Berezovo

by A J Allen

  It read:

  BEREZOVO AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETY

  proudly presents

  “THE BEAR” by Anton Chehov

  and

  “A TRAGEDIAN DESPITE HIMSELF” by Anton Chehov

  Directed by Dr. V.S. TORTSOV

  He turned the page.

  8.00 DOORS OPEN

  8.30 “THE BEAR”

  Elena Ivanovna Popova Madame TORTSOVA Grigory Stepanovitch Smirnov A.I.CHEVANIN Luka (Madame Popova’s aged footman) D.B. SKYRALENKO

  9.15 INTERMISSION and MUSICAL INTERLUDE

  Beverages and Comestibles provided by the Hotel New Century (Prop. F.G. Sobolsky)

  9.45 “A TRAGEDIAN DESPITE HIMSELF”

  Ivan Ivanovich Tolkachov M.A. TOLKACH

  Alexey Alexeyevitch Murashkin A. V. MASLOV

  Further refreshments will be available after the end of the performance.

  11.00 Carriages.

  The BEREZOVO AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETY is grateful to CAPTAIN V.P. STEKLOV

  for the use of the Barracks Hall

  Fuelled by the alcohol, the audience was becoming increasingly vocal, drowning Tolkach’s lines with its barracking. It was definitely time to go.

  Folding the programme neatly into four, he slipped it into his pocket as a keepsake. He almost regretted that he could not stay longer; he would have enjoyed seeing how the scene ended. But there was nothing for it but to go. Some other time, he thought.

  Turning to the woman sitting beside him, he said, “I am sorry. Please excuse me, but I have to leave.”

  Glancing sideways at him, Tamara Karseneva gave a look of concern.

  “What’s the matter? You’ve gone quite white. Are you in pain?”

  He nodded bravely.

  “Neuralgia. It’s this bloody cold. I’ll be better once I am walking. See you.”

  “See you.”

  Half crouching, he made his way along the row of seats. Onstage, the Hospital Administrator had forgotten his lines and was looking in vain towards the wings for a prompt. As he reached the end of the row, and began walking along the side aisle, Trotsky caught sight of one of the hospital attendants standing at the back of the hall. He hesitated for a moment then lifted his hand in greeting. The man raised his glass in salute. Cursing his luck, Trotsky made his way over to him.

  “I’m turning in,” he told him. “Is the main door open?”

  The man nodded, only paying half attention to what he was hearing, the other half concentrating on what was going on onstage.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” said Trotsky.

  The man nodded again. Leaving him, Trotsky started walking towards the door. A group of soldiers lining the wall nearest him began to started whistling derisively at the floundering actors. He did not look back.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Sunday 18th February 1907

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  Wiping the last smear of greasepaint from his cheek, Chevanin grinned to himself as he listened to the noise onstage. Tolkach was catching it in the neck. He stood up and began folding his costume, putting it back neatly in the box marked “SMIRNOV”. Relieved of the padding, he felt as light as air.

  He wished that it was summer. In summer, he and Yeliena would take a boat out onto the river and lunch al fresco on its banks. Or perhaps, when the Doctor was away, they would take a trap into the forest, deep into the forest where even the birds were silent. They would walk hand in hand amongst the silver birch trees, and they would make love; of that he was sure. Onstage, he felt that she had wanted to give herself to him in that kiss as she had never given herself before. Before that evening, it had been different. She had always pulled away, scalding him; telling him to behave; to be “nice”. And what agonies he had suffered that very afternoon, sitting alone in his room waiting for darkness to fall. He felt a wave of shame now as he recalled how easily tears had sprung to his eyes as he had waited for the curtain to rise. Such emotion had been unmanly and, more importantly, unnecessary. Although she had not said so much (how could she? There had been no time, and too many people around), she had shown that she cared for him; that she still loved him. That was enough.

  Putting on his jacket, he drew back the curtain of the small tent-like cubicle that Belinsky had constructed as a dressing room. Skyralenko had already returned to the hall to watch the second play. Crossing the back of the stage, he headed for a second enclosure. Seeing the blankets hung over the door, he gave a discreet cough and called out softly:

  “Yeliena? Have you finished changing?”

  Receiving no answer, he parted the blankets and, peering in, saw that Yeliena was still dressed in her costume. She was sitting motionless, staring at her reflection in her mirror. Lifting the blanket higher, Chevanin stepped quickly inside.

  “What’s the matter, darling? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said quietly.

  He offered to fetch her something to drink, but she declined.

  “I’ll wait for you outside then,” he told her. “We can watch the rest of the play. Tolkach is having a terrible time.”

  “I think I would prefer not to stay, thank you,” she said, wiping the lipstick from her mouth. “I’m quite tired. I’d rather go straight home.”

  “In that case, I’ll escort you,” he offered.

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” she said. “I will be perfectly safe on my own.”

  He laughed and, bending, kissed her softly on the nape of her neck.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s no trouble,” he murmured in her ear. “But hurry, we don’t have much time.”

  Another swirl of the blanket and he was gone.

