Berezovo

by A J Allen

  Sitting at her writing desk in her home on Menshikov Street, Olga Nadnikova, wife of Pavel Stepanovich Nadnikov, laid down her pen and read through the brief invitation she had written to her friend Lidiya Pusnyena summoning her to join her for coffee at the Hotel New Century the following morning. It was the first of three, or possibly four, notes (she wasn’t sure about the Doctor’s wife) that she had set herself to compose that day. Satisfied with her wording she set the invitation aside and selected another sheet of note paper. She had no qualms about adopting a brusque tone with Lidiya, who relied heavily on her for direction in all things, but the invitation to Raisa Izminskaya required a more considered approach.

  Mindful that Raisa was a closer friend to Tatyana Kavelina than to herself, she dipped the nib of her pen into the inkwell and began to write.

  The events of the previous Sunday had proved to be an epiphany for Olga. Seeing the author of all her disappointments, Illya Kuibyshev, sprawling face first on the ground had given her great satisfaction, but it had been the response of the onlookers, including those around her on the Mayor’s dais, that provided the moment of enlightenment. Disarmed by drink and satiety they had laughed long and loud; not just because of Kuibyshev’s misfortune but specifically because it had happened to him. They had showed their true feelings: they despised him as much as she did. Kuibyshev might be the richest man in the town – he was probably the richest man in the whole Tobolsk region – but their coarse jeers were public proof that he was neither liked nor feared. And if he was neither liked nor feared, and if certain arrangements could be bent to her satisfaction, then he was vulnerable.

  Looking around her at the group assembled on the dais, and at the crowd of onlookers that had been waiting on the boardwalk to witness the arrival of the convoy of special prisoners, she had committed to memory a mental list of the laughing faces and had taken care to write their names down as soon as she and Pavel had returned home. This list of names, now annotated with asterisks, ticks, crosses and addenda, now lay on the writing desk beside the sheaf of notes she had compiled since that fateful moment. Her campaign plan was almost complete.

  Signing her name with a small flourish she set Raisa Izminskaya’s invitation carefully to one side, in order to allow its ink to dry. She took up a new sheet of note paper and then paused. She regarded Tatyana Kavelina as unintelligent and, what was more, a tremendous fool and spineless to boot, but the woman was essential to her plans. Although she had downplayed its significance when she had visited Tatyana earlier in the week, the outrageous adultery of her husband ‘Tiger’ Kavelin with Irena Kuibysheva was the entire engine of her campaign.

  And where did that soubriquet came from? she wondered.

  She had, she was certain, first learned of it from Pavel. Had that been before Kuibyshev’s return or the following day? It hardly mattered; the name had stuck fast, giving rise to many heavy puns in the town about the timber merchant “earning his stripes” with Irena, or being “striped” by Kuibyshev when the fur merchant learned, as it was inevitable that he would, that he had been cuckolded.

  By all reports that moment had arrived, but she had been furious to learn that Kavelin had been stripped (rather than striped) of his seat on the Town’s council. It did Pavel Stepanovich little good to insist that Kavelin had excused himself on the grounds of ill health and that he was content to make way for the Hospital Administrator Modest Tolkach. Olga recognised Kuibyshev’s hand, and that of the Mayor, behind the timber merchant’s removal. Frustrated in her purpose – her intention was to isolate Kuibyshev, not to strengthen his position – she had added Tolkach’s name to her list of people to be taken into account, mindful that he also had a shadow hanging over him. Her pen still poised over the piece of notepaper, she forced herself to put all thoughts of the strange death of the Hospital Administrator’s wife from her mind.

  The important thing now, she told herself, is to concentrate on the idiot Tatyana Kavelina. Solidarity in times of misfortune and strength through unity must be our watchwords.

  “My dearest Tanya,” she began.

  Half an hour later she gathered up her papers into a neat pile and locked them away in the drawer of her desk. It was time to complete her preparations for her appointment that afternoon with Madame Wrenskaya.

