Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Sitting in his office Fyodor Gregorivich, proprietor of the Hotel New Century, admired the open canteen of cutlery on his desk. The chest contained the pride of the cutler’s art; the best that his money could buy. He recalled how his uncle had regarded its purchase as further evidence of his extravagant tastes and had damned his unfitness to take over the running of the hotel. It was true that its contents, being reserved for very special events (Easter, of course, and for politically significant wedding parties), were rarely used, yet he had never had cause to regret the expenditure. On such occasions its quality more than repaid the cost of its original price for this was the Number One canteen, the crème of the hotel’s cutlery; brought out only for the most expensive meals and his most favoured guests.

He selected a dessert fork from the canteen. Like its companions it wore a little felt hood to prevent its silver plating from becoming tarnished. Removing the hood, he held the fork up to the light from the gasolier, and turned it slowly in his hand, marvelling at the exquisite moulding of its tines. The presence of the canteen’s contents on the dining table signalled a prestigious occasion. The luncheon the following day would be such an event, albeit a singular one.

It was, he supposed, almost as important as the historic arrival of Prince Menshikov. As he understood it, the convoy of prominent exiles was en route to Obdorskoye, and not settling in Berezovo. It was therefore unlikely that anything of significance would be allowed to occur during their stay; even less likely that their visit would be recorded in the history books. Nevertheless, as fleeting as their celebrity was, he had determined that their passage should be properly marked; all the more so as it was the members of the Town Council, rather than the disgraced Soviet Petersburg Deputies, that would be sitting down to eat.

He replaced the small felt hood and laid the fork neatly to rest in the canteen. Picking up a knife, he weighed it in his hand.

When Mayor Pobednyev holds such a knife in his fist, he told himself, he will know that he is in for a feast.

He slid the knife back into its slot with a sigh of contentment. Tomorrow, it would lie with its brothers, on a crisp white table cloth; its polished blade, gleaming like a dress sword on parade, reflecting the glittering glasses and the candelabras. The whole dining room had been put at the disposal of the Mayor’s party: fourteen at the last count, but he was quite prepared for more. The canteen held two hundred and fifty-six pieces of cutlery and every single one meant money in his pocket. It would not fail him.

Closing the lid, he carried the heavy box back to the wall safe behind his desk and locked it away. There was still much to do. There was the bakery order from Gvordyen’s to look over and Madame Pobednyeva had not yet confirmed the final list of names of those attending the luncheon nor instructed him as to the seating plan. This last omission was causing him concern. It would be his responsibility to write out the name cards for the table and he wanted to avoid leaving it until the last minute. It would be a crime if the elegant place settings were marred by hasty calligraphy.

He left his office and crossed into the dining room, quickly casting his eyes over the occupied tables. It was the usual Saturday afternoon crowd. He noted with pleasure that Leonid Kavelin and Irena Kuibysheva had already left. Striding through the room, he spared a few perfunctory nods of acknowledgement and smiles to the few guests that saluted him. When he reached the vestibule, he leaned across the counter of the reception desk and peered at the keys that hung from a row of hooks. The key to Room Number 4 was missing.

More high jinks, he thought, and about time too!

He looked quickly over his shoulder through the small window into the dining room door. Everything seemed in order. The two waiters were busy attending to their customers, none of whom had yet drunk enough to become bothersome. Still looking through the window, he began backing away towards the staircase. When his heel had bumped against the bottom step he turned and walked purposefully up the first flight of stairs that led to the mezzanine lounge.

Why, he wondered, is it always Room Number 4?

He did not mind. Irena Kuibysheva could have chosen any of the upper rooms without fear of discovery. It made no practical difference to him: the price her suitor paid for the convenience was the same and the revenue was welcome in the empty winter months. But the question intrigued him: why did she always choose the same room?