Berezovo

by A J Allen

  Picking up the tiny hand bell that sat beside her plate, she rang it briskly, summoning Katya to clear away the plates.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday 11th February 1907

  Berezovo

  Boarding their carriage, Tatyana sat in the far corner of its cushioned seat, determined to keep her distance from her husband. Olga Nadnikova had been correct: their urgent discussion had been completed in time for her to return to the service and leave the church beside Leonid. She was not on trial, Olga had insisted, but they had to know certain facts before they could determine the best course of action. Her examination – for that is what it had felt like – had taken the form of a series of probing questions.

  Did she now believe them when they said that Irena Kuibysheva had designs upon her husband?

  Yes.

  Did she have proof of their betrayal?

  Yes, his soiled laundry.

  Had she (Tatyana) challenged her husband about his betrayal?

  Yes.

  What had been his reaction?

  He had denied it completely and had said that she was imagining things.

  “Men are such cowards!” sighed Lidiya. “They throw a rock through a window and then deny doing it even though the dirt is still on their hands.”

  Did she recognise that her friends had tried to warn her on several occasions but that she had refused to listen to them, preferring to believe in the liar Irena Kuibysheva?

  Yes, she admitted, weeping now. She offered them her heartfelt apology and begged their forgiveness.

  Did she know that Matriona Pobednyeva was telling the world that she had witnessed her husband Leonid and Irena Kuibysheva leaving one of the rooms on the upper floor of the Hotel New Century together?

  No!

  Was she prepared to work with her friends to try and repair the damage to her reputation and to her marriage and to have her revenge on her faithless friend?

  Yes.

  Lidiya and Raisa, moved almost to tears themselves at the sight of her wretchedness, had stood and embraced her, consoling her on her misfortune. Only Olga Nadnikova remained seated, waiting with impatience for the three women to resume their seats. They had a lot to accomplish, she reminded them. Paying back Irena Kuibysheva could not be done overnight. She was protected by her husband’s wealth and, by association, the political power of the Mayor’s office. It would take time to devise an appropriate punishment.

  There was only one course left open to Tatyana. For the time being, she must take a leaf out of her husband’s book and act as if nothing had happened. It would be better if she could persuade her husband that she was feeling unwell and was unable to attend the Reception luncheon. Failing that, she must take pains not to let on to Irena Kuibysheva that she knew anything of her treachery.

  Within ten minutes of returning home it had become clear that the first course of action was not open to her. Leonid had insisted that she accompany him to the luncheon; there could be no excuse for her absence that would not be an embarrassment to him. Thus it was that, sitting in stony silence, the Kavelins were now travelling together in their carriage the few hundred yards around the corner of Menshikov Street and up Alexei Street to the entrance of the Hotel New Century. The pony pulling their carriage shook its head, its hot breath steaming in the midday cold, as if to say, “Look how alive and animated I am compared to the two graven images I am pulling in my fine cab!”

  Upon their arrival Leonid Kavelin stepped out of the carriage and with elaborate courtesy offered his hand to his wife to assist her. Ignoring him Tatyana left the carriage and, without waiting for him, hurried through the outer doors of the hotel and quickly crossed the vestibule to the foot of the staircase leading to the mezzanine floor.

  For a brief moment the noise of loud conversation and the sound of laughter from the top of the stairs unnerved her. She felt like an untested actress about to take the stage before a seasoned and critical audience. Struggling to clear her head, she began to ascend the staircase. She was an actress, she told herself, and she had only to remember her lines and keep her nerve and all would be fine. She had rehearsed what she intended to say to Irena, and the manner in which she would say it. All that mattered now was to keep her temper and to make sure that the pleasantries came out correctly.

  Halfway up the stairs she heard the outer doors behind her open with a crash and Leonid calling after her. Willing herself not to look back, she kept walking up the stairs toward the lounge, and found that this new sense of resolve both excited and frightened her. As she reached the landing and heads were already turning to greet her, she once again heard Leonid’s hoarse command below her:

  “Tanya, for God’s sake, wait for me.”

