by A J Allen
Even if the Archangel – Obdorsk railway line detoured to include the Bogoslovosk mines, it could hardly be considered a profitable exercise once the cost of its construction and the necessary maintenance was taken into account. Instinctively, he knew that it would never be built. Any company who attempted to do so was doomed to commercial failure, although doubtless there would be money to be made by financial speculation in its shares.
Laying down his pencil, he gazed at the map in front of him and recalled the interesting discussion he had had with the prisoner Trotsky the day before. Slowly turning over the pages he began to trace the course of the River Ob, his finger travelling this way and that over the plates as it followed the river’s course; hesitating as each smaller river joined it on its relentless journey from the arid mountainsides of central Asia to its icy estuary far to the north. The idea of rerouting its flow was wildly fantastic. He suspected that even the prisoner Trotsky had recognised that. Still… If one considered every tributary as a lost opportunity, and could draw some of the water off to irrigate the land, it made some sort of crazy sense.
The insurrectionist had been right about one thing: he was a very long way from home. Roshkovsky felt sorry for him. As anarchic as Trotsky’s politics seemed, he had impressed the land surveyor as having an original mind. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of his gifts, the following day he would embark upon the last stage of his journey to obscurity. Unaware of Dr. Tortsov’s diagnosis, Roshkovsky was certain the young man had no chance whatsoever of escape.
* * *
Kneeling on the richly carpeted floor of her pink and gold boudoir, Irena Kuibysheva folded the new nightshirt with care and laid it back in its bed of tissue paper. Polezhayev’s daughter had done an excellent job with the embroidery on the breast pocket, picking out her husband’s initial in gold thread against a background of violets and leaves.
It is just as well, she thought as she began to wrap her husband’s present, that I chose “I” instead of “K”. “K” would have been awkward.
The circumstances in which she found herself were difficult enough. She was now certain that her husband was aware of her recent frisk with Leonid Kavelin. Illya had been in town for over two days, with any number of his spies ready to denounce her. How could he not know? Her suspicions were supported by his behaviour; Illya had been deliberately avoiding her, leaving early for the fur warehouse at the north end of the town, locking himself away in his study, and then dining alone at the Hotel New Century the previous evening. What was he doing there, besides exposing himself to ridicule? Was he triangulating the evidence from his network of informers? Could she trust Fyodor Gregorivich to remain discreet? Certainly there was no written entry in hotel’s ledger to mark their brief visit, but chambermaids were always happy to sing, especially to the accompaniment of the clink of roubles.
More significantly, Illya had not yet presented her with his customary presents to mark his return. The gifts themselves were of lesser importance; she had more than enough material possessions, although to be fair to her husband his presents were always marked by the highest quality and the best taste. On this occasion their importance lay in their absence. Is he, she wondered, withholding them because of my fling with Leonid, “infidelity”, or hasn’t he brought any home for me of routine? If the former, I can accept that. If the latter, what does this change signify?
Tying the last length of ribbon with a firm knot, Irena inspected her handiwork dispassionately.
I have been wasting my time with Leonid Kavelin, she told herself. He is not The One, and now the net is closing in again. I will have to be very careful at supper tonight.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday 13th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
On the upper landing of Leonid Kavelin’s small wooden palace on Menshikov Street, Tatyana Kavelina took the freshly pressed bed sheet from the outstretched arms of her maid and laid it carefully on top of the stack of sheets on the shelf of the linen press that stood outside her bedroom. Like Fyodor Gregorovich with his cutlery at the Hotel New Century, she took solace in the perfection of tangible objects. Every waking hour of the past two days had been spent in washing, drying and pressing the household’s linen. Now, despite her weariness, she felt soothed by the sight of the smoothed folds of linen and comforted by a righteous sense of having regained control of her environment.
She had been willingly assisted by her maid who understood well the mania that had gripped her mistress: the involuntary urge not just to cleanse but to restore order; the necessity to purge by toil the memory of the disgrace that the Master had brought upon the household. Working together in near silence late into the night the two women had washed, scrubbed, wrung, and hung every bed sheet and pillow slip, taking equal turns in using the smoothing irons heated on the stove top; unsmiling as they moved backwards and forwards in the folding dance. Only M. Kavelin’s shirts remained to be laundered. If he had been her husband, and she could afford to do so, the maid would have refused to wash them; she would willingly have cut the buttons off, but that was not her mistress’s wish. Tatyana’s determination to restore her authority was absolute: no one in the town would see Leonid Kavelin in a creased shirt. With one exception all his shirts were to be laundered, starched and pressed as normal. The shirt he had worn for his assignation with the whore Kuibysheva was to be cut up and burned; a duty that her mistress would attend to privately herself.
Their ritual was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the front door of the house. The maid looked enquiringly at her mistress who indicated with a shake of her head that she was to ignore the summons; they were not to be disturbed. Tatyana did not yet feel ready to receive visitors, nor communication of any kind from the outside world. A second note had arrived from Raisa earlier that morning, accompanied by another note addressed to her in an unfamiliar hand. She had burned them both unread. People in the town would have to wait, she told herself, until her healing was complete. The deeper wound, she was sure, would never heal but she felt she could regain sufficient strength in a couple of days to risk appearing in public without collapsing from grief or shame. She would complete the list of therapeutic tasks she had set herself and only then venture out, putting on the best face she could.
