Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Curious to know the cause of her guest’s violent departure, Raisa’s maid appeared momentarily to ask whether she still required the tea to be served. Still sitting in her petticoat, Raisa waved her away. Despondently she began to remove the pins one by one, leaving the blue ribbon trailing unwanted onto the richly patterned rug. She knew her new and expensive petticoat to be irreparably damaged, but it did not matter. Its loss was a small price to pay in order to try to protect her dearest friend. Besides, she had an exact duplicate from Eliseyev’s in her bedroom press.

Chapter Eighteen

Saturday 10th February 1907

Berezovo

In the mezzanine lounge of the Hotel New Century, Madame Pobednyeva picked impatiently at the fabric on the arm of her armchair. She had moved to the other side of the lounge partly because she could no longer endure the sound of Izminsky’s snoring and partly to obtain a better view of the staircase. Her previous seat on the sofa had afforded her no view of the activities of the hotel’s staff and its guests. Her new position, in the armchair beside the small occasional table upon which rested a leafy aspidistra, had the dual advantage of allowing her to spy on people ascending or descending the staircase or crossing the landing beyond the entrance to the lounge while remaining undiscovered herself. From here she could watch out for Fyodor Gregorivich.

She glanced at the crumbs on the small tea plate beside her empty tea glass. The biscuits had been disappointing; ‘Nothing to write home about’ as her mother would have said. She had found their flavour of almond paste overbearing and too dense for her taste. She recognised that, given the nearness of the luncheon, there was no longer anything that could be done to improve the recipe. Nevertheless, she would make a point of mentioning her dissatisfaction to Fyodor Gregorivich. For the first time since she had taken up her vigil she began to feel uneasy about the hotel’s missing proprietor. Regardless of one’s standing in the town, one could never be sure of the outcome of a summons from Kostya Izorov. Was Fyodor Gregorivich even now locked up in a small cell, or being brutally beaten?

The sound of a man’s voice from outside of the lounge broke into her thoughts. Leaning forward she peered expectantly around the side of the aspidistra but, instead of the proprietor’s prematurely shining pate rising as he came up the staircase from the lobby, she saw two pairs of feet descending the stairs that led to the rooms on the upper floor of the hotel. The first wore a man’s polished shoes and above them, smartly creased trousers; the second belonged to a young lady, the hem of a grey skirt demurely raised. Madame Pobednyeva shrank back into the cushion of her armchair, knowing the identity of their owners even before they revealed themselves. Seemingly unconcerned by the risk of discovery the couple paused on the landing outside the entrance to the mezzanine lounge and exchanged brief kisses. And then, her seduction concluded, Irena Kuibysheva continued sedately down the stairs to the hotel’s lobby while Leonid Kavelin, looking flushed but contented, turned and entered the lounge.

Walking over to the side table where there was a flask of water and a glass he poured himself a drink. Hardly daring to breathe Madame Pobednyeva watched as Kavelin looked round the room, spied the sleeping baker and smiled.

If he turns around any further, she told herself, he can hardly fail to see me and that would be extremely embarrassing.

She was trapped. She could hardly copy Izminsky’s example and feign sleep. It would be just too inelegant. To her relief she saw Kavelin consult his pocket watch and then drain his glass. Putting the glass gently back on the tray so as not to wake Izminsky, the timber merchant smoothed down the front of his waistcoat and followed in his mistress’s footsteps down the stairs to the lobby.

Madame Pobednyeva fanned her face in relief. It was now a confirmed fact: Leonid Kavelin and Irena Kuibysheva were adulterous lovers. This was news indeed, and far more significant than her discovery about the banker’s reading habits or the poor quality of almond biscuits. This needed no note to remind her of the details.

Quietly rising from her chair she crossed the lounge to the landing beyond. Stooping, she peered down the staircase. The hotel lobby was empty. Kavelin had either gone into the dining room or he had left the hotel.