by A J Allen
“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.
“Now, take yourself, for instance,” continued Tolkach smoothly. “What right has anyone to criticise you after all you have done for the town? Who do they think they are? Let’s take this question of diet, for example. Would they rather that you were as thin as a broom and living only on black bread and water? No man would last long as Mayor like that.”
“He wouldn’t?”
“Of course not! People trust officials who are well fed and handsomely built, like yourself. They prefer their Mayor to be a man of the world, a man who knows what’s what. And do you know why?”
Intrigued, Mayor Pobednyev shook his head.
“It’s because when they are in trouble, when they need to ask a favour, they want to deal with a man who they feel comfortable with. They don’t want some skeleton who looks as if he grubs along on five copecks a day. Those kinds of people are the very devil to deal with, I can assure you. They pride themselves on doing everything by the book, right down to the last detail. They never make jokes, or laugh like you or I do. I don’t even think they know how to.”
His eyes fixed on his host’s face, Tolkach paused to take another sip of his brandy.
“Now civic affairs, matters that arise between men, Anatoli Mikhailovich,” he went on, “these are delicate things. Tact is called for. A sense of discretion. A willingness to compromise. Sometimes following the rules too rigidly can actually stop you from solving a problem. I’m sure you agree with me.”
“Certainly, Modest Andreyevich,” the Mayor said solemnly. “I agree with every word you say. A man in my position must be firm, but fair. He must be prepared, if necessary and when all else fails, to bend the rules a little for the common good.”
Tolkach held up his hands in warning.
“But not break them!” he insisted.
“Good grief, I should think not!” exclaimed the Mayor warmly. “That would never do. No, not break them but just… you know… bend them. For the common good.”
“Precisely.”
“Otherwise,” continued the Mayor, warming to his theme, “how would man progress? If he stuck to the rules all the time, there would be no inventions or anything. The trick is,” he added, narrowing his eyes as he took another pull at his cigar, “to have both order and progress.”
“Order and progress,” repeated Tolkach. “Those are the most important things.”
They raised their glasses to each other and drained them.
“I’m glad we have had this opportunity to talk, Modest Andreyeivich,” said the Mayor as he poured them both another drink and then placed the bottle between them. “An intelligent man like yourself shouldn’t shut himself up in his office all day. You should try to get out more. Mix with the right people.”
“Since the death of my wife,” began Tolkach falteringly, “somehow…”
He let the rest of the sentence trail away into silence, conveying the impression that the subject was still too painful for him to discuss freely.
“Oh yes, a sad loss,” Pobednyev responded softly. “Forgive me if I spoke too soon. But life must go on, you know. There is still so much good that you can do here.”
At the mention of his wife, Tolkach had lowered his head in an attitude of sorrow. Now he slowly raised it, all his instincts alert to the turn the conversation had taken.
“How do you mean exactly?”
“Well, for instance,” mused the Mayor, “I see no reason why a man of your calibre shouldn’t be thinking of a seat on the town council.”
“The town council?”
His host nodded meaningfully. Tolkach considered the suggestion.
“I don’t know if the other councillors would think me worthy of the post.”
“They would if they knew you had my support. My personal support.”
“I have often felt,” admitted Tolkach, “that I could make a useful contribution to the welfare of the town, if ever I had the honour of being called to serve in some capacity.”
/> “Naturally,” said the Mayor silkily, “besides fulfilling your duties as hospital administrator and town councillor – assuming that you were elected, of course – you would be called upon, from time to time, to deal with matters of a confidential nature. Matters concerning the security of the town, for example.”
“I trust my record as a loyal soldier of his Imperial Majesty the Tsar speaks for itself.”
“Say no more, Modest Andreyeivich!” cried Pobednyev. “The very idea that anyone could doubt your trustworthiness is ridiculous. I’m sure that nobody, not even your enemies, could find the slightest reason to impugn your reputation as a public servant, no matter how hard they tried.”
“My enemies?” queried Tolkach with a tight smile.
The Mayor waved his half smoked cigar dismissively.
“It’s the kind of cross we in public life have to bear,” he explained. “As I said earlier, less talented people always tend to become envious when someone they know suddenly achieves promotion or advancement. They try to dig up all sorts of unsavoury episodes in his past, just so as to embarrass him. In some cases it can seriously compromise a man, and even lead to a police investigation.”
“A police investigation?” echoed Tolkach.
“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
“Paris is not so bad,” Paul admitted as he escorted Trotsky through the unfamiliar cobbled streets. “There are worse cities. But without Natalya Sedova, even Paris would lose some of its glamour. She, above all things, makes exile bearable.”
Trotsky noted the tone of affectionate protection.
“And the big fellow? Is he her lover?”
His companion laughed, a mirthless sound that sounded like cracking wood.
“Daniel? Her lover? No, they share the same birthday, that’s all. Natalya studies at the University and one of her professors presented her with some theatre tickets as a present. So, she has shared them with Daniel.”
They walked for ten minutes, talking intermittently. Noting how Paul either ignored or deflected his questions, Trotsky realised that the French comrades had chosen the venue for their rendezvous carefully so that it was not near their base. When they finally reached their destination, he was not surprised to see that it was a nondescript terraced house in a back street. The door was opened almost immediately and they were escorted to a sitting room at the rear of the house.
A solidly built woman in her mid-fifties was sitting waiting for them. Nursing a large sewing basket upon her knee she scrutinised the newcomer attentively through her rimless spectacles. Her thick square jaw and grey hair, tightly dressed in a bun, gave her a severe appearance.
As Paul and the woman ex
changed a few words Trotsky took in his new surroundings. It was a low ceilinged room with one window at the far end, across which two brown curtains were securely drawn. A small fire made of cheap coal and scavenged bits of box wood was smoking cheerlessly in the hearth. The second man who had opened the outer door to them was standing in the doorway blocking his exit. Beside the chair upon which the woman was sitting stood a large table covered by a heavy woollen blanket upon which Paul had placed his travelling case. From the few inches of wood revealed by the hem of the blanket, Trotsky felt that it was a good piece of furniture, probably a relic of more prosperous times. Somehow its fine quality diminished rather raised the standard of the room. The overall impression was one of drab, soul-grinding, petit-bourgeois domesticity.
His nervousness at the prolonged silence began to give way to a feeling of anti-climax. Somewhere further along the dark hallway he heard a door open and the swish of skirts. He thought again of the beautiful stranger he had glimpsed in the bar earlier that evening. Natalya had been her name; Natalya Sedova, his beautiful stranger. The aroma of a meat stew reached his nostrils and his stomach responded with a growl of hunger. He shifted his weight wearily from one foot to another.
“Take off your overcoat,” the woman said.
He began to shrug off the heavy travelling coat and was helped by unseen hands behind him.
“Now your jacket.”
Again he was helped and his jacket disappeared.
Relieved of the warmth of his jacket and coat, he moved instinctively towards the fire.
“Stay where you are,” the woman warned.
Looking at her in surprise, he saw that one of her hands had dipped quickly into the sewing box and although he could not see the gun, he heard the click as she released the safety catch.
“Where is the key to the case?”
Carefully he patted his left trouser pocket, and the woman jerked her head towards the table. Slowly he took the small key from his pocket and passed it to the man called Paul. Unsmiling, the Pole took it from him and began opening the battered suitcase. Trotsky watched as first the bottle he had been carrying as a personal present for ‘Jaques’ and then the worn clothes that had served as ballast for the case were removed and laid carefully upon the blanket. Reaching into a jacket pocket, Paul produced a closed clasp knife which he carefully opened, revealing a blade about four or five inches long that glinted dully in the lamplight.
