Berezovo

by A J Allen

At first puzzled, and then alarmed, Nina Roshkovskaya watched him as he completed the transformation and took the novel precaution of parting slightly the lace curtains that draped the front windows of the sitting room and peeping out into the street. Then, with only the most perfunctory of kisses on her cheek, her husband was gone; out through the kitchen and down the back steps, leaving whomsoever might be loitering outside in Ostermann Street to suppose he was still within.

  Roshkovsky knew every step of the way between the end of Ostermann Street and Goat’s Foot’s shack. It took him a good twenty minutes to reach the peasant’s home and he spent each minute fighting the temptation to look over his shoulder. Already he could feel Colonel Izorov’s agents, if not the Colonel himself, creeping in his wake. Not for the first time did he curse himself for being such an accommodating fool.

  Roshkovsky found Goat’s Foot standing outside his gornitsa. Despite the chill air the doorway to the outhouse was bathed in steam. As he approached, the old peasant raised a friendly hand in greeting. Winking, he drew Roshkovsky inside, and jerked a thumb at his wife who was perspiring freely as she struggled, unaided, to raise a horse blanket dripping from a large cauldron full of black dye. When at last she had succeeded, she began manipulating it with a pair of wooden tongs, twisting the blanket this way and that with great dexterity as she wrung off the excess liquid from the heavy woollen cloth before dropping it onto the earth floor at the foot of a dilapidated mangle.

  Chuckling approvingly, Goat’s Foot slapped Roshkovsky affectionately on the back.

  “Do you see what a witch I married, Andrey Vladimovich?” he boasted. “She is making gold out of wool.”

  Still chuckling, he led the land-surveyor away, leaving his wife to mutter evil imprecations as she reached for another stolen horse blanket.

  Roshkovsky kept his silence until he was seated at the peasant’s hearth and had allowed his host to press a beaker of vodka into his hand. Toasting Goat’s Foot, he drained the cup with one gulp and smacked his lips approvingly.

  “Gold out of wool, eh?” he began. “It’s funny that you should say that, old friend. That’s twice today someone has mentioned gold to me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday 14th February

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  Tipping its driver five copecks, Alexander Vissarionovich Maslov alighted from the sleigh at the foot of the steps outside Madame Wrenskaya’s house in Ostermann Street. Once the building had been the finest in the street, but the years of neglect had taken their toll. Icicles now hung from its leaking gutter and the cracked roof tiles and untreated timbers all contributed to the general air of decay. The sight of so splendid a home being allowed to fall gradually into ruin depressed him. Not for the first time did he wish that the property was his.

  Old Wrensky certainly knew what he was about when he bought this, he thought. Just look at it now!

  Climbing the steps he tugged the rusty bell pull and stepped back to survey the worn front fascia of the house. Was it parsimony, he wondered, or a profound disregard for outward show that had caused Wrensky’s widow to allow it to fall into such dilapidation? With anyone else of her age he might have supposed it was senility. It would be quite understandable if, for example, she was bedridden and so not physically able to see the outside, but Anastasia Christianovna left her home every Monday to tour the shops and pay her social calls. He could not believe that she had not noticed how decrepit the house had become.

  The front door opened. Madame Wrenskaya’s maid peered at him warily from the gloom of the hallway. Madame Wrenskaya was expecting him, he told her, holding up the small package he was carrying as proof of his visit. Would she be so kind as to announce his arrival?

  Beckoning him across the threshold the maid invited him to wait in the hallway and to please close the door behind him.

  As he waited, Maslov wondered who the old girl would leave it all to. From past conversations, he had learned that she had quarrelled with the few relatives she had. It seemed unlikely that any of them had more than a sentimental claim on her possessions. He recalled that she had once hinted that she intended to convert her estate into cash; an intention that had struck him then, as now, as being faintly obscene. Cash was for the living: corpses had no need of it. As for the house, who would buy it as it was? However much it cost, he reflected enviously, it was beyond his means.

