Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The more he thought of those sinister stacks of wood in Pirogov’s workshop, the more troubled he became. A chilling explanation for the Mayor’s commission was growing in his mind which, if his suspicions were correct, placed not just his production but the population of Berezovo at risk. On leaving Pirogov’s workshop he had been determined to call upon the Mayor at once and demand an interview, but the journey back across town had cooled him down and returned some of his reason to him. He needed to collect more evidence, he told himself, before he could confront the Mayor. Instead of resting, he must go out a second time to speak to the other two carpenters whose names Pirogov had given him. The necessity of this extra visit filled him with such unreasoning anger that he shook his fist at the windows of the Mayor’s large house as he drove slowly past on his way to his own, more modest dwelling in Ostermann Street.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, and the world holds as self-evident, that medicine is an inward-looking profession obsessed with its own tribalism and convinced of its own sagacity. This latter deficiency is understandable. If patients consistently come expecting answers and invest their trust in one’s judgement, after a time even the most level-headed physician will be drawn to believe two things: that their patients know nothing and that their own judgement is infallible. Regrettably, this worldview can extend to include those closest to them.

As he was later to admit ruefully to himself, Dr. Tortsov might have saved himself a great deal of trouble and embarrassment if he had shared his anxiety over the Mayor’s mysterious order with his wife and his assistant and sought their counsel. Instead, at that day’s luncheon he shared nothing but his ill temper, rebuking them both in turn, and Katya for good measure. Flinging his napkin down he stalked out of the dining room as soon as the meal had finished, paying little attention to his wife, who fled upstairs, and leaving Anton Ivanovich Chevanin still seated at the table staring pale-faced at his plate. It should be recorded in the doctor’s defence that almost immediately he had felt ashamed of his loss of control. As a consequence, and because he believed that little, if anything, had ever been achieved by anger alone, Dr. Tortsov chose to walk the not inconsiderable distance back to the neighbourhood that he had visited that morning and where, two streets south of Pirogov’s workshop, Ovseenko’s premises were to be found.

* * *

Although it was not yet two o’clock in the afternoon, Ovseenko was already three quarters drunk and his wife had to hurriedly rouse him from his stupor, one moment scolding him in loud whispers for bringing disgrace to their household, the next plaintively offering their guest a glass of tea. Brushing her offer aside, the doctor waited with ill-concealed impatience while his host struggled to his feet and came forward to greet him. As soon as he was certain that the man could stand unaided, the doctor led him into his back yard where he hoped that the chill air might restore the craftsman to a state of partial, if resentful, sobriety.

Once outside, Dr. Tortsov wasted no time with the usual polite formalities.

“Ovseenko, has the Mayor placed an order for several sleighs with you?”

“Who wants to know?” slurred Ovseenko.

“Just answer me. Yes or no?”

“He may have,” replied the carpenter, swaying slightly. “What is it to you?”

“How many?”

Ovseenko opened his mouth to reply than shut it again. His thick lips twisted into a crafty smile.

“Are you trying to get me into trouble, Doctor? I’m not supposed to tell anybody about this.”

Gripping his arm, Dr. Tortsov began to shake it roughly.

“Just tell me how many. It’s very important.”

“Here, let go!” cried Ovseenko in alarm, trying to pull his arm away.

The two men struggled for an instant, then the carpenter stumbled and fell back against the wall of his house. Still holding him, the doctor came closer until his face was only a few inches from Ovseenko’s.

“How many, Ovseenko?” he repeated menacingly.

“Twelve!” shouted Ovseenko. “All right? Now get off of me!”

The two men separated, breathing heavily.

“Show me them,” demanded the doctor.

Grumbling, Ovseenko led the way round to his workshop. Unlocking two large doors, he pulled them wide open. Pushing past him, Dr. Tortsov saw that two completed sleighs had already been hoisted to the ceiling, to make extra room on the workshop floor. The running boards and seats of a third were lying untidily in a corner. He heard Ovseenko hurriedly closing the doors behind him.

“It’s supposed to be a secret,” he was complaining. “Nobody else is meant to know. The Mayor told me himself.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Tortsov flatly.

“How did you find out, then?” asked Ovseenko suspiciously. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Don’t be so absurd.”