Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Although most of the townsfolk gave it a wide berth in the evenings, the Black Cock did not lack frequent civilian patronage. The establishment was convenient for the staff of the small municipal prison which stood adjacent to the barracks, and several of the policemen whose headquarters spanned the distance between the jailhouse and the Town Hall often dropped in as they came off duty. During the daytime, stall holders from the Market Square would come in for a glass of tea and a vodka, and it was a regular meeting place for those such as drivers or carriers whose work took them to the four corners of the town. In the days before he had made a killing on the town’s new building projects Belinsky had often drunk there, on the off chance of picking up repair work at the barracks or the prison. Now, with the exception of those occasions when he was chairing meetings of the local Black Hundreds, he usually preferred the bar at the Hotel New Century.

Lavrov bore the hotel’s management no grudge. Fyodor Gregorivich could have as many of the barines as he liked and good luck to him. He would never have as many customers as crowded into the smoke filled front room of the Black Cock of an evening, winter or summer. They were Lavrov’s people: men who liked plain food and decent vodka at honest prices and were content to spend an evening playing cards or chess or talking amongst themselves. God-fearing people: no Jews, no Ostyaks, no women, no Reds… And if, at the end of the evening, some of them were the worse for wear for drink (which, after all, was only a good man’s fault) then let them lie down and sleep it off, for tomorrow would bring its own troubles. The doors of the Black Cock were open to such good company.

Whether Goat’s Foot could be included in even the most generous interpretation of the phrase as “good company” was doubtful. What was beyond dispute, even to Lavrov’s eyes watching from behind the bar as the bedraggled peasant lurched through the open door, was that the man was badly in need of strong drink.

Uncorking a flask of vodka, he poured a measure into the glass he had just finished polishing and pushed it towards the wan-faced figure as he reached the bar. Gratefully Goat’s Foot drained the glass and motioned for another. Lavrov obliged.

“Semyon Konstantinovich. Prince amongst men,” the peasant saluted him. “What are you doing behind the bar so early? Where’s Mikhail?”

“Taken ill,” the proprietor informed him. “Someone put lamp oil in his tea.”

“Again?”

Lavrov nodded. Without his pot boy he would be hard pressed to clear the tables and tend the bar that evening. Eyeing the man in front of him, he said:

“I’ll need someone tonight, someone with a head on their shoulders. If you think of anyone, you might mention it.”

Goat’s Foot rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“What’s the pay and how long for?”

“Three hours. From seven to ten.”

“And the pay?”

“Same as usual,” Lavrov said with a shrug. “Ten copecks an hour and a hot meal.”

Goat’s Foot drew his breath in sharply and gave a doubtful shake of his head.

“And a bottle to go home with,” Lavrov added.

Goat’s Foot looked round at the small number of customers that already sat drinking at the tables. He was in luck. Two of them were men he wanted to do business with.

“And the drinks you’ve already had,” persisted the landlord.

“Throw in two glasses of tea and you need look no further,” Goat’s Foot replied with a smile. “I’ll be over talking to Blonski.”

“Is that tea with or without oil?” asked Lavrov asked sarcastically.

Swallowing the rest of his vodka, Goat’s Foot smiled amiably at Lavrov and then looked back at the two men with whom he wished to do business that morning. Shrewdly he chose to approach the blacksmith Chirikov first.

“Good morning, Innokenty Arseneyevich,” he said when he stood in front of the giant’s table.

The blacksmith, busy eating his breakfast, was as hospitable as a dog with a bone. Narrowing his eyes, he glared up at the intruder and instinctively Goat’s Foot stepped back a pace. He had once seen Chirikov snap a man’s back in two during a wrestling bout at the summer fair and, although it had been accidental, it had done nothing to diminish the popular myth that the blacksmith was a man of violent temper.

As engagingly as he could, Goat’s Foot told his tale as the man at the table attacked his food. When he had come to the part about how the carrier’s horse had lost a shoe, the wooden spoon carrying the grey fish stew momentarily paused in its flight to the blacksmith’s lips: the first sign that the man was listening to him at all. From under a low heavy brow, brooding eyes flicked over the peasant’s face as Goat’s Foot recounted how highly he had recommended Chirikov’s forge to the carrier.

“‘No use going to the regimental farrier,’ I said, ‘He’s a butcher. Go to Innokenty Chirikov. He’ll do the job right’.”