Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Buried beneath a brown homburg hat, he spied Skyralenko’s gold braided kepi. That was easy, he told himself. And that grey woollen cloaked trimmed with fox fur – hadn’t he seen Raisa Izminsky wear a coat similar to that? He suspected that Yeliena would be able to name the owner of each garment in the space of a few seconds (“Oh, and that’s Nadnikov’s old thing. Dreadful, isn’t it?”). He was just examining the sleeve of a familiar looking overcoat when a loud cry from the lobby reached his ears. Alarmed, he hurried back to the top of the stairs. Below him he saw Fyodor Gregorivich had returned to the vestibule. Beside him stood an angry looking Madame Pobednyeva.

“He’s gone! He was just here!” the hotel proprietor was wailing.

“What on earth is the matter with you today, Fyodor Gregorivich?” Dr. Tortsov called out from the top of the staircase. “Pull yourself together. Who’s gone?”

“Please, Doctor!” implored the hotel manager. “Come down and save me.”

“Matriona Fiodorovna, can you explain what this fellow is gibbering about?” Dr. Tortsov demanded. “Has he poisoned someone, or what?”

“He’s done something much worse than that, Doctor,” answered the Mayor’s wife as she ascended the staircase.

“Fyodor Gregorivich!” she commanded once she had joined the Doctor. “You may now serve the luncheon. The Doctor and I shall take our places presently. We shall discuss this… this…” She hesitated as if, for once in her life, her rich and colourful vocabulary had failed her. “…This debacle when it is time to settle the bill. Assuming, that is, that you have the effrontery to present us with one!”

Miserably, the hotel proprietor hung his head and executed a sort of half bow to the two grim faced figures at the top of the stairs.

With a disdainful sniff, Madame Pobednyeva took the Doctor’s arm and led him back to the lounge. Only when she had closed the doors behind her did her stern demeanour give way.

“Oh Doctor!” she sobbed. “I’ve done something stupid, very stupid indeed.”

Chapter Twenty One

Sunday 11th February 1907

Berezovo

In Dr. Tortsov’s sitting room Chevanin was also feeling that the afternoon had taken an unexpected turn. Perched awkwardly on the edge of his armchair he looked on with a fascination akin to that of a young field mouse confronted by a hunting snake. Opposite him the wife of his employer, the cause of his discomfort, lay reclining on the couch, her eyes half closed in thought as she watched the smoke from her cigarette curl slowly upwards. He took another sip of the brackish coffee and swallowed noisily as Yeliena brought the cigarette to her lips again and drew on it. Filling her mouth with smoke, she began to exhale a series of perfectly formed smoke rings. She repeated the performance, sucking in her cheeks and expertly expelling the smoke through the tight circle of her lips. As the last smoke ring hung in the air above her, she languidly lifted a forefinger and, with a deliberation that reminded him of a cat playing with string, broke it.

“I didn’t realise you smoked,” he said huskily. “If I had known I would have offered you a cigarette before.”

Yeliena made a face.

“Vasili doesn’t approve of women smoking. He says it weakens our lungs. So I never indulge while he is in the house.”

Tiring of her game, she sat up slowly, careful not to spill the long column of ash onto her dress. Chevanin passed her his ashtray and she ground out the remains of the cigarette. Returning it to him, she stood up and began smoothing down the creases in her blouse and skirt.

Chevanin followed her example, standing up and nervously extinguishing his cigarette. Her hands resting on her hips, Yeliena was regarding him with a slight smile. With a sudden pulse of excitement he sensed that the atmosphere in the room had become charged; as if there was lightning in the air and the whole house was holding its breath waiting for the accompanying clap of thunder. Chevanin tried to swallow and found that he couldn’t; his throat was too dry.

Without a doubt, he told himself, and incredible as it may seem, something is about to happen.

“Well?” she asked him quietly. “Shall we begin?”

The distance between them seemed almost unbridgeable. Taking a half step towards her in the hope that she would reciprocate, he realised that he was still holding his cup and saucer.

“Begin?” he mumbled. “Begin what?”

“With the play, of course!” she said smiling. “You haven’t forgotten that we are meant to be rehearsing our parts? Vasili will expect us to be word perfect when he returns.”

Hiding his confusion, Chevanin turned away from her and, as carefully as he could, set the half full cup of coffee down on the small table beside his chair. He was trembling so much that, as he did so, the cup rattled in its saucer and a small wave of lukewarm liquid washed over his fingers. Hurriedly he wiped them dry against the seat of his trousers as he turned back to face her.