Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Tatyana, you must come with us right now if you want to save your marriage and your family.”

“Right now?” echoed Tatyana in surprise.

“Yes, right now. Time is of the essence and we can rejoin the service later. You must trust us.”

The grain merchant’s wife hesitated as if unsure whether to break a confidence.

“You have been praying for help and guidance, haven’t you?” she asked. “Well, we may be part of the answer. We will not abandon you, if you come now. We shall go to my house as it is the closest. Come.”

Overcome by the way that the older woman had so closely read her thoughts, Tatyana nodded meekly. Sliding the second candle into a vacant holder she stepped away from the bank of flames.

From his position on the right hand side of the nave, Colonel Izorov watched in puzzlement as Tatyana, white faced and with Olga on one side of her, Lidiya on the other and Raisa bringing up the rear, made her way towards the narthex door. The small procession of well-dressed women reminded him curiously of a party of guards escorting a prisoner to his execution. He wondered where they were going.

An hour later, Fyodor Gregorivich straightened a napkin and cast an approving eye down the length of the table that had been set in the centre of the dining room. The cutlery had never looked better; the glasses positively shone. Humming to himself, he embarked upon his last task: distributing the carefully written place cards. Setting the seating order was properly the responsibility of the host or hostess of the luncheon. However, since neither the Mayor or Mayoress had yet appeared, he accepted that the task had fallen to him.

Shifting through the fourteen place cards, he came to the name of Madame Irena Kuibysheva; the card appearing as ominously as a dark cloud on a sunny day. Frowning, he looked at the cards he had already laid on the table, and then back at the one in his hand. Until that point, everything had been going smoothly. Each husband had been placed opposite his wife in alternating series. Now, Irena Kuibysheva stuck out like a sore nose. He did not dare put her close to Madame Kavelina, or to Leonid Sergeivich for that matter, yet etiquette demanded that she, as the wife of the town’s wealthiest citizen, should be placed in an appropriately prestigious seat and next and opposite to someone who, for the purposes of the seating plan, could be regarded as either a dining companion or escort. Scratching his head, Fyodor Gregorivich walked back to the head of the table, and toyed with the idea of placing her alongside Father Arkady, who was sitting on the Mayor’s right hand (on the occasion of a religious festivity, the order was reversed). But he saw that this would put her diagonally opposite Madame Pobednyev and dismissed the idea. Hoping for inspiration, he looked at the far end of the table although, out of deference to her husband’s wealth and importance, he could not consider for a moment placing her in so lowly a position. That place would be taken by… Dimitri Skyralenko. Next to him would be the Kavelins – the Tiger would never dare complain. Then the Nadnikovs and the Shiminskis and next to Nikita Shiminski… Modest Tolkach.

Holding the Hospital Administrator’s card, Fyodor Gregorivich laughed out loud.

Of course! he thought. Who else could be more suitable as a dining companion for Irena Kuibysheva than Modest Tolkach? The wife killer and the adulteress could compare notes on the sanctity of marriage.

With a sense of satisfaction at having solved a knotty problem, he flipped Madame Kuibysheva’s card onto her new place setting. The rest of the table presented no difficulties. The Two Thieves, Izminsky and Kuprin, were as inseparable as brigands anyway and above them sat Father Arkady opposite Madame Pobednyeva, and then the Mayor. Standing back, he gave a nod of approval at his handiwork.

Hearing the jangle of sleigh bells, he glanced up at the dining room clock. It was approaching one o’ clock. Hurrying from the dining room, he locked its doors, ensuring that only the kitchen staff would have entrance before the luncheon was ready. The first of the Mayor’s guests – the Izminskys, ever eager to enjoy an opportunity for free food and drink – were bustling through the outer door. Bowing low, he helped them off with their coats and informed them that pre-luncheon refreshments were awaiting them in the mezzanine lounge.