Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Gold, of course!” exclaimed the fur merchant, his enthusiasm returning. “A background of gold leaf, with my initials picked out in black. I’ll design them myself.”

“That should do it,” agreed Lepishinsky. “Come into the office and I will write the job up.”

Extinguishing the lamp, the proprietor led the way to the small cabin that was located at the top of a short flight of steps to one side of the stables. Kuibyshev followed with a sense of contentment. The stairs, the cabin and the view overlooking the stalls always reminded him of the visits he had paid as a child to his father’s office in the warehouse in Nizhni Novogrod. There was the same snug warmth emanating from the corner stove, and a similar long work desk cunningly fashioned out of three planks. At right angles to the work desk two shelves attached to the wall supported a cluttered row of tattered ledgers and lidless pots containing knotted twine, nails and crossed pen nibs that could be deftly repaired with pliers. Beside the work desk two wooden chairs, one – Lepishinsky’s – boasting a creased cushion, its fabric faded with use, awaited them. Taking the second chair Kuibyshev settled himself, noting the fragment of rug that its owner had laid beneath the desk to insulate his feet from the rising cold.

While the proprietor made notes in his work book Kuibyshev admired his office. Lepishinsky had created his own womb-like space that was at the same time warm, secure and functional. It was true that it lacked any sense of modern style; its walls were decorated sparsely with the photographic reproductions of two icons, a picture of his Imperial Majesty the Tsar, and a calendar produced by a feed merchant in Tobolsk. Neither was it equipped for entertaining. Looking along the desk he counted three unwashed cups but no glasses. Although no supporter of Temperance, it was well known around the town that Lepishinsky would not allow alcohol in the stable; one of the reasons that Kuibyshev valued him highly as an informant. In addition, suspended above the stable floor, the cabin’s windows, opaque with grime except where Lepishinsky had rubbed them clear (no doubt, Kuibyshev thought now, with his coat sleeve) offered a panoramic view of the stalls below them from which the comings and goings of the townsfolk could be watched unobserved.

But this was not the reason for Kuibyshev’s pleasure. It was the smell of the cabin that he was enjoying. It smelled of Man; not the sort of man he was, for certain, but far more “masculine” in the commonly understood meaning of the word. It was a scent that spoke of determination and competence, narrow horizons and simple beliefs. It conjured up memories of his father and his father’s friends: silent and dogged men, absorbed in their work. It was the scent of sweat, muscle and homespun cloth. Despite the phenomenal wealth he had gained, he envied them their un-secret lives, uncomplicated by the daily need for subterfuge and masquerade.

When Lepishinsky had finished writing and closed the book Kuibyshev reached inside his overcoat and drew out a calfskin wallet from which he extracted two five rouble notes. With deliberate care he placed them on the desk between Lepishinsky and himself.

“Now, what has been happening in town while I’ve been away?” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

Lepishinsky smiled broadly.

“Well, they caught Sergei Ratapov red handed at last, while he was breaking into the back of Nadnikov’s store.”

“Good!” said Kuibyshev. “It’s about time. The man is an inveterate thief.”

“I thought you would enjoy that,” chuckled the proprietor.

“What else has happened?”

Lepishinsky shrugged, as if his other news was of less consequence.

“The Gubernyn brothers beat one of the yids half to death in Jew Alley. Elizaveta Dresnyakova, the sister of our esteemed schoolmaster, has been scared out of her wits by that soft egg Bambayev exposing himself to her. Oh, and your old friend Pyotr Arkov’s back in trouble, this time with a young man behind the Barracks.”

Kuibyshev’s expression remained blank, giving no sign as to whether or not he was personally dismayed by this news. The truth was that he was not; Pyotr’s irresponsible amours were of no concern to him. Lepishinsky was trying to distract him with spicy low grade gossip. It was a familiar ploy; the important information – or what his informant believed he (Kuibyshev) would regard as important – would come later and, Lepishinsky was hoping, earn an additional reward.

Removing his gloves Kuibyshev lay them carefully on the desk, covering up the two notes.

“Tell me something important,” he ordered.

Lepishinsky furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, as if Kuibyshev had asked him to name all the major rivers of Africa.