kuibyshev was in Paris, negotiating another Loan for the Imperial Treasury. Kuibyshev was behind the railway consortium that would link the Ob estuary to Archangel, in order that his furs would no longer have to go through Petersburg but could be sold direct to the hungry Western markets. Kuibyshev had been arrested in a police raid on a house of assignation. Kuibyshev had been assassinated by anarchists in Moscow. His wife had paid to have him kidnapped and murdered on the road…

  Whatever the truth was, the Colonel reasoned, as long as nobody shot anybody within the town’s environs, he would be satisfied. It was, in every sense of the term, a domestic affair.

  Turning from the window, he reached for his greatcoat and put it on. With the exception of killing each other, he did not mind how Kavelin and Kuibyshev settled their dispute. Like the exiles and the Quarter, the barines had their own law. Providing nobody from outside their circle was involved, each of the groups could do as much as they pleased. And, in the light of the lucrative orders he had received for the wood to make the convoy’s sleighs, it was little wonder that the timber merchant believed that his luck would hold. Let him enjoy Fortune’s season. Besides, he reasoned, a fellow as sick with lust as he was no use to man nor beast. Best to let him get it out of his system.

  Let Kavelin have his fun, the dog, and good luck to him! he thought as he took his fur hat down from its peg. When Kuibyshev returns there will be a reckoning to pay.

  Buttoning up his overcoat, the Chief of Police left his lair and crossed the Charge room to the outer door of the uchastok. Opening it, he sniffed the chill morning air. A blow was coming, he was certain, and he wondered for a moment by how many hours it might delay the arrival of the convey. Turning up his collar, he watched a group of workmen that had gathered at the foot of the Town Hall steps. In the middle of them stood the Mayor’s secretary, gesticulating awkwardly as he tried to convey the dimensions and design of the official dais his master had ordered them to build. He appeared to be having some success for, as the Chief of Police looked on, two of the workmen started digging their heels into the packed snow on the ground, testing it for hardness. Others began striding off in different directions, calling out the number of paces.

  Smothering a grin, Colonel Izorov turned away and walked slowly along the wooden sidewalk towards the corner of Well Street. When he had reached the corner, he stood looking towards the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary and began mentally checking off the positions his men would be taking the following day. All streets to the south of Alexei Street that led to the Quarter would be sealed off and extra men would be posted at regular intervals along the main thoroughfare. Steklov’s troops would have to do the rest, he decided. Slowly turning, he let his eyes follow the wide road back to the Town Hall. He would have just enough men, if no one reported sick.

  As his gaze fell upon the artistically dressed windows of Delyanov’s haberdashery emporium, a frown creased his brow. He dimly recalled his wife asking him the evening before to purchase something from the store. Now what had it been?

  He remembered: a spool of thread. Burying hi
s chin deeper into his collar, he descended the steps into the road and carefully began picking his way over the frozen ruts to the other side.

  Delyanov’s was crowded and noisy. As the Colonel pushed open the door, a small bell rang faintly above his head. Seeing him enter, the shop’s owner pushed his way through the throng to greet him.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel! This is an honour. How may we help you?”

  “I need some thread,” Izorov said, undoing his greatcoat. “One of the button holes on my tunic has become worn and my wife suggested I came to you.”

  Amidst the press of people, Delyanov examined the buttonhole closely. The large silver button on his uniform had worn away the stitching, making the hole an ugly gash.

  “Yes Colonel, I think we can help you,” he assured him.

  Turning, he called out above the heads around him to one of the women serving behind the glass topped counter.

  “Mademoiselle Ordnitsova! Please attend to the Colonel at once. He requires a spool of Prussian Blue number nine.”

  With an ingratiating bow, the haberdasher excused himself and disappeared once more into the crowd, cajoling those of his customers that would listen to be patient until his assistants had time to serve them.

  Making his way to the counter Delyanov had indicated, Colonel Izorov waited while the young woman replaced a bolt of material that she had been cutting. She had her back to him, and while he waited, he admired her trim figure and her attractively dressed auburn hair. They were strangely familiar but he was quite unprepared to discover, on her turning round to face him, that ‘Mademoiselle Ordnitsova’ was none other than Tamara Karseneva, the wife of Oleg Karsenev, the leader of one of Berezovo’s two RSDLP exile factions.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel,” she greeted him coolly. “Was that Prussian Blue number nine you wanted?”

  “Well, you are full of surprises!” he chuckled. “‘Ordnitsova’? Is that another alias?”