Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Quite, Fyodor Fyodorovich!” agreed Pobednyev. “But surely what is more important is that we look after the little people, like the carpenters Pirogov and Ovseenko, who have already invested a large proportion of their capital on this.”

Shiminski shrugged.

“What use is a promissory note to them?” he demanded.

“What use indeed?” agreed the Mayor. “They would probably prefer instead to discount it and have the cash roubles immediately, rather than wait all those months. Of course,” he added, turning to Izminsky, “it would be up to the Bank what rate it set for such a transaction.”

“It could be as high as, say, twenty percent,” suggested Kuprin.

“Exactly, Sergei Levinovich,” the Mayor agreed, with a nonchalant wave of his cigar, “or even twenty-five percent.”

“It’s still a long time to wait,” observed Izminsky grudgingly.

Leaning back in his chair, Pobednyev regarded him with amusement.

“There is an alternative solution,” he said slowly. “One that requires a slight adjustment to our thinking. We could always redistribute these costs. Spread them around, as it were.”

Pavel Nadnikov’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“How do you mean, Your Excellency?” he asked.

“Let me give you an example,” suggested Pobednyev. “Let us take this epidemic of typhus. Doctor Tortsov has told me, in no uncertain terms, that we should not consider evacuating the town, nor risk bringing the disease into Berezovo.”

“Quite right too,” rumbled Nadnikov.

“Yet the Provincial Medical Officer,” the Mayor went on, “would not think twice if Modest Tolkach put in a bill for sleighs, to act as ambulance wagons. In fact, he would expect to see some rise in expenditure to show that something is being done by the District Hospital, wouldn’t he?”

“He would,” confirmed Kuprin.

“Therefore, if we think that Peterhof or Tobolsk won’t pay up, we could transfer some of the costs of the sleighs, the deer and everything to Hospital accounts. Instead of claiming them from Tobolsk or Peterhof, we claim them from the Medical Board.”

“It would certainly be quicker,” agreed Izminsky. “But why would Tolkach do that? Personally, I don’t trust him.”

It was evident from the murmurs around the table that this was a judgement shared by the other Council members.

“I think you judge him too harshly,” replied Pobednyev suavely. “If he was approached in the right manner, he would be amenable. And this would be very much to our benefit.”

“We understand that, Anatoli Mihailovich, but is it that simple?” Kuprin wanted to know.

“Quite honestly, gentlemen, yes,” Pobednyev replied. “All we have to do today is to decide whether we should submit our bills to the Ministry of Internal Affairs or to the Provincial Medical Board. Or,” he added softly, “to both.”

“To both?” cried Nadnikov in astonishment.

“Why not?”

“Because we would never get away with it!”

“Why not?” repeated Pobednyev. “Both offices are expecting bills. As Revenue Officer, Sergei Levinovich, you would be able to gauge what was and what was not a justifiable expense.”

“I could,” admitted Kuprin thoughtfully, adding for Nadnikov’s benefit, “the two offices never talk to each other. Ever!”

“My God,” breathed Izminsky. “Both! Twice as much timber. Leonid Sergeivich! Twice as many blankets, Nikita Osipovich!”

“But what about Tolkach?” asked Kuprin.

“We needn’t tell him,” suggested the Mayor with a wink.

Throwing his head back, Kuprin roared with laughter.

“That’s a good one! ‘We don’t tell him!’ You’re priceless, Tolly! Absolutely priceless!”

Beside him, Izminsky began to titter, nervously at first and then, as the idea caught on with the other members of the Council, with more gusto.

“The best part is,” spluttered Leonid Kavelin, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an enormous handkerchief, “that if anything goes wrong… we can always say… that we knew nothing about the second invoice… that it was all… Tolkach’s idea!”

This possibility set him off hooting again, his fist hammering the Council table with delight at the notion.

Pobednyev looked on genially as his colleagues became helpless with paroxysms of laughter. When at last faces had been wiped and noses blown and Kavelin had been thumped on the back several times so that he could regain his breath, the Mayor continued:

“In the meantime, believe me when I say that nothing is more important than we provide a fitting welcome for our guests. A real show.”

“Guests? Pah!” snorted Shiminski cheerfully. “If I had my way, I would string the lot up.”

“And kill the golden goose?” admonished the Mayor. “No, Nikita Osipovich, that is not the way. Remember what Colonel Izorov told us. They are to be treated with ‘watchful courtesy’. After all, the Duma is to be recalled next month. For all we know, though they come here now as insurrectionists in chains, they may return as princes.”

“An amnesty certainly cannot be ruled out,” observed Kavelin, suddenly sober, “even for these swine. All in all, I agree with Anatoli Mihailovich. I think we have to welcome their arrival.”