Berezovo

by A J Allen

  Marching to the foot of the stage, he fixed his assistant with a fierce gaze.

  “Anton Ivanovich,” he thundered, “I cannot hear one word of what you are saying. You are mumbling, Sir!”

  “Poor Eduard!” said Yeliena sympathetically.

  “It’s this beard!” complained Chevanin. “Every time I open my mouth to speak, I get a mouthful of horse hair. Must I wear it?”

  “Certainly you must,” replied the Doctor. “You are meant to be a middle aged landowner, not a callow youth. So, please try and act like one.”

  “Perhaps I could trim it,” Yeliena suggested. “Would that be of any use?”

  Wiping his hand across his brow, Dr. Tortsov fought to regain his temper.

  “As you say, the moustache should be trimmed. Will that help, Anton Ivanovich?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Do anything you want, but just let us get on with this!” begged the Doctor and turned to go.

  Coming to the front of the stage, Yeliena called him back.

  “Vasili, I don’t have any scissors with me. Could you ask Captain Steklov if perhaps we could borrow a razor or something?”

  Turning, the Doctor regarded her silently for a moment, his hands repeatedly clenching and unclenching.

  “Yeliena, I didn’t mean trim his moustache this very minute,” he explained patiently. “After the rehearsal will be perfectly adequate. For the time being, Anton Ivanovich may remove his beard and play his part without it. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Vasili,” she replied meekly.

  “Then may we please continue?”

  “Of course, Vasili.”

  “Thank you.”

  Turning on his heel, the Doctor walked stiffly back to his seat.

  Fanning her face with her hand, Yeliena beckoned Chevanin to her side.

  “Eduard, the Doctor says that you are excused beards.”

  Clicking his heels together, Chevanin bowed.

  “Thank you, ‘Madame Popova’.”

  “Your Majesty,” she responded with a deep curtsey, adding under her breath as she rose from the floor, “and if your Majesty will permit, I shall attend to your needs in the salon at the end of the performance.”

  Unhooking the beard, Chevanin smiled and bowed again.

  “Go back to where you were, Anton Ivanovich,” came the Doctor’s voice from the rear of the hall. “Back to ‘Must I pay the interest?…’”

  Clearing his throat, Chevanin began to declaim:

  “Must I pay the interest or mustn’t I? I ask you! Must I pay or must I not? Suppose your husband is dead and you’ve got a state of mind and nonsense of that sort. And your steward’s gone away somewhere, Devil take him! What do you want me to do?”

  * * *

  Slowly, the hall began to fill with soldiers, drifting in in ones and twos, their duties done. When the play drew to a close with the final embrace, there was some applause and a few rough calls of encouragement.

  Dr. Tortsov pushed his way through the small crowd that had gathered at the front of the stage.

  “Curtains! Curtains!” he shouted. “Where is Belinsky?”

  From somewhere behind the scenery he heard an answering bellow of coarse laughter. At the same time, the schoolmaster Dresnyakov appeared by his side.

  “Well done, Vasili Semionovich!” Dresnyakov congratulated him as he clapped the Doctor on the shoulder. “It looks most promising.”

  Tortsov muttered his thanks and made his way towards the side steps onto the stage, Dresnyakov following genially in his wake.

  “Belinsky!” the Doctor called out a second time. “Where are you?”

  The face of the builder, flushed from drink, appeared briefly at the window in the scenery then vanished again.

  “Confound the man!” the Doctor said angrily, stamping his foot.

  “What is the matter, Vasili Semionovich?” asked Dresnyakov. “What has he done?”

  “It’s what he hasn’t done that matters,” replied the Doctor. ”At the end of the play he is meant to draw the curtains together. Then, as they come out front to take their bows, he has to oversee the changing of the scenery. Instead of which, he’s disappeared somewhere and is probably too drunk to be of any use.”

  At that moment, having more or less successfully navigated the obstacles at the back of the stage, the builder reappeared.

