by A J Allen
“I am not happy, Vasili,” she told him mournfully. “I feel the bars nestle closer with age. You don’t love me anymore and I’m not sure how I feel about you. There seems to be little point in us going on together.”
Moving quickly, he went and sat down beside her on the settee.
“That’s not true,” he quietly insisted. “I do love you.”
“How can you?” she complained. “You don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Yes I do,” he told her confidently, “and I love you very, very much. It pains me to see you so unhappy.”
“Can you blame me?” she asked with a sniff. “You don’t listen to me. You never listen to me.”
“Yes, I do,” he repeated, reaching for her hand. But Yeliena refused to be mollified.
“No you don’t!” she declared indignantly, pulling her hand away. “You preach about Duty and Responsibility. Where is your duty and responsibility to me? And you tell me that you love me and all the time you are planning to have me embrace your boss in the full view of the town. How could you do that if you cared for me?”
“I have already explained,” he replied patiently, “that that was no doing of mine.”
Edging closer to her, he reached out to put an arm around her. Yeliena flinched and moved further away from him on the cushions.
“No, it’s no good,” she told him unhappily. “You should have taken more care of me, Vasili.”
“What do you mean?” he said, concerned that their row might flare up again.
“I am not happy living like this.”
He nodded slowly as if in sympathy with her position.
“Then let me make amends,” he offered.
“If things don’t change,” she said, half to herself, “I feel that I will do something… something crazy that will hurt us both.”
Looking at her downcast profile Dr. Tortsov smiled reassuringly.
“There is nothing you could do,” he said confidently, “that would be so bad that it would stop me loving you.”
Yeliena slowly raised her eyes and looked at him enquiringly.
“Nothing?” she said doubtfully.
“Nothing,” he repeated. “My love for you is unconditional. I don’t care what the town thinks. You are the most precious thing in my life, even more than my work.”
For the first time that afternoon an expression of amusement flitted across Yeliena’s face.
“Ha!” she mocked him. “That’s not true.”
“Yes it is,” he said.
Encouraged by her smile, he reached for her hand again.
“If you are concerned about our finances, don’t be,” he told her. “They are in good order.”
“But you won’t discuss them with me?”
“What is there to discuss?” he said in mock exasperation. “You are in charge of the household.”
“But what about your investments and savings?” she persisted. “And the money my father gave you? I don’t know anything about that money. What would happen to me if you died suddenly?”
“I have left adequate provision,” he promised her. “You would be taken care of.”
“I don’t even know where your will is or what it says.”
“There is plenty of time to discuss this.”
“Is there, Vasili? How do you know that? We are both getting older and if the epidemic comes here…”
Masking his determination not to be drawn on the subject of his finances, Dr. Tortsov resorted to flattery.
“To me you are still a young woman, Lienochka, you always will be.”
“Clearly too young to be trusted with important information such as how much money you have in the bank,” she said archly, withdrawing her hand once more, “and what investments you may have made.”
Dr. Tortsov hesitated and then tried another tack.
“Is it my age that is worrying you?” he asked her. “I may not be as physically active as I once was… I know that it has been a long time since we lay together, but that is not because I no longer desire you. I do desire you but, ever since our son died, you have pushed me away…”
Turning to face him, she glared at him reproachfully as if stung by his words.
“Stop it, Vasili!” she appealed to him. “Stop… please God, just… stop talking.”
Burying her face in her hands she began to weep, her body convulsing in deep shuddering sobs.
“I am so unhappy!” she groaned.
Dr. Tortsov regarded his wife with mixed emotions. He was relieved that she was at last experiencing some sort of emotional catharsis and he was touched by her evident unhappiness. At the same time, he remained concerned by the as yet unknown purpose of her outburst.
What is it that she wants? he wondered. For all her complaints she has given me no concrete clue as to what the problem is or how I can make her happy again.
Taking her in his arms he held her, rocking her gently to and fro on the cushion, kissing her hair and cheek occasionally until her tears were over.
“There, there,” he consoled her. “Do you want me to stop my practice? Is that it? Do you want me to retire?”
Still in his arms she sniffed and pulled a small handkerchief out from the cuff of her blouse.
“Would you do that for me?” she said, as she wiped her eyes.
“Probably,” he said with a smile. “It is not so rewarding as you seem to think.”
She appeared to consider his proposal for a moment and then shook her head doubtfully.
“No, I can’t ask that of you, it wouldn’t be fair,” she sniffed pathetically. “And anyhow, how would we live?”
“I could take my notes and work them up into a book,” he offered. “We’d have much more time together.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” she said, adding quickly, “but if only we could move somewhere else…”
Seeing that her tiny scrap of linen was now quite sodden, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his own larger handkerchief and passed it to her. She accepted it gratefully and, turning away from him, delicately blew her nose.
“Where to?” he said.
“Anywhere,” she sighed, turning back to face him with a weary smile, “just as long as it’s away from here. I hate this town. I am shrivelling up from the cold and the dark. My heart has become frostbitten. I need the sun and the warmth so badly. Oh Vasili, if only we could go to the south!”
