by A J Allen
Colonel Izorov nodded confirmation.
“Naturally,” the Captain said with a ghost of a smile, “we shall give the Colonel every assistance, but I would hesitate before sending my men into the heart of the Quarter. For a start, the streets are too narrow and winding to use cavalry effectively and,” his smile widened, “my horses are rather particular about what they smell.”
“Captain Steklov is right,” agreed Colonel Izorov. “Leave me to look after the Jews and the Reds. As far as I know, it will be a complete surprise to all of them. By the time they have organised any trouble, these people will have gone.”
Turning to Skyralenko, he asked him to tell them what preparations had been made to accommodate the new arrivals.
Skyralenko coughed nervously, and smoothed down his moustache with a gesture much imitated by his prisoners.
“After the prisoners have arrived and have been accounted for, they will be brought to the prison and allocated their cells,” he announced. “Married prisoners with their families on the top floor, single unaccompanied men on the bottom floor. At this very moment, the building is being scrubbed down from top to bottom. Also the heating will be on full from today onwards, and will remain so for the length of their stay.”
“What about our own prisoners?” Colonel Izorov prompted him.
“Ah, yes. As we agreed, our own prisoners are to be released on the Sunday morning.”
Turning to the Mayor, he asked:
“Your Excellency, might I suggest that we do this during the church service, so as to attract as little attention in the town as possible?”
“Very well,” agreed the Mayor warmly. “A capital idea.”
“There is only one thing that I have yet to do and that is arrange their meals,” confessed the Prison Director. “I am afraid that the whole question of food presents a problem.”
“Why is that?” asked Colonel Izorov.
“Firstly there is the question of money. As they are state prisoners and not town prisoners, should I send the bill for the food to Tobolsk or Peterhof? Secondly, some of the food will have to be prepared in advance for when they arrive. Who will do that? Especially if only the four of us are meant to know about this business?”
The three men looked expectantly at Colonel Izorov.
“That’s a good point, Konstantin Illyich,” said Mayor Pobednyev. “And here’s another thing. With all the arrangements that are to be made for the civic reception, it is inevitable that very soon I shall have to inform the Town Council about this.”
“Impossible,” answered the Chief of Police brusquely.
“What do you have in mind, Colonel?” Captain Steklov baited him. “Hold the reception and only afterwards tell everybody why they came?”
“I see no alternative,” persisted the Mayor. “I must call an emergency meeting of the Council, in secret session. Otherwise there won’t be a reception at all.”
Gesturing them to be seated, Colonel Izorov began to roll up the map.
“Would that be such a bad thing?” he mused aloud.
“Konstantin Illyich!” exclaimed the Mayor, shaken by the prospect of his triumph being cancelled. “Besides the fact that we have already agreed to hold a reception, and I myself have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to make the necessary arrangements, it is our duty to the citizens of Berezovo to mark this historic occasion, however unsavoury it is. And we must impress upon these swine our undying loyalty to His Imperial Majesty the Tsar. Not have a reception? Pah!”
“It’s more than a matter of whether we hold the reception or not,” observed Skyralenko quietly. “There is also our legal responsibility concerning the freeing of the prisoners.”
“Temporary freeing,” Colonel Izorov corrected him.
“Yes, temporary freeing, of course,” said Skyralenko hastily. “But what happens if one of them commits a crime in the meantime? Would it not be better for the Town Council to at least be aware of this and give it their official approval?”
“What Skyralenko has said about his prisoners goes for everybody,” the young Captain joined in. “I have been puzzled about by what you, Colonel, intend to do if someone, anyone, actually commits a crime while they are here. You can’t put them in jail. You can’t spare the men to guard them. It occurs to me that your only alternative is to inform the Town Council and asked them to draw up a list of names of people prepared to become police auxiliaries for the duration.”
“My orders are quite definite,” said Colonel Izorov stubbornly. “This is a matter for total secrecy. No mention about swearing in special policemen; just that we have to keep our mouths shut as long as we can.”