  With a tight determined smile, Tatyana moved quickly into the crowd and began cordially greeting the other guests at the reception. Out of the corner of her left eye she could see that Irena had already arrived and was engaged in conversation with the Shiminskis and Matriona Pobednyeva. The presence of the mayor’s wife made her pause but she could see Olga Nadnikova and Raisa were moving slowly into position behind the Shiminskis and from the right hand side of the room Lidiya Pusnyena was cutting through the crowd to join her.

  Without warning, a waiter bearing a tray of small glasses of wine stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

  “Do you want some wine?” he said thickly. “It’s for free.”

  She was raising her hand to wave him away when she felt a hand grip her arm tightly. Leonid had caught up with her.

  “Tanya, for God’s sake!” he whispered.

  Looking briefly at the crowd conversing loudly around them, she turned to face him and mouthed the words “Let go!” to him. She felt his fingers tighten further on her arm. Raising her eyebrows, she shook her head angrily in warning. Still he did not loosen his grip. Something in the situation reminded her of when she was a little girl being pestered by oafish boys at play. Without thinking, she lifted her foot and stamped on his toes as forcefully as she could. Her husband’s cry of surprise and pain rose above the hubbub, causing heads to turn and the noise level around them to begin to fall. As she turned back to resume her progress towards her target, Lidiya appeared by her side. Hidden by the crowd Tatyana felt her friend’s hand find hers and give it a surreptitious squeeze of encouragement.

  The room grew quieter as more of the assembly became aware that something untoward was happening. Now that the moment for her performance was approaching Tatyana was alarmed to find that her resolution was beginning to drain away. She could feel the blood pounding in the ears and a gravelly fluttering feeling in her stomach and she realised that she was now leaning heavily on Lidiya’s arm, who was steering her towards the small group. She could see Irena waiting for her expectantly, dressed in a stylish peach coloured morning dress. By the time she had reached them the room had fallen silent.

  “Tanya, sweetheart, how lovely to see you!” Irena said brightly. “Where is Lyonya? Is he here too?”

  Tatyana was stunned by her greeting. The complete absence of guilt, or embarrassment, the fearless deficiency of contrition and lack of remorse, the total refusal in Irena’s manner to acknowledge her betrayal momentarily rendered her speechless. She felt the innocuous phrases she had rehearsed to herself slip away. The next moment she heard her husband’s voice beside her, tensely greeting first the Shiminskis then the Mayor’s wife and then Irena.

  It was Matriona Pobednyeva’s mocking smile as she opened her mouth to reply to Leonid’s greeting that finally gave Tatyana the strength she needed. Raising a shaking arm, she pointed directly at Irena Kuibysheva.

  “You… You…” she faltered and then paused.

  Ashen white, Irena raised her chin an inch and looked deep into her eyes.

  “You cow!” Tatyana spat out. “You said that you were my friend and all the time… You …”

  Once again she felt Leonid grasp her arm but this time she shook him off.

  “You keep away from my husb
and, you hear? You keep right away from him, you cow, or so help me God…”

  Leonid began to pull her away.

  “Tanya, control yourself!” he said fiercely.

  “Leonid, I will not sit down to eat with this suka! I will not! You have to choose. Either she leaves or I do.”

  She was dimly aware of a woman nearby gasping with shock at her curse. The silence in the room had now become absolute. An expression of studied calm seemed to descend upon Leonid Kavelin’s face. Taking as step back, he adjusted one of his shirt cuffs and nodded in agreement.

  “Then you had better go home, Tanya. You are unwell. I will make your apologies to our host the Mayor.”

  For a moment Tatyana stared at him open mouthed and then felt her face begin to crumple, her features transforming themselves into a tragic mask. Holding one hand up to shield herself from the gaze of the assembly, she walked quickly from the lounge. Noisily clearing his throat Shiminski took a glass of wine from a tray beside him and passed it to Leonid Kavelin. Olga Nadnikova and Raisa melted away as Kavelin raised his glass and toasted the small group.

  “My apologies,” he said. “My wife has been under an enormous strain.”

  “We quite understand,” said Madame Shiminskiya sympathetically. “First the typhus and now these damn terrorists coming here. It’s enough to unnerve anyone.”

