Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“I suppose the big story is the arrival of the convoy of prisoners last night. You know who they are? Only the Leaders of the Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Deputies. They are stopping off here for a day or so on their way north to Obdorsk. It was all meant to be highly secret so, of course, everybody has known about it for weeks,” he said, adding boastfully, “I knew about it first because I stabled the horse of the gendarme that brought the news.”

“So?” asked Kuibyshev, bored.

Lepishinsky shrugged, his eyes falling momentarily on Kuibyshev’s neatly arranged gloves.

“It was a big business,” he said apologetically. “Lots of sleighs had to be built and reindeer captured.”

“You did well out of it?” asked Kuibyshev.

“I can’t complain, but not as well as Leonid Kavelin. Half of the town seems to owe him money.”

Kuibyshev nodded his acknowledgement of this news.

“You’ve heard about the typhus?” asked Lepishinsky hopefully. “It’s getting closer. At first the Doctor thought the sleighs commissioned for the convoy were to evacuate the Council members and he threatened to close the town to travellers but that was before he was told about the Deputies arriving. He might still declare quarantine, of course, which would harm my business, and not help yours. I would be obliged if you could speak against it in Council.”

“We’ll see. What else?”

Lepishinsky paused and drew the palm of his hand over his face as if he was washing the sleep from his eyes.

“We are having a theatre night next Sunday in the barracks,” he continued. “Two short plays by Chekhov. Doctor Tortsov is directing them both but of course Alexei Maslov is all over it. It seems Modest Tolkach was meant to play the lead opposite Madame Tortsova in one of the plays but the word is she refused to act with him and now he is in the other play.”

He paused again, as an expression of triumph and relief lit his features.

“Oh yes, and you have a new member of the Town Council. It’s Councillor Tolkach now,” he revealed, adding darkly, “he wants watching, that one. You remember that business about his wife? Old Izorov couldn’t nail him. If he is too fly for Izorov, then… well, he wants watching, that’s all.”

Smiling, Kuibyshev picked up his gloves and again nodded his satisfaction.

“And how is the good Colonel?”

“Same as always. You never know with him,” said Lepishinsky, reaching for his money. But Kuibyshev was quicker and his fist covered the two notes on the desk before the stable owner was able to pick them up.

The two men regarded each other solemnly.

“And what else?” insisted Kuibyshev. “I don’t pay ten roubles just for town gossip.”

Lepishinsky’s eyes broke their gaze and looked away to the floor of the cabin.

There it is again, thought Kuibyshev, the same evasive gesture that I saw earlier. This isn’t about his neck. There is something else, something big, that he has not yet told me.

“It’s a bit difficult,” muttered Lepishinsky. “It’s rather close to home, you might say.”

Understanding his meaning, Kuibyshev groaned aloud. “Oh God, Irena? What’s she done now?”

“It’s not so much a question of ‘what’,” said Lepishinsky regretfully, “as ‘who’…”

Without speaking Kuibyshev lifted his hand and pushed the two notes toward him. Picking them up Lepishinsky folded them once and stuffed them inside the small bag that hung from his belt.

“Leonid Kavelin,” he said quietly.

“Leonard Kavelin?” cried Kuibyshev, quickly getting to his feet. “You are joking! Kavelin?”

He turned to go but Lepishinsky grabbed hold of his sleeve.

“Now, now, slow down to a gallop,” he admonished the fur merchant, pushing him forcefully back into his seat. “This has happened before, remember? You can’t expect to keep a young filly in a field on her own without some horse wanting to jump her fence. Especially one as young and as beautiful as Madame Irena, if you forgive me for saying.”

Shaking himself free Kuibyshev raised both hands to his brow.

“But Leonid Kavelin!” he repeated incredulously. “Why, he’s… he’s nothing! And nearly old enough to be her father. It’s disgusting.”

“Yes, well…” murmured Lepishinsky, his pride bruised. Kavelin was only two years older than himself.

Kuibyshev stood up again, his face growing pale with anger.

“That’s why people have been grinning at me, isn’t it? They’re laughing at me not about what happened last night but because they know Kavelin’s put horns on me!”

“That’s not strictly true,” countered Lepishinsky. “Last night was very funny by all accounts.”

Kuibyshev gaped open mouthed at him and then gave a short bark of laughter. “Irena and Kavelin! I will kill him! How dare he? How dare he?”

“Well, you can’t kill him, and that’s final. He’s a Town Councillor, for God’s sake.”

“Then you must kill him!” Kuibyshev insisted.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Lepishinsky, springing to his feet. “No more killing, thank you very much.”