Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

At last the Mayor pushed back his chair, gave a satisfied belch and motioned his guest to follow him into what he was fond of calling his ‘private study’. Thankful to escape his hostess’s basilisk stare, Tolkach did as he was bid and found himself in a small room cluttered with furniture. Waving him towards a chair, Pobednyev began rummaging in the bottom drawer of a dilapidated roll-top desk that occupied one corner of the room. Having removed a handful of documents, which he rid himself of by the simple expedient of dropping them to the floor, the Mayor drew out a half-empty bottle of brandy and an unopened box of cigars which he produced from behind his back for Tolkach’s inspection in a manner that reminded his guest of a parlour conjuror.

“Here you are, Modest Andreyevich!” he wheezed, thrusting the bottle into his hand. “This will help us wash down my wife’s glotkas.”

As the Mayor turned his back again and began searching for some glasses, Tolkach inspected the label on the bottle and saw that it was an inferior marque.

A growl of triumph signalled that his host had been successful in his search. Tolkach watched in silence as the Mayor poured two generous measures of the amber liquid. Taking the glass proffered to him, the hospital administrator held it up level with his eyes and waited until the Mayor had done likewise. Together they saluted each other and drained their glasses with a single swallow. A second glass was poured and the box of cigars offered, which he declined. Taking a cigar for himself, Mayor Pobednyev closed the box and put it on the floor beneath his feet. He pierced the cigar and then, patting the pockets of his ample waistcoat, extracted a slim box of phosphor matches.

“Well now, my friend,” he said, sucking noisily on the end of his lit cigar, “at last we can talk. Tell me, how is life treating you nowadays?”

“I can’t complain,” replied Tolkach with a shrug.

The two men eyed each other shrewdly.

“But,” he continued, “I was just thinking how fortunate you are, Anatoli Mikhailovich, to have a wife who understands good food. The meal was excellent.”

“Perhaps I am too fortunate,” observed his host with a chuckle. “Matriona is always telling me that I eat too much.”

Spreading his hands, the Mayor framed the girth of his belly.

“All the men in my family have had good appetites. Why, my father used to eat twice as much as I do and he lived until he was well over seventy.”

“It must be especially difficult not to eat well,” sympathised Tolkach, “when you have such nourishing meals put in front of you. After all, a man must keep his strength up. The number of people I see finishing up in the hospital, just because they haven’t taken enough care of themselves and kept themselves properly fed… It’s appalling.”

“That’s just my point,” agreed the Mayor. “Yet my wife insists on giving me portions that would starve a bird. And in the middle of winter too, just when a man needs something extra to keep him going.”

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice confidentially.

“Between you and me, Modest Andreyeivich, she says that it is unseemly that the Mayor should be so well fed. She says that it encourages envy amongst the poor. What do you make of that, eh?”

Tolkach scratched his ear and smiled apologetically.

“If you forgive me for saying so, Anatoli Mikhailovich, and I mean no disrespect to Matriona Fiodorovna, but she is quite wrong; about as wrong as she could be. If nobody else, it is for the Mayor to set an example to the other citizens of the town. He shouldn’t starve himself like a monk living off scraps. I can assure you that you look the picture of health to me, and a fine advertisement for Berezovo. If only others took as good care of themselves as you do, my job would be a lot easier.”

Mayor Pobednyev nodded happily and, raising his glass to his guest, swallowed the remainder of his brandy. Motioning to Tolkach to do likewise, he stood up and began refilling the empty glasses.

“But you understand what I mean about envy, don’t you? Why,” he confided in tones of disbelief as he handed Tolkach his drink, “even some of the town council look at me with green eyes, I’m sure of it.”

Saluting his host, Tolkach raised his glass to his lips and took a sip.

“Professional envy is a funny thing, Anatoli Mikhailovich,” he responded thoughtfully. “Even in my humble capacity as a hospital administrator I am attacked, not for failing but for being too successful. Why, I have halved the number of patients in the hospital and more than doubled the revenue, yet no one seems to appreciate the improvements I have made. But do I let it worry me? Of course not! Let them plot and scheme, I say! As long as I do my job correctly, they will have no grounds for complaint.”

“Hear, hear!” rumbled the Mayor.