Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

From his seat on the sofa, Maslov could see all this and more. Nikolai Dresnyakov, now deep in conversation with Pavel Nadnikov, might be the chairman but it was he, Alexander Maslov, who was the magister ludorum, the master of the games. It was he who was the official spokesman of the drama committee. Roshkovsky might be the treasurer, but it was he, Alexander Maslov, with whom the suppliers had to deal. It was on his library’s small printing press that the playbills were designed and printed. It was he who could determine even the choice of play, merely by saying that one script was temporarily unavailable or had been withdrawn by the censor, and that another play might be more suitable instead. For as long as Nikolai Dresnyakov held the post of chairman (and he showed no desire to relinquish it) then it would be the Secretary who held the power. Maslov was confident that, in the end, even Dr. Tortsov would come to recognise this fact. It was therefore with a large degree of personal satisfaction that he now surveyed the chattering company that had come to witness the birth of what was, de facto if not de juro, another Alexei Maslov production.

The librarian’s sense of well-being was short-lived. As he took another sip of his soda water, he saw over the rim of his glass Belinsky pushing his way through the group by the door, and hailing Fyodor Gregorivich who was that instant passing with a tray of chilled flasks of vodka. Quickly gathering up his scripts, Maslov rose from his seat with the intention of plunging into the safety of the crowd. But it was too late.

“Oi, Maslov!” hollered Belinsky, making directly for him. “What a turn out, eh?”

“Hello Yuli Nikitavich,” he greeted the builder. “Yes, it does seem as if the production has acquired a certain interest in the town.”

Looking around him, Belinsky nodded vigorously in all directions. It became obvious to Maslov standing beside him that the glass of vodka he now held in his hand was not the first he had imbibed that evening. He winced as the builder nudged him heavily in the ribs.

“Here, where’s our famous director then? Do you think he’s got cold feet?”

“I’m sure that the doctor will appear presently,” he assured the builder. “Excuse me…”

He tried to move away, but Belinsky stretched out an arm and effortlessly pulled him back.

“Hold hard a minute. Don’t rush off.”

Intimidated by the builder’s strength, Maslov disengaged his arm as gently as he could.

“What do you want?” he asked uneasily.

“I need to speak to him soon,” Belinsky breathed over him tipsily. “About the scenery, see? I mean, I’ve got to have designs for the sets, haven’t I? After all, I’m a builder, not a bloody artist.”

“No, quite,” agreed Maslov, taking a pace backwards.

“So get on to it, will you?”

“You’ll have to speak to the doctor about that, not me. Excuse me.”

Belinsky’s arm reached out to detain him, but this time the librarian was more adroit and was able to evade his grasp. Pushing his way through the crowd towards the door, he heard Belinsky’s voice boom out above the hubbub of conversation.

“Remember Maslov, I want those drawings!”

It’s all like a bad dream, Maslov told himself.

Standing together in the centre of the lounge, Irena Kuibysheva and Leonid Kavelin watched his flight with amusement.

“The little man is being hounded,” she murmured.

As the librarian drew closer, she called out to him.

“Good evening, Alexander Vissarionovich!”

Turning to see who had hailed him, Maslov caught sight of them and changed his direction, making his way over to where they were standing.

Irena held out an elegant hand for him to clasp. Clutching the play scripts in one hand and still flustered by Belinsky’s boisterousness, the librarian did what, in the cool light of day, he would later recall with a shiver of embarrassment. He took the proffered hand and, with a small bow, pressed it lightly to his lips. Irena’s cry of delight tinkled across the room. Standing a few feet away, Tatyana Kavelina quickly turned her head, took in the scene and then returned to her conversation with the haberdasher M. Delyanov.

“Good evening, Irena Alexandrovna,” said the librarian hurriedly. “Good evening, Leonid Sergeivich.”

“Good heavens, Alexander Vissarionovich, how kulturny you are tonight!” cooed Irena. “We were just saying that we hope the play this year shall be as exhilarating as those in the past.”

“I think I can offer you an excellent production,” he replied, conscious of the poor figure he was cutting and of Kavelin’s expression of annoyance.

“I hear that it is a work by Chekhov, is that correct?”

“Two plays, actually.”

“Two? That is ambitious,” she exclaimed. “And who do you think should be in them this year? Do you have any ideas?”