Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The Mayor glared at him and then waved him away. The moment the misshapen functionary had mentioned the phrase “bad news” his mind had turned not to Kuibyshev’s domestic misfortune but to his own trouble; namely the money he had been persuaded to invest, along with the other members of the Council, in speculation on the St Petersburg bourse; a decision that he had long since regretted. What calamitous news had Kuibyshev to impart? It was with an anxious frown rather than a welcoming smile that he entered his Chamber and greeted Kuibyshev a minute later. As the other man rose to shake his hand Pobednyev could not help but admire the cut of the younger man’s suit and wondered whether the rumour was true that Kuibyshev kept an English tailor in London in business for half the year.

“Dear Illya Moiseyevich, welcome,” said the Mayor cordially. “I am sorry that we have not had a chance to speak with each other since your return…”

“The reason I am here,” interrupted Kuibyshev, resuming his seat, “is to hear your explanation of what has happened while I have been away.”

“Certainly,” agreed the Mayor, walking to the other side of his broad desk. “Well, as you know, there have been one or two extraordinary events in the town that have…”

“Let us begin,” Kuibyshev interrupted again, “with the fact that when I arrived I was herded like a common criminal down Alexei Street in front of the whole town.”

“Ah…” muttered Pobednyev, as he lowered himself into the Mayoral chair. “Yes that was regrettable, but that was not a Council decision you know. You will have to take that whole business up with Captain Steklov.”

“I intend to,” replied Kuibyshev firmly, “and I will be seeking satisfaction.”

The Mayor stared at him aghast.

“What for?”

“For damage to my carriage,” said Kuibyshev evenly. “One of his soldiers slashed its side with his sabre.”

“And…” the Mayor spluttered, “for this cause you are going to challenge Captain Steklov to a duel?”

It was Kuibyshev’s turn to look surprised.

“A duel? Of course not!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be ridiculous! Why should I want to fight a duel with him?”

“But you said you wanted satisfaction.”

“I mean satisfactory compensation,” laughed Kuibyshev. “Nobody fights duels any more. Why, this is the…”

“Don’t say it!” warned Pobednyev hurriedly. “Whenever I hear people say ‘Well, after all, this is the twentieth century!’ it only reminds me of how little has changed over the years. It is not as if this century has brought us any cause to celebrate. Look at the disasters we have had so far: war with the Japanese, which we lost for God’s sake, a massacre in Petersburg that led to bloody revolution and now we are surrounded by typhus, and the century is only seven years old. Oh yes, we have modern inventions in some towns, like the telegraph and railways, but what does that mean except that we hear bad news quicker?”

“And we all started with such high hopes,” Kuibyshev mocked him. “Come on Anatoli Mihailovich, this isn’t like you.”

Opening a drawer in his desk the Mayor pulled out a box of cigars. Opening it, he offered it to Kuibyshev.

“Mark my words,” he grumbled, “I think that the twentieth century is going to be a stinker.”

“It will certainly be a century of change,” Kuibyshev told him as he took a cigar, “and some of the changes will be for the better and some for the worse. Which brings me to my second enquiry. Is it true what I hear, that Modest Tolkach is up for election to the Council?”

The Mayor did not reply immediately. Having lit his own cigar, he appeared to be having trouble getting it to draw evenly. Removing it from his lips he made a show of scrutinising its burning tip with a critical expression. At length, he said, “Nothing has been decided. We are having the discussion tomorrow at the Council meeting.”

“Why,” asked Kuibyshev as he lit his cigar, “should we want him on the Council at all?”

“He will be helpful with defraying the cost of having the special convoy here,” explained the Mayor, “and equipping it with sleighs and so on.”

“Really? Tolkach? You surprise me. I will be candid with you, I don’t trust him.”

A silence fell between the two men as Mayor Pobednyev digested this unsurprising news.

“It’s important,” he said thoughtfully, “that we only have people on the Council that are worthy of the town’s trust. I myself think that Modest Tolkach can be trusted and that he can be useful to the Town, given the right opportunity. And this opinion is shared by the majority of the Council members.”

“The majority?” repeated Kuibyshev.

“Yes,” the Mayor told him, adding as an afterthought, “well, everyone except you, I suppose.”

“I see.”

The two men regarded each other silently, the smoke from their cigars rising in the air like the smoke from the funnels of two opposing battleships.

“And you would like my support for this decision?” probed Kuibyshev.

“Yes, I think that would be important.”