Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“And my spies amongst the exiles have not reported even the slightest ripple in the Quarter,” Colonel Izorov assured them. “So I think we still have the advantage, gentlemen. I will continue to monitor that situation but at the moment only we four know about the exiles’ arrival, and possibly a fifth, Leonid Kavelin.”

“And Dr. Tortsov, of course,” said Pobednyev.

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed in warning, but it was too late.

“What’s this?” demanded Captain Steklov. “Dr. Tortsov knows as well? How? Who told him?”

Pobednyev looked apologetically at the Chief of Police.

“There was a rumour that we were considering evacuating the town because of the typhoid epidemic in some of the outer villages,” explained Colonel Izorov smoothly. “The Doctor got to hear about it. Naturally, he was concerned. He went to the Mayor who, quite properly, referred him to me. I had to tell him the truth.”

The Captain glared at him.

“I don’t have to tell you, Colonel,” he said slowly, “that if I thought there was a risk of my men running into any organised opposition while performing their duties, I would not hesitate to order them to take the appropriate action.”

“Don’t worry,” Colonel Izorov promised him. “Tortsov won’t talk. He has enough on his mind as it is.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Captain Steklov.

The Chief of Police’s assumption was entirely correct: the arrival of the convoy of exiles was indeed the last thing on Doctor Tortsov’s mind. So traumatised was he from the unexpected blow that had befallen him that morning that, rinsing his hands under the dispensary tap, the Doctor felt as if he had been struck by lightning. To have made a fool of himself in front of the Mayor and then Izorov had been bad enough, but to learn from young Anton that Modest Tolkach had manoeuvred himself into playing the part of Smirnov “the Bear” opposite Yeliena and had been boasting he would put horns on the Doctor’s head in front of the whole town was intolerable. And now this: to be told, to his face, that his wife had been so upset that she had been on the point of leaving him and had only been stopped by the persuasion of his own junior assistant. He would rather die than to experience further humiliations.

Dazed, he turned off the tap, forcing himself to think clearly. Who had suggested that Tolkach should play opposite Yeliena? Who? Of course… the Mayor! It was typical of a snake like Tolkach to have found a pander to do his dirty work for him.

He had been such a fool, he told himself. Yeliena had told him that she had not wanted to be in the play, but he had been too proud to listen. And now she was being pursued by Tolkach and he had been too busy, too blind, too stupid, to see it. All those nights spent sleeping in leaking yurts. How he had longed to return to their house in Ostermann Street. Now he hated it all: the house; the town; his wife; his whole damned life.

Blindly reaching up, he pulled down the small towel that hung from a nail above the sink and began to dry his hands, methodically rubbing each finger in turn until every drop of water had been removed.

All the nights he had been away from home…

He would kill Tolkach, he decided. He would kill him, with his bare hands. He would pin him down and squeeze his throat and listen as his heels drummed helplessly against the floor. He would keep squeezing as the bastard’s face changed colour and grew darker and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. He would squeeze until he heard his death rattle. He would murder Tolkach as surely as Madame Tolkacha had been murdered.

“Doctor, are you all right?” said the figure in the doorway.

Dimly hearing the voice above the roaring in his ears, Dr. Tortsov nodded automatically in response, wondering as he fought back his tears why God was being so cruel. Having already taken his son from him, would He now take his wife and deliver her into the hands of a monster like Tolkach, and as a consequence drive his servant to the gallows? Was that how the greatness of God was measured: by His cruelty? He knew how much the loss of little Sasha had meant to her. He recognised how sad and empty she must feel without the consolation of children. Why hadn’t he comforted her more? Let old wounds heal, he had told himself. The truth was that he had been too frightened, and too inadequate, to help her. He hadn’t that gift, not like Father Arkady. He had seen too much suffering; far, far too much. He had developed a shell, like a crab. He had never found the words, or the time, to comfort and cherish her. Now it was too late. Suddenly, just like that. Too late!

Momentarily stricken by grief and stress he bowed his head and felt the heat of his tears as they began trickling in hot runnels down his cheek. His body’s response surprised him. When was the last time he had cried? At hearing the news of his father’s death? He had not cried for his mother, and not even for little Sasha.