Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“How many times have I heard that, Anatoli Mikhailovich?” the invisible voice asked accusingly. “How many times have things been hushed up in the name of delicacy or confidentiality, just to protect the ineptitude or plain criminality of public servants?”

“How dare you insult me?” the Mayor flared angrily. “I am the Mayor! What are you accusing me of?”

For the first time, Doctor Tortsov began to have doubts about his cause. If he had not seen the sleighs with his own eyes, he told himself, the Mayor’s outrage would have struck him as being the protest of an innocent man.

“Since you haven’t spoken plainly to me,” he countered, “I see no reason why I should speak plainly to you. However, I shall. I am accusing you of seriously compromising my capacity to declare this town under quarantine.”

“Quarantine?” repeated the Mayor in astonishment. “What quarantine? Nobody has mentioned anything to me about quarantine.”

“If you had read the reports I sent you,” retorted Dr. Tortsov, “or taken the least interest in what is going on in the surrounding villages, you would know that we are being threatened by the worst epidemic of typhus for four years.”

“Typhus?” repeated the Mayor in horror.

He tried to remember if the council secretary had mentioned anything about typhus. Since the whole business with Izorov had blown up, he had had little time for the day-to-day reports that landed on his desk. Surely he could not have forgotten being told something as important as this?

“It’s news to me,” he declared truthfully. “How soon will you need to isolate the town?”

The doctor hesitated. Pobednyev really was very convincing. He decided to try one last bluff.

“If the epidemic doesn’t abate, in a week. In ten days’ time at the latest. But I promise you, if I don’t get an honest answer from you tonight, I will post the order tomorrow. Now, what are you intending to do with those sleighs?”

Pobednyev took the cigar from his mouth and picked a shred of tobacco leaf from his tongue as he considered his options. Whatever Tortsov did, the prisoners would arrive. But it was one thing to prepare for their arrival; it was quite another to give a civic reception for a crowd of verminous Reds who had just travelled through an infected area. And if quarantine was declared they would have to stay in the town as well, for who knew how long? Suddenly, in the darkness of the hotel room, he had a terrible vision: his statue at the crossroads of Hospital and Alexei Streets, and on the plinth beneath it, carved deep in the stone, the single word: ‘Plaguebringer’.

“Vasili Semionovich,” he said candidly, “Now I understand your concern, but you must believe me when I tell you that you are utterly and completely mistaken if you suspect that the sleighs have anything to do with this matter of a quarantine. I can say no more. Anything else you wish to know… If my word is not good enough for you… you should ask Colonel Izorov. You must trust me. But if you don’t, well… Since you know of their existence, though God knows how, I can tell you that they are being built on the colonel’s orders, and not mine. I merely relayed the message.”

He took another puff of his cigar and gave the doctor time to digest what he had said. When he spoke again, it was in a more conciliatory way.

“You see, Doctor, just as you have your duty towards your patients, so I have towards Kostya Izorov. He trusts me and it isn’t for me to betray that trust. Indeed,” he added with a shake of his head, “given the special circumstances, I dare not. Take my advice. Don’t involve yourself in this matter.”

The Mayor paused again, and it seemed to Dr. Tortsov as if he was about to say something further. But then, as if he had thought better of it, he turned away from the doorway and began walking back across the landing.

Dr. Tortsov felt the anger rising within him. All the day’s wasted journeys, culminating in the Mayor’s stubborn refusal to take him into his confidence, drove him to a last furious outburst of impotent energy. Stumbling after Mayor Pobednyev in the darkness, he walked full tilt into the edge of the iron bedstead, violently scraping his right shin. With a small cry of pain, he began to hop after the Mayor. By the time he had reached the top of the stairs, Mayor Pobednyev was already descending the lower flight of steps that led to the landing outside the lounge.

“Wait, Anatoli Mikhailovich!” he called out.

But the Mayor continued downwards and had already reached the landing of the mezzanine floor.

“Damn you, Pobednyev!” he swore as Pobednyev disappeared from view. “You won’t get away with this!”

Clutching the banister rail for support, Dr. Tortsov began to hobble after him as quickly as he was able, still calling out imprecations at the top of his voice.

“Your Excellency, I warn you! Come back here!”

“Goodnight, Tortsov.” The Mayor’s smooth voice floated up to him as he reached the vestibule and gathered up his hat and coat.