Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Madame Shiminski is due at ten o’clock with her sprained wrist,” he read out, “and you have told Vissarion Lepishinsky to come back today so that you could have another look at his neck.”

“Hmm. Well, we shall see. We shall see,” the Doctor said, half to himself. “I have to go out at eleven o’clock to speak to Colonel Izorov. So, if Lepishinsky calls in my absence you can deal with him. If all looks well, it’s just a matter of renewing the dressing and applying more of the Bohm’s ointment.”

Hearing the mention of the Chief of Police’s name, Chevanin turned cold with fear. Surely the Doctor was not thinking of making an official complaint? Even in his wildest imaginings he had never considered that his employer would exercise his legal right as a husband. It would mean his arrest; professional disgrace; possibly even the knout.

“Doctor, you mentioned Colonel Izorov… May I ask you if anything is wrong?”

Standing with his back to his assistant, Dr. Tortsov thought of the unsuccessful interview with the Mayor he had conducted the previous night at the Hotel New Century.

“I don’t know, Anton,” he answered slowly. “At the moment, I am completely in the dark. But I am concerned for the welfare of the town.”

It took Chevanin a few seconds to realise that the Doctor might be referring not to himself, but to the outbreak of typhus.

“Has the epidemic grown worse?” he asked hopefully.

Turning to face him Dr. Tortsov gave his assistant a puzzled look. If he had not known the boy better, he told himself, he would have been forgiven for thinking that he had sounded as if the outbreak was a blessing.

“No, but it could do,” he replied cryptically.

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of the latch on the outer door. Neither the Doctor nor his assistant referred to the matter again as they busied themselves attending to the first of their patients.

The morning’s surgery was uneventful. As case succeeded case, Chevanin methodically entered the treatment prescribed in the medical register, tending the dispensary under the Doctor’s supervision when it was necessary. To his great relief it was clear that Madame Tortsova had said nothing to her husband about his indiscretion. By the time the Doctor had pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and seen that the time was ten minutes to eleven o’clock, Chevanin felt enormous relief. He was the master of his own fate once more. Even Dr. Tortsov’s instruction to call upon him at home when he had completed the morning’s practice did not worry him. It was only as he was helping the Doctor on with his coat again that he remembered the small boy he had seen at the beginning of the day.

“I might be a little late,” he said. “I’ve promised that I would call in at Pyatkonov’s izba. Apparently, his wife has taken sick.”

“Goat’s Foot’s wife? It’s probably that dreadful stuff they drink,” snorted the Doctor as he reached for his hat. “Make sure that you get him to pay for a consultancy fee. That one is as sly as a fox.”

Chevanin confidently assured him that he had already told the boy to tell his father about the payment.

“Good,” said the Doctor. “And you had better chase up Pirogov’s bill as well. It’s best not to let these things slip for too long. Start as you mean to go on, that’s my advice. You will never get anywhere by not collecting your fees and Pirogov can afford it, whatever he says.”

With those parting words, the Doctor departed. Left alone in the surgery Chevanin brought his hands together with a loud clap. He had blown up the whole affair at the Tortsovs’ house out of all proportion, he told himself. After all, what had he done but paid Yeliena Mihailovna a clumsily phrased compliment? He had given himself a scare and that was the end of it. The worst she could think of him was that he had acted like a fool. Knowing that to be the truth, he could only agree. Nothing remained for him to do but to complete the surgery, do battle with Goat’s Foot and his wife and then he could take his place once again at the Doctor’s table as if nothing had ever happened. He felt as if an almighty weight had been lifted from his back. Life was suddenly worth living again.

Chapter Two

Monday 5th February 1907

Berezovo