“Your orders also said that forty sleighs were to be provided,” insisted Pobednyev. “Am I correct? But there’s no mention of who is meant to pay for them.”
“We have already discussed that,” said the Colonel.
“I know! And you said that the Town should cover the cost and I accepted that. But doesn’t that mean that at least Sergei Kuprin, as Revenue Officer, ought to know about this? After all, Leonid Kavelin already knows something’s up.”
“Where does Kavelin come into all this?” asked Captain Steklov.
Colonel Izorov, seeing his chance to return the Captain’s earlier fire, smiled.
“It’s quite simple if you think about it, Captain,” he explained. “Kavelin is a timber merchant, the sleighs are made of wood, and so on. Anyway, I wouldn’t be too concerned about Leonid Sergeivich Kavelin, if I were you. If the Mayor here chose to apply a little pressure, he would see the necessity of silence. He is not without certain unexplained patterns of behaviour of his own.”
The tacit threat of blackmail brought a pained expression to Mayor Pobednyev’s face.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Colonel,” he murmured.
Colonel Izorov shrugged.
“Maybe, maybe not. However, I see that I am outnumbered, and Anatoli Mihailovich’s arguments are very persuasive,” he admitted. “The reception, the prisoners, the money… these are all things that the Council now should know about. But,” he added, “they will be informed on my terms. Is that acceptable to you?”
“That depends on the terms you have in mind, Colonel,” said Pobednyev guardedly.
“Firstly, that I shall tell them myself. Secondly, that the Council will meet in secret session to hear what I have to say. Thirdly, that they will sign a document to testify that they are in possession of highly secret information which they promise not to disclose or discuss with anyone else.”
The Mayor hesitated for a moment and then gave a cautious nod of agreement.
“These sound very reasonable conditions,” he agreed.
Inwardly, Pobednyev was relieved that the days of waiting were nearing an end. Mingled with his relief was a sense of surprise: he had not expected Kostya Izorov to capitulate so easily. Captain Steklov had assured him that it would take hard pounding to make him move his position an inch. Their only hope had been for them to work together, and launch a simultaneous attack on two different fronts. Yet barely had the battle begun than the Colonel had surrendered, and with some grace. It was typically contrary to their expectations.
Sitting beside him, Dimitri Skyralenko smiled contentedly, aware that the Mayor had that morning slung a noose, as yet still loose, around the Town Council’s collective neck. If anything went wrong with the arrangements, Colonel Izorov ran no risk of running short of people to blame.
“Good,” said Colonel Izorov as the conference began to break up. “Until I speak to the Council, I shall assume that only we four know what is happening next Sunday.”
“I’ve told my men that we are rehearsing for a surprise general inspection,” remarked Captain Steklov, walking over to where he had left his military greatcoat folded on a chair by the door. “They think the Provincial Governor is coming.”
Colonel Izorov nodded with approval and looked enquiringly at the other two men.
“I haven’
t told anyone,” said Pobednyev quickly.
“Nor I,” said Skyralenko.
“And my spies amongst the exiles have not reported even the slightest ripple in the Quarter,” Colonel Izorov assured them. “So I think we still have the advantage, gentlemen. I will continue to monitor that situation but at the moment only we four know about the exiles’ arrival, and possibly a fifth, Leonid Kavelin.”
“And Dr. Tortsov, of course,” said Pobednyev.
The Colonel’s eyes narrowed in warning, but it was too late.
“What’s this?” demanded Captain Steklov. “Dr. Tortsov knows as well? How? Who told him?”
Pobednyev looked apologetically at the Chief of Police.
“There was a rumour that we were considering evacuating the town because of the typhoid epidemic in some of the outer villages,” explained Colonel Izorov smoothly. “The Doctor got to hear about it. Naturally, he was concerned. He went to the Mayor who, quite properly, referred him to me. I had to tell him the truth.”
The Captain glared at him.
“I don’t have to tell you, Colonel,” he said slowly, “that if I thought there was a risk of my men running into any organised opposition while performing their duties, I would not hesitate to order them to take the appropriate action.”
