by A J Allen
“No,” he said reluctantly, “but I am sure that he must have been delayed on only the most pressing business, otherwise he would never have kept you waiting.”
He paused again and then, moving nearer to the Mayor’s wife, continued in a lowered voice, “May I tell you something in confidence, Madame?”
“Of course, Sasha,” Madame Pobednyeva assured him.
“Well as you know,” explained the head waiter quietly, “tomorrow’s luncheon is a very important occasion and we, that is all the staff, feel tremendously honoured that the Mayor has chosen to host the event at our hotel.”
“Well? Go on.”
“There are certain… security procedures that have to be put in place when we have such an important political event. Some of these are so secret that not even I or Boris Gennadyevich, our head chef, know about them. It is quite possible that Fyodor Gregorivich has just now been called to an urgent meeting at the uchastok with Colonel Izorov to discuss these very sensitive arrangements and, of course, is unable to…”
He left the sentence unfinished, allowing the Mayor’s wife to paint her own picture in her mind and to reach her own conclusions.
“You are quite right,” she agreed. “It would have to be something very secret to prevent Fyodor Gregorivich from being here to meet me.”
“Very secret,” agreed Sasha with a deferential bow, “and very, very sensitive.”
His expressions of grateful appreciation at the Mayoress’s understanding were cut short by her next pronouncement.
“I will wait here until he returns.”
“Alas, no,” said the head waiter quickly. “A thousand apologies but that would not be suitable. A lady like yourself being kept waiting in his office, like a common tradesman… Fyodor Gregorivich would never forgive me!”
In this he spoke no less than the truth. Privately Fyodor Gregorivich held the Mayor’s wife in the lowest regard, calling her the Great Elephant Cow of Berezovo or, alternatively, The Stranded Whale. He would not wish to have his afternoon of recreational voyeurism spoilt by the discovery that in his absence she had been left unattended in his office to snoop to her heart’s content.
Madame Pobednyeva looked around the office speculatively.
“I am sure that I would be quite comfortable sitting here at his desk. I wouldn’t be in the way.”
With a gliding motion the head waiter moved deliberately to a position between the desk and the Mayoress.
“No, Madame,” he insisted gently, “I am sure that Fyodor Gregorivich would much prefer that I make you comfortable in our Mezzanine Lounge and bring you a tray of tea, courtesy of the Hotel, of course. You can sit on one of the sofas there, so much more comfortable than the hard chairs here in this office, and enjoy looking at the latest fashion papers from Petersburg.”
“Well…”
“And I can also bring you a selection of the biscuits from Gvordyen’s that have been made to a new recipe especially to accompany the dessert at tomorrow’s luncheon.”
“Biscuits?” repeated Madame Pobednyeva, mollified by this new inducement.
“Yes! We would greatly appreciate your discerning opinion about them. We do not want anything to spoil such an important occasion.”
“Yes, it is an important occasion,” she agreed, “which is why I simply must speak to Fyodor Gregorivich this afternoon about the seating list.”
“Ah yes, the list. Yes, that is most critical,” the head waiter said sympathetically as he continued to steer her out of the office. “I will make sure that Fyodor Gregorivich comes to see you immediately he returns to us.”
The Mayoress allowed herself to be escorted upstairs to the mezzanine lounge which she found to be unoccupied except for one other person. Fyodor Izminsky sat snoring gently in a chair on the far side of the hearth. Having made Madame Pobednyeva comfortable on one of the three plush sofas the Lounge boasted, the head waiter skilfully withdrew, leaving her to contemplate the sleeping banker.
She was surprised to see that Izminsky had fallen asleep while reading a copy of the Birzhevye Vedomosti, pages of which lay draped across his chest and tumbled to the floor. She had not formerly regarded him as a natural supporter of the Kadets, nor as a reader of a popular rag. Opening her purse she took out a small notebook and pencil and jotted down the initials ‘FFI / BV’ as a reminder to herself to mention the detail to her husband. It was a trifle, but she knew from experience how such small facts could be deployed to great effect in the hurly burly of town politics. Replacing the notebook, she sat back against the cushions that Sasha had solicitously provided for her and waited for her tray of refreshments.
