Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Yes,” continued Pobednyev casually. “That is why someone as clever as you must take the additional precaution of cultivating powerful friends. As you yourself said earlier, even the post of hospital administrator attracts covetous glances.”

“In the event of my being asked to serve upon the council,” said Tolkach slowly, “I would naturally show my gratitude to you in any way you should think fit.”

“Why, thank you, Modest Andreyeivich.”

“I mean if there was anything particular you had in mind, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Well now, let me see.”

There was a moment’s silence as the Mayor appeared to give the matter some thought.

“There was one thing,” he said finally, gesturing to his guest to refill their glasses.

“Please, tell me,” urged Tolkach as he leaned forward to take the bottle.

“It was something my wife said the other night.”

Tolkach poured the Mayor his drink and watched as Pobednyev settled back easily in his chair.

“She’s a remarkable woman, my wife,” mused his host. “The other night she turned to me and said: ‘You know, Anatoli Mikhailovich, the trouble with Berezovo is that it has no civic pride.’ Just like that. Straight out of the blue. Now what do you make of that?”

“Remarkable!” agreed Tolkach. “No civic pride, eh?”

“That’s what she said. Matriona Fiodorovna feels that the town needs something to act as a focal point, to make us all proud of being Beresovites. And by God, I think she’s right.”

“What do you mean? Something like a new Town Hall?”

“No, not quite,” replied the Mayor, adding with a sigh as he took another sip of his brandy, “Although, God knows, we need one. The roof leaks every spring and it’s as cold as a witch’s tit for most of the year. But still, we don’t complain. No, I think what she meant is something out in the street. Something that the public can point to and say ‘This is a symbol of Berezovo’.”

“You mean, like a well?”

“We already have a well,” the Mayor reminded him.

Tolkach hazarded another guess.

“A fountain, then?”

The Mayor grinned and playfully wagged a finger at him.

“I can tell you were brought up in the city! A fountain would be a good idea in Moscow or Petersburg, but up here it would be frozen for half of the year and stink for the other half. Besides, there would always be the cost of maintaining it. No, I was thinking of something more artistic.”

Slowly the light began to dawn in Tolkach’s face.

“A portrait?”

“Out in the street?” the Mayor corrected him patiently.

“Of course,” Tolkach exclaimed with a snap of his fingers. “Now I have it! A statue.”

“Exactly!” confirmed Pobednyev. “Only it would be more of a monument, really. ‘The Berezovo Monument’. Erected by public subscription as a token of celebration.”

“Celebrating what exactly, Anatoli Mikhailovich?”

“The town’s history…. Great events…” the Mayor replied vaguely, “that sort of thing. What do you think?”

“I can see that it is an excellent idea,” answered Tolkach at once. “With the state of the country as it is, everybody is rather down at the mouth at the moment. It would be good for the town’s morale. But what kind of monument would it be?”

“Oh, that can be settled later,” said Mayor Pobednyev airily. “The question is, would you be prepared to sound out one or two of our prominent citizens on the notion? But,” he added, holding up a finger of warning, “whatever you do, you mustn’t mention that you had the idea from me. I know some of those rascals! They would think nothing of depriving the people of their monument if they thought it would annoy me. I would rather resign my office than let that happen.”

“Leave it to me, Anatoli Mikhailovich,” Tolkach assured him. “I won’t breathe a word of your involvement in the project. But people will want to know who the statue… the monument is of. What shall I tell them?”

“Who do you think it should be of?” asked Mayor Pobednyev genially.

“His Imperial Majesty the Tsar?” suggested Tolkach, remembering the Mayor’s earlier reference to his military service.

Mayor Pobednyev hurriedly shook his head, disturbed by the suggestion.

“And give the exiles something to daub red paint over in the dead of night? No, that would be most unwise.”

Tolkach tried again.

“How about one of Menshikov or of Ostermann? They were citizens of Berezovo, if only for a short time.”

“For exactly the same reason!” said the Mayor, shaking his head. “How would it look if we started erecting monuments to people who were sent into exile by one of the Tsar’s ancestors? Kostya Izorov, for one, would be none too pleased.”

Tolkach was baffled.

“Of course. It was foolish of me to suggest it. But who then?”

Getting slowly to his feet, the Mayor picked up the bottle and drained the last few drops of brandy into Tolkach’s glass. Leaning forward, he placed a hand paternally on the hospital administrator’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Councillor,” he advised him. “Given time, I’m confident someone will occur to you.”

Chapter Ten

1902

Paris