by A J Allen
The two men walked in silence side by side along the wooden boardwalk that led to the Hotel New Century, Kavelin instinctively taking up position between the street and Trotsky as if he was a guard accompanying a dangerous prisoner to his final court appearance. When they reached the hotel entrance he held the outer door open for Trotsky and followed him closely into the hotel’s Dining Room. Thus it was that Trotsky entered the Dining Room first and, looking around at the scattering of people seated at its tables, saw that the woman who had earlier visited the library and had argued with his companion was now sitting alone, consoling herself with a cup of chocolate. Catching her eye he walked over to her table and, introduced himself and was surprised by the woman’s cool appraising look and the brief touch of her gloved fingers with which she condescended to graze his hand.
“Are you perhaps following me?” Irena asked him earnestly. “Am I in danger from your revolutionist comrades?”
“No, on both counts,” he assured her. “Librarian Maslov has kindly lent me a newspaper to read while I drink my coffee, that is all. I come here in peace.”
Irena’s anxious expression turned to one of delight.
“Congratulations!” she told him. “You have made history.”
“How so?” asked Trotsky.
“You might not have overthrown the Tsar’s government and burned Petersburg to the ground but you are the only person that Alexei Maslov has ever permitted to relieve him of one of his precious newspapers. You must think them very important.”
“You needn’t respond,” said Kavelin discouragingly, joining him at the table.
“They are important,” replied Trotsky unabashed. “There are few luxuries valued more highly by to an exile than to sit in peace in a nice hotel, smoke a cigarette, drink coffee and read a newspaper without the fear of arrest. Even if,” he added, “most of what is printed is utter lies.”
“You think that you are reading lies?”
“Irena, stop talking to this man!” ordered Kavelin crossly.
“Of course I am,” replied Trotsky. “The newspapers lie unconsciously when their journalists don’t know their facts or get them wrong. They lie on purpose when their editors have orders to condemn and destroy the people their proprietors think are a threat to their capitalist interests. They lie to protect their circulation and in order not to upset their good readers who do not want to know about what is really happening in their country. And sometimes, they just lie out of habit and fabricate stories.”
“That’s enough!” said Kavelin, raising his voice. “Shut up your rubbish!”
Ignoring the curious looks of the other people in the dining room he pulled Trotsky away from the table and stood between him and Irena.
“Since you value your peace and quiet while you are reading your lies,” he told him menacingly, “please go and find a table of your own. We will not detain you any longer.”
“As you wish!” said Trotsky simply and left them.
Ignoring Irena’s tut of irritation Leonid Kavelin took a seat uninvited at her table and reflected bitterly on how much had changed in his life over the course of the past seven days.
“What a performance!” he said testily. “How can you talk to human trash like that?”
“Don’t be a bore,” she responded. “It does no harm to be pleasant. Now, what is it you wanted to speak to me about?”
Still smarting from their argument in the library, Kavelin’s response was less than courteous.
“Shall we go up to the room?” he demanded bluntly. “I have a Council meeting in an hour.”
Irena smiled at him pityingly.
“Oh no, Leonid. I never do anything twice,” she informed him, adding with a sigh, “besides it is quite impossible now that Illya is back and the whole town knows about us.”
Kavelin’s face darkened.
“I want you now. Get the room key and go upstairs,” he insisted.
Irena’s smile slowly vanished and was replaced by an expression he had not seen before. It spoke of confident defiance.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I can be very difficult, you know,” he blustered.
“Difficult?” repeated Irena.
She looked around casually to make sure that no waiters were eavesdropping on their conversation, and then addressed Kavelin in low measured tones
“Leonid, my husband deals in animal skins. He knows many hunters, large rough men who would slit your throat for twenty roubles and make it look like a shaving accident. You’ve had your fun, now be satisfied. You have a nice house and a good business but people tell me wood burns and I believe them.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous!” he scoffed. “Illya wouldn’t dare touch me.”
Irena gave a mirthless laugh.
“Remember poor Dobrovolsky who everyone thinks died from the typhus? My husband had him poisoned.”
“But Dr. Tortsov told me…”
“Tortsov is an old fool. Look at that man over there,” she said, jerking her thumb in Trotsky’s direction. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. There’s no trace of pain in his face. He is working a trick.”
Kavelin looked across at Trotsky. The exile certainly appeared to be comfortably settled leaning back in his seat, pince nez in place, holding his newspaper with one hand while the other was lifting a cup to his lips. He looked more as if he was taking his ease in a restaurant on the Nevsky Prospekt rather than on his way to the Polar region.
“You must appreciate the position you have put yourself in,” Irena went on, “and me. I think that Illya is having me followed.”
It was Kavelin’s turn to laugh. He pointed accusingly across the room at Trotsky.
“Who do you suspect? Him?”
“I don’t know. I have had this feeling for a couple of days now. Wherever I go somebody is watching me. Don’t you feel it?”
“No, I don’t,” Kavelin said firmly. “Pull yourself together.”
“Illya is hunting tiger,” insisted Irena earnestly, “and he means to get you. That business in the library is just the beginning.”
