by A J Allen
Tatyana felt her innards turn to water.
“It is not possible,” she muttered. “They know already? it is too soon!”
Almost simultaneously Olga Nadnikova glanced up and caught her looking at her. Before Tatyana had time to avert her eyes, Olga had raised her head and beckoned her to come and join her group. Tatyana responded with a dismissive shake of her head and, turning, began searching for another part of the church where she might hide from the gaze of the grain merchant’s wife.
She saw a group of fisherwomen standing by themselves in their customary place towards the back of the congregation beside the northern wall of the church. As she approached she caught the distinct smell of the freshwater Sosva herring – the town’s speciality – by which they earned their living, and of which she doubtless would partake at that day’s feasting at the Hotel New Century. If the bedraggled women recognised the identity of this well dressed intruder, they gave no sign. Fixing their eyes on the distant proceedings they knelt, stood, swayed and chanted in near unison as if they had taken on the shoaling coordination of the herring’s deep water cousins. Shielded by their broad backs and thighs she knelt amongst them and bowed her head.
Holy Father protect and save me, she prayed. My husband has betrayed me with Irena Kuibysheva and I have been foolish and blind. Because of my stupidity I have lost the respect and affection of my friends who will now, despite their show of sympathy, regard me with contempt and derision and abandon me. As I would in their place – you know that to be true. Holy Father, please help me! I know that I have not been as good a mother as you would wish, or as good a wife to Leonid, but please, I implore you on my knees, please do not abandon me! I have lost my husband, my standing in the town and any hope of happiness in this life and now I face the trials of disgrace and exclusion. Please give me a sign that I will have your protection and your guidance in this hour of my greatest need.
She paused, undecided whether to throw herself further on God’s mercy with unreserved promises of doing His will. The urge was strong but she knew that, on her past record, He would not trust her to her word. She was also unsure whether she should demand punishment for Irena. Scripture was unclear on this. On the one hand His children were instructed to love their enemies and on the other the Creator jealously guarded his monopoly of the administration of vengeance. Her thoughts were still unresolved when she felt a hand being laid gently upon her shoulder. Looking up she wondered whether this might be the Sign for which she had prayed.
Raisa was standing beside her, looking mournfully towards the altar.
“Stand up, Tanya.”
Unwillingly Tatyana stood up, brushing the dust from her skirts.
“Olga wants to speak with you. I’m afraid that she has some distressing news.”
“Why must you continue to bother me?” complained Tatyana. “Can you not see that we are in church and I am at prayer?”
“I am sorry,” Raisa insisted, “but there is no time to lose. In the name of our love for you, you must listen to what she has to tell you.”
Tatyana resisted the urge to flee again. Instead, with an expression of infinite sadness, she clasped her friend by the arm and pulled her to her.
“I know everything now that I did not know yesterday,” she said, speaking quietly into her ear as the plainsong responses rose around them. “There is nothing further to be said, or done.”
She kissed Raisa on the cheek and then left her and made her way towards the queues of women that had formed in front of the rack of candles near the entrance at the rear of the church. The thought had arisen within her that she was being unreasonable asking for the Heavenly Father’s help while her own heart was still full of anger and injured pride. She would have to start her prayers all over again and approach her Maker in true humility – this time without interruption – if they were to have any effect.
As she neared the front of her queue she opened her small purse and selected a five copeck coin, and then after a pause, a ten copeck coin.
One for my prayer to the Heavenly father for his guidance, she thought to herself. One for my husband’s soul and one for my daughter’s happiness.
Dropping the two coins into the wooden box fixed to the back of the rack she selected three candles. As she touched the wick of her first candle to the flame of one already alight she was surprised to see to other candles jostle for the flame. Olga Nadnikova and Lidiya Pusnyena had quietly joined her on either side. Behind them, her head bowed in embarrassment, stood Raisa.
“Glory to Jesus Christ, Tatyana.”
“Glory for ever.”
“We are sorry to disturb you while you are so deep in prayer,” began Olga.
