Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Dr. Tortsov is the director this year,” Maslov informed her. “It’s really up to him to decide. But,” he added, bowing again to the man who was standing beside her, “if I could perhaps persuade Leonid Sergeivich here…? There seem to be a preponderance of male parts on offer.”

“Did you hear that, Leonid Sergeivich?” asked Irena brightly, turning to her escort. “A preponderance of male parts! That certainly bears thinking about, wouldn’t you say?”

Seeing the twinkle of amusement in her eye, Kavelin gave an embarrassed cough.

“I’m afraid that Dr. Tortsov shall have to look elsewhere,” he replied. “I’m far too busy to spend time acting.”

But Irena would not let him off the hook so easily.

“Nonsense!” she teased him. “I know you men of business. It’s not work that stops you. You’re just too shy to act.”

Turning back to Maslov, she sighed longingly.

“I’m sure that if the right part came along, I could not refuse it. As long as it was big enough, of course. And I had a strong man to support me.”

Kavelin coughed again and gave her a sharp glance of warning.

“I regret there is only one part for a lady this year,” Maslov informed them. “That is of a rich widow.”

Seemingly oblivious of the warm exchange of glances going on above his head, the small librarian looked round agitatedly.

“If you will excuse me, I really must see if I can find Dr. Tortsov. He will be able to answer all your questions.”

With another bow, he excused himself and plunged back into the crowd. Smiling, Irena watched him go.

“How would you like me if I was a rich widow, Leonid?” she asked.

“No better than I like you now,” muttered Kavelin.

His gaze was also turned outwards to encompass the crowd that surrounded him, nervously seeking to catch sight of his wife who had, it seemed, disappeared with her haberdasher.

Madame Kuibysheva laughed softly.

“Surely you aren’t jealous of little Maslov?”

“That worm? Good God, no! It’s just that I consider it unnecessary of you to permit him to kiss your hand like that. Damn it, Irena…”

“Hush,” breathed Irena. “Now don’t make a scene, I beg you. As you say, he is pathetic. All the same…”

She began to giggle. Exasperated, he turned back to face her.

“Perhaps you should take a leaf out of his book,” she suggested. “Such gestures make a woman feel appreciated. A kiss like that is so… so French.”

Kavelin was about to reply when, over her shoulder, he glimpsed his wife moving through the crowd in their direction. He raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“Allow me to fetch you a glass of water, Irena Alexandrovna,” he said loudly.

Turning to see who he was looking at, Irena gave Tatyana a radiant smile.

“Thank you, Leonid Sergeiovich. I would be most grateful. For some reason, my throat has become quite dry.”

The lounge was becoming overcrowded as more people arrived to witness the casting ceremony and to take advantage of the drama committee’s hospitality. To avoid the crush, some of the assembly were spilling out onto the small landing outside the lounge. Worming his way through the press of bodies, Maslov was growing anxious about the delay in the proceedings. It was now half past seven and there was still no sign of the doctor. Furthermore, Fyodor Gregorivich was carrying in yet another tray of flasks. At this rate that the committee would be bankrupt before the plays were cast.

Well, he told himself, nobody could blame him. He had drunk nothing but soda water and he was quite willing to pay for that out of his own pocket should it prove necessary.

Unable to see over the heads of the people around him, Maslov stood on a chair and searched in vain for the other members of the committee. Nikolai Dresnyakov, pipe in hand, was talking earnestly with a group of parents over by the hearth while, by the far windows, Belinsky and Roshkovsky were having what appeared to be a row. Of Dr. Tortsov, there was no sign.

The sound of loud voices coming up the staircase that led from the hotel’s vestibule made him jump down from his vantage point and hurry out onto the landing. But instead of the doctor, he saw that the new arrivals were the Mayor and his wife, accompanied by a cheerful Modest Tolkach.

“And here is Alexander Vissarionovich!” Mayor Pobednyev boomed as the trio reached the top of the stairs. “Good man!”

Catching sight of the crowd within, he exclaimed, “What is this? A party? Are you celebrating even before the play has been produced?”

Maslov greeted them, bestowing a bobbing bow on each in turn.

“Good evening, Your Excellency, Madame Pobednyeva, Modest Andreyivich! I’m afraid that we are running a trifle behind schedule. Dr. Tortsov has still to arrive. Meanwhile,” he added, gesturing towards the lounge, “Fyodor Gregorivich has provided refreshments, although at the moment I am not sure who is paying for them. I fear that the committee’s funds are almost non-existent at the moment.”

“Don’t you worry, Alexander Vissarionovich,” advised the Mayor, slapping him on the back. “You can tell everyone that I am covering the cost of the drinks.”