  Yeliena raised her eyes to her mirror. Her unsmiling reflection gazed bleakly back at her.

  You should have pretended to flinch when Anton kissed you on the neck just now, she scolded herself. You should have shown him that such familiarity was no longer acceptable. Do you see where your behaviour has led you? And it is your fault, because you have led him on. He is little more than a boy and you have let him kiss you, touch you, and stroke you. Did you see how much you have hurt him? He was in tears tonight. You have teased him and come back for more. And now he thinks that everything is fine again and that you and he can go on as before, when you know that it has to end tonight; for your sake, for his sake and for Vasili’s sake. All you have done is make your job harder, and for why? So that you could have your fun.

  She began to remove her stage make up off her face using the small pieces of linen rag that Maslov had remembered to provide.

  It is true, she thought. This is not love. I do not love Anton, but, oh, the feel of him when he takes me in his arms, the smell of his hair, the hunger in his eyes, his lips his hands… that I do love. It drives me to do mad things, like tonight when we were onstage and I wanted to use my tongue, put it in his mouth and give myself to him in front of everybody. I know that I have become obsessed. I am obsessed by him, by his youth and by the feelings that he has awoken in me, knowing that Vasili will not, cannot, do the same. This is the way I can feel alive and I both hate it and want it at the same time. Of course I must give up Anton, of course I must, but I know also that this will be the last chance for me to feel the joy of living, to be held in arms other than my own and to be taken.

  Then why haven’t you given yourself to him already? she asked herself as she began applying her skin crème. Isn’t it because you are too scared to do so? You claim that it’s because you want to keep your “honour”, that you won’t take the final step and betray Vasili by committing adultery, but haven’t you betrayed him already by seducing his assistant? No, what you are afraid of is losing Vasili’s income and his pension and your home and your respectable name and all the things that you disparage. You have turned your bed into a shallow grave and all that can happen now is that years will pass and Vasili will become older and eventually infirm and you will become older too and your bed-g
rave will become deeper until you are well and truly buried. And then you will understand the true cost of your dishonesty because you will know you did not have the courage to take the very last opportunity life offered you to feel alive and whole and fulfilled.

  “I mustn’t think like that!” said Yeliena out loud.

  Picking up her hairbrush, she began savagely to brush out her hair.

  The truth is, I have kept my honour, she thought, although at times I have felt that I wanted to throw it away. I can look Vasili in the eye and tell him that I have been faithful. And my home, his income and pension, my reputation – these are all real things and important. It is my feelings for Anton that are fevered imaginings. The feel of his body as he presses the length of it against me; his readiness to do my least bidding; his solicitous care and attention – what husband can match that, especially one as old and as preoccupied as Vasili. All the same, I must give Anton up tonight and for all time, because he is not real. He offers me no opportunity except to become a town scandal, a bezobrazie, a tart like Irena Kuibysheva. Anastasia Christianovna is right – I have acted wickedly. Think of the difference in our ages. He is a baby now but when he is in his thirties I will be nearing fifty. What sort of life can I expect then? And what sort of a man is he anyway? He is too emotional, too highly strung – I need someone who is solid and dependable, like Vasili, and who does not indulge his feelings or rush to judgement so readily. Someone who is willing to put up with my moodiness and who can provide a stable income.

  “No choice, really,” she told her reflection in the mirror. Her mind made up at last, she lay down her hairbrush and began to expertly pin up her hair.

  She had spoken the truth at lunchtime: it was time to bring their affaire – if that was what it was – to an end. She was aware that doing so might prove difficult, especially if Anton was determined to make a scene. If it had to happen, she did not want it to happen in her home. And what of after tonight? With Modest Tolkach now a Town Councillor, she and Vasili could already expect life to become difficult without having to contend with Anton Ivanovich’s hurt feelings in addition. She could not afford for him to take his misery and bitterness out on Vasili. And Vasili had promised her that they would travel south that summer. This would be impossible if Anton resigned from the practice. Neither would Vasili expect to lose him as an assistant without a good reason. She wasn’t sure how she would achieve it but it would be far better if Anton felt that he had ended their relationship of his own accord. How she longed for the summer! Perhaps somewhere in the south she would find the door to the new world she was looking for.

  Reaching behind her, she began to undo the hooks that fastened her widow’s costume.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Sunday 18th February 1907

  Berezovo, Northern Siberia

  Trotsky walked quickly past the empty guard post at the barracks gate and headed towards the market square. The sound of raucous singing reached him from the interior of the Black Cock.

  “The more the merrier,” he told himself, increasing his pace. “If they are all in there, the less chance of running into any of them out here in the street.”

  He reckoned that he had another hour before the guard set out on its night patrol, assuming that their Captain could find anyone sober enough to mount a horse. Most of the soldiers he had seen inside were already the worse for drink. But he had counted no more than thirty-four of them standing around the walls of the auditorium. Assuming that there were another four or five behind the scenes helping with the production – and it was only an assumption – that left between ten and fifteen troops unaccounted for. As for the empty guard post, it could mean nothing more than a tired soldier needing to relieve himself in the shadows behind the barracks wall. At that very moment, the patrol could be leading its horses out of their stalls and fastening on their saddles.