  “Now, now Doctor.” he said boisterously, “Hold your horses! Here I am, as large as life. Now, what is the matter? What’s all this fuss about?”

  He looked blearily around at the scenery.

  “Nothing’s fallen down, has it?”

  “We are waiting,” the Doctor informed him icily, “for you to draw the curtains, if you would be so kind? You might have noticed that the play has finished, and on these occasions it is customary…”

  “Now look here, Doctor,” replied the builder, “Don’t try and tell me my business. I know all about the curtains. We agreed, did we not,” he added heavily, “and correct me if I’m wrong, that I was to draw the curtains when the music began. Now am I right? When – the – music – began. Tell me, am I right or am I wrong?”

  The Doctor shut his eyes for a few seconds and said nothing. When he opened them again, he answered evenly:

  “No, Yuli Nikitavich. Of course you are not wrong. I apologise.”

  He turned to Dresnyakov.

  “Nikolai Alexeivich, where is Alexandra Alexandrovna? She is meant to be playing the pianoforte for us.”

  “Ah! That is what I have come to tell you, Vasili Semionovich,” answered the schoolmaster equably. “My sister will be a little late. She is taking tea with Father Arkady and she expects to be delayed as the Father wishes to discuss the church accounts with her.”

  “There you are then!” said Belinsky loudly. “Before you go sounding off about me you ought to…”

  “Yes, quite, Yuli Nikitavich,” the Doctor interrupted. “I have already apologised. Now, please would you draw the curtains and oversee the changing of the scenery?”

  Taking out his watch from his pocket, he looked at it and pursed his lips.

  “You have exactly thirty minutes.”

  “Don’t you worry, Doctor,” the builder assured him, adding with heavy emphasis and a meaningful glance at the schoolmaster, “I won’t let you down.”

  “Such an unfortunate man,” remarked Dresnyakov once the builder had left them. “A drunkard, of course. As Chairman of the Committee, I suppose I am to blame for asking him to do the scenery. They are all the same: give them a job with some small element of responsibility and it goes straight to their heads. They think they can go round shouting the odds at everyone. God help us if people like Belinsky ever got onto the Council.”

  Tortsov snorted in disbelief.

  “That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it? Building scenery is one thing. At least we know that it won’t fall down like it did last year. But becoming a Councillor? Hardly likely, I would have thought.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” warned Dresnyakov, taking him by the elbow.

  Together the two men began walking across the stage. The noise from the soldiers lounging in the seats had become louder, so that Dresnyakov had to lean closer to his colleague as he spoke confidentially into his ear.

  “You’ve heard about our friend Tolkach, I suppose? Pobednyev has made him a Councillor. Soon, we shall have to pay to talk to the rascal.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Tortsov caught sight of the Hospital Administrator, who was being lectured by the now returned Maslov.

  “It’s a scandal!” Dresnyakov was saying. “After all this is finished,” he added, waving at the confusion around them, “one or two of us ought to put our heads together and see what can be done about it.”

  Tortsov nodded, his eyes searching restlessly over the throng until they found the person they sought. His wife was standing at the side of the hall, less than three metres from the stage. Captain Steklov was talking to her and although h
e could not hear what he was saying, he could tell, by her blushes and the look of excitement and pleasure on her face, that she was receiving his compliments upon the fine performance. He felt a feeling of warmth and pleasure at her happiness and a smile came to his lips. She was his own Yeliena again.

  As if his thoughts had communicated themselves to her, she turned suddenly. Seeing him on the stage, she lifted an arm and waved at him. Waving back, he said to Dresnyakov:

  “Yes, that seems an excellent idea. Until then, leave our friend to me,” he said, adding quietly, “I haven’t finished with him yet.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Saturday 17th February 1907

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  Long after the lights had been extinguished in the barrack hall; long after Dr Tortsov’s string of interruptions and caustic directions had begun the process of publicly humiliating the man whom he regarded as his rival; long after the boos and jeers and slow handclaps of the soldiers had finally driven the new Councillor from the stage, a figure stole through the stillness of the upper storey of Tolkach’s hospital.

