Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

But the Mayor, his arm held in the vice-like grip of his wife, quickly shook his head.

Catching sight of the baker Gvordyen, Dr. Tortsov cried out desperately, “Kuzma Antonovich? What about you? Didn’t you have a part last year?”

The baker gave a mirthless laugh.

“Once was enough, thank you. Let someone else have a go.”

Looking around him, Gvordyen caught sight of the portly figure of Skyralenko, surreptitiously helping himself to another glass of vodka from a tray. Waiting until the prison director had lifted the drink to his lips, the baker said, “But I will nominate Dimitri Borisovich Skyralenko for the part of the aged footman.”

With a roar of approval, Belinsky, who was standing close by, gave the prison director a congratulatory slap on the back, causing him to swallow the drink at a single gulp. People around them started to laugh.

“Any objections, Dimitri Borisovich?” enquired the doctor.

His eyes streaming and incapable of speech, Skyralenko began to choke noisily.

“Well done,” said the doctor, adding, “that’s a nasty cough you have there. You should take care of it.”

He dutifully wrote down Skyralenko’s name opposite the word ‘Luka’. There was a second small ripple of laughter from the back of the room.

“If there are no more volunteers, then I shall have to ask that Nikolai Alexeyevich does his duty.”

There were no more volunteers. Stepping onto his chair once more, the schoolteacher glanced across at the group of people clustered around the door who were still determining whether or not to leave in protest at the proceedings, and then looked down with mock severity at the rest of the crowd.

“Very well, ladies and gentlemen. The next person who either moves, laughs or speaks, be it man or woman, will be given the part of Alexey Alexeyevich Murashkin.”

Immediately the room became still. It was an old game; one that they all had played as children and which, in the intervening years, had lost none of its power. As the seconds ticked by, the silence broken only by Skyralenko’s continuing gasps, bodies began to shake with suppressed laughter. A full minute passed. The tension rose. Fuelled by the vodka, tears began to trickle from the corners of eyes.

“Come on, friends!” Maslov coaxed them. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Thank you, Alexander Vissarionovich,” Dresnyakov said quietly. “You will do nicely.”

Stunned at his own blunder, Maslov gaped at his chairman. Surrounded by relieved, laughing faces, he began to protest. “No, wait a minute, Nikolai Alexeyevich… No I can’t…”

Each appeal was greeted with renewed laughter and cries of, “Don’t worry Maslov. There’s nothing to be afraid of!”

“But I… I am a committee member! It isn’t fair on the others.”

“Sorry, Alexander Vissarionovich,” said the doctor as he wrote the librarian’s name down against the part. “I can’t help you now. Besides,” he added with a hint of gentle malice, “your experience of the theatre will be invaluable to the production, I am sure.”

Good humour having been restored, the casting continued more smoothly. Svortsov the butcher, spurred on by his wife, fell for the part of Tolkachov. Knowing that the crowd would not be caught twice by the same trick, the doctor concentrated next on filling the non-speaking roles, which, after a great deal of good natured joking and persuasion by Dresnyakov, was duly accomplished.

As the meeting drew to a close, Dr. Tortsov congratulated himself. Despite an unfortunate beginning, the roles had been successfully cast. Gathering up his notes, the doctor kept an eye on the Mayor. When he saw that his party was showing signs of departure, he took his leave of Dresnyakov and began pushing his way through the crowd towards them. He caught up with the Mayor just as he was about to descend the stairs.

“Anatoli Mikhailovich! I must speak with you urgently.”

Mayor Pobednyev smiled knowingly.

“Oh no, you can’t catch me like that, Doctor! I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“It has nothing to do with the play,” Dr. Tortsov insisted. “It’s an official matter and very serious.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. I must speak with you now.”

“Very well then,” the Mayor sighed. “Why don’t you come home with us for a night cap? We can talk about it on the way.”

The doctor shook his head.

“No, Your Excellency. I must speak with you now and alone. It’s a matter best settled between men.”

Caught off guard by his tone, Mayor Pobednyev hesitated. To his ears, the doctor’s words sounded like nothing so much as the prelude to a duel. His attention was momentarily distracted by the appearance of Fyodor Gregorivich, carrying yet another tray of vodka up the stairs for the hangers-on in the lounge. Indicating to the doctor that he should wait, he beckoned the hotel proprietor to his side.