  Raising his glass again, Kavelin saluted her in gratitude and drank deeply. All around him conversations were beginning to be resumed. He felt Irena and the Mayor’s wife silently leave his side. Draining his glass, he lowered it and looked calmly around him. Normality was returning; the moment of drama was over. Beckoning to the waiter, he watched as across the far side of the room Father Arkady, engaged in deep conversation with the Mayor, made an emphatic chopping gesture with one of his hands.

  Unaware of the scene being played out in the hotel’s mezzanine lounge Dr. Tortsov left his dining table as soon as he had eaten his dessert, grateful for the excuse to escape the trial of having to drink Katya’s coffee. He had taken the girl in on sufferance and also out of sympathy for Father Arkady’s own special brand of humanitarianism. He did not regret doing so, though the girl was far from bright, nor particularly talented at housework. She was, he often said, in her own way quite dependable in as much as he could always rely upon her doing certain things badly, such as making coffee. Colonel Izorov’s sergeant, on the other hand, made excellent coffee. The Doctor had every reason to suppose that once he had reached the uchastok and was welcomed by the Chief of Police he could expect to be offered a splendid cup of his favourite infusion.

  He was to be disappointed. The Colonel was not in his lair, but instead the guest of Captain Steklov at the barracks where, the police sergeant at the charge desk assured him, he would probably remain until the exiles reached the outskirts of the town. Of the convoy itself, there was still no news although they were expected hourly. They were awaiting a signal from their watchman in the fire tower. Perhaps the Mayor’s party at the Hotel knew something?

  The Doctor debated what to do. He felt that he could not impose himself on Captain Steklov – he would need to be in his favour when it came to producing the play – and there was no point in returning to his house on Ostermann Street to await the arrival of the exiles. There seemed little choice but to do as the police sergeant had suggested and go to the Hotel New Century. Besides, Fyodor Gregorivich’s coffee might not be as good as Izorov’s, but it surpassed anything he could expect to receive at home.

  His mind made up, the Doctor left the Police Headquarters and crossed the street to the Hotel. No sooner had he entered the vestibule than he was met by the agitated cries of the hotel’s proprietor.

  “Doctor! What a blessing you have come!” Fyodor Gregorivich exclaimed, snatching the Doctor’s hat from his hand. “You have saved the day!”

  “What? Steady on, Fyodor Gregorivich!” the Doctor said as the man tried to drag his overcoat from his back. “What’s the matter?”

  “You must come quickly to the dining room!” the proprietor told him, still pulling at his coat. “As fast as you can, please.”

  “What’s happened? Has there been an accident?”

  “No accident. It wasn’t my fault,” Fyodor Gregorivich said confusingly. “I am ruined if you don’t come quickly. To think that such a thing should happen in this hotel!”

  Succeeding at last in removing the Doctor’s overcoat, Fyodor Gregorivich bore it away with an expression of triumph towards the doors to the dining room, only to find when he reached them that its owner had not followed him. Flinging the Doctor’s coat and hat across the lobby desk as he passed, he scurried back to where Doctor Tortsov stood uncertainly.

  “Please Doctor, come in and eat!” he begged him, wringing his hands anxiously.

  “Eat? Good grief, Fyodor Gregorivich! I have only just finished my lunch.”

  The hotel proprietor’s voice rose an octave as he became more agitated.

  “They won’t start if you aren’t there,” he cried. “The Mayor, Father Arkady, everybody. The food is getting cold.”

  “But I wasn’t expecting to eat,” the Doctor protested. “I have already dined. No, it’s out of the question. I shall wait here until they have finished. I only came out to find Colonel Izorov, and perhaps have a…”

  Fyodor Gregorivich had been almost dancing with exasperation. The mention of the Colonel’s name brought him up short.

  “Is the Colonel coming here as well?” he asked hopefully.

  “I don’t believe so,” replied the Doctor carefully. “I have been told that he was lunching with Captain Steklov. If you return me my coat, I shall endeavour to find out.”

  “No! Wait!” pleaded the hotel proprietor, backing away toward the dining room doors. “Please, wait there just for a moment, I beg you.”

