by A J Allen
Madame Wrenskaya shook her head sorrowfully.
“Before you know it,” she prophesied, “he will be Mayor. God knows what Pobednyev is thinking of. He’s just like all the rest. He believes that he can use people like Tolkach and they won’t stick to him, and he’s wrong. Tolkach’ll stick to him like tar. By the time the Mayor realises that he can’t get rid of him, it will be too late.”
Pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders, she shuddered at the prospect.
“You talked about history earlier, Alexander Vissarionovich. I shall always remember what the Professor used to say on the subject. ‘History,’ he would say, ‘is a long staircase that echoes with the noise of the clog ascending and the velvet slipper tripping down.’ Tolkach, running the Council! I thank God that I won’t be alive to see it. The gutter will have finally come to power. The man is a monster whose appetite knows no bounds.”
“My sentiments precisely,” said Maslov. “What is worse is that I have to play opposite him on Sunday night.”
“Why so? Have you changed plays? I thought that he was playing ‘the Bear’.”
“Oh, he was, until our esteemed director changed his mind. Now Tolkach is playing Tolkachov to my Murashkin. He’s taken the principal role, no less. I can tell you, Anastasia Christianovna, rehearsals are a nightmare. It wouldn’t be so bad if Dr. Tortsov knew what he was doing. I try to give him as much help as I can but…”
“Tolkachov, Murashkin…” broke in Madame Wrenskaya. “It’s all very confusing.”
Patiently Maslov explained the Doctor’s new arrangements.
“It’s not that I mind Chevanin,” he concluded. “Do you perhaps know him?”
“Only by reputation,” she said vaguely. “Despite his youth he is reputed to be a competent physician.”
“Oh yes, and he’s pleasant enough,” agreed Maslov. “Rather too pleased with himself at the moment for my taste. He tends to smile too much. It’s as if someone told him a long time ago that he looked handsome when he smiled and he’s been smiling ever since. He has good teeth, though, I will say that for him. But when one is in pain does one really want a doctor that grins like an ape?”
“Isn’t he rather young to play the Bear?” asked Madame Wrenskaya with a frown. “From the playscript you lent me, I gained the impression that the character is a much older man. It seems very enterprising of him. I suppose that Dr. Tortsov is able to give him extra coaching.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” replied Maslov. “The Doctor seems to spend most of his evenings terrorising Tolkach and myself. I am beginning to dread nightfall.”
“So how does Chevanin learn his lines?” asked Madame Wrenskaya.
“I presume Madame Tortsova hears him,” replied Maslov with a shrug. “Beside her character there’s only one other speaking part in ‘The Bear’: Luka’s. That’s of little importance. He’s on stage at the very beginning then…”
“Yes, yes!” interrupted Madame Wrenskaya impatiently. “I know the play. It’s not how the act begins that matters, it’s how it concludes.”
For a moment Maslov looked nonplussed.
“How it concludes?” he muttered. “Why, they… oh! Yes, I see. Heavenly Father!”
“And how long have these ‘readings’ been going on?”
“Over a week now.”
“Quite so,” remarked Madame Wrenskaya severely. “Well, I rather fancy, Alexander Vissarionovich, that we may have gone a long way towards an explanation for the young man’s idiot grin, don’t you?”
“Oh dear,” said the librarian.
* * *
Madame Wrenskaya’s concern for Yeliena Tortsova’s moral safety would only have increased if she had witnessed Yeliena at that moment hurrying towards her paramour. She had agreed with Chevanin that they should meet at the surgery; there being the only place in the town where the presence together of the Doctor’s wife and the Doctor’s assistant could be innocently explained away. Their assignation had been easily arranged: Anton Ivanovich had volunteered to work extended hours at the surgery to enable the Doctor to provide extra cover in case typhus appeared in the town and also to allow him time to work on the direction of the play. In return Yeliena had insisted that the doctor’s assistant should eat at least one hot meal a day and, to ensure he did so, she would transport it to the surgery herself. Katya, she had argued, would only moon around Chevanin and get in his way. And the errand was genuinely no inconvenience to her as she could pay her social visits and do a little shopping at the stores at the same time. Vasili had readily agreed, seeing the practical advantages of both arrangements, and so now, for an hour a day, they could meet behind the security of closed doors in complete safety.