  Reaching the corner of Well Lane, he turned left into it, and began walking towards Alexei Street. Because of the high walls on either side of the narrow lane, he was temporarily invisible from the Fire Tower. Once he had reached the main street, the guard would be able to watch him all the way. He began to slow down.

  If anyone stops me, he thought, I will say that I am going to the hotel for a nightcap, my money is as good as anyone else’s, et cetera. It will suffice.

  It was all a matter of confidence, cover and observation. Nicolai had taught him that, and so much more. Tricks like how to shake off a tail; how to use a passing omnibus or wagon as cover to change direction, and how to anticipate that your quarry would do the same. How to use a doorway to bring the surveillance to an abrupt halt or the reflection of a shop window to gauge the closeness of your pursuers. How to recognize feints and handovers; brush offs and box jobs. He had spent five days walking the backstreets of Paddington, alternately following a comrade and being followed. Nicolai had assured him that to assume the role of the hunter was as useful as to practice being hunted.

  The skills he had learned in London had stood him in good stead on more than one occasion. During the second day of the Brussels congress, he had been leaving a restaurant with Vera Zasulich when a fellow delegate, a comrade from Odessa, had given them the sign that they were being followed; a casual downward brush of the jacket lapel. Immediately Vera and he had separated, setting off in opposite directions. It was well after midnight, and the city streets were almost empty. He had walked briskly, the tall Flemish detective dogging his every step less than ten paces behind him. Having given Vera enough time to get clear, he had quickly turned on the man and demanded to know the name of the street they were on. It wasn’t much, it was all the French he could muster at the time, but it had been sufficient to startle the policeman who had pressed himself flat against the wall, undoubtedly expecting a revolver, or a knife, in his ribs. After that, the detective had let the gap between them lengthen to twenty paces. That had been enough. Ducking down the first side street he had come to, Trotsky had broken into a run, gaining a few valuable seconds. Once he had recovered from his surprise, the Flemish had made up the distance sticking close behind him as they walked quickly around the three sides of the block. By the time they had reached the main street again the city clocks had struck one and they had both felt tired and angry. Impasse.

  And so it had gone on: two strangers, one following the other, threading their way through the night streets. He had resumed his normal walking pace, all the time leading the policeman away from the room where he had taken lodgings. Horse cabs stood invitingly at the kerb, their drivers dozing in their seats, but it had taken a good twenty minutes until he had spotted the one he wanted and by that time they had almost reached the suburbs. The cab had been standing outside an all night bar and it was the only one in the street for perhaps four hundred metres. The moment he had seen it, the Flemish had quickened his pace, recognising the play but there was little he could do. As Nicolai had sarcastically remarked when he had heard his account of the adventure, “With one bound our hero was free.”

  Trotsky smiled at the memory. The Flemish had been good; almost certainly there was nobody as good as him in Berezovo. And if there was, they were not following him now; of that he was certain. Without breaking his step, he left the narrow defile of Well Lane and started crossing the broad expanse of Alexei Street. When he had reached the other side, he glanced back across the road. The door to the uchastok was closed; the windows covered with wooden shutters. Ahead of him beckoned the lights of the Hotel New Century. He climbed up onto the wooden boardwalk, his footsteps echoing loudly in the still night air. Raising the collar of his coat, he hunched his shoulders, reducing still further the profile he offered to the Fire Tower. Even if they had a telescope, at best the guards would see the rear view of an anonymous figure huddled against the cold.

  Reaching the Hotel, he entered through the glass-fronted door and stood in the vestibule, listening. Somewhere towards the rear came the clatter of pans and the sound of a man whistling. Closing the door quietly b
ehind him, he began moving silently past the foot of the staircase to the corridor that ran the length of the building. Halfway along the corridor, he found the door he had spotted from the street; the door that the staff used as they came and went from their place of work. It was unbolted. He tried the door and it opened easily. He edged out into the side street that ran alongside the Hotel, and at right angles to Alexei Street. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he had reached the point of no return.

  Without hesitation, he pulled the door to behind him and set off northwards. Hurrying along the dark street, he came to the corner and stopped. The street that ran behind the hotel was full of prosperous looking houses. Looking to the left, all he could see were what appeared to be stables or outhouses; beyond that, the open countryside and the Highway. There was no street sign. He shivered, still undecided; if this was not Menshikov Street, he was lost. There was nothing for it, he told himself, but to push on.

  Quickly crossing the anonymous street, he continued walking until the houses fell away revealing another street behind them. These new houses appeared to be of the same design as the first street, but smaller and less prosperous. He continued walking and was rewarded by the sight of more empty snowfields. He had reached the northernmost limits of Berezovo.

  In the darkness, he worked his way around to the rear of the houses, moving carefully over the uneven ground. Almost immediately, high above him, a tiny pinpoint of light became visible. In the second house along a small flame was flickering behind an uncurtained window. Groping his way towards the house, his hand struck the side of a wooden fence and he used it to guide himself until he had found the flight of steps that led up to the back door. As quietly as he could, he began climbing.