  A flickering light appeared at the far end of the hallway and a moment later Mariya had returned, bearing a lit candlestick of ancient silver. Setting it down on the hall table, she helped him off with his coat.

  “How is Madame Wrenskaya this morning?” he asked softly.

  With a gesture all of her own, the maid rolled her eyes and shrugged.

  “She’s got it on her today,” she muttered darkly. “You watch yourself, sir. She thinks she’s being robbed.”

  The librarian sighed.

  “The delusions of old age, I’m afraid,” he said sympathetically. “We must all be patient.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  With this observation, the maid picked up the candlestick again and led the way along the hallway to Madame Wrenskaya’s salon.

  The old woman was sitting in her usual position by the window, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Holding the package he had brought her behind his back, Maslov greeted her.

  “Good morning, Madame Wrenskaya.”

  “Good morning Maslov. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  With a flourish, he produced the package.

  “The book you ordered, Ma’am.”

  “You’ve found it?”

  He nodded.

  “Bring it here,” she ordered.

  Walking across the room, he handed it to her saying apologetically, “It’s only the third edition, I’m afraid.”

  Snatching the book from him, she began tearing at its wrappings.

  “Such things do not matter to me,” she said. “Although the Professor, God bless him, would never have let it into the house. ‘First or nothing’, that was his motto.”

  Ah, yes, thought Maslov. The Professor’s library. I wonder where that is now.

  He watched as Madame Wrenskaya smoothed down the outer wrapping papers, and laid the book on her lap.

  “Chateaubriand’s Memoires d’outre-tombe,” she crooned affectionately. “I had this once; a rather better copy than this, I fancy. Someone stole it.”

  “Oh, dear. I am sorry.”

  Looking up, Madame Wrenskaya smiled at him.

  “There’s no need to apologise. It wasn’t you,” she assured him. “You have done well, Maslov. Will you stay and take some tea with me? Or perhaps would you prefer something stronger? I like to see a man with a drink in his hand.”

  “Just tea will suffice, thank you,” he replied, picking up the bell and ringing it. “I must keep a clear head.”

  Accepting her invitation to be seated, Maslov watched as Madame Wrenskaya stroked the book’s worn leather casing.

  “I am most grateful to you for this,” she said. “I know how much trouble you must have gone to. Naturally, I shall pay you for your inconvenience.”

  He held up his hands in mock protest.

  “Anastasia Christianovna, my only regret is that I cannot make you a present of it!” he murmured. “You and I are the only souls in this town who care for such things. But alas,” he continued with a heavy sigh, “commerce is a hard taskmaster. However, I insist that the account shall be only for the book itself. The pleasure of finding it was all mine.”

  Madame Wrenskaya acknowledged this concession with a small inclination of her head that conveyed simultaneously her recognition of his generosity and her expectation to receive nothing less.

  The librarian developed his theme further as Mariya returned bearing a tray of tea and sweet things and silently dispensed their refreshment.

  “Some people hunt bears and deer and mink and such!” he declared. “I hunt books. Books! Through them the g
reatest minds in Creation are opened for our inspection. They are our staff and our comforter. With books we may travel through time and space without leaving the safety of our armchair. We may rise with Homer, breakfast with Aristotle, walk out with Shakespeare and dine with Diderot. And, before sleep closes our eyes, we meditate upon the Glory of the Heavenly Father… how? By reading a book, the greatest Book of all. Books free us and yet entrap us. They allow us to dispense with the social niceties. A boor is never tolerated for more than a page, then he is flung aside. If only we could do that in real life, how much sweeter existence would be! Yet how many times has my supper gone cold because a book has me in its grip? More often than I care to admit! And this is more than mere bibliophilia, Ma’am, for if history tells us one thing, it is that all great men have this in common: that they have all written books. Like calls to like across the centuries. Napoleon, we are assured, studied Caesar. Who Caesar studied, we do not know; who will study Napoleon’s writings, we cannot guess, but doubtless the chain will be unbroken. Priests read priestly accounts of the saints. Lawyers unearth parchments inscribed by advocates long dead and call it ‘precedence’. Even diplomats signal to each other from beyond the grave,” concluded Maslov, waving a teacake towards the volume in Madame Wrenskaya’s hands. “Why, I believe that very copy came from the library of a gentleman attached to the Swedish embassy at St Petersburg. I think you will find the front paper bears an inscription to that effect, though it is a trifle indistinct.”