Another knock on the door, this time more peremptory and insistent, broke the silence.
“See who it is and send them away,” ordered Madame Kavelina.
Reaching out she ran her fingertips along the even surface of the recently pressed sheet.
If only our sins and indiscretions could be washed away as easily as this, she thought, how easy life would be.
Hearing raised voices in the hallway below she moved as silently as she could towards her bedroom door. She decided that she would lie down and rest for a while before tackling the shirts that were hanging to dry in the scullery. And after the shirts there was the kitchen grate to be blacked and the silverware to be polished.
She was resting on her bed with her eyes closed when her maid returned to her. The visitor at the door had been Madame Nadnikova, she reported apologetically, and she had refused to be sent away.
“Refused?” said Tatyana, surprised.
“Yes, Ma’am. She just pushed past me and refuses to leave. She is waiting downstairs in the sitting room.”
Catching sight of herself in the tall cheval glass as she rose from the bed, Tatyana smoothed the creases in her dress and touched her hair. Although she did not feel ready for a confrontation with Olga Nadnikova, the knowledge that she was on her home ground gave her strength.
Leaving the bedroom, she crossed the landing and descended the staircase, followed nervously by her maid. Even as her hand closed on the handle of the sitting room door, she was undecided as to how she should greet her importunate visitor. She could hardly order Olga Nadnikova from the house, yet neither did she want her company.
She had no need to concern herself; as so often was the case with Olga Nadnikova, de
spite it being her sitting room Tatyana found, upon entering, that her role was to follow rather than lead.
“Tanya, my dear!” her visitor greeted her with uncharacteristic cheerfulness. “You look dreadful. You should be in bed.”
“I was told that you wanted to see me, so here I am.”
“Well, so I do but I don’t expect you to imperil your health,” her visitor told her. “Sit down and rest at once.”
Obediently Tatyana sat down in the chair usually occupied by her husband.
“Would you like some tea?” she offered. “I can ask my maid to light the samovar.”
“Tea?” replied Olga Nadnikova. “No need for tea. Look, I have brought you a tonic.”
Delving into her capacious handbag she drew out a small dark potbellied bottle marked Bowmore Islay Whisky and passed it to Tatyana. Unfamiliar with the roman script, Tatyana took in the characters that had been printed in white ink against the dark glass and then looked askance at her guest.
“It is Scotch whisky,” Olga Nadnikova explained. “It is like our vodka, but smoother. Pavel was given this sample by a salesman in Tobolsk.”
“Thank you,” said Tatyana uncertainly, “but I am really not sure I feel well enough…”
“Nonsense! Call the maid for two glasses and we will both have a taste while I bring you up to date with all the news.”
“The news?”
“Yes, of course,” said Olga Nadnikova, adding with characteristic bluntness, “You don’t think that the world stops turning just because you are hiding away, do you? The town is in an uproar.”
Although she flinched at this careless reminder of her recent troubles, on a deeper level Tatyana enjoyed a sense of profound relief. It was now clear that, despite her bossiness, her hitherto unwelcome guest had chosen to come to her not as a judge but as a friend. By employing her natural predilection for “plain speaking” Olga was offering, in crude terms, to lance the boil of her scandal in private and let the matter rest.
“Is everyone very angry with me?” she said mournfully as she rang for her maid.
“With you?” repeated Olga Nadnikova. “Oh my dear, I can assure no one is thinking of you and your trouble now. That whole sad business has paled into insignificance compared to what has happened since.”
“But what has happened?” asked Tatyana as her maid entered the room.
Olga Nadnikova waited for the maid to leave before beginning her summary of the most recent events.
“After you left the hotel on Sunday everybody went into lunch as if everything was normal. The lunch – which was mostly spoiled by the time it reached the table – went on for far too long because the Mayor told us that we all had to stay there until the convoy of prisoners arrived. As a result, most of the Council and their wives became beastly drunk and were almost incapable of walking by the time it was reported that the convoy had been sighted.”
Olga Nadnikova paused while the maid reappeared carrying a tray bearing two small glasses. Taking the whisky bottle from Tatyana she expertly broke the wax seal and unwrapped the paper that protected the neck of the bottle. Drawing the cork with a small pop she poured out two small measures of the amber liquid in the glasses and handed one to her hostess.
Tatyana took an experimental sip from her glass as her visitor continued her account.
“When the signal came we were all meant to leave the hotel and form up on that ridiculous stage that Pobednyev had constructed. It was at that point that Matriona Pobednyeva insisted, if you please, that the stage was for the Councillors only and that she, as the wife of the Mayor, should be the only woman allowed there.”
“How ridiculous!” offered Tatyana, in an attempt to disguise her dislike of the Scotch’s bitter taste.