  Trotsky had taken what precautions he could. A spare blanket stolen from an unlocked ward had served to imitate the lumpy shape of his sleeping body. A rolled up towel from the bathroom at the end of the corridor supplied his head. He could do no more than hope that it might pass a cursory inspection during the night. Since Goat’s Foot’s visit he had rearranged his pattern of living; lying awake each night, taking his rest by day. To his knowledge he had never been checked on, either asleep or awake, but there was always the chance that he might be. Following Colonel Izorov’s appearance that morning, the thought had remained in his mind that the Chief of Police might at any moment increase the security surrounding him; even going to the extent of posting guards outside his room after nightfall. But, as far as he knew, this had not happened and it was already past eleven o’ clock.

  Barefoot, he moved stealthily down the corridor, carefully avoiding the loose floorboard two paces past the window on the left as he edged closer to the corner where the corridor opened out onto the upper landing. The business with the blanket and the towel nagged at him. He felt uneasy adopting the same ruse twice, but there had been no alternative. A lot of things had happened since Verkholensk. If a report of his first escape still existed, the chances were that it was gathering dust in a grey file somewhere in the basement registry at Fontanka 16, the Okhrana’s St. Petersburg headquarters. All the same, if he was discovered, the blanket and towel would be sufficient evidence of his intention of escape to send him to the salt mines, if not the gallows. It all depended on whether or not there was a guard posted on the landing; sitting quietly in a chair, smoking his pipe.

  Holding his breath, Trotsky listened. The boots he held in his hand were becoming heavy and distracting his attention. Gently lowering them to the floor, he leant forward.

  Silence.

  Still crouching, he inched forward until he could peer around the corner. Anybody looking for him would expect to see his head at head height; a vague shape appearing momentarily at thigh height would be questioned as a trick of the moonlight. Half obscured by the wall, it would not automatically be taken to be a human face.

  The landing was empty. His eyes, grown accustomed to the dark, told him that there was no obstacle between himself and the head of the stairs. Nevertheless he looked again, lowering his body until he was on all fours; his fingers and knees alert for the slightest movement, or vibration, on the boards beneath him.

  Nothing.

  Satisfied that the coast was clear, he reached slowly behind him and groped for the boots. His fingers found the comforting fur of the kisys. Drawing them to him, he rose from his knees and silently crept to within three paces of the head of the stairs. This time he lowered his whole body until he lay completely flat on the floor, knowing that he must present the smallest silhouette to anybody who might be watching from below on the ground floor. With an infinite slowness, he began to crawl.

  He was within an arm’s length of the top step when it happened. There was a sharp clicking sound close to his ear. Staying completely still, he closed his eyes as his brain raced, trying to distinguish it from all the other sounds it had recorded. Had it been the sound of a safety catch being eased off? Or the swivel arm of a rifle sling striking against the barrel? If he turned his head to the right, would his eyes, half blinded now by perspiration, see the muzzle of the rifle of the waiting police guard who had all this time been watching his progress from the shadows? So tense was he that he became conscious of the slightest sound: the drumming of the blood in his ears; even the rasp of his beard brushing against the collar of his coat as he, ever so slowly, turned his head.

  The landing was still empty.

  He began to believe that he had imagined the sound and told himself that his brain was playing tricks with him. It was time to get on; if he delayed any longer he risked missing the rendezvous with Goat’s Foot in the churchyard. He lay there for a moment longer, the floorboards hard and uncomfortable against his ribs. Then, licking his dry lips, he began once more to edge himself cautiously towards the head of the stairs.

  Click! Click!

  This time it had come from below him; a light rattling sound that made him scowl in the darkness as, at last, he recognised it. The horn buttons of his overcoat were grating along the floorboards. Raising his body slightly, he crawled the remaining inches to the top step and peered down from the head of the stairs into the gloom of the entrance hall. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust themselves to the new darkness. When they had done so, the first thing that met his gaze was the open door of the admissions office. No light shone from within. The dvornik had gone off duty.