“But didn’t you hear Maslov say that the room had a leak?”
Irena rolled her eyes in disbelief at his naïveté.
“Leonid, the reading room is heated by a stove, remember? There are no water pipes.”
Looking over his shoulder, Irena spotted the waiter making his way towards their table bearing a tray of cups and pastries.
“If I know Illya, this is just the beginning,” she warned Kavelin hurriedly. “You must be careful, and for God’s sake keep that stupid wife of yours under control.”
Stung by her words, the timber merchant opened his mouth to defend his wife’s honour but the waiter’s arrival forced him to pause. They waited in silence as the waiter placed the tray carefully on the table and began distributing their refreshments. When he had finished, the young man reached inside his tunic pocket and handed Kavelin a folded note, saying, “This message has just come for you, sir. The Mayor would like to see you in his chambers before the meeting of the Council. He says that it is urgent.”
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday 15th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
At the hospital the script of the play A Tragedian Despite Himself lay neglected on Modest Tolkach’s desk, its owner being too distracted by the day’s turn of events to spare it a glance. He paced up and down the floor of his office. The Council meeting had started over an hour ago and Pobednyev had assured him that the vote would only be a formality. At any moment, the Hospital Administrator told himself he could expect to receive The Call.
Despite his excitement Tolkach felt confident that he was at last making progress. Already he had had to make choices which less than a month ago would have seemed fantastic. Should he be waiting in the Mayoral antechamber, so that he could present himself immediately the decision to co-opt him onto the Council had been taken? He had decided that he shouldn’t. If the vote
went in his favour his presence would smack of vaulting ambition; and if it didn’t, he could minimise the damage to his progress by keeping his distance. He would just shrug the matter off with a laugh and say, “Oh it was just one of Pobednyev’s whims. I knew nothing about it.” Should he make an effusive speech of acceptance for the honour that had been accorded him? Again, no. He would let the Mayor have all the fine words.
The sole piece of advice the man who had purported to be his father had given him when he had joined the ranks of the Sibirsky still rang true. “Start by keeping your ears open and your mouth shut. That way, by the time you have found out what’s what and who’s who, you won’t have made any enemies, and, with any luck, everyone will assume that you are wiser than you are.” And undoubtedly, even if they were not outright enemies, there were several of the councillors who he suspected might regard his appointment with an unfriendly eye; Illya Kuibyshev for one. He knew that he would have to prove himself useful in many ways before the fur merchant would look kindly upon him. Sergei Kuprin was another. As Revenue Officer, he would be jealous of his monopoly of Crown interests in Council affairs, and the power of patronage that it gave him. He would not willingly share his cake, unless it was substantially enlarged.
Well, he thought, that too can be arranged.
As for the Mayor, there at least Tolkach had no worries. that the favour that Pobednyev required of him was that he would propose the motion calling for a public subscription fund to be opened and speak warmly in favour of it. His Excellency’s grandiose desire to have a monument erected in his honour had not diminished one iota, despite the shambles of the convoy’s arrival and departure. The Hospital Administrator allowed himself the luxury of a moment of self-congratulation. His rehabilitation was nearing completion: within hours, perhaps even minutes, he could take his rightful place amongst the Men of Note in the town.
This cheerful speculation was brought to a close by a knock at his office door. Scurrying behind his desk, he picked up the play script and, assuming an air of annoyance at the interruption, bade the caller enter. The door opened and revealed, to his dismay, not the Mayor’s secretary but the peasant Goat’s Foot clutching a large parcel untidily wrapped in newspapers.
“Good morning, your Honour. I hope I find you well?”
Tolkach glared at his visitor and then at the bundle he was carrying.
“What is it, Goat’s Foot? I am very busy.”
Entering the office, Goat’s Foot deposited the parcel on his desk and gave a wide grin.
“I have brought the blankets you ordered off me, your Excellency, just as you asked. The ones we spoke about last Wednesday.”
Tolkach winced. The fool had left the door ajar: suppose The Call came in the next few seconds and caught him with what were, in all likelihood, stolen goods on his desk? Pointing to the door, he nodded sharply to his visitor. When the door had been closed, he said:
“This is all very inconvenient. Let’s have a look at them.”
From some hidden pocket within the lining of his shaggy coat, the peasant produced a knife and with a deft stroke cut the string that held the parcel together.
Wishing Goat’s Foot would fly to the Devil, Tolkach fingered the coarse wool of the top blanket and then began to count them. It did not take long.
“There are only two here! Where are the others? We agreed six blankets, remember?”
Still smiling, Goat’s Foot bobbed his head apologetically. Three of the four remaining blankets were not yet dry. On the fourth, the dye had run and would have to be applied again if the blanket’s origin was to remain obscure.
“I am expecting them to arrive any hour, your Honour,” he lied. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Well, see that they do arrive then. I hate everything coming in dribs and drabs. You never know where you are. In the meantime,” he added with a gesture, “you can put them in there.”
He pointed dismissively towards a cupboard that stood against the back wall of his office. Returning to his seat behind the desk he picked up his script again and resumed his reading, signalling that their conversation was at an end. But his visitor was not to be fobbed off so easily. If anything, Goat’s Foot’s smile grew broader. He remained standing beside the desk.