  Walking to a cupboard in the corner of her drawing room she selected a slim key from the cord that hung from her waist and inserted it into the cupboard’s lock. As she opened the door the aroma of seasoned wood and old alcohol wafted towards her, raising, as it always did, fond memories of her father and his brothers. Although none of them had been great drinkers they appreciated fine liquor and had been careful to school her in the differing merits of grain and grape. On the shelves within, rows of bottles of different shapes, colours and sizes puffed out their chests like conscripted peasants on their first parade and presented their labels for her inspection. She cast a critical eye over them, picking up first one and then another to see whether they would suit. At length, she spotted an opened bottle of cognac proclaiming the name of the French emperor at the back of the cupboard, and smiled.

  Yes, of course, we still have the Croizet, she thought. How appropriate!

  * * *

  Madame Wrenskaya had insisted on standing to greet her – she would not let this wife of a grain merchant think that she was decrepit – and now her maid Mariya was carefully lowering her back into her high wing chair.

  “Stop fussing, girl,” the old woman scolded as the maid tried to cover her legs with a thick woollen blanket. “Get Madame Nadnikova something to drink.”

  Feebly pushing the maid away she glared accusingly at Olga.

  “I suppose you expect some tea now that you are here.”

  Immune to her basilisk manners, Olga smiled in response. The purpose of her visit was to secure her hostess’s active support rather than her neutrality, or worse, her opposition. She had asked for an interview with her rather than with Father Arkady because she recognised that the widow of the town’s previous Revenue Officer was the de facto moral arbiter of Berezovo. Despite the old woman’s insufferable snobbery and barine airs and graces, it was important for the success of her plan that Anna Christianovna was on her side.

  Delving into her bag she produced the bottle of brandy.

  “Thank you, no. I have brought you a treat instead. I hope that you will allow us to try some together.”

  “What is that?” snapped Madame Wrenskaya. “Cognac?”

  “Yes, a Croizet Napoleon brandy. It was awarded a prize at the 1900 Paris Exposition.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” said Madame Wrenskaya hungrily. “Yes, we should have a taste. Go and fetch some glasses,” she added, gesturing to her maid.

  When Mariya had left, the two women sat looking at each other in silence After a moment Olga rose and, walking across the room, picked up a small side chair and placed it deliberately next to Madame Wrenskaya’s chair. Sitting down she leant towards the old woman and spoke quietly and distinctly.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Anna Christianovna. I need to talk to you in confidence about something important that is happening in the town.”

  Madame Wrenskaya nodded, her impassive expression not betraying her awakened interest.

  “So this is a serious conversation?” she responded.

  “Yes, very serious.”

  The maid reappeared with a tray bearing two glasses and a small jug of water. Putting it down on an occasional table, she carried the table and tray together and placed them carefully beside Olga Nadnikova’s chair.

  “Now go away,” ordered Madame Wrenskaya, “and make sure that we are not disturbed by any more visitors.”

  Gesturing towards the glasses she motioned to Olga to pour them both a drink.

  “You must tell me what has happened,” she said, “and don’t leave anything out.”

  It did not take long for Olga to summarise the main points of her problem: the exposure of Kavelin’s infidelity; the Mayor�
��s craven capitulation to Kuibyshev’s demands, Kavelin’s expulsion from the Town Council and Tolkach’s election.

  “Over the last fortnight we have seen the final collapse of all moral values in the town,” she concluded unhappily. “The men seem helpless to stop it, or not to care. What should we women do about it? We need your wisdom.”

  Is there not one more thing missing from your list of worries? thought Madame Wrenskaya to herself. The misappropriation of civic funds for private speculation, for instance? Or are you not concerned by this because your husband is just as involved as the others?

  Instead she asked, “What do you want to do about it?”

  “Firstly we want to get rid of Irena Kuibysheva,” replied Olga decisively. “Secondly someone needs to teach Fyodor Gregorovich that he should be running a hotel and not a brothel. Thirdly we must prevent Mayor Pobednyev from driving the town further into the mire.”

  “You have a list,” observed Madame Wrenskaya approvingly. Draining her glass, she held it out to Olga.

  “I certainly have,” admitted Olga.