Despite the inherent danger of her position Yeliena was greatly enjoying their brief spells together although she often felt quite worn out by the passionate tussling and fending off that punctuated their daily hour. Chevanin was by turns ardent, attentive, and sly; one moment as considerate as a courtier, the next as hungry as a wolf and twice as cunning, rarely missing an opportunity to hold and caress her. She enjoyed their game of kiss-chase as she resolutely defended her honour and resisted his advances, by turns allowing herself to be captured or skilfully evading his embraces. Most of all, she loved his height. He was about ten centimetres taller than Vasili and it made all the difference. In their moments of rest she could press her body against his, tucking her shoulder under his armpit, her breast crushed gently against his chest with his arm draped around her like a protective wing.
His height, his lips, and his youthful vigour, she decided, as she followed the sidewalk that led round to the surgery, were the qualities that endeared him most to her. She had taught him how to kiss her the way that she liked and now he was repaying her with a generosity and skill that made her heart flutter, until she had to stop him in order to catch her breath. And when she did pull away, he had learned enough not always to pursue her but sometimes to wait for her to return to him, hungry for more. At other times he did not pause but pounced, used his strength, size and weight to trap and overpower her, so that she could experience once again for a fleeting moment the dangerous thrill of being helpless. But always he would release her before any harm had been done, and she would pretend to be angry and remonstrate with him, threatening to leave early if he did not behave with more propriety. It was, she decided, like indulging in a mock-fight on the lawn with a much loved family pet with which one had grown up – a large dog, an English mastiff perhaps or a borzoi – full of wrestling and snarling and bared teeth, safe in the knowledge that it would never bite, and if, by accident, it did, it would only give the gentlest nip.
Reaching the outer door of the surgery Yeliena paused to compose herself. The thrill of Anton’s physicality, his youth and rascality and her anticipation of his embraces had coloured her cheeks and it was by no means certain that the waiting room she was about to enter was empty. She shifted the pot she was cradling in her arms, the same pot that she had sent Katya to carry to Gleb Pirogov a fortnight before, and adjusted her hat. Covering her excitement as best she could, she pushed open the outer door and entered her husband’s surgery.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday 15th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
On the third day of his stay at the hospital, bored with having no distraction from the tedium of waiting for a response from the land surveyor Andrei Roshkovsky and hungry for the immersive enchantment of the written word, Trotsky left his room, went downstairs and asked the dvornik for directions to the town’s library. Partly due to being given misleading advice and partly to his own personal difficulty with Berezovo’s singular street pattern, it took him twenty minutes and two further requests for directions from passers-by to locate the place. By the time he had crossed its threshold and set the bell above the library’s door ringing, he felt chilled to the bone.
At first glance the library appeared to be deserted and he looked around him, examining his surrou
ndings. It was not a large establishment. The walls were decorated mostly with printed portraits of the Imperial Family and a large map of the Tobolsk Region which placed Berezovo unconvincingly at its epicentre. Four tall sets of book shelves bearing a collection of popular novels, catalogues and reference books, many of which he noted were out of date, occupied the centre of the floor. Spread pages of newspapers, all traditional supporters of the Tsarist government, were pinned to placards between these bookshelves. Peering at their pages Trotsky noted with a heavy heart that they too were at least a month old. A desk was positioned to one side of the library floor. Behind it, a set of bookshelves ran along the side of one wall, ending in a curtained doorway which he presumed led to the library’s stacks. On the shelves he could see volumes clustered in separate groups. Each volume contained a slip of paper between its pages and he guessed correctly that they were ordered alphabetically by their customers’ family name.
