Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

It was unclear what had happened next. After all, there were no witnesses, no passers-by in the narrow ill lit corridor. Perhaps he had stumbled, as the policeman had told the others afterwards. All the Mayor could remember now was that suddenly the policeman was holding him up against the wall with his face only inches from his own.

“Listen, you drunken oaf!” Col. Izorov had snarled. “I don’t want any talk about a new era in this town. Not while I am Chief of Police. The next thing you know people will want to change the names of the streets and call them after Nechayev and scum like that. Do you understand me?”

For a moment, the Mayor had thought that the colonel had been joking and had begun to laugh, but the sound died in his throat under the chilling threat of the iron grey eyes.

“Certainly, Konstantin Illyich,” he had spluttered, “of course! You are quite right! I meant something quite different entirely. I meant the… Hotel New Century!”

A grim smile of satisfaction had spread slowly across the policeman’s face as he slowly relaxed his grip. Raising his hand, he patted the Mayor’s cheek playfully, making Pobednyev flinch.

“That’s right, Your Honour. The Hotel New Century.”

And so it had been called and the affair had gone no further, but ever since, the Mayor had been wary of doing anything that risked antagonising the colonel’s sensibilities; political or otherwise. It was well within the Chief of Police’s power to submit a report to District Headquarters identifying him as an ‘unreliable’ public official that might trigger a governor’s inspection. The trouble was, he thought as he peered down into the dark street below, one could never be sure where one stood with Izorov.

Turning away from the window, he ordered his secretary to fetch his overcoat. The man obeyed with alacrity, reappearing almost instantly carrying a heavy dark woollen overcoat with fox fur around the collar. As he helped him on with the garment, the secretary asked: “Are you going out, Your Excellency?”

“Yes.”

“If anyone should ask, when shall I say you will return?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But if something happens,” the man persisted, “where can I reach you?”

“I can’t tell you!” repeated Pobednyev testily, pushing him to one side. “It’s a confidential matter, do you understand? Confidential!”

With as much dignity as he could muster, the Mayor strode from his parlour, leaving the council servant nervously tittering and executing little hopping steps in the fashion of a country dance upon the worn carpet.

It took the Mayor less than three minutes to descend from his parlour and hurry the short distance to the police headquarters, his body bent against the biting cold. As he climbed up onto the boardwalk and stood hesitating in front of the uchastok’s iron studded door, he was joined by the director of the town’s prison, Dimitri Borisovich Skyralenko. The two men eyed each other warily.

“Good morning, Your Honour! Have you come to see Konstantin Illyich?”

The Mayor admitted that this was his purpose, adding casually as he reached for the door handle that he had received a note from the colonel summoning him to a meeting.

“You too, Anatoli Mikhailovich?” muttered Skyralenko, drawing closer to the Mayor. “What’s it all about?”

“I don’t know, but it must be important.”

“In the note… did… did he say anything about burning it?”

The Mayor nodded solemnly. The prison director let out a sigh of relief.

“Mine too. I received mine at home. I thought that I had done something wrong. It’s hard to tell sometimes. But it can’t be so bad if you have been summoned as well.”

“Safety in numbers, eh?” suggested Pobednyev doubtfully.

The small man shrugged and fell silent. For a moment the two of them stood uncertainly, like two schoolboys waiting outside the headmaster’s office. Then impulsively the Mayor grasped the door handle again and, giving it a savage twist, pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.

Immediately before them lay a neat outer office that served as the charge room, in the far corner of which stood a counter manned by a burly sergeant. Seeing them enter, the policeman got heavily to his feet.

“Is the colonel in?” asked Pobednyev gruffly.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The sergeant, who at one time had been a school friend of the Mayor’s son, beckoned both men forward conspiratorially.

“He’s talking to Captain Steklov,” he told them quietly.

“I see,” said Pobednyev, giving Skyralenko a meaningful glance. “Please tell the colonel that we await his pleasure.”

The sergeant acknowledged this request with a salute at the same time motioning the two men towards the warmth of a small pot-bellied stove. Coming out from behind his desk, he crossed over to the door marked ‘Col. K.I. Izorov’.