  Donning her spectacles, Madame Wrenskaya carefully opened the book and peered at the spidery inscription.

  “Svodberg? Svedberg?” she read doubtfully. “I knew a Svedberg once. He married a horse. It might be him. Dead, eh? I shouldn’t wonder. Probably died in the madhouse, or the stables.”

  Maslov drained his cup and placed it back in its saucer. He wondered whether he had been too effusive in his peroration. The thought of the old woman’s library made his palms itch. Although he had never been permitted to see it, he knew that Madame Wrenskaya’s collection contained all the rare volumes that, over the years, he had acquired on her behalf. More importantly, it was based upon the library amassed by Madame Wrenskaya’s first husband, the Professor, who he knew to have been a noted collector in his time. How foolish he had been to waste even a second lamenting the wretched state of disrepair the house had fallen into! Here were far greater treasures, hanging like overripe fruit on the bough. It only needed for him to become more closely attached to their owner for them to fall into his lap. But how? To suggest that he should catalogue them would be far too blatant. Definitely, a more circuitous route was called for.

  “I did have one reservation about your order, Anastasia Christianovna,” he said. “It occurred to me that your maid, Mariya, would have great difficulty reading the French to you. I would be happy…”

  “Mariya?” interrupted Madame Wrenskaya. ”Heavenly Father! I doubt very much if she can even read Russian, much less French. I read all my own books, thank you very much.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply…” began Maslov hastily.

  “Here she is now. You may ask her,” said his aged hostess as her maid reappeared. “Mariya, do you ever read to me?”

  The maid looked at her in surprise.

  “No ma’am.”

  “Who does?”

  “No one ma’am,” replied the maid in some confusion. “You do it all by yourself.”

  “Mariya, can you read?” asked Maslov.

  “Oh yes, sir. My name. And our address at the general store.”

  “Liar!” scolded Madame Wrenskaya. “Go and wash your mouth out. Then bring us some more tea. Shameless lies!”

  With a meaningful glance at her guest, the maid retreated.

  Maslov shifted nervously on his seat.

  “I was just afraid that the typeface was rather small,” he said lamely.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, or my ears for that matter. So tell me, what is new in the town?”

  Moving closer to the edge of his seat, Maslov began his report. Despite his disappointment over the books it gratified him to think that, for all her wealth, Madame Wrenskaya was still dependent on him to bring her rumours of the outside world. He knew that others did the same, but only he brought the sort of news that she enjoyed and in the manner she liked. She appreciated wit, the drier the better; properly dressed and spiked with malice. Her appetite for gossip was almost tangible. She was well informed enough from her other sources for him to gloss over the more mundane topics of conversation. She already knew, for example, about the arrival and departure of the convoy.

  “Fools and renegades,” was her verdict.

  Describing the luncheon with the prisoners, he mentioned in passing Trotsky’s scheme to reverse the Ob.

  “Extraordinary!” she declared. “And you sat down and ate with this madman?”

  “It was Roshkovsky’s idea,” he explained defensively, “and I must admit to being curious to see what sort of fellows these people were.”

  “And what were they like?”

  “Quite disappointing, actually. They looked normal, almost banal.”

  “I suppose that even banality is some advancement to the Great Unwashed,” observed Madame Wrenskaya. “What did Roshkovsky make of all this?”

  “Well, you know Andrey Vladimovich,” replied the librarian, pulling a face. “He’s very impressionable. I think he was half taken in by the project.”

  Madame Wrenskaya gave an exclamation of disgust.