“It is an unforgiveable intrusion, and not the action of a friend,” she replied.
“Yes, it is certainly an intrusion,” agreed Olga quietly, “but I think that it is forgivable, under the circumstances. It is certainly the action of a friend, and of a true friend.”
Tatyana lit the candle and shakily put it in its holder.
“I don’t see how it can be,” she said, presenting her second candle to the flame.
Reaching over, Olga took the third candle out of her hand and laid it on its side away from the flames.
“Tatyana, you must come with us right now if you want to save your marriage and your family.”
“Right now?” echoed Tatyana in surprise.
“Yes, right now. Time is of the essence and we can rejoin the service later. You must trust us.”
The grain merchant’s wife hesitated as if unsure whether to break a confidence.
“You have been praying for help and guidance, haven’t you?” she asked. “Well, we may be part of the answer. We will not abandon you, if you come now. We shall go to my house as it is the closest. Come.”
Overcome by the way that the older woman had so closely read her thoughts, Tatyana nodded meekly. Sliding the second candle into a vacant holder she stepped away from the bank of flames.
From his position on the right hand side of the nave, Colonel Izorov watched in puzzlement as Tatyana, white faced and with Olga on one side of her, Lidiya on the other and Raisa bringing up the rear, made her way towards the narthex door. The small procession of well-dressed women reminded him curiously of a party of guards escorting a prisoner to his execution. He wondered where they were going.
An hour later, Fyodor Gregorivich straightened a napkin and cast an approving eye down the length of the table that had been set in the centre of the dining room. The cutlery had never looked better; the glasses positively shone. Humming to himself, he embarked upon his last task: distributing the carefully written place cards. Setting the seating order was properly the responsibility of the host or hostess of the luncheon. However, since neither the Mayor or Mayoress had yet appeared, he accepted that the task had fallen to him.
Shifting through the fourteen place cards, he came to the name of Madame Irena Kuibysheva; the card appearing as ominously as a dark cloud on a sunny day. Frowning, he looked at the cards he had already laid on the table, and then back at the one in his hand. Until that point, everything had been going smoothly. Each husband had been placed opposite his wife in alternating series. Now, Irena Kuibysheva stuck out like a sore nose. He did not dare put her close to Madame Kavelina, or to Leonid Sergeivich for that matter, yet etiquette demanded that she, as the wife of the town’s wealthiest citizen, should be placed in an appropriately prestigious seat and next and opposite to someone who, for the purposes of the seating plan, could be regarded as either a dining companion or escort. Scratching his head, Fyodor Gregorivich walked back to the head of the table, and toyed with the idea of placing her alongside Father Arkady, who was sitting on the Mayor’s right hand (on the occasion of a religious festivity, the order was reversed). But he saw that this would put her diagonally opposite Madame Pobednyev and dismissed the idea. Hoping for inspiration, he looked at the far end of the table although, out of deference to her husband’s wealth and i
mportance, he could not consider for a moment placing her in so lowly a position. That place would be taken by… Dimitri Skyralenko. Next to him would be the Kavelins – the Tiger would never dare complain. Then the Nadnikovs and the Shiminskis and next to Nikita Shiminski… Modest Tolkach.
Holding the Hospital Administrator’s card, Fyodor Gregorivich laughed out loud.
Of course! he thought. Who else could be more suitable as a dining companion for Irena Kuibysheva than Modest Tolkach? The wife killer and the adulteress could compare notes on the sanctity of marriage.
With a sense of satisfaction at having solved a knotty problem, he flipped Madame Kuibysheva’s card onto her new place setting. The rest of the table presented no difficulties. The Two Thieves, Izminsky and Kuprin, were as inseparable as brigands anyway and above them sat Father Arkady opposite Madame Pobednyeva, and then the Mayor. Standing back, he gave a nod of approval at his handiwork.