  Yes, thought Madame Wrenskaya as her guest poured them both generous refills, but only the first and the third items on your list matter to you. The business about the hotel, that is just a filler, a decoy. You want Kuibysheva’s wife gone so that you can try to replace her with your awful daughter and you want Pobednyev weakened or even ousted so that your Pavel Stepanovich can become lead dog. Well, the town could do much worse…

  “How do you intend to get rid of Irena Kuibysheva? Are you going to ‘bump her off’?”

  Olga shook her head regretfully.

  “No, but we do want her to leave town. Her presence here has become intolerable.”

  Raising one crooked finger to her lips, Madame Wrenskaya frowned.

  “You keep saying ‘we’. Who exactly do you mean?”

  “Myself, Raisa Izminskaya, Lidiya Pusnyena, Tatyana Kavelina of course, and several other respectable ladies in the town.”

  A bundle of baggages whose husbands hold the affairs of the town in their hands, thought Madame Wrenskaya. I suppose I must be partly to blame for refusing to mix with them after Wrensky’s death, but in truth I would have been outnumbered by these counterjumpers and worn down by the weight of their mediocrity.

  “Well,” she said at last, “simply wanting Irena Kuibysheva to leave town is misguided. What you want is for the little tramp herself to want to leave town; to leave of her own accord.”

  “But how can that be done?” asked Olga in a puzzled tone.

  You see? You are still needed in the town, the old woman told herself, exulting. They cannot get along without you. Everything is a mess and she has come to you for your advice how to clean it up.

  “Have you ever heard of the Irish phrase ‘to boycott’?” she asked.

  Olga shook her head.

  “It is a tactic their peasants have used to tame or dissuade bad landlords. Essentially, they cut them off from daily social intercourse with anyone with whom they normally have dealings.”

  “But how do they do that, precisely?” asked Olga.

  “They tell the local baker, for example, not to provide the landlord with any bread otherwise no one in the villages will buy their loaves. It is a question of simple economics: although the order from the manor house is substantial, it is worth much less that the total of the accumulated orders from the town. Being the Irish I imagine that there is also the implied threat of violence should the baker be foolish enough to refuse. But according to the foreign newspapers even without violence, once a boycott starts taking hold it can be very effective.”

  Smiling impishly, Madame Wrenskaya took another deep sip of her cognac, savouring its warm honey tones.

  “Of course,” she concluded, “in order to do this properly you would have to have a list of everyone the Kuibyshev household normally does business with.”

  “Oh, I have that already,” said Olga confidently.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I have the list you mentioned here with me.”

  Rummaging in her handbag Olga produced two sheets of notepaper and handed them to her.

  The sly suka! thought Madame Wrenskaya. She has been playing me for a fool and nearly succeeded. So this is her plan is it? Well I wish her the best of luck with it!

  “Pass me my eye glasses,” she muttered.

  She perused the list and saw that against each name someone (she presumed Olga) had written the function of their commercial enterprise. Pyotr Delyanov (haberdashery); Fyodor Gregorivich (hotel); Kuzma Gvordyen (bread and cakes); Fyodor Izminsky (bank); Leonid Kavelin (wood); Ivan Kibalschov (stores); Vissarion Lepishinsky (stables); Alexei Maslov (library – books and journals); Pavel Nadnikov (grain), Lev Polezhayev (dressmaker); Serapion Pusnyen (stores); Nikita Shiminski (general store); Yevgeni Svortsov (butcher); Dr. Tortsov… Everybody was there.

  Why is she showing me this? Madame Wrenskaya asked herself. Is it because she believes that I will not inform Illya Kuibyshev? I don’t like the man but why should she assume that I would condone this plot? How can she be sure that I don’t have more to gain by telling him, rather than staying silent? Or is it that she is petitioning for my permission?

  “You seem to have most of the town written down here,” she observed.

  “She is a very busy young lady,” replied Olga with a slight smile, “and they have a lot of money to spend.”

  “How did you get this list, may I ask?”

  “I asked my maid’s sister to follow Irena Kuibysheva and her maid whenever they went shopping and to see where they went.”