  He had memorised the layout of the ground floor by heart. After the dvornik’s desk, the area of greatest risk was the room directly beneath his own: the sleeping quarters of the hospital’s two attendants. To the right of them lay the public ward; empty since the removal of a body of a patient – a drayman, he had learned – who had died of blood poisoning following an accident. To the left of the attendants’ room was the operating theatre. A corridor ran the length of the building opening up into the hallway above which he now lay. To the right of the admissions office was a smaller room where the Hospital Attendant sat. Next to that was the storeroom. Left of the hallway was the office of the hospital’s Administrator, its doorway in the corridor opposite the operating theatre.

  To the best of his knowledge, only three living bodies were in the hospital: himself and the two attendants. He had earlier sat in the darkness of his room listening to their desultory drunken conversation through the floorboards below him, ever vigilant for another voice. Eventually it seemed that sleep had overcome them. If there was a guard down there he had not indicated his presence, nor had he been addressed once by either of the two men.

  The probabilities of risk, he decided, were still in his favour.

  Standing up, he once again retrieved his new boots. He had left his old pair at the foot of the bed, adding what colour he could to the image of a man fast asleep. Such touches were worthless in themselves but, when added together, could give him perhaps an extra hour’s start. Whatever chance he had of a successful escape lay in the meticulous care and attention he had paid to minute details.

  Tying the thongs of the kisys together, he hung them round his neck and prepared himself for the next stage of his escape. In the preceding days he had noted how loudly each of the stair treads had creaked and had taken care surreptitiously to try the rail’s strength every time he had climbed or descended the stairs. It had held firm then, but would it now bear the weight of his whole body?

  He grasped the upper newel post and swung his left leg over the banister rail. Still gripping the post hard, he lowered himself, testing his weight. He felt the wood give fractionally beneath him but the rail seemed secure enough. Reluctantly, he let go of the newel post and at once began to slide downwards. Gripping the rail with
both hands in an attempt to slow his descent, he almost lost his balance. Steadying himself, Trotsky lay prone along the length of the rail, resting his brow against its cool, smooth surface as he struggled to overcome the sudden impulse to laugh out loud. He pictured himself as he would appear in court: an absurd figure, his boots still hanging round his neck, charged with sliding down banisters without permission.

  Cheered by the vision, he tried again; this time taking more care to compensate for the staircase’s steep incline and the natural impetus of his body to accelerate towards the lower newel post. When he reached the bottom he slipped to the ground, wincing as the soles of his feet made a dull slapping sound as they landed on the cold stone floor. The rhythmic snores coming from the attendant’s room continued undisturbed.

  Within half a minute he had padded across the hallway, entered the Admissions office and closed the door silently behind him. By the light that came from the globed lamps outside the building, shining through the small window into the office, he hastily unfastened the knot that tied the kisys’ thongs together. Taking his foot rags from his pocket, he bound his feet and drew on the boots. When he had tied the thongs securely he began to unbutton his coat.

  Hurry up! he told himself, I’ve taken too long in leaving my room and descending the stairs. It must now be over a quarter of an hour since I started. At this rate I’ll certainly miss the rendezvous with Goat’s Foot.

  Removing the coat, he laid it across the dvornik’s desk, carefully avoiding contact with its inkwell and its pot of pens and pencils. Going to the window, he peered out into the darkness. The street looked deserted. Turning his attention to the window frame, his fingers felt in the shadows for the catch that fastened it shut. Finding it, he gave it an exploratory tug, but it did not budge. Using both hands, he applied more pressure, alternately raising and lowering it so that the stiffness was overcome and it worked itself free of the latch. There was a sound of splintering wood as it finally came apart, and he cursed his clumsiness. Telling himself that the moment for caution had passed, he roughly pushed the window open, causing the ice on the ledge to crack loudly as it was broken. Picking up his coat he flung it across the sill then, gripping the upper frame of the window, he hoisted himself out into the freezing night air.