Recalling Sverchkov’s account of his discovery of the back entrance that led into the local Quarter, and curious to know whether it was still unlocked, he walked quickly towards the curtained doorway. But before he could reach the doorway the curtain was whipped aside and the librarian Maslov, who all the while had been using the reflection of the tilted mirror above the library’s back door to spy on Trotsky, stepped out to meet him like a ringmaster at a circus hailing his audience.
“Good morning, and welcome to the Library at Berezovo,” he said.
Surprised by his sudden appearance Trotsky automatically reached out and shook Maslov’s hand.
Natalya would have hooted with laughter, he thought, amused by the librarian’s pretentious turn of phrase. The Library at Alexandria one would allow, but the ‘Library at Berezovo’? Surely not!
“Are you looking for something in particular to read?” Maslov enquired.
“Yes. Do you have any more recent newspapers?”
“A few. They arrived with the post two days ago. I shall fetch them for you.”
Ducking back behind the curtain, Maslov rummaged amongst the packages on the stack shelves. Moving aside a half dozen copies of Bilibin children’s story books that were awaiting collection by the schoolmaster Dresnyakov, he picked up an unopened parcel and carried it out to the public area where Trotsky was waiting for him. Dropping the parcel onto the desk he cut the string that bound it and began laying the newspapers it contained for Trotsky’s inspection, saying as he did so, “I’m afraid that we only receive the post once a week, on Tuesdays. You must think us very isolated.”
Trotsky saw at once that there was nothing of interest to him in the pile of newspapers.
“Yes, you are two thousand versts away from the capital,” he agreed, careful not to allow his disappointment to show, “but you are not isolated. From what I could gather from our lunchtime conversation you have some of the brightest minds in the district here.”
Flattered by the compliment, Maslov ducked his head shyly and glanced quickly at the door. They were still alone, he realised. Did he dare?
“Um, there was one thing that you said that has stuck in my mind…” he began.
“Only one?” teased Trotsky. “What was it?”
“It’s about revolutionaries being genuine patriots. I can’t reconcile that with all the destruction you have caused.”
“Well, I know what I mean by ‘a patriot’,” said Trotsky cheerfully, “but I don’t know what you mean by ‘a patriot’.”
“Someone who loves his country,” offered Maslov. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“Do you love your country?” asked Trotsky.
“Yes, of course.”
“But why? And what do you mean by your country? How much do you own of it?”
“That is a very disloyal thing to say,” protested the librarian.
“Is it? Why?” Trotsky demanded. “The simple truth is that I do love my country, its mountains and its rivers, its music and its people, but I love Mankind more, and that is why I am a Socialist. I believe in the brotherhood of humanity and the free movement of people and their historical development, rather than in flags and crowns and empires whose borders have been settled by bloodshed and massacre. Does that make me disloyal? I suppose it does.”
But Maslov was no longer listening to him. His attention had been distracted by the sight of Irena Kuibysheva peering into the library through the window. Catching his eye she raised a dainty gloved hand and waved at him.
“So you don’t think it possible to be a nationalist and a socialist at the same time?” asked Maslov in a preoccupied tone as he watched Irena approach the door.
“National socialism?” suggested Trotsky, frowning. “I don’t think that is a good idea. In fact it’s a contradiction in terms. You can’t keep Socialism confned to one country – it would be too vulnerable to a hostile world. Its only hope lies in in spreading. In any case why validate the boundaries put between people by a predatory economic system? They must be torn down! Is the German worker my enemy, or the Jew, or the Pole? Of course not, but I will keep believing he is if I am forced to compete against him and if I am told repeatedly that he is threatening my existence or my livelihood.”
“What are you then?” challenged Maslov, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with their discussion. “An ‘international’ socialist?”
Trotsky laughed loudly as the door’s bell tinkled and Irena Kuibysheva entered the library.