  For once Madame Wrenskaya let her surprise show.

  “Even into the Quarter?” she queried. “I see that Polezhayev’s name is down here.”

  “She ordered a pair of matching night clothes for when her husband returned,” Olga explained, adding, “The daughter did the embroidery.”

  “Charmant,” murmured Madame Wrenskaya. “You really have come quite prepared.”

  “I reached the same conclusion as you did,” confessed Olga with a wry smile, “although I did not know the term ‘boycott’.”

  She thinks that she is my equal, thought Madame Wrenskaya, irritated by Olga’s smug response, and, to add to her impertinence, in a minute she will ask for my support. This begs the question “Does she need it?” Is my support crucial to the achievement of her objectives? Who else has she approached and what has been their response? Was it just the friends she mentioned? If I do support her and she fails, what will the consequences be? Yet if I don’t support her and she is successful, where will my authority be then?

  “That being the case,” she said as she handed the list back to her visitor, “I don’t see what further help I can be to you.”

  “As you suggest,” said Olga, her tone more cautious now, “this strategy only works if everybody supports the idea. We need a champion to put her name to a letter saying that they will not do business with traders that do business with Irena Kuibysheva. Once a few leading names are collected others will follow.”

  “Well?”

  “We would like you to be our champion.”

  And here we are. Madame Wrenskaya congratulated herself sourly. We have arrived at the point and there are no surprises. Although I do not like either Kuibyshev or Kavelin I don’t care enough about their wives to involve myself in this matter. It is both too tiring and beneath me.

  “That is quite out of the question,” she said firmly.

  “Please consider our request for one moment longer,” insisted Olga pleasantly.

  “No, I will not,” retorted Madame Wrenskaya, piqued by the younger woman’s persistence. “I will not become a public spectacle for a group of merchants’ wives over a sordid affair between adulterers. I am only sorry that you have wasted your time and mine with your foolish request.”

  She reached out her hand for her small handbell intending to bring the interview to an end. To her disbelief she saw Olga sna
tch the handbell up from the table and clasp it securely with both of her hands.

  “Before you ring for Mariya,” Olga said quietly, “would you please look at the bottle of cognac I have brought you?”

  Surprised both by Olga’s behaviour and by her manner, Madame Wrenskaya looked at the bottle on the small table beside her.

  “Yes, I am looking. It is very nice. What of it?”

  “Does the bottle look at all familiar?” asked Olga, with a slight smile.

  “No, why should it?”

  “It is the same bottle from which your late husband drank the evening he died.”

  Seeing Madame Wrenskaya glance instinctively down at her empty glass and then quickly back at her, Olga gave a light laugh.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she assured the old woman, “it is quite safe. You have seen me drinking from it as well. But, you do remember it now, don’t you?”

  Slowly Madame Wrenskaya nodded her head.

  “And you do remember the very unfortunate circumstances of that night? Because I do.”

  Olga watched the understanding grow in the old woman’s eyes.

  “Yes,” she heard her say softly, “I remember.”

  “Then you will recall your saying,” continued Olga in the same reasonable tone, “when it was all over, and I had accompanied you home and we were alone in this room, that if ever I needed your assistance, whatever the circumstances, you would be willing to prove yourself my friend and come to my aid. Whatever the circumstances.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Despite her outward confident exterior, Olga waited anxiously for the response to her demand. Fixing her gaze on Madame Wrenskaya’s immobile features, she saw her look briefly at the handbell she was holding clasped in her lap then away, towards the mantelpiece where rested a framed photograph of her dead husband.

  What a pompous little man you were, Madame Wrenskaya was thinking. How you must be enjoying my discomfiture now! I can hear you protest, huffing and puffing with outraged self importance. “But this is simply blackmail! Throw her out of our house!” This is not blackmail, you wretch. This is a debt to be honoured. No wonder she is so sure that I will agree. She has been holding the wild card all along, and she has played it admirably. The fact is, after all these years I had forgotten all about the matter because you yourself were so forgettable. Of course, there is no question but that I must accede to her request. This is not blackmail, only a payment deferred for services rendered. She took the rubbish out.