Hearing the jangle of sleigh bells, he glanced up at the dining room clock. It was approaching one o’ clock. Hurrying from the dining room, he locked its doors, ensuring that only the kitchen staff would have entrance before the luncheon was ready. The first of the Mayor’s guests – the Izminskys, ever eager to enjoy an opportunity for free food and drink – were bustling through the outer door. Bowing low, he helped them off with their coats and informed them that pre-luncheon refreshments were awaiting them in the mezzanine lounge.
At No. 8 Ostermann Street, the midday meal had begun with a breaking of a promise. Aware that the arrival of the Soviet Deputies could no longer remain secret, Dr. Tortsov had decided to take his wife and his assistant into his confidence. He gambled that since the convoy was expected that very day, there was little risk that the news would have time to leak out from their household and inflame Berezovo’s own colony of exiled malcontents. Even so, he took precautions, waiting until Katya had retreated to the kitchen before beckoning Yeliena and Chevanin to bow their heads as if in prayer and whispering to them the news. He was also circumspect in his description of the convoy and did not refer to them as the convicted leadership of the insurrectionist St Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Delegates, which would have been proper, but only as ‘a special party of Politicals’. According to him, their significance lay chiefly in their having travelled through villages that had been heavily affected by the latest outbreak of infection. Between mouthfuls, the Doctor was now relating the tragic fate of the young merchant Dobrovolsky who had died two years before.
“He was of no age,” he said cheerfully. “But then typhus can strike young and old alike.”
Chevanin, only half listening to what the Doctor was saying, nodded. Opposite him, Yeliena picked delicately at the food on her plate.
“One of Baron Pol’s exploration team found him at the Ourvinsk yurts, but it was too late to do anything,” Dr. Tortsov continued. “He must have lain there for at least a fortnight, becoming gradually weaker day by day. Besides making him comfortable, the Ostyaks had done nothing much to help him. After all, if he hadn’t been found they stood to gain his sleigh, his clothes and whatever gold he had on him. You can be sure of one thing: he wasn’t travelling with empty pockets, which is how he was found.”
“That’s little short of murder, surely?” murmured Yeliena.
The Doctor considered the point as he chewed a tough piece of meat.
“How can one talk of murder, or of any crime?” he replied thoughtfully. “The taiga has its own laws. Always has had and always will. You could just as well say that it was suicide when you consider how foolish the young man had been. In the first place, to go out alone, then to leave the Highway in the middle of winter, on such a journey, with all the money that he would need to buy the furs.”
He shook his head regretfully.
“I’m sorry to say so, and may God receive his soul, but that young man died the death of a fool that he deserved.”
To cover the silence that followed the Doctor’s brutal verdict Chevanin asked whether Dobrovolsky had taken a pistol with him on his journey. Dr. Tortsov thought of the approaching convoy of prisoners and laughed.
“If typhus could be destroyed with bullets,” he replied, “the Tsar would be our greatest physician.”
“Vasili!” his wife scolded him. “That’s a dreadful thing to say!”
“I just meant,” explained Chevanin, “if he was armed, perhaps he could have forced the Ostyaks to take him to the nearest settlement.”
“What an absurd idea, Anton Ivanovich!” said the Doctor. “To begin with, he would quickly become unable to hold the gun steady, much less aim it and pull the trigger. Secondly, very few men, when it comes to it, would consider threatening to kill the only people who might deliver them from harm. Besides, I doubt if the Ostyaks would have been too impressed even if he had threatened them. They are a pretty fatalistic bunch. He would have had to have shot three or four of them to show them he meant business.”
“Can’t we find something more suitable to talk about at the table, please?” complained Yeliena with a shudder.
“You are quite right, Yeliena Mihailovna,” Chevanin apologised. “I am sorry to have brought up the subject.”
But Dr. Tortsov disagreed.
“Nonsense, Lenochka! You are just being squeamish,” he retorted good humouredly, waving a fork towards his assistant. “This young man has to learn the facts of life sometime, otherwise he could end up like poor Dobrovolsky.”
