Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“That’s not strictly true,” remarked Nadnikov silkily. “Anatoli Mihailovich has committed someone to pay for all this, yes, but not us. I recall no discussion of such an item at our last meeting. Do you, gentlemen?”

“No,” agreed Kuprin, with a nasty smile. “No discussion at all. This appears to have been a completely irregular set of undertakings initiated without official agreement by a private individual, using the name of the Council without its authority. Possibly fraud.”

If his fellow councillors had expected their leader to capitulate without a struggle, they were to be disappointed. Pobednyev nodded thoughtfully and then got to his feet. Walking over to his desk he opened a drawer and pulled out first the mayoral sash of Berezovo and then a small box of cigars. Lifting the sash with an unconvincing sigh of regret, he let it slip from his fingers and fall in a heap onto the top of his desk for them all to see.

“So that is how it is, gentlemen, is it?” he asked. “If you wish for my resignation, you only have to ask for it. But first, consider: who is to replace me? Who is willing to take on the responsibility for a town which in the next forty-eight hours – possibly even less – will have thrust upon it fifteen of the most desperate, the most dangerous, the most bloodthirsty terrorists the Empire has ever seen? Who wishes to be Mayor when the Red Chicken is let loose and the streets run with blood? To whom shall the people turn when their shops and offices start going up in flames, perhaps even the very building in which we are now sitting?”

The five men stared at him and then at the silken coils of the Mayor’s official insignia that lay like a serpent on the desk between them.

“Only I, Anatoli Mihailovich Pobednyev, can guarantee these things will not happen,” he boasted. “Amongst you all, I am the only one that Kostya Izorov trusted enough to tell about the secret arrangements he has made.”

Unsure of whether he was bluffing or not, the other councillors looked at each other.

“Who will pick up this rag?” he taunted, gesturing carelessly to his official sash.

“What about the money, Tolly?” Nadnikov asked darkly.

“Ah yes, the money…” mused the Mayor, selecting a cigar from the box.

The five men watched impatiently as he went through the pantomime of cutting off its tip, finding his phosphor matches and finally lighting the cigar. Only when he was satisfied that the cigar was drawing properly did he condescend to reply to Nadnikov’s question.

“The way I see it, gentlemen, is this,” he said genially. “The genius of politics is to take what appears to be an unpromising situation – what some uninformed people might even regard as a crisis – and turn it into a success. If I no longer have your confidence as Mayor, then I shall step down and one of you can take responsibility for what will happen. If the Council will not meet the expenses I have been forced, I repeat, forced to incur in its name, then naturally I shall have to cover the cost of this affair out of my own pocket. In which case, it stops being a matter of civic responsibility and becomes simply a matter of private business.”

His face broke out into a wide smile.

“And,” he concluded, “when have you ever known me to invest in an unprofitable business?”

Clearing his throat, the banker Izminsky said:

“So you think this could be a profitable enterprise, Anatoli Mihailovich?”

Pobednyev’s smile broadened.