Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

It was customary for her husband to take his weekly bath on Sunday mornings so that he could be clean for church and it struck her as strange that he should break his routine. Absentmindedly she patted her daughter fondly on the shoulder and made her way along to the hall towards the back of the house.

Her belief that homes were more influenced by their male owners than their female chatelaines was born out by her own house, which was a living monument for the utility and beauty of wood. She and her family lived in wooden panelled rooms, walked on finely sanded and stained wooden floorboards, ate, drank and slept on expensively fashioned wooden furniture behind decoratively carved and lacquered wooden doors. It was, said Raisa, borrowing an image from a French translation she had read of the satirical Irish novel Gulliver’s Travels, like living within a highly polished cigar box.

The kitchen, scullery and bathroom were situated at the rear of the house. As she entered the kitchen, her maid Nadya was occupied in sorting out a pile of laundry on the kitchen table. Tatyana’s sudden appearance took her by surprise and she stepped guiltily away from the table.

“Good evening Nadya.”

“Good evening Ma’am.”

“What is this?” asked Tatyana, pointing to the clothes.

“The master’s clothes, Ma’am. They need washing.”

Tatyana gave a puzzled smile.

“On a Saturday night? But how will they dry? We can’t put them out to dry on a Sunday.”

“No Ma’am.”

“Leave them with me. There’s nothing here that can’t wait until Monday.”

Nadya looked down at the pile of washing on the table and then back up at Tatyana. She appeared flustered by her instruction.

“Mr Kavelin did say to do them today…” she said and then fell silent.

“Where is my husband?”

“Taking his bath, Ma’am.”

“I see. Well, don’t worry about these. Leave them where they are, I’ll look after them. You get on with preparing the supper.”

Walking through the scullery, Tatyana tapped peremptorily on the door that led to the bath room.

There was a pause and then she heard her husband’s querulous voice.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Leonid, it’s Tanya,” she called out.

“Tanya! Back so soon?”

“Yes. What are you doing in there?”

“Having a bathe, of course. It will be a momentous day tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she repeated.

“Yes. Big day what with the civic reception and everything. We may have to be ready early, so I thought I would bathe today.”

Pursing her lips, Tatyana nodded at the door panels as if in agreement.

“All right. I am going upstairs. Do you have your robe in there?”

“Yes thank you,” came the cheerful response.

Turning, she retraced her steps back to the kitchen. With one sweep of her arms she gathered up the pile of laundry from the kitchen table. Nadya opened her mouth as if to protest but her employer shook her head and held up a finger against her lips, commanding her silence. The maid nodded and, with a dismissive shrug, turned back to her task of peeling vegetables in the scullery sink.

Tatyana carried the bundle of soiled clothes up to the bedroom she shared with her husband and dropped them onto the large bed. She looked down at them for a moment and then, with a deep sigh, picked up the pair of Leonid’s trousers. As she began to fold them she heard a rattling sound come from one of the pockets. Reaching into his right hand pocket she retrieved a small box of safety matches decorated with the pompous monogram of the Hotel New Century. Tossing the matches aside she searched in the other trouser pocket and found they were empty. Holding up the legs of the trousers she pressed them to her face and breathed in. They smelt of him, of his sweat and his wood yard and the tobacco from his cigarettes. Shuffling the garment in her fingers she turned the trousers inside out, bent her head again and sniffed at the crotch. She could smell only stale urine, and the faint musky scent of his body odours.

Folding the trousers neatly she replaced them on the bed and rummaged in the pile of linen until she had found his long undergarments. Disentangling them for the other clothes she peered inside them and noted that there was fresh staining on the inside of the crotch. Without hesitation she picked them up and pressed them deliberately to her face. There was the unmistakable dull tang of sexual juices; a combination of her husband’s sperm and the body fluids of another person, a woman.

A cold feeling of dread and self-disgust gripped her. Flinging the garment away from her, she scrabbled through the remaining pile of garments until she had found his shirt. For a moment she hesitated and then, as if accepting a profane sacrament, she slowly raised the shirt to her face. The unmistakable scent of Apres l’Ondee rose to meet her, filling her nostrils with its memory of orange blossom and violets.

Chapter Nineteen

Sunday 11th February 1907

Berezovo