“Quite ridiculous,” agreed Olga Nadnikova. “Of course nobody listened to her and we all piled on regardless, only to be greeted by the sight of Illya Kuibyshev being escorted into town as if he was under arrest.”
“Illya Moiseyevich is back?” exclaimed Tatyana.
“Oh yes, and no doubt there will be a reckoning there. It seems that his carriage lights were mistaken for those of the lead sleigh of the prison convoy. Although how anyone could make that mistake defeats me. He was absolutely furious and called the Mayor and Captain Steklov all sorts of names. But that is not the main story.”
Appearing not to notice that Tatyana was leaving her glass untouched, Olga Nadnikova paused in her narration, took a sip of her whisky and licked her lips appreciatively.
“When the convoy finally did arrive,” she continued, “we learned that it had travelled through a belt of typhus villages.”
“Dear God!”
“Quite, my dear,” observed Madame Nadnikova. “Of course, that would not matter if the traitors were to be kept locked up in the jail house while they were here but that is not the case. Instead Colonel Izorov has allowed them to wander around the centre of town completely unguarded.”
“No!”
“Not only that, he is allowing them to meet with our exiles and the Jews who, of course, are all over them like flies.”
“That will cause trouble,” prophesied Tatyana. “What does the Colonel think he is doing?”
“Ach! Kostya Izorov has always been too soft on the Socialists and the Jews,” said Olga Nadnikova severely, adding, “But you haven’t heard the worst of it. These traitors have also been allowed to use the hotel rooms. Yesterday they were spread out in the lounge on the mezzanine floor with their banners on display, and not just their banners.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tatyana.
“The men were sitting round dressed only in their overcoats, completely naked underneath. No trousers or anything. Lidiya Stepanovna witnessed them herself and Alexander Maslov actually had to share the same lunch table in the dining room with them. Not that he minded, of course,” she added archly.
“But why weren’t they arrested?” Tatyana wanted to know.
“They told the police that their clothes were at the laundry,” replied Olga Nadnikova drolly. “Fyodor Gregorivich had arranged it, if you please!”
“It sounds as if everyone has gone mad.”
“Hah! That is just what Illya Kuibyshev said when he thought that he had been put under arrest!” recalled Olga Nadnikova with a mirthless laugh. “But just you wait until after the traitors have left us and life returns to normal. There will be a few reckonings made in this town, I can tell you.”
Picking up her glass of whisky, Tatyana tried another sip. It still tasted foul and burned her tongue.
“Reckonings?” she said nervously. “What sort of reckonings?”
“Well, your sometime friend Irena Kuibysheva, for one. She has to go, I think that you see that now. And Fyodor Gregorovich will have to be made to understand that the women of Berezovo expect him to run a hotel and not a brothel. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” said Tatyana quietly, “I agree.”
“And Matriona Pobednyeva needs taking down a peg or two. The way she bosses everyone around, it’s insupportable. And she took far, far too much pleasure in spreading news of your trouble.”
“Did she?”
“Oh yes.”
Tatyana nodded thoughtfully.
“It sounds as if you have a list,” she said.
“I do have a list,” admitted Olga Nadnikova cheerfully. “Very useful things, lists. They stop you losing your temper in public. If anyone really annoys you, you just add their name to your list in the sure knowledge that, in the end, all accounts will be settled.”
“What about Leonid and myself? Are we on your list?” asked Tatyana.
If she expected her guest to hesitate or demur, Tatyana was mistaken.
“No, of course not!” insisted Olga Nadnikova breezily. “You are not wicked. You have both acted stupidly, that is all, and life is punishing you accordingly. Leonid Sergeivich for allowing himself to be seduced by a young tart and you for not seeing what was going on in front of your eyes, and for not
listening to your friends when they tried to warn you. Raisa was very hurt by what you said to her, you know.”
“I should apologise to her,” said Tatyana sadly.
“Yes, you should!”
“What else should I do, do you think?”
Olga Nadnikova shrugged and pulled a face.
“Get up, and dust yourself down,” she suggested. “Give your face a good wash, as my mother would say, and come to my house for tea tomorrow afternoon.”
“That would be nice,” Tatyana confessed.
“And remember,” Madame Nadnikova added as she drained her glass, “nothing in life will be solved by staying at home and not seeing your friends. In marriage and war, unity is strength.”
Chapter Eight
Tuesday 13th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
Despite his failings in the eyes of the world – and they were many – Illya Kuibyshev liked to consider himself a moral man. If challenged he would say that he appreciated the value of other people, believed that they should act more kindly to one another, he was an inveterate romantic at heart and had little time for revenge or cruelty. In commerce he preferred honesty and straight dealing; he respected contracts and had never knowingly done anyone harm unless it had become strictly necessary. He considered this world a sad old place which would be greatly improved by a hefty dose of gaiety and he preached that although life was indeed a serious business, it should not be taken too seriously. On the possibilities of an afterlife he kept his own counsel, only maintaining that a lifetime dedicated to generosity, fun and the accumulation of profit was not a wasted existence.