* * *
Sitting in the palatial drawing room of Fyodor Izminsky’s house, Tatyana Kavelina waited patiently for Madame Izminskaya to reappear. Looking around her at the costly furnishings she reminded herself that, despite all its grandeur, she did not envy her friend’s existence. They had known each other since schooldays, and she had been pleased to receive her invitation to take English tea with her that afternoon. Privately she considered Raisa to be the only genuine friend that she had in Berezovo, and as a young woman she had wept when she had first learned of her friend’s betrothal to Fyodor Fyodorovich Izminsky. The banker’s house, despite being one of the five buildings in the town that could truly be regarded as being “stone-built”, had always struck her as being more of a temple than a home. Yes, she admitted to herself, she did envy Raisa the tidiness of her surroundings – she knew that her own household must look almost slovenly in comparison – yet even the tidiness had been taken to an extreme degree, creating an atmosphere of hygienic repression rather than ordered comfort.
It was curious, she reflected, how deep the imprint unthinkingly made by men was upon the supposedly “female” domain of the home. Here, in the house of the town’s sole banker, one found oneself passing through an uncatalogued exhibition hall, whereas Irena Kuibysheva’s household reminded one strongly of an exotic department store-cum-bazaar, so festooned was it with semiprecious trinkets, expensive ornaments, statuettes, paintings and wall hangings; souvenirs of the fur merchant’s frequent travels abroad. In contrast the house of the grain merchant Pavel Nadnikov was almost bare; as if his wife, Olga, acquiescing to his inherent suspicion of anything that might provide a hiding place for vermin, had foresworn a life cluttered by ornaments and soft furnishings.
Although she would have struggled to put it into words Tatyana knew in her heart that such choices were made by wives, and not by their husbands. It was as if the women, afraid or unwilling to consult their menfolk, had done their best to try and interpret what they thought were their preferences and had, as a consequence, created homes which they themselves found unattractive and unfulfilling. The truth was that such unspoken deference was both absurd and uncalled for. Men – at least Russian men – did not seem to care a jot about such matters and showed little appreciation of the effort involved in making their surroundings agreeable. As Matriona Pobednyeva – a woman who Tatyana disliked as intensely as she loved Raisa Izminskaya – had more than once averred, only three things were of interest to Russian men: loose clothing, a tight pizda and a warm place to shit; they took notice of little else. Tatyana supposed things must be different in countries such as France, where women of comparable standing might expect to enjoy a boudoir.
To have a room of one’s own and the licence and financial means to decorate and appoint it just how one liked – that was true emancipation. Not even Raisa enjoyed that privilege. Irena Kuibysheva was the only woman Tatyana knew of in Berezovo who could boast (but didn’t) of the possession of a boudoir. Tatyana doubted that Raisa had ever aspired to such a luxury. She was such a quiet mouse, almost bashful at times, who preferred companionable pleasures such as her visit today. Hearing her footstep in the hallway outside Tatyana sat little straighter in her chair, a smile of affection brightening her face. Only Raisa could marry a banker and yet still want to do her own sewing.
Her friend en
tered the room carrying in her arms a large flat paper parcel. Tatyana noted with approval the stamp of the Eliseyev Emporium on the outer wrapping and waited in pleasurable anticipation while Raisa carefully separated the inner layers of tissue paper and held up her new purchase for her friend’s inspection. Tatyana was not disappointed: the petticoat was beautiful. Long and slender, it rippled under the light from the nearby table lamp. A ghostly motif of embroidered flowers was picked out with tiny pearls a hand’s breadth above its hem. Stretching out her hand, Tatyana ran her fingers lightly along the length of its skirt. The cloth looked and felt unfamiliar to her.
“What material is this?” she asked.
“Silk moiré,” replied Raisa in hushed tones. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Yes, it is lovely,” agreed Tatyana. “It’s beautiful. So what would you like to do with it?”
“I am thinking of adding a piece of ribbon about an inch above the hem,” said Raisa, folding up the petticoat and laying it carefully on its bed of tissue paper. “It needs a dash of colour.”
Sitting back in her chair, Tatyana nodded approvingly. Lifting the workbasket she had brought with her on to her lap, she rummaged inside and pulled out several spools of coloured ribbons. Without hesitation Raisa picked out a medium width sky blue silk ribbon.