Turning to Chevanin, he asked:
“You haven’t been out on the taiga yet, have you, Anton?”
“If you recall, I did accompany you as far as Belogoryia last year,” Chevanin replied, “but, no, I haven’t been out in the wilds as such.”
“Then perhaps I shall take you with me in the spring. Perhaps we shall go north, to Obdorsk. It’s only five hundred versts away, tucked snugly inside the Polar Circle,” declared the Doctor, adding mischievously, “there’s no need to begin with anything strenuous.”
Seeing the appalled expression on Chevanin’s face, Yeliena sought to put his mind at rest.
“Pay no attention, Anton Ivanovich. My husband is only teasing you. He would no sooner invite you along with him on one of his journeys than he would invite me. He is too jealous of his freedom and of his unique status.”
She silenced her husband’s protests with a wave of her fork.
“They say that in the wilder parts,” she confided across the table, “some of the Ostyak shamans worship him as a deity, who appears every now and again to bestow his blessing and heal the sick.”
“Only a minor god, my dear,” protested the Doctor, joining in the joke.
“Is this true?” Chevanin asked.
“Oh yes,” Yeliena assured him gravely. “As soon as he arrives they all dress up in their animal skins, bang drums and young virgins are brought in his honour. Hundreds of them gather as soon as they see his sleigh, each dragging their daughters behind them, roped together like goats. The feasting goes on for days.”
Chevanin looked from one to the other, unsure whether they were jesting or not.
“And do you carry a gun when you go?” he asked the Doctor.
“Oh yes, most certainly,” replied the Doctor truthfully. “Once you have been pursued by a pack of wolves, your pistol never leaves your side.”
“I think Anton Ivanovich had better take one as well, don’t you dearest?” suggested Yeliena. “If only to protect him from the virgins.”
“He would need a cannon to protect himself from those devils,” said her husband with a knowing laugh.
Chevanin smiled weakly and resumed eating his meal. He felt embarrassed by their indelicate humour and excluded from what seemed like a companionable conspiracy.
“Speaking of cannons, when will we be able to rehearse at the barracks?” Yeliena asked her husband. “The performance is in a week’s time, remember.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. Captain Steklov said that we can move in as soon as the troops guarding these priso
ners have left. Of course, the first day, Wednesday, is out of the question, because Belinsky should be putting up the scenery then. We wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves think with all that hammering and scraping.”
“So, Thursday at the earliest?” asked Chevanin.
Swallowing his last mouthful of food, the Doctor pushed his plate away from him and nodded.
“Plenty of time before then for you to learn your words. That is what you should be concentrating on now. As long as you know your lines, the movements should take care of themselves,” he declared optimistically.
“‘Speak up and don’t bump into the furniture,’” quoted Chevanin. “That is what Maslov told me.”
Dr. Tortsov shot him a look, as much as to say, “Oh him! Don’t listen what he has to say.”
“Vasili is right, Anton Ivanovich,” Madame Tortsova said. “We must concentrate on the script for the moment. Why don’t we have another rehearsal after lunch?”
“By all means,” the Doctor agreed. “The more often the better. But I am afraid, my dear, that you shall have to do so without me. I told Colonel Izorov that I would go over to Police Headquarters to take a look at the prisoners when they arrive. We cannot afford to take any risks.”
“Oh really, Vasili!” his wife exclaimed petulantly. “Must you go? It’s beginning to snow again and I’m sure that the Colonel will keep them well out of the way of the townspeople. Even if they are infected, they won’t be a threat to anyone, except to you if you go and inspect them.”
“I wish that was the case, Lenochka,” he replied. “But it is not. It appears that, for political reasons, they are to be allowed to have a certain freedom of movement outside the prison, so they really do have to be examined at the earliest opportunity. I shouldn’t be too long, not unless they’ve been delayed on the road.”
“Oh well, my dear, if you must go, you must,” Yeliena said with a sigh of resignation. “Anton Ivanovich, you and I shall just have to manage as best we can.”
