Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Although she would have struggled to put it into words Tatyana knew in her heart that such choices were made by wives, and not by their husbands. It was as if the women, afraid or unwilling to consult their menfolk, had done their best to try and interpret what they thought were their preferences and had, as a consequence, created homes which they themselves found unattractive and unfulfilling. The truth was that such unspoken deference was both absurd and uncalled for. Men – at least Russian men – did not seem to care a jot about such matters and showed little appreciation of the effort involved in making their surroundings agreeable. As Matriona Pobednyeva – a woman who Tatyana disliked as intensely as she loved Raisa Izminskaya – had more than once averred, only three things were of interest to Russian men: loose clothing, a tight pizda and a warm place to shit; they took notice of little else. Tatyana supposed things must be different in countries such as France, where women of comparable standing might expect to enjoy a boudoir.

To have a room of one’s own and the licence and financial means to decorate and appoint it just how one liked – that was true emancipation. Not even Raisa enjoyed that privilege. Irena Kuibysheva was the only woman Tatyana knew of in Berezovo who could boast (but didn’t) of the possession of a boudoir. Tatyana doubted that Raisa had ever aspired to such a luxury. She was such a quiet mouse, almost bashful at times, who preferred companionable pleasures such as her visit today. Hearing her footstep in the hallway outside Tatyana sat little straighter in her chair, a smile of affection brightening her face. Only Raisa could marry a banker and yet still want to do her own sewing.

Her friend entered the room carrying in her arms a large flat paper parcel. Tatyana noted with approval the stamp of the Eliseyev Emporium on the outer wrapping and waited in pleasurable anticipation while Raisa carefully separated the inner layers of tissue paper and held up her new purchase for her friend’s inspection. Tatyana was not disappointed: the petticoat was beautiful. Long and slender, it rippled under the light from the nearby table lamp. A ghostly motif of embroidered flowers was picked out with tiny pearls a hand’s breadth above its hem. Stretching out her hand, Tatyana ran her fingers lightly along the length of its skirt. The cloth looked and felt unfamiliar to her.

“What material is this?” she asked.

“Silk moiré,” replied Raisa in hushed tones. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Yes, it is lovely,” agreed Tatyana. “It’s beautiful. So what would you like to do with it?”

“I am thinking of adding a piece of ribbon about an inch above the hem,” said Raisa, folding up the petticoat and laying it carefully on its bed of tissue paper. “It needs a dash of colour.”

Sitting back in her chair, Tatyana nodded approvingly. Lifting the workbasket she had brought with her on to her lap, she rummaged inside and pulled out several spools of coloured ribbons. Without hesitation Raisa picked out a medium width sky blue silk ribbon.

“Could you help pin it for me, if I stood on a stool?”

“What, here?”

“Yes, why not?” Raisa asked casually. “No one will disturb us and it will be like old times.”

“Only this time I will try not to prick myself and bleed all over your new skirt,” remembered Tatyana.

“That would be nice.”

Raisa began to undress. At once embarrassed and flattered by the intimacy her friend was affording her, Tatyana turned her back and busied herself with putting away the unwanted ribbons, finding the box of dressmaker pins in the bottom of her materials bag, fetching a cushion upon which she could kneel. After all these years she did not feel that she would willingly step out of her clothes and show her legs with the same casualness that they had once shared while they had had to make their own clothes. Fixing a half dozen pins in the sleeve of her blouse, she listened to the susurrus of material behind her as Raisa removed her skirt and the petticoat she was wearing and dressed herself in the new garment. When she heard her friend’s soft grunt as she stepped up onto the stool, Tatyana turned back to face her. Smiling, Raisa held her right arm aloft mockingly, as if bearing a flaming torch.

“To Liberty!” they said in unison.

“Oh, I remember this now,” said Tatyana cheerfully as she knelt upon the cushion. “If we were all going to be equal how come I was always the one on my knees?”

“It is God’s will, my child,” replied Raisa, mimicking the sepulchral tones of Father Arkady. “You must be satisfied with your lot.”