“Could you help pin it for me, if I stood on a stool?”
“What, here?”
“Yes, why not?” Raisa asked casually. “No one will disturb us and it will be like old times.”
“Only this time I will try not to prick myself and bleed all over your new skirt,” remembered Tatyana.
“That would be nice.”
Raisa began to undress. At once embarrassed and flattered by the intimacy her friend was affording her, Tatyana turned her back and busied herself with putting away the unwanted ribbons, finding the box of dressmaker pins in the bottom of her materials bag, fetching a cushion upon which she could kneel. After all these years she did not feel that she would willingly step out of her clothes and show her legs with the same casualness that they had once shared while they had had to make their own clothes. Fixing a half dozen pins in the sleeve of her blouse, she listened to the susurrus of material behind her as Raisa removed her skirt and the petticoat she was wearing and dressed herself in the new garment. When she heard her friend’s soft grunt as she stepped up onto the stool, Tatyana turned back to face her. Smiling, Raisa held her right arm aloft mockingly, as if bearing a flaming torch.
“To Liberty!” they said in unison.
“Oh, I remember this now,” said Tatyana cheerfully as she knelt upon the cushion. “If we were all going to be equal how come I was always the one on my knees?”
“It is God’s will, my child,” replied Raisa, mimicking the sepulchral tones of Father Arkady. “You must be satisfied with your lot.”
Smiling, Tatyana unravelled the spool of blue ribbon into a manageable length. Picking up the hem of petticoat cloth, she measured a thumb’s width above its edge and laid the ribbon against the cloth. Plucking the first pin from her sleeve, she carefully inserted it into the top edge of the ribbon and got to work, falling into the once familiar rhythm of gathering, measuring and pinning. As she worked they talked, Raisa speaking softly down at her from her eminence, she mumbling replies of agreement or disagreement, her lips tightly clamped on more pins as she circled the stool on her knees. What did she think of the fuss everyone was making about the arrival of the insurrectionists? Did she know anything more about the spread of the typhus epidemic in the villages to the south of the town? Was it true what people were saying, that Leonid was buying extra wood for coffins? Had she heard that Dr. Tortsov had forbidden Hospital Administrator Tolkach from acting opposite his wife in the forthcoming play? Only when Tatyana had almost completed her circumnavigation of the petticoat and was once more kneeling before her did Raisa ask her the question that was uppermost on her mind.
“Tanya, are you and Lyonya happy?”
Frowning, Tatyana took the remaining pin from her mouth and placed it firmly in the final inch of ribbon.
“There!” she said, nodding in satisfaction as she checked the level of the ribbon for the last time. “Yes, quite happy thank you.”
“I don’t see how you can be,” murmured the voice above her head, “while he is busy betraying you with Irena.”
“Now you know that is not true,” said Tatyana, frowning down at the hem. “You have no evidence of that and Irena has been a good friend to me.”
Reaching into her work basket, Tatyana pulled out a pair of long bladed scissors and briskly snipped off the remaining length of ribbon that was trailing from the petticoat.
“No she hasn’t, and no, she isn’t,” insisted Raisa, as she stepped down from the stool. “Yes, she has taken you up and invited you to her house and lent you the occasional piece of jewellery and shared her perfume with you – both of which, incidentally, do not suit you – but she is not a true friend. What do you know about her? Has she ever confided in you?”
Picking up her workbasket, Tatyana held it defensively on her lap as she packed away her dressmaking materials.
“I know that she has had a difficult life and an unhappy one before she came to Berezovo,” she declared. “I know that she takes people as they are, without judging them. I know that she is a new friend who takes me as I am now, not one who always dredges up my past faults or failings. And I know that she is fun and interesting to be with. I am only sorry that you are so jealous of her.”
“Jealous?” exclaimed Raisa, raising her voice for the first time. “I could never be jealous of her. If anything I pity her, and I would feel deeply sorry for her if she wasn’t trying so very hard to make my best friend so very unhappy.”
“But I’m not unhappy!” insisted Tatyana shrilly.