“No, absolutely not!” he retorted. “You make me sound like a flaneur. I am perhaps a ‘socialist internationalist’. Will that satisfy you?”
“I think that now that you are just playing with words,” muttered Maslov. Excusing himself, he went to greet Irena Kuibysheva.
“Good morning Madame Kuibysheva. It is good to see you looking so well.”
“Good morning, Alexander Vissarionovich. And, pray, why shouldn’t I be looking well?”
Flustered by her boldness, Maslov gave an embarrassed smile and bowed apologetically.
“Forgive me. How can I be of service to you today?”
“There is nothing I require. I am intending only to sit in the Reading Room and look at the new books that have arrived.”
“I am so sorry,” the librarian said hastily. “I am afraid that the Private Reading Room is closed today.”
Irena had half turned away. Now she turned back to face him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“The Reading Room is closed?” she repeated. “Why should it be closed?”
“I regret to tell you,” said Maslov nervously, “that there has been a leak in one of the heating pipes and I have had to seal the room until it has been mended.”
“And how long do you see the repairs taking?” she asked with a sad smile.
“Who knows? But it must remain closed until further notice for the protection of the library.”
Irena weighed his words carefully. Taking two steps, she whispered softly in the librarian’s ear.
“Alexander Vissarionovich, has my husband already been here?”
Maslov’s nod was barely perceptible. Lifting her gloved hand Irena squeezed his arm sympathetically.
Maslov was on the point of saying something further to her when the street door was opened forcefully and Leonid Kavelin bustled into the library. Trotsky watched his arrival with interest. From his dress and bearing he could deduce that this newcomer was a bourgeois of means but his status with the young woman who had arrived a few moments before him was unclear. They did not appear to be related by blood and she was younger and more fashionably dressed than he was. Trotsky instinctively felt that there was nothing in the older man’s physique or demeanour that would recommend itself to her romantically. Nevertheless they now appeared to be engaged in a heated argument, albeit in subdued tones, the cause of which in some way involved Maslov. The librarian was standing to one side and looking anxiously from one to the other like a spaniel awaiting a whipping.
Finally the argument ended; from the expressions on the couple’s face, it
seemed that the result was not in either of their favour. With a bad tempered gesture of dismissal the woman left the library and, smiling with relief, Maslov beckoned Trotsky over and introduced him to the man.
“What are you still doing here?” demanded Kavelin, ignoring Trotsky’s outstretched hand. “I though all your lot had gone north.”
“Unfortunately I have been delayed by ill health. Your Dr. Tortsov has insisted that I stay until I have recovered. I intend to follow my comrades in a few days only.”
“Ill? What’s the matter with you? You look fit to me.”
“I regret that I am suffering with sciatica,” explained Trotsky. “I intend to follow my comrades in a few days.”
“You look fit to me,” repeated Kavelin belligerently.
“And you are a trained physician? I mean, as well as a wood merchant?”
“Leonid Sergeivich,” interrupted Maslov quickly, “could I ask you please to escort M. Trotsky across to the Hotel? I understand that he is allowed to dine there and to use the facilities. I am sure,” he added as an afterthought, “that the more exercise he gets the sooner he will be able to continue his journey.”
“That is certainly Colonel Izorov’s opinion,” agreed Trotsky.
The mention of the Chief of Police’s name was of sufficient weight to settle the matter. As he took his leave he asked the librarian to grant him one favour. Would it be possible for him to borrow one of the more recent newspapers for an hour to read at the hotel?
Maslov hesitated, clearly reluctant to extend this benefit to the revolutionist.
“I am afraid that it is against the rules to allow newspapers to leave the library.”
“I am hopeful,” responded Trotsky with a disarming smile, “that on this occasion you will do me the tremendous honour of trusting me. Especially since I am aware that if I did not return your newspaper I should find myself in very serious trouble indeed.”
Smiling sheepishly, Maslov picked up one of the newly arrived newspapers at random and handed it to him.
