Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The Doctor raised his glass and signalled again to Fyodor Gregorivich, satisfied that at least he now understood the cause of the hotel proprietor’s eccentric behaviour and why the poor man had looked as if he was at his wits’ end.

“You know Matriona Pobednyeva?” he asked a bemused Skyralenko, his voice slurring as he pointed his glass in the direction of the Mayor’s wife. “She would make a damn fine actress. Far better than my Lenochka.”

The Mayoress’s description of Tatyana Kavelina advancing on Irena Kuibysheva – an accusing finger held out in front of her as she repeated the single word, “You!” – that was a moment of high drama that had lost nothing in her interpretation. Still holding his empty glass aloft he realised that he was becoming a little drunk, but it didn’t seem to matter. So, it appeared, was everybody else; more than a little if the Prison Director to his right was an example. Opposite him Leonid Kavelin kept his gaze determinedly lowered to his plate.

A new inspiration seized him. Instead of changing Tolkach’s part, he should have let Lenochka step down and persuaded Matriona Fiodorovna to take her place. That would have taught Pobednyev a lesson he would not forget in a hurry!

Thinking about the play depressed his spirits. Tolkach was a filthy swine, he told himself, and that was an end to it. To imagine those hands touching his poor sweet Lenochka made him want to choke with rage and grief. He thought of the weeks he had spent out on the taiga, doing his duty whilst the swine had been preparing his trap.

“Vasili Tortsov plays Hittite to no man’s David!” he muttered thickly. Remembering his earlier offer to his assistant, he smiled grimly. Instead of taking Anton Ivanovich out onto the taiga, why shouldn’t he take Tolkach? Yes! That was the way! Just himself and Tolkach, alone out on the taiga. Pistols for two and coffee for one.

Ecstatic at this new idea, he began hammering his empty glass on the tablecloth.

From his place at the top end of the table Father Arkady watched him sadly. The aged priest had suspected that it had been a mistake to allow the meal to proceed in view of that distressing scene earlier in the upstairs lounge, and now he was sure of it. But what could he do? It was a town matter: best not to interfere. From under his bushy eyebrows he sneaked a glance at the penitent figure of Irena Kuibysheva. She appeared to be bearing up well, but he knew that within her she was chastising her soul with scorpions’ tails. She was so lonely here; she did not belong in Berezovo. Yes, allowing the meal to proceed had been an error of judgement for which he was to blame but, in the rush of events, and with there being no firm news of when the convoy was to be expected, it had seemed better to eat something than to remain drinking for the rest of the afternoon.

Wearily he turned his attention back to his host. His Excellency the Mayor, resplendently decorated with the Sash of Berezovo, was in the middle of an interminable rendition of his favourite anecdote about the Mammoth Skin.

Everybody knew the tale of how, over a quarter of a century before, the body of a giant mammoth had been discovered by the banks of the Lena, perfectly preserved by the ice that had melted on that hot summer’s day. It had been hauled by woodsmen and peasants to the table of the local barines who had taken three days to eat it. One of the woodsmen, a man whom the Mayor claimed to have met, was present at the feast and had risked a beating for cutting a slice of freshly shaved flesh and secreting it away before the monster had been taken into the kitchens. Since that day, whenever he found himself out in the wilds without supplies, this intrepid man had only to boil up some ice and dip the skin in the water to make a tasty and nourishing broth. So much was common history. Only the ever-extending version that the Mayor insisted on telling when he was in his cups bore the hallmarks of a myth.

With great patience, the priest listened as His Excellency contradicted himself once more in his increasingly incoherent account of the matter. Formerly, he had always sworn that the peasant had kept the skin in a box carved from the ivory of one of the beast’s tusks. Now, it transpired the shred of skin was hanging from a small golden chain around the fellow’s neck.

“But what did it taste like, Anatoli Mihailovich?” he asked dutifully when the Mayor’s story had finally staggered to a finish.

Putting a consoling hand on the priest’s arm, Pobednyev regarded him pityingly.

“Father, you will never know,” he said. “It was food fit only for angels, and a few lucky mortals like myself. Let me just say this: the meal that Fyodor Gregorivich has prepared for us, and which we have just eaten, was splendid. I mean no disrespect to him. He has done a marvellous job. But I would give it all for just one spoon of mammoth broth!”

“It sounds disgusting to me,” announced Madame Pobednyeva.

Turning to her, the Mayor ponderously shook his head.