Taking a seat next to her, Raisa clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
“Tanya, Irena Kuibysheva is like a scorpion,” she said slowly. “It is in her nature to sting you. She can’t help it, which is why, really, she should be pitied. But she won’t be.”
Tatyana glared at her.
“Do you sincerely believe anything like that could happen without my knowing?” she asked.
“But it may be happening right now, under your very nose!” cried Raisa, throwing her hands apart in exasperation. “All your friends know it.”
Tatyana shook her head, dismissing the possibility.
“All my friends?” she demanded. “Who exactly?”
“Myself, Lidiya, Olga – all your oldest friends. And no doubt many other people who know you in the town. People whose husbands do business with Leonid every day. Everyone in the town is talking about it.”
Tatyana shook her head again in disagreement.
“But you have no proof for these lies. Where is your evidence?”
“But Tanya, all their meetings… Do you really think that the Town does not see? Sharing a table at the Hotel New Century? All those brief encounters at the Library… As if Irena Kuibysheva ever reads a book! Or your Leonid, for that matter.”
Gathering up her work bag, Tatyana got to her feet.
“I think I had better be leaving,” she said coldly, “before one of us says or does something hurtful that we will later regret. Don’t bother to see me out.”
Raisa moved as if to rise but her friend’s sharp tone stopped her.
“No, Raisa, don’t get up or try and stop me going or I swear to God I will strike you…”
With this last word she left the room and less than a minute later Raisa heard the front door close behind her.
Curious to know the cause of her guest’s violent departure, Raisa’s maid appeared momentarily to ask whether she still required the tea to be served. Still sitting in her petticoat, Raisa waved her away. Despondently she began to remove the pins one by one, leaving the blue ribbon trailing unwanted onto the richly patterned rug. She knew her new and expensive petticoat to be irreparably damaged, but it did not matte
r. Its loss was a small price to pay in order to try to protect her dearest friend. Besides, she had an exact duplicate from Eliseyev’s in her bedroom press.
Chapter Eighteen
Saturday 10th February 1907
Berezovo
In the mezzanine lounge of the Hotel New Century, Madame Pobednyeva picked impatiently at the fabric on the arm of her armchair. She had moved to the other side of the lounge partly because she could no longer endure the sound of Izminsky’s snoring and partly to obtain a better view of the staircase. Her previous seat on the sofa had afforded her no view of the activities of the hotel’s staff and its guests. Her new position, in the armchair beside the small occasional table upon which rested a leafy aspidistra, had the dual advantage of allowing her to spy on people ascending or descending the staircase or crossing the landing beyond the entrance to the lounge while remaining undiscovered herself. From here she could watch out for Fyodor Gregorivich.
She glanced at the crumbs on the small tea plate beside her empty tea glass. The biscuits had been disappointing; ‘Nothing to write home about’ as her mother would have said. She had found their flavour of almond paste overbearing and too dense for her taste. She recognised that, given the nearness of the luncheon, there was no longer anything that could be done to improve the recipe. Nevertheless, she would make a point of mentioning her dissatisfaction to Fyodor Gregorivich. For the first time since she had taken up her vigil she began to feel uneasy about the hotel’s missing proprietor. Regardless of one’s standing in the town, one could never be sure of the outcome of a summons from Kostya Izorov. Was Fyodor Gregorivich even now locked up in a small cell, or being brutally beaten?
The sound of a man’s voice from outside of the lounge broke into her thoughts. Leaning forward she peered expectantly around the side of the aspidistra but, instead of the proprietor’s prematurely shining pate rising as he came up the staircase from the lobby, she saw two pairs of feet descending the stairs that led to the rooms on the upper floor of the hotel. The first wore a man’s polished shoes and above them, smartly creased trousers; the second belonged to a young lady, the hem of a grey skirt demurely raised. Madame Pobednyeva shrank back into the cushion of her armchair, knowing the identity of their owners even before they revealed themselves. Seemingly unconcerned by the risk of discovery the couple paused on the landing outside the entrance to the mezzanine lounge and exchanged brief kisses. And then, her seduction concluded, Irena Kuibysheva continued sedately down the stairs to the hotel’s lobby while Leonid Kavelin, looking flushed but contented, turned and entered the lounge.