Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Fyodor Gregorivich, the meeting is over now. There is no need to serve more drinks. You can take those back,” he added, “and send your bill to my chamber in the morning. Incidentally, have you a room I can use for a few minutes? I have some private official business to take care of and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Private official business?” repeated the proprietor in bafflement.

With a shrug, he nodded towards the upper storey.

“All the rooms are free, your Excellency, but there’s no heating.”

The Mayor thanked him. Casting a look of annoyance at the doctor, who had moved closer to him to ensure that he did not escape, he quickly made arrangements for Modest Tolkach to escort his wife home, adding further to Madame Pobednyeva’s displeasure.

“Come on then,” he grunted as he led the way up the wooden stairs that led to the guests’ accommodation. “Couldn’t you have called earlier, Doctor? This is damned inconvenient.”

“I did call at your house before coming here, but you had already left.”

“Yes. We had promised to collect Modest Andreyevich and bring him here. He’s a good man, is Tolkach. It’s a pity that you don’t get on with him better.”

Unwilling to be drawn from his purpose, the doctor held his peace.

Reaching the second landing, the two men stood looking down the darkness of the unlit corridor.

“Well?” asked Pobednyev briskly.

“I would prefer to talk in one of the rooms,” insisted the doctor. “It’s more private.”

The Mayor gestured towards the nearest door.

“Will this do?”

Still keeping his eyes on the Mayor, Dr. Tortsov nodded and taking a few steps forward, tried the handle of the door. It opened. He stood to one side, in order that the Mayor might pass, but Pobednyev warily motioned him to enter first. Without a word, the doctor walked in. The Mayor followed him, stopping just inside the threshold. The air inside the room was markedly colder than out on the hallway.

“It’s freezing in here,” the Mayor said, shivering. “You don’t mind if we leave the door open, do you?”

“As you wish.”

Unsettled by the doctor’s strange manner, Mayor Pobednyev rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a long thin leather case.

“Would you like a cigar?” he offered hopefully.

“No, thank you.”

Standing by the far wall, Doctor Tortsov waited for the figure dimly outlined in the doorway to light his cigar before he began to speak. As he talked, his voice unconsciously took on a tone unfamiliar to the Mayor; a tone which few people had heard twice in their lives. It was the voice he used when he had to tell an apparently well man or woman who had come to him complaining of a sudden stomach ache, or a blurring of vision or of a persistent backache, that they had something from which they were unlikely to recover. He spoke slowly, using simple words; his manner deliberately grave because sometimes people laughed in disbelief, as Madame Roshkovskaya had done. He spoke clearly, because sometimes people’s minds distorted the words. Later, Mayor Pobednyev would recall the experience as being like listening to the voice of a prosecuting angel.

“Anatoli Mikhailovich, you are the mayor of this town. You are, in civil terms, the Father of Berezovo. Spiritually, we have Father Arkady to guide us. Militarily we have Captain Steklov and for our protection we have Colonel Izorov. But you, you are the mayor. So it is to you that I, as the town’s physician, address my question. And it is from you that I expect an honest and direct answer. For what purpose have you secretly ordered forty sleighs to be built?”

Tortsov watched the red eye of the cigar glow angrily as the Mayor considered his question.

“Who told you this? I know nothing about any sleighs. You are mistaken.”

“No, your Excellency, I am not mistaken. It’s all true.”

“I demand to know who told you,” repeated Pobednyev.

“At the beginning of last week,” the doctor continued evenly, “you placed orders with Gleb Pirogov for ten sleighs, with Irkaly Ovseenko for twelve sleighs and with Averbuch for eighteen. Why?”

“The Jew was cheaper,” replied Pobednyev with a shrug, “but I had to give some business to our people.”

The doctor could not resist smiling at this answer.

“You misunderstand me, but no matter. Let me ask you another question. Why is it so important that they finish their work by the fourteenth of this month? What do you have planned?”

There was another silence while Pobednyev considered how best to reply. From the floor below came the sound of the last of the crowd taking their leave.

“Doctor,” he said finally, “I respect your position as a medical man, but, as you say, I am the civic father of Berezovo. If what you say is true… and I am not saying it is… then it is for a purpose that is so sensitive, so confidential that even if I wished, I could not tell you.”

From the darkness of the room he heard a snort of disgust.