Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Be careful with those,” warned the Doctor. “They have to go back to Delyanov’s on Monday morning.”

“A large parcel containing a dress,” continued Tolkach. “A case of beer! Beer?” he repeated unbelievingly.

Tortsov, who had been listening and nodding as Tolkach read out each item, obligingly lifted out of the box a wooden crate and passed it to him.

“Several little parcels,” went on Tolkach, “A sewing machine! A bird cage containing one canary… Tortsov, you can’t be serious?”

“Don’t worry,” the Doctor assured him genially. “It isn’t really a live canary. I asked Gleb Pirogov to whittle a piece of wood in the shape of a canary and paint it yellow. It’s nailed to the perch. The audience won’t know the difference. Look!”

Dipping into the box a third time, he produced the cage. Behind the iron bars, the painted model eyed the two men beadily.

“He has painted the plumage beautifully,” the Doctor pointed out.

“But what about the bicycle and the sewing machine?” spluttered Tolkach.

“The bicycle belongs to Madame Kuibysheva and the sewing machine is Madame Kuprina’s. Heaven help you if you break that!”

“But…”

“It’s all in the script,” said Tortsov airily, pushing the cage roughly into Tolkach’s unwilling arms. “Now get changed and be ready to go on stage in about fifty minutes.”

Tolkach cast a vengeful glance at the Doctor’s retreating back and then looked down at the crumpled jacket he still held in his fist.

At least changing shouldn’t present much difficulty, he thought morosely.

At the other end of the hall, Chevanin was shuffling out from behind the scenery sheepishly clutching the waistband of his costume trousers. They were several sizes too big for him. On the voluminous seat of the trousers someone had pinned a label bearing the legend “G.I. SMIRNOV”. Seeing him, Yeliena clapped her hands with pleasure and laughed.

“Look, everybody!” she called out. “Doesn’t Anton Ivanovich look splendid.”

A chorus of cheers broke out as Chevanin gave an embarrassed bow. Seeing the Doctor crossing the hall, he called out to him.

“Vasili Semionovich, help me! I feel like a clown in these trousers. I can’t move an inch without them falling down.”

“Ah, I see you’ve found Madame Pobednyeva’s contribution,” Dr Tortsov responded cheerfully. “I do hope His Excellency doesn’t miss them. Look in the basket. There should be a pillow there. Stuff that down the front, then try on the jacket. I think it should fit snugly. Ah, Dimitri Borisovich,” continued the Doctor as Skyralenko also appeared from behind the scenery. “Let’s have a look at you.”

The Prison Director stood awkwardly in the centre of the bustling crowd, allowing the Doctor to inspect him with a critical eye. Skyralenko was dressed in the uniform of a footman. The costume did nothing to obscure his humble origins; on the contrary, it was his prison officer’s uniform which seemed now to be the disguise. With his rounded features and arched eyebrows, his close cropped grey hair (tinted with a mixture he applied at night), the play’s costume revealed him for what he was: a moujik who had risen, as much by grace and favour as by good fortune, above his station.

“Yes, very good, Dimitri Borisovich,” murmured the Doctor and turned away, leaving the Prison Director standing foolishly by himself.

Two of the soldiers that Captain Steklov had ordered to help the Doctor were climbing through the window in the scenery. Spotting them, the Doctor clapped his hands loudly.

“You two! Stop that horse play! You’ll have the whole set down in a minute. Go and help put out the seats.”

Turning back to the actors milling around him, he ordered them to gather round and began counting them.

“Where’s Maslov got to?” he demanded.

Chevanin, his jacket swollen by the pillow stuffed crudely beneath it, was sitting discontentedly on one of the plush front seats.

“He’s gone home,” he told the Doctor, “He said that Murashkin would never have worn a blue jacket, and that he had one at home that was far more suitable. So he’s gone to fetch it.”

Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Dr. Tortsov counted silently to himself.

“Right!” he cried, “In that case, we shall start with The Bear and hope that at least we can get through it without the usual interruptions. Remember, gentlemen, this is our only dress rehearsal. We shall go straight the way through and any last minute problems that we encounter shall be dealt with at the end.”

“Excuse me, Vasili,” interrupted Yeliena. “I think you have forgotten these.”

From behind her back, she produced two moth-eaten false beards, which she dangled in front of him.

“Thank you, my dear,” replied the Doctor testily. “Dimitri Borisovich, Anton Ivanovich, here are your beards! Luka’s is the grey and Smirnov’s is the brown.”

“Must we wear them?” asked Skyralenko. “I’m sure they will muffle our words.”

“Yes, you must!” insisted the Doctor. “You will just have to speak up.”