“Don’t worry,” Colonel Izorov promised him. “Tortsov won’t talk. He has enough on his mind as it is.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Captain Steklov.
The Chief of Police’s assumption was entirely correct: the arrival of the convoy of exiles was indeed the last thing on Doctor Tortsov’s mind. So traumatised was he from the unexpected blow that had befallen him that morning that, rinsing his hands under the dispensary tap, the Doctor felt as if he had been struck by lightning. To have made a fool of himself in front of the Mayor and then Izorov had been bad enough, but to learn from young Anton that Modest Tolkach had manoeuvred himself into playing the part of Smirnov “the Bear” opposite Yeliena and had been boasting he would put horns on the Doctor’s head in front of the whole town was intolerable. And now this: to be told, to his face, that his wife had been so upset that she had been on the point of leaving him and had only been stopped by the persuasion of his own junior assistant. He would rather die than to experience further humiliations.
Dazed, he turned off the tap, forcing himself to think clearly. Who had suggested that Tolkach should play opposite Yeliena? Who? Of course… the Mayor! It was typical of a snake like Tolkach to have found a pander to do his dirty work for him.
He had been such a fool, he told himself. Yeliena had told him that she had not wanted to be in the play, but he had been too proud to listen. And now she was being pursued by Tolkach and he had been too busy, too blind, too stupid, to see it. All those nights spent sleeping in leaking yurts. How he had longed to return to their house in Ostermann Street. Now he hated it all: the house; the town; his wife; his whole damned life.
Blindly reaching up, he pulled down the small towel that hung from a nail above the sink and began to dry his hands, methodically rubbing each finger in turn until every drop of water had been removed.
All the nights he had been away from home…
He would kill Tolkach, he decided. He would kill him, with his bare hands. He would pin him down and squeeze his throat and listen as his heels drummed helplessly against the floor. He would keep squeezing as the bastard’s face changed colour and grew darker and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. He would squeeze until he heard his death rattle. He would murder Tolkach as surely as Madame Tolkacha had been murdered.
“Doctor, are you all right?” said the figure in the doorway.
Dimly hearing the voice above the roaring in his ears, Dr. Tortsov nodded automatically in response, wondering as he fought back his tears why God was being so cruel. Having already taken his son from him, would He now take his wife and deliver her into the hands of a monster like Tolkach, and as a consequence drive his servant to the gallows? Was that how the greatness of God was measured: by His cruelty? He knew how much the loss of little Sasha had meant to her. He recognised how sad and empty she must feel without the consolation of children. Why hadn’t he comforted her more? Let old wounds heal, he had told himself. The truth was that he had been too frightened, and too inadequate, to help her. He hadn’t that gift, not like Father Arkady. He had seen too much suffering; far, far too much. He had developed a shell, like a crab. He had never found the words, or the time, to comfort and cherish her. Now it was too late. Suddenly, just like that. Too late!
Momentarily stricken by grief and stress he bowed his head and felt the heat of his tears as they began trickling in hot runnels down his cheek. His body’s response surprised him. When was the last time he had cried? At hearing the news of his father’s death? He had not cried for his mother, and not even for little Sasha.
Yes, he told himself, I have lost Yeliena, but not suddenly.
Despite what they told each other he had always known that the difference in their ages would matter. And how long had Tolkach been waging his campaign of seduction? Whatever his opinion of the Hospital Director, he was no Tartar. He didn’t just ride in and grab a woman; he would wait and plot and scheme. It was probable that this situation had not arisen with the play at all but long before. If Yeliena had not somehow attracted Tolkach’s attention, if Tolkach’s persistence had been wholly unwelcome to her, then surely she would never have considered leaving their home? Surely she would have come to him and said, “Vasili, you must do something about this.” But she hadn’t. Prompted by the last shreds of loyalty and decency in her, she had chosen to run away. Had she tried to escape from the inevitable because she knew that, if she stayed, she might succumb? All that time and she had said nothing to him. Nothing!