Satisfied that, at last, they were reaching a practical conclusion to their discussions, Dr. Tortsov sat back on the settee, drawing his wife to him.
“Where to?” he murmured, kissing her on the brow. “The Crimea?”
“Oh yes!” she sighed again, “to Yalta!”
Gazing above her head Dr. Tortsov smiled with relief and approbation. The situation, which at one point had looked as if it had become unhinged and was careering dangerously out of control, had once more become manageable. The remedy, as was so often the case, lay in the judicious and timely application of money. Upset by the play and probably worried by the threatening epidemic, his wife needed a good rest and a holiday.
“I don’t know anybody there,” he began doubtfully and paused before adding, “but I suppose we could go and have a look.”
Yeliena sat up and looked at him hopefully.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We could go there in the summer,” Dr. Tortsov told her with a smile. “We can afford that much. I could leave Anton Ivanovich in charge of the practice for two or three months. We could travel around the peninsula, perhaps even go as far west as Odessa.”
“Odessa!” exclaimed Yeliena with a small cry of delight. “Really?”
Impulsively she hugged him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
“Yes!” he confirmed with a laugh. “We could go to the opera there and take mass at St Panteleimon, and I could see if there was a city practice looking for a senior partner.”
Smiling now, Yeliena settled back down bes
ide him and lay her head on his chest.
“Do they have a beach at Odessa?” she wondered aloud.
“Yes, they do. And a grand promenade.”
“Is it easy to walk to?”
“I believe that there are steps down to it,” he said quietly.
“I would love to see Odessa,” she sighed. Moving her head, she gazed up at him intently. “Oh Vasya, I do so hate feeling this way. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Dr. Tortsov looked down at her and gently stroked her hair.
“And I don’t mean to hurt you and I have and I am so sorry,” he apologised. “You are my darling Lenochka. You are the most precious thing in my life.”
“We must take more care of each other,” she said with feeling.
“And of ourselves. We deserve to be happier. You deserve to be happier.”
“Yes I do,” Yeliena agreed, “but, oh, this town!”
“Never mind the town, or the silly people in it. Go a little crazy if you must, I will stand by you. And remember in the summer we will fly south.”
Smiling happily, she nestled her cheek upon his chest.
“Like two white sparrows,” she said.
“And we shall sing magical songs as we fly,” Dr. Tortsov added, closing his eyes.
“Sparrows can’t sing.”
“Oh yes they can,” he said firmly, “at least white sparrows can. And they can fly as high as any other bird, even eagles.”
“How can we fly so high, Vasya,” she murmured, “when we have such small wings?”
Reopening his eyes, he looked down and regarded her seriously.
“Our wings may be small but they are mighty,” he said with fierce deliberation. “I do love you so, Lienochka, and I am sorry if I have disappointed you.”
“Yes, I know,” she said.
The two of them lay there for a while, holding each other close, their passions spent having reached a new level of misunderstanding.
Chapter Ten
Friday 9th February
Berezovo
The Town Council was sitting in secret session in the Mayor’s parlour. Colonel Izorov had kept his word: he had told them everything.
As the echoes of the police chief’s iron shod heels receded down the corridor outside the council chamber, the five Councillors sat in stony silence, their eyes fixed upon the portly figure of His Excellency the Mayor. With the exception of Councillor Kuibyshev and the Mayor’s hunchbacked secretary (whom Izorov had ordered from the room before dropping his bombshell) they were all there: Pavel Nadnikov, grain merchant; Leonid Kavelin, timber merchant; Nikita Shiminski, general merchant; and the Two Thieves, the banker Fyodor Izminski and Sergei Kuprin, the town’s Revenue Officer. Collectively, the self-elected representatives of Trade, Capital and the Crown.
Mayor Pobednyev shifted uncomfortably in his seat under their gaze. Was it possible that they were going to attack him physically? He considered making an excuse and leaving the room, but could not think of a good enough reason. Downstairs, the door to the street slammed shut. Colonel Izorov had left the building.
Best to face them standing up, thought the Mayor, and started to lumber to his feet.
“Sit down, Anatoli Mihailovich,” commanded Kuprin. “You have some questions to answer.”
The Mayor resumed his seat and bowed his head as the storm cloud of angry demands rose and broke over him. How long had he known about this matter? Why had he kept the news of such a disaster from the Council? Did he think they were traitors? How much of the Town’s annual budget had he already squandered on these sleighs, reindeer and God knows what else? With what authority had he done this thing? What guarantee could they give the town that the criminals being released from custody would return willingly to the prison? What assurances were there that law abiding citizens of Berezovo weren’t about to be murdered in their beds by these swine, these insurrectionists and assassins from Petersburg? How would the town cope with the riots their presence was bound to cause? Above all, who was going to pay for the convoy while they were here? It was a scandal, an outrage, a bezobrazie! He was guilty of criminal negligence, dereliction of duty, and bad faith to his friends. He was, in short, finished as Mayor of Berezovo.
“There was nothing else I could do,” he said quietly as they paused for breath. “Colonel Izorov swore me to secrecy, just like he has sworn you.”
