Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Laying down his pencil, he gazed at the map in front of him and recalled the interesting discussion he had had with the prisoner Trotsky the day before. Slowly turning over the pages he began to trace the course of the River Ob, his finger travelling this way and that over the plates as it followed the river’s course; hesitating as each smaller river joined it on its relentless journey from the arid mountainsides of central Asia to its icy estuary far to the north. The idea of rerouting its flow was wildly fantastic. He suspected that even the prisoner Trotsky had recognised that. Still… If one considered every tributary as a lost opportunity, and could draw some of the water off to irrigate the land, it made some sort of crazy sense.

The insurrectionist had been right about one thing: he was a very long way from home. Roshkovsky felt sorry for him. As anarchic as Trotsky’s politics seemed, he had impressed the land surveyor as having an original mind. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of his gifts, the following day he would embark upon the last stage of his journey to obscurity. Unaware of Dr. Tortsov’s diagnosis, Roshkovsky was certain the young man had no chance whatsoever of escape.

* * *

Kneeling on the richly carpeted floor of her pink and gold boudoir, Irena Kuibysheva folded the new nightshirt with care and laid it back in its bed of tissue paper. Polezhayev’s daughter had done an excellent job with the embroidery on the breast pocket, picking out her husband’s initial in gold thread against a background of violets and leaves.

It is just as well, she thought as she began to wrap her husband’s present, that I chose “I” instead of “K”. “K” would have been awkward.

The circumstances in which she found herself were difficult enough. She was now certain that her husband was aware of her recent frisk with Leonid Kavelin. Illya had been in town for over two days, with any number of his spies ready to denounce her. How could he not know? Her suspicions were supported by his behaviour; Illya had been deliberately avoiding her, leaving early for the fur warehouse at the north end of the town, locking himself away in his study, and then dining alone at the Hotel New Century the previous evening. What was he doing there, besides exposing himself to ridicule? Was he triangulating the evidence from his network of informers? Could she trust Fyodor Gregorivich to remain discreet? Certainly there was no written entry in hotel’s ledger to mark their brief visit, but chambermaids were always happy to sing, especially to the accompaniment of the clink of roubles.

More significantly, Illya had not yet presented her with his customary presents to mark his return. The gifts themselves were of lesser importance; she had more than enough material possessions, although to be fair to her husband his presents were always marked by the highest quality and the best taste. On this occasion their importance lay in their absence. Is he, she wondered, withholding them because of my fling with Leonid, “infidelity”, or hasn’t he brought any home for me of routine? If the former, I can accept that. If the latter, what does this change signify?

Tying the last length of ribbon with a firm knot, Irena inspected her handiwork dispassionately.

I have been wasting my time with Leonid Kavelin, she told herself. He is not The One, and now the net is closing in again. I will have to be very careful at supper tonight.

Chapter Seven

Tuesday 13th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

On the upper landing of Leonid Kavelin’s small wooden palace on Menshikov Street, Tatyana Kavelina took the freshly pressed bed sheet from the outstretched arms of her maid and laid it carefully on top of the stack of sheets on the shelf of the linen press that stood outside her bedroom. Like Fyodor Gregorovich with his cutlery at the Hotel New Century, she took solace in the perfection of tangible objects. Every waking hour of the past two days had been spent in washing, drying and pressing the household’s linen. Now, despite her weariness, she felt soothed by the sight of the smoothed folds of linen and comforted by a righteous sense of having regained control of her environment.