“Doctor?”
Dr. Tortsov opened his eyes and attempted a reassuring smile. The towel had become a tightly twisted coil in his hands. Unravelling it, he slowly rubbed it against his face, hiding his grief from Chevanin’s gaze.
If only he could stop crying…
“I’m all right, Anton,” he said through his tears. “What you’ve told me… it’s been a shock, that’s all.”
He pressed the towel more firmly to his face and let out a shuddering sigh. His household had become the subject of scandal and speculation. The whole town knew that his wife was being stolen from behind his back like a lump of meat. Chevanin had told him that he had even heard the affaire being openly discussed in the waiting room.
Wiping his eyes, he placed the towel neatly beside the small hand basin and turned to face his assistant standing in the dispensary’s doorway. He walked over to Chevanin and put his hands on the young man’s shoulders.
“Look at me, Anton.”
Too embarrassed, the Doctor assumed, to witness his grief, his assistant refused to meet his gaze.
Dr. Tortsov shook him gently.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly.
Chevanin’s blue eyes, troubled and full of pain, found his.
“You’re a good boy, Anton Ivanovich. A good boy, for telling me this. It was a kindness, you see; no matter how much it has wounded me.”
“Doctor…” Chevanin began in a faltering voice, but the Doctor hushed him.
“Ssh! You know,” he continued, “I think of you almost as my son. If Sasha had lived, I would have wanted him to grow up to be a man much like you. Instead…”
He sighed and shook his head as he felt the words begin to slip away from him.
“And I am lucky to have you as my helper and as, I hope, my friend,” he finished haltingly.
He watched as, red faced and too full of his own emotions to speak, the young man swallowed and nodded.
“Good. Then as a friend, you will do this for me? You won’t tell anyone what you have just told me? Nobody, especially not Yeliena.”
Chevanin nodded again.
“Do you promise me that?” insisted Dr. Tortsov.
“I promise,” whispered C
hevanin.
Drawing his young assistant towards him, Dr. Tortsov embraced him and planted a paternal kiss on both of his cheeks. Then, stepping back, he reached for his outer coat.
“What are you going to do?” asked Chevanin as he helped him on with his coat.
“I’m going to speak to Tolkach.”
“No! You mustn’t!” said Chevanin hurriedly.
“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything rash. A moment ago, I wanted to kill him,” he confided grimly. “I would have too if he had been here. But now, I will just tell him that I know what he is up to and warn him to keep away from Yeliena.”
“But what about your play?”
The doctor looked at him blankly.
“Oh, that? Well… I will just have to find someone else for her part.”
“But don’t you see? That won’t stop people talking,” argued Chevanin, stepping between the Doctor and the doorway to the empty waiting room. “On the contrary, it will only confirm the rumours. Yeliena Mihailovna has done nothing wrong. She shouldn’t be blamed. She dislikes Tolkach as much as you do.”
“Surely you aren’t suggesting that I let him play opposite her?”
“No, of course not! But if you start looking for a substitute female, people will start thinking that you don’t trust your wife. She’ll be no better thought of than Irena Kuibysheva, only she won’t have Kuibyshev’s money to protect her.”
The Doctor paused and then motioned Chevanin to follow him through to the consulting room. He could not understand his assistant’s thinking but one thing was clear. He had two problems to deal with: the first was Tolkach; the second Yeliena. Taking a tin of cigarettes from his desk drawer, he offered one to Chevanin.
“What do you suggest I should do?” he asked. “I can’t just ignore this.”
“Of course not!” repeated Chevanin. “But you must realise that Tolkach has gained some powerful friends. What’s more, he is a coward. If you go to him now and tell him to keep away from Yeliena Mihailovna and that he should resign his role as The Bear Smirnov, then he might very well do the first – almost certainly I would say – but there’s a good chance that, just to spite you, he won’t do the second. He has the Mayor’s backing, and he’ll know that the last thing you will want is to give fuel to gossips. So all he has to do is sit tight. And if you refuse to direct him, everyone will know why.”
