Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

He stopped on the landing only long enough to put his head around the door of the lounge to see if anyone was inside. There was: Fyodor Izminsky was snoozing quietly in a chair beside the fire, a newspaper resting across his ample stomach. Assured that the banker did not need any additional comforts, Fyodor Gregorivich continued on his way up the flight of stairs that lead to the upper floor of the hotel.

Was it, he wondered, because the room faced the rear of the Hotel and therefore she did not risk anyone noticing the drawn curtains from the street? Or was it simply because it was near to the water closet? The young merchant Dobrovolsky (who had died on the taiga in mysterious circumstances shortly afterwards), then the blond German garrison commander, followed by his successor Captain Steklov (who had made his excuses and left) and now Kavelin. Four different gentlemen and yet always the same room. It was a mystery.

Reaching the top stair, he stopped and removed his shoes. From there on, he would have to proceed more carefully. As silently as he could, he crossed the landing and began to make his way along the corridor in his stockinged feet. As he drew nearer, Fyodor Gregorivich began to suspect that, like Captain Steklov, Leonid Kavelin also might have experienced second thoughts. No sounds came from the end of the darkened passage. His brow puckered in irritation; could his instincts have been wrong? He himself had made up the fire in the room that very morning and aired the bed, making sure that they had clean towels, fresh sheets and pillowcases. What more could he have done? But just as he neared the end of the corridor, he heard a woman’s sharp cry, followed by a loud groan. He had not been mistaken after all.

He carefully eased open the door of Room Number 3 and slipped inside, taking care to keep his body still pressed close to the wall. The noises were becoming more regular now and he could distinctly hear the rhythmic creaking of the bedsprings, punctuated by the occasional groan. Padding silently to the open doors of the wardrobe cupboard, he climbed inside. In the wall, at about the level of his navel, was the small hole. Kneeling on the floor of the cupboard Fyodor Gregorivich put his eye to the hole and peered through to the next room.

Irena Kuibysheva lay on the bed, her dress and undershift pulled up around her stomach, her thighs wrapped tightly around Leonid Kavelin’s stocky body. Fyodor Gregorivich was gratified to see that the young lady had divested herself of nearly all her clothes. Her blouse and skirt were draped tidily across the back of a chair; a pool of lilac silk – presumably her drawers – lay on the floor beneath the bed; one stocking and her entire bodice were nowhere to be seen. For his part, her lover had only seen fit to remove his jacket, trousers and shoes. Below his flapping shirt tail, a pair of surprisingly skinny legs moved restlessly about as Leonid Kavelin tried to gain a better purchase against the bed. In this he was hampered by the thick cotton long pants that were rolled down as far as his knees. Kavelin’s attempts to rid himself of this encumbrance were becoming frantic as Madame Kuibysheva’s cries grew more urgent. Fyodor Gregorivich blinked in disbelief as he watched the timber merchant actually stop, withdraw, and pull one leg free of his long pants. Madame Kuibysheva’s groan of impatience at his retreat was premature, for no sooner had her lover succeeded in extricating himself from his underwear than he entered her once more, spreading her thighs wider. As his flanks pounded hers, and the sound of slapping flesh became louder, she began to emit a series of wordless piping cries in which the tones of distress and delight were intermingled.

Shuffling round on his knees, Fyodor Gregorivich fought the wall for a better view. But whatever position he took, his vision was obscured, mostly by Kavelin’s shoulder and back. Then the timber merchant moved slightly to one side and he was able to gaze upon the distorted features of Madame Kuibysheva as her hands alternately punched and clawed at the sheets or covered her face. From this new position he could also see Kavelin’s profile, and for a few seconds the hotel proprietor’s emotions switched from lustful excitement to concern. Kavelin’s face was almost purple; he appeared to be approaching the point of apoplexy.

“Please, God,” prayed Fyodor Gregorivich, “don’t let him die! Not here and not now.”

Fascinated and horrified in equal measure, he watched helplessly as the woman on the bed, supporting herself on her elbows, lifted her body and strained to meet the timber merchant’s furious thrusts.

“Yes, go on, damn it!” he heard her urge him, seemingly oblivious to her lover’s wretched state.