“In God’s name, man,” Kuprin hissed. “That is no excuse to start pillaging the Council funds without consulting us first.”
“But I haven’t!” insisted Pobednyev. “I haven’t spent a single copeck yet. Ask Fyodor Fyodorovich here.”
Fyodor Izminsky gravely shook his head in disagreement.
“Maybe you haven’t drawn any cash, but you have still spent the money, Anatoli Mihailovich. You have committed the Council to paying out a small fortune. We are liable for the costs.”
“That’s not strictly true,” remarked Nadnikov silkily. “Anatoli Mihailovich has committed someone to pay for all this, yes, but not us. I recall no discussion of such an item at our last meeting. Do you, gentlemen?”
“No,” agreed Kuprin, with a nasty smile. “No discussion at all. This appears to have been a completely irregular set of undertakings initiated without official agreement by a private individual, using the name of the Council without its authority. Possibly fraud.”
If his fellow councillors had expected their leader to capitulate without a struggle, they were to be disappointed. Pobednyev nodded thoughtfully and then got to his feet. Walking over to his desk he opened a drawer and pulled out first the mayoral sash of Berezovo and then a small box of cigars. Lifting the sash with an unconvincing sigh of regret, he let it slip from his fingers and fall in a heap onto the top of his desk for them all to see.
“So that is how it is, gentlemen, is it?” he asked. “If you wish for my resignation, you only have to ask for it. But first, consider: who is to replace me? Who is willing to take on the responsibility for a town which in the next forty-eight hours – possibly even less – will have thrust upon it fifteen of the most desperate, the most dangerous, the most bloodthirsty terrorists the Empire has ever seen? Who wishes to be Mayor when the Red Chicken is let loose and the streets run with blood? To whom shall the people turn when their shops and offices start going up in flames, perhaps even the very building in which we are now sitting?”
The five men stared at him and then at the silken coils of the Mayor’s official insignia that lay like a serpent on the desk between them.
“Only I, Anatoli Mihailovich Pobednyev, can guarantee these things will not happen,” he boasted. “Amongst you all, I am the only one that Kostya Izorov trusted enough to tell about the secret arrangements he has made.”
Unsure of whether he was bluffing or not, the other councillors looked at each other.
“Who will pick up this rag?” he taunted, gesturing carelessly to his official sash.
“What about the money, Tolly?” Nadnikov asked darkly.
“Ah yes, the money…” mused the Mayor, selecting a cigar from the box.
The five men watched impatiently as he went through the pantomime of cutting off its tip, finding his phosphor matches and finally lighting the cigar. Only when he was satisfied that the cigar was drawing properly did he condescend to reply to Nadnikov’s question.
“The way I see it, gentlemen, is this,” he said genially. “The genius of politics is to take what appears to be an unpromising situation – what some uninformed people might even regard as a crisis – and turn it into a success. If I no longer have your confidence as Mayor, then I shall step down and one of you can take responsibility for what will happen. If the Council will not meet the expenses I have been forced, I repeat, forced to incur in its name, then naturally I shall have to cover the cost of this affair out of my own pocket. In which case, it stops being a matter of civic responsibility and becomes simply a matter of private business.”
His face broke out into a wide smile.
“And,” he concluded, “when have you ever known me to invest in an unprofitable business?”
Clearing his throat, the banker Izminsky said:
“So you think this could be a profitable enterprise, Anatoli Mihailovich?”
Pobednyev’s smile broadened.
Strategically seated across the Council table from each other, the Revenue Officer Sergei Kuprin and the town’s sole banker Fyodor Izminsky, the Two Thieves, exchanged meaningful glances. In matters of finance they both regarded Anatoli Pobednyev as a conservative, even backward, fellow, who regarded something as money only if you could scratch a window pane with it. The Mayor did not recognise that the world had changed; wealth was no longer kept in a pot under the floorboards or even in the town’s bank overseen by Fyodor Izminsky, but flowed in and out on tides of paper and certificates of joint stock capital in Russian banks that had attracted such a level of foreign investment from French and German banks that the Tsar’s government could not allow them to fail. It had taken the three other directors of the Cholera Fund Trust – their two selves and the absent Kuibyshev – several weeks to persuade the Mayor to agree to invest part of the Funds, along with their own personal money, in speculation on the St Petersburg Bourse. Early news of their success had been tantalisingly positive but they were having to wait until Kuibyshev’s return to hear the full account. Now here the Mayor was, apparently taking an uncharacteristically hazardous risk and presenting a bullish demeanour. It was intriguing. Given that he had had the advantage of a fortnight’s preparation, what had Pobednyev thought of that had not yet occurred to them? As to his assertion that he could personally bear the cost of the convoy’s visitation, did he genuinely have sufficient liquidity to meet such an expense? Sergei Kuprin raised one bushy eyebrow in silent enquiry and received a barely perceptible nod from Izminsky.
“I’m sure I speak for all of us,” said Kuprin slowly, “when I say that there is no question in our minds that, given the extraordinary circumstances, Anatoli Mihailovich is the man we would most like to steer us through this crisis. I am sure we all have every confidence in his leadership at this moment.”
