Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Bundling her husband back into their bed, she had bargained her silence for her place on the dais. Now her mind was racing and she grew restless as she went over the many decisions that still had to be made. So much depended upon the maintaining the element of surprise. The tailor Polezhayev had already asked several pointed questions about her purchase. He was no fool; he could smell business a hundred versts away. And then there were the finer points of protocol to be considered, especially with the seating arrangements on the dais. Did Dr. Tortsov have precedence over the school teacher Nikolai Dresnyakov? And Father Arkady: should he be to the right of the Mayor, next to Colonel Izorov, or to the Mayor’s left beside the revenue officer? And then there was the matter of the mayoral address. She couldn’t leave that to Tolly, otherwise they would be stuck there all day and catch their deaths from cold. There were so many arrangements she had to attend to, starting with that evening’s dinner for the hospital administrator. Tolly had insisted that they gave the maid the night off and the meal wouldn’t cook itself.

Drawing her arm back, she dug her elbow into her husband’s ribs. He grunted again in protest and rolled away from her. About to give him another dig, she stopped herself. Stealthily, she let her fingers measure the distance across the crumpled bed sheet between his body and hers. If her reckoning was correct, Tolly was now laying precariously close to the edge of the bed; the slightest movement would precipitate him over into the narrow gap between the edge of the bed and the wall. Suppressing another giggle, she felt for the small of his back. Holding her breath, she drew her hand back and then gave her husband a tremendous shove. She was rewarded with the sound of his startled cry and a muffled thud as his body hit the floorboards.

That will teach him to wear his boots in bed, she thought.

The Mayor had been held in the grip of a pleasurable, if disturbing, dream. It was a dream so vivid that even the manner of his rude awakening, when it came, seemed unremarkable; a natural continuance of what he was experiencing.

Like a bird he was flying over the town. It was late spring or perhaps early summer, for he could feel the heat of the sun on his back and see the nodding heads of the green rushes that grew from the rich black soil along the riverbank. To his left, Berezovo spread out below him; most clearly the long straight bar of Alexei Street with the three golden cupolas of the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary shining dully at one end, and at the other, the window panes of the town hall winking in the sunlight. Banking effortlessly, he circled the rooftops, swooping down Hospital Street and soaring over the market square where he could make out diminutive figures pointing up at him in alarm and wonder. He knew that they were shouting at him but his ears heard nothing except the sound of the gentle insistent rush of the wind that fanned his face and ruffled his hair. He exulted in his ability to fly, and felt sorry for the earthbound creatures below him.

He allowed himself to drift lower, hardly having to move his arms at all to correct his altitude. As he glided over the scattered upturned faces, he was able to identify one or two of them. There were the merchants Shiminski and Nadnikov and, standing near them, the taller figure of the blacksmith Chirikov, one hand on his hip, the other shading his eyes from the glare of the sun as he stared impassively up at him. He saw Nadnikov half-heartedly raise one hand to wave to him and watched as Shiminski pulled it down and begin remonstrating with him. Other figures joined them and soon a small crowd of people had gathered, each arguing and gesticulating to each other. They were angry with him, because he was able to fly and they could not. Unable to stop even if he had wanted to, Pobednyev retraced the path of his flight down Alexei Street. As he passed the upper storey of the Hotel New Century, he caught a glimpse of a naked young woman watching him from a window of one of the rooms. Her face seemed familiar, but he could not recall her name; she had let down her hair and her nakedness confused him. Could it be Irena Kuibysheva? He hoped so. He waved shyly as he flew past her, but she did not respond. Someone unseen was calling to her from inside the room and she turned away and vanished from view.