Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“That perhaps is the greatest of God’s blessings,” he said kindly. “We forget the suffering and remember only the good times, however silly or foolish they might be. Without that, life would be unbearable, wouldn’t it, Lenochka?”

Yeliena did not answer.

* * *

Later that afternoon Colonel Izorov lay in bed beside his wife, one arm tucked behind his head, the other cuddling her warm body. An enigmatic smile played on his lips. His wife watched his face, her eyes half closed. Drawing an arm out from beneath the blankets she affectionately traced his smile with her fingers, withdrawing it quickly when he nipped playfully at her fingers. She stroked the bristles on his cheek and chin softly.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked softly.

“Nothing important. I was thinking about the play tonight.”

His wife stroked his chin again and sighed.

“Don’t mention it! I have no idea what I can wear,” she said.

Turning his head, he kissed her hand absentmindedly and said nothing.

“It will be freezing in the barracks hall. Matriona Pobednyeva is sure to wear her new outfit again. Everything I have is either old or worn out.”

“I’m sure you will find something to wear.”

“It’s all right for you. All you have to do is put on your dress uniform and polish your boots,” she began to complain.

Raising himself on one elbow, he began kissing her repeatedly, stopping her mouth with his lips.

As he did so, he wondered whether the Tolkachs had used to make love in the afternoon. Probably not, he thought. Tolkach’s wife always struck me as a neurotic type of woman who lived on her nerves and who was never still.

Had she been the driving force behind Tolkach’s ambition, he wondered, appearing silent and demure in public and yet, at home, never giving him rest? Always on at him to better himself, to earn more so that they could keep up with the Pobednyevas and the Nadnikovas. So that even in the aftermath of his passion, the poor man couldn’t have a moment’s peace, but be subject to her incessant demands for new clothes, better furniture and the thousand and one things that her covetous darting eyes had lighted upon. Was that why he had killed her?

Perhaps that is what being a wife is, he thought. Maybe it’s a mystery passed on from mother to daughter: hit them while they are still warm.

With a final kiss, he lay back beside his wife, his head next to hers on the pillow. Since his wedding day he had known no other woman. Not for him a string of lovers in far away places like Kuibyshev; not on a Chief of Police’s salary.

“You don’t need a new dress to be the most beautiful woman there,” he said gently as his hand began to explore the warm places of her body for a second time.

“Oh Kostya Izorov,” she giggled, “you’re such a greedy pig!”

* * *

All over Berezovo, preparations were in hand to ensure that the attendance at that night’s festivities would be a well-groomed, if not glittering, occasion. Shoes were polished, stockings darned, buttons sewn on, underskirts pressed, hems repaired and, amongst the better run households, jackets brushed. Critical decisions were agonised over and made: Madame Pobednyeva would indeed wear her new dark blue barathea; Madame Nadnikova her grey outfit; Madame Kuibysheva, her creme. In his bedroom, the librarian Maslov paced up and down, nervously repeating his lines. In the play in which he was appearing, and which lasted for the best part of twenty minutes, he had less than thirty lines, but each, he told himself, was crucial to the development of the action. He had had more: the script had shown thirty-four lines of dialogue to be exact, but over a fifth had been excised by the Doctor. It was, he recognised, professional jealousy on the part of an inexperienced and insecure director, but he would rise above it.

At the Dresnyakovs, no mention had been made of the performance that evening until, as she was gathering together her music, Alexandra Alexandrovna asked her brother:

“I don’t suppose the piano at the barracks has been tuned properly?”

Upon receiving the answer in the negative, she smiled meaningfully:

“Good! I do so like a challenge.”