  And with that he was gone. Taken aback by the man’s eccentric behaviour, Dr. Tortsov stood staring at the gently swinging doors for a few seconds. Then, with a mystified shrug, he turned and walked up the stairs that led to the mezzanine floor.

  It was the first time that the Doctor had returned to the hotel since his upsetting misunderstanding with the Mayor. Walking into the lounge, where six days before he had allowed himself to be duped into accepting Modest Tolkach for the part of “The Bear”, he regarded the room with dislike. On either side of the doorway stood tall wooden hat stands, from which hung the discarded outer clothing of the guests in the dining room. With his head cocked to one side, the Doctor slowly circled first one then the other, trying to discover the identities of their owners.

  Buried beneath a brown homburg hat, he spied Skyralenko’s gold braided kepi. That was easy, he told himself. And that grey woollen cloaked trimmed with fox fur – hadn’t he seen Raisa Izminsky wear a coat similar to that? He suspected that Yeliena would be able to name the owner of each garment in the space of a few seconds (“Oh, and that’s Nadnikov’s old thing. Dreadful, isn’t it?”). He was just examining the sleeve of a familiar looking overcoat when a loud cry from the lobby reached his ears. Alarmed, he hurried back to the top of the stairs. Below him he saw Fyodor Gregorivich had returned to the vestibule. Beside him stood an angry looking Madame Pobednyeva.

  “He’s gone! He was just here!” the hotel proprietor was wailing.

  “What on earth is the matter with you today, Fyodor Gregorivich?” Dr. Tortsov called out from the top of the staircase. “Pull yourself together. Who’s gone?”

  “Please, Doctor!” implored the hotel manager. “Come down and save me.”

  “Matriona Fiodorovna, can you explain what this fellow is gibbering about?” Dr. Tortsov demanded. “Has he poisoned someone, or what?”

  “He’s done something much worse than that, Doctor,” answered the Mayor’s wife as she ascended the staircase.

  “Fyodor Gregorivich!” she commanded once she had joined the Doctor. “You may now serve the luncheon. The Doctor and I shall take our places presently. We shall discuss this… this…�
�� She hesitated as if, for once in her life, her rich and colourful vocabulary had failed her. “…This debacle when it is time to settle the bill. Assuming, that is, that you have the effrontery to present us with one!”

  Miserably, the hotel proprietor hung his head and executed a sort of half bow to the two grim faced figures at the top of the stairs.

  With a disdainful sniff, Madame Pobednyeva took the Doctor’s arm and led him back to the lounge. Only when she had closed the doors behind her did her stern demeanour give way.

  “Oh Doctor!” she sobbed. “I’ve done something stupid, very stupid indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Sunday 11th February 1907

  Berezovo

  In Dr. Tortsov’s sitting room Chevanin was also feeling that the afternoon had taken an unexpected turn. Perched awkwardly on the edge of his armchair he looked on with a fascination akin to that of a young field mouse confronted by a hunting snake. Opposite him the wife of his employer, the cause of his discomfort, lay reclining on the couch, her eyes half closed in thought as she watched the smoke from her cigarette curl slowly upwards. He took another sip of the brackish coffee and swallowed noisily as Yeliena brought the cigarette to her lips again and drew on it. Filling her mouth with smoke, she began to exhale a series of perfectly formed smoke rings. She repeated the performance, sucking in her cheeks and expertly expelling the smoke through the tight circle of her lips. As the last smoke ring hung in the air above her, she languidly lifted a forefinger and, with a deliberation that reminded him of a cat playing with string, broke it.

  “I didn’t realise you smoked,” he said huskily. “If I had known I would have offered you a cigarette before.”

  Yeliena made a face.

  “Vasili doesn’t approve of women smoking. He says it weakens our lungs. So I never indulge while he is in the house.”

  Tiring of her game, she sat up slowly, careful not to spill the long column of ash onto her dress. Chevanin passed her his ashtray and she ground out the remains of the cigarette. Returning it to him, she stood up and began smoothing down the creases in her blouse and skirt.