Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“But Dr. Tortsov told me…”

“Tortsov is an old fool. Look at that man over there,” she said, jerking her thumb in Trotsky’s direction. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. There’s no trace of pain in his face. He is working a trick.”

Kavelin looked across at Trotsky. The exile certainly appeared to be comfortably settled leaning back in his seat, pince nez in place, holding his newspaper with one hand while the other was lifting a cup to his lips. He looked more as if he was taking his ease in a restaurant on the Nevsky Prospekt rather than on his way to the Polar region.

“You must appreciate the position you have put yourself in,” Irena went on, “and me. I think that Illya is having me followed.”

It was Kavelin’s turn to laugh. He pointed accusingly across the room at Trotsky.

“Who do you suspect? Him?”

“I don’t know. I have had this feeling for a couple of days now. Wherever I go somebody is watching me. Don’t you feel it?”

“No, I don’t,” Kavelin said firmly. “Pull yourself together.”

“Illya is hunting tiger,” insisted Irena earnestly, “and he means to get you. That business in the library is just the beginning.”

“But didn’t you hear Maslov say that the room had a leak?”

Irena rolled her eyes in disbelief at his naïveté.

“Leonid, the reading room is heated by a stove, remember? There are no water pipes.”

Looking over his shoulder, Irena spotted the waiter making his way towards their table bearing a tray of cups and pastries.

“If I know Illya, this is just the beginning,” she warned Kavelin hurriedly. “You must be careful, and for God’s sake keep that stupid wife of yours under control.”

Stung by her words, the timber merchant opened his mouth to defend his wife’s honour but the waiter’s arrival forced him to pause. They waited in silence as the waiter placed the tray carefully on the table and began distributing their refreshments. When he had finished, the young man reached inside his tunic pocket and handed Kavelin a folded note, saying, “This message has just come for you, sir. The Mayor would like to see you in his chambers before the meeting of the Council. He says that it is urgent.”

Chapter Thirteen

Thursday 15th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

At the hospital the script of the play A Tragedian Despite Himself lay neglected on Modest Tolkach’s desk, its owner being too distracted by the day’s turn of events to spare it a glance. He paced up and down the floor of his office. The Council meeting had started over an hour ago and Pobednyev had assured him that the vote would only be a formality. At any moment, the Hospital Administrator told himself he could expect to receive The Call.

Despite his excitement Tolkach felt confident that he was at last making progress. Already he had had to make choices which less than a month ago would have seemed fantastic. Should he be waiting in the Mayoral antechamber, so that he could present himself immediately the decision to co-opt him onto the Council had been taken? He had decided that he shouldn’t. If the vote went in his favour his presence would smack of vaulting ambition; and if it didn’t, he could minimise the damage to his progress by keeping his distance. He would just shrug the matter off with a laugh and say, “Oh it was just one of Pobednyev’s whims. I knew nothing about it.” Should he make an effusive speech of acceptance for the honour that had been accorded him? Again, no. He would let the Mayor have all the fine words.

The sole piece of advice the man who had purported to be his father had given him when he had joined the ranks of the Sibirsky still rang true. “Start by keeping your ears open and your mouth shut. That way, by the time you have found out what’s what and who’s who, you won’t have made any enemies, and, with any luck, everyone will assume that you are wiser than you are.” And undoubtedly, even if they were not outright enemies, there were several of the councillors who he suspected might regard his appointment with an unfriendly eye; Illya Kuibyshev for one. He knew that he would have to prove himself useful in many ways before the fur merchant would look kindly upon him. Sergei Kuprin was another. As Revenue Officer, he would be jealous of his monopoly of Crown interests in Council affairs, and the power of patronage that it gave him. He would not willingly share his cake, unless it was substantially enlarged.

Well, he thought, that too can be arranged.