Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

There had been a moment the previous afternoon when he had felt himself threatened. He thanked Heaven that the only serious outcome to the whole business had been the damage done to his travelling coach. This was the matter on which he was now engaged. Vissarion Lepishinsky would give him a fair estimate of how much its repair could cost. Visiting the livery stables also provided him with the opportunity to learn what had occurred in Berezovo during his two months’ absence, Lepishinsky being one of the three spies he employed in the town to collect intelligence on his behalf.

When he arrived at the stables he was surprised to see that both its tall outer doors were wide open. Peering into the lamplight interior he made out the burly figure of the proprietor carrying a saddle and bridle from one of the stalls.

“Good morning Vissarion Augustovich!” he called out. “Have you had a chance to look at my carriage?”

Carefully placing the tack down on a side bench Lepishinsky lumbered forward, his hand extended in greeting. As he approached Kuibyshev noted that he had a thick bandage wound around his throat.

“Hello Illya Moiseyevich!” the proprietor greeted him, gripping Kuibyshev’s slender hand briefly in his own large paw. “It is good to see you back in town again, and not before time. I heard that your arrival was… theatrical.”

Kuibyshev smiled good naturedly. As his most trusted confidential informant he allowed Lepishinsky a greater degree of familiarity than he afforded to others.

“It was a farce, if that is what you mean,” he agreed. “That idiot Steklov escorted me into town as if I was a damned prisoner. And there was an official reception committee no less.”

“Everything but a band, so I heard,” offered the stable owner.

“Quite so. It all adds to the gaiety of the town, I suppose. My return has clearly amused many people. What has happened to your throat?”

A look of embarrassment crossed Lepishinsky’s face and Kuibyshev saw his gaze shift guiltily to the earthen floor.

“Oh, this?” muttered Lepishinsky, picking self-consciously at his frayed collar. “It’s a small boil on the back of my neck that has become infected. Never mind it, let’s have a look at this coachwork of yours.”

He turned and led Kuibyshev towards the rear of the stables where the fur merchant’s travelling carriage was waiting for them in the gloom. What little light there was came from a lamp hanging from a nail high on a post. Taking the lamp down Lepishinsky held it close to the carriage and inspected the long scratch that had disfigured the paintwork on the vehicle’s right hand side.

“What exactly happened here?” he asked, his tone heavy with disapproval.

“One of Steklov’s cavalrymen slashed at it with his sabre,” explained Kuibyshev. “He was definitely drunk. Look at it!”

Lepishinsky moved closer to the carriage and raised the lamp a little higher. Reaching out he ran the fingers of his right hand gently across the raised edges of the cut woodwork, reminding Kuibyshev of how he had once traced with his own finger tips the scars that marked Cesar’s back; wanting to understand the depth of his wounds and not cause further suffering.

“What do you think?” he asked quietly.

Lepishinsky shook his head doubtfully and took a step back.

“Well,” he replied “The cut is not very deep, which is good but it has taken off a lot of the paintwork and it will be difficult to match the patina. I can see what can be done here in town but it ought to go back to the original carriage builder. Where was it made?”

“Tyumen.”

“To be honest,” admitted Lepishinsky, “it will be very difficult to match. I can get someone here to try, but I can’t guarantee that you would be satisfied with the result.”

With an impatient gesture Kuibyshev took a few steps away from the carriage and then returned to stand beside the livery stable’s proprietor.

“If I send it back to Tyumen,” he complained, “it would be three months before I get it back, and with no certainty that they would repair it correctly. That would leave me without a carriage at the very time I should be out on the taiga buying skins.”

Lepishinsky shrugged.

“I can rent you a perfectly good sleigh,” he offered, “and at a reasonable price.”

The two men stood side by side and regarded the carriage like two farmers worrying over an injured but valuable bull. Then Lepishinsky moved closer to the carriage once more.

“Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “there is always an alternative…”

“Which is?”

“Instead of trying to match the paint work,” he suggested, tapping the side of carriage with a stubby forefinger, “we clean a bit more off and paint on an insignia. It would be cheaper and easier. Your monogram, for instance. Something on a shield or a scroll…”

“Yes, I like it,” responded Kuibyshev. “And we could make the body of the insignia a different colour so that it didn’t have to match the rest of the coachwork.”

“We certainly could. What colour would you like?”