“Perhaps your Honour would care to pay for these now, and a little something on account, maybe? My expenses have been higher than I thought.”
Laying down the script, the Hospital Administrator regarded him sternly.
“That is quite out of the question. I’ll pay you when all six are here and not before.”
“Perhaps just for one blanket then?” wheedled Goat’s Foot. “As a measure of good faith? Four roubles is neither here nor there to your Honour, after all.”
“Four roubles?” exclaimed Tolkach, “This is outrageous. We never agreed more than two roubles apiece: twelve for the lot.”
The peasant scratched his head, as if perplexed. Gradually a light dawned in his face.
“Now that I think about it, Your Honour, I meant to say three roubles. That,” he added firmly, “was the price we shook on. I’m losing money as it is.”
“Three roubles it was,” admitted Tolkach. “But you shall still have to wait until you bring the rest before you get the money.”
Goat’s Foot’s face fell.
“But my poor wife!” he began to protest. “She needs her medicine again and special foods… And the roof is leaking and has to be repaired…”
Just as the peasant was warming to his theme of how many of his earthly troubles could be resolved by the application of six roubles, or at the very least three roubles, Tolkach heard the sound of a footstep outside his door. He held up his hand for silence. The next instant there came another knock on the door. Struggling to his feet, the Hospital Administrator pushed the blankets back into Goat’s Foot’s arms.
“Get rid of them!” he hissed. “Come back tomorrow and I shall pay you in full.”
“But your Honour,” protested Goat’s Foot, dropping the two blankets onto his desk, “what shall I do with them? Do you want me to take them back through the town like this? Shall I tell everybody that they came from the hospital?”
“No, no! Just put them in the cupboard and get out of here.”
Goat’s Foot did not move.
“If I am to leave them here, then it is only right that I receive some payment for them,” he argued stubbornly. “Six roubles to be precise!”
“Tomorrow!” said Tolkach. “I’ve told you, I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
Goat’s Foot shook his head.
“Not tomorrow. Today. Now.”
The knock sounded for a second time.
“Wait a minute please!” cried out Tolkach.
Digging deep in to his pocket, he produced two worn three-rouble notes and thrust them into Goat’s Foot’s outstretched palm.
“Here you are, damn you! Six roubles. Take it or leave it.”
Goat’s Foot winked and hoisting up the blankets, he carried them to the cupboard. As he was doing so the Hospital Administrator strode to the door. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the peasant was still trying to stow the blankets away in shelves already full with unused bandages.
“Hurry up,” he hissed.
As soon as the cupboard door was closed, Tolkach briskly opened the door to his office, to reveal the crooked figure of the Mayor’s Secretary standing on the threshold.
“Good Morning, Modest Andreyevich Tolkach,” the man intoned. “His Excellency the Mayor presents his compliments and requests your attendance before the Council.”
Curious to know whether Tolkach had already found another woman to fill his bed, the secretary peered over Tolkach’s shoulder, trying to catch sight of the identity of the visitor who had caused such a delay in opening the door.
“Present my compliments to His Excellency,” Tolkach instructed him, “and inform him that I shall be with him as soon as I can.”
The secretary’s smile deepened
into a grimace indicating that this was clearly an inauspicious beginning to their official relationship.
“As your Honour commands,” he croaked malevolently. “I shall tell him that you are delayed on urgent medical business.”
“But that I shall be with him as soon as I can,” repeated Tolkach.
“As you wish, Sir,” the secretary responded, backing away from the doorway.
As soon as he had gone, Tolkach bundled Goat’s Foot out of his office and locked his door.
This is a fine way to start my Council career! he fretted.
Pushing the peasant to one side, he set off in pursuit of the secretary, who was at that moment trotting in an ungainly fashion down Hospital Street, accompanied, as ever, by a crowd of mocking children dogging his footsteps. So comic did the two men look, the Hospital Administrator already puffing from the exertion of his efforts to catch up with the council functionary and the secretary’s graceless loping gait, which was punctuated by his occasional impulse to kick out at his young tormentors, that the spectacle even distracted the attention of the dvornik and the sentry posted at the door. They momentarily deserted their posts and followed the two men out into the street to watch the fun.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday 15th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
Lying fully dressed upon his bed in the upstairs private ward Trotsky threw down the newspaper he had borrowed from the library in disgust. The article he had been reading had suggested that the first action of the new Duma would be to call for an amnesty for all political prisoners gaoled since the beginning of the Troubles.
What imbeciles these Constitutional Democrats are! he thought.
The chances of such a motion being accepted by the Tsar’s ministers were so unlikely as to be unbelievable; the Tsar himself could not be so stupid as to allow such a thing, even if he wanted. It wasn’t like October 1905; then the Autocracy had acted from a position of weakness; now it had the whip hand. The Tsar and his ministers had regained their political strength and the Reaction had begun. The Kadets’ capacity for self-delusion was beyond belief; they had no power, not even the illusion of power. Their precious Duma would last six weeks: eight at the most.