  “Why don’t they just leave things alone? Messing about with the Ob… Whoever heard of such nonsense? I would have thought that Andrey Roshkovsky had enough on his plate looking after his wife without bothering with such nonsense.”

  “Ah yes, poor Nina Vassileyevna,” sighed Maslov. “Roshkovsky really is very worried about her. I was talking to Colonel Izorov yesterday in the street and Andrey Vladimovich walked straight past us, without saying a word. His face was quite grey. I fear her condition must be deteriorating.”

  “I know I should feel sorry for her,” admitted Madame Wrenskaya, “but I can’t help thinking that all too much fuss altogether is being made about that particular lady. Health is God’s gift and if he wishes that you are to be gathered up whilst still young, then so be it. Contrary to popular opinion, Maslov, nobody is taken before their time. I mean, does she want to live forever? Of course not!”

  Even for the librarian, this was too much.

  “It seems very cruel,” he ventured bravely. “The pain and the sacrifice…”

  “Life is cruel,” she snapped back. “Look at me. Perfect health in old age can be just as bad. I feel like a beached behemoth, or one of those mastodons that sometimes appears out of the ice and thaws. An object of curiosity left behind from a bygone age. People look at me and point. In the old days they might even have exhibited me at fairs. Not very dignified.”

  “No, I suppose not,” agreed the librarian.

  “All my friends are dead; my friends of youth and middle age, of course. There are no friends in old age, only kind acquaintances and dishonest servants,” she said bitterly, adding, “and possibly those who unwisely delude themselves that they have ‘expectations’.”

  She pronounced the last word syllable by syllable with exaggerated relish.

  Maslov gave an embarrassed cough. There was a short pause.

  “What did the Colonel have to say for himself?” asked Madame Wrenskaya abruptly.

  “The Colonel?”

  “Yes, Colonel Izorov. You said that you spoke with him yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes. We were discussing the convoy. He was as glad to see the back of them as anybody, even though His Excellency the Mayor made such a fuss over them.”

  “He would!” interjected Madame Wrenskaya. “The buffoon!”

  “One thing the Colonel did tell me,” continued Maslov, “he said that it was a shame about the children. He would have preferred for them to stay here than to be sent north.”


  “How very odd,” observed the old women in puzzled tones. “Perhaps the strain of being Chief of Police has finally proved too much for him.”

  “I can see his point,” said Maslov. “The children won’t have much of a future up there.”

  “Hardly any future at all, I should think,” sniffed Madame Wrenskaya. “That will teach other parents to think twice before letting their heads be turned by troublemakers and guttersnipes.”

  Her guest raised his eyebrows. Really, the old biddy was being more than usually callous.

  “I suppose,” he murmured, “you have heard that Illya Kuibyshev has returned to claim his own again. Not quite Ulysses, I agree but then…”

  “She is not quite Penelope?” suggested Madame Wrenskaya.

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell me, has anyone seen her in public since his return?”

  “No,” replied Maslov, leaning forward, “but they have heard the screams.”

  Madame Wrenskaya gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

  “Ah yes, good. And what of Kavelin? Does he still walk the streets unmolested?”

  “For the time being.”

  “I imagine quite a few people are curious as to what the outcome of that folly will be.”

  Maslov smiled knowingly.

  “Ordinarily, they would be,” he agreed, “but at the moment, popular attention is directed towards quite a different quarter.”

  “Oh, really?” said Madame Wrenskaya, her interest quickening. “Towards whom, might one ask?”

  As was his custom, the librarian had saved the juiciest piece of news until last.

  “Towards Modest Tolkach, or should I say,” he added, slowly drawing out his ace, “Councillor Tolkach?”

  “Councillor Tolkach?”

  Maslov nodded solemnly, enjoying the expression of astonishment on his hostess’s face. For once, her hauteur had vanished.

  “Incredible!” she protested. “I simply don’t believe it.”

  “I have it on very good authority,” he insisted with slow deliberation, “that we can expect his elevation to the Council to be promulgated before the week is over.”