by A J Allen
“It’s all right for you. All you have to do is put on your dress uniform and polish your boots,” she began to complain.
Raising himself on one elbow, he began kissing her repeatedly, stopping her mouth with his lips.
As he did so, he wondered whether the Tolkachs had used to make love in the afternoon. Probably not, he thought. Tolkach’s wife always struck me as a neurotic type of woman who lived on her nerves and who was never still.
Had she been the driving force behind Tolkach’s ambition, he wondered, appearing silent and demure in public and yet, at home, never giving him rest? Always on at him to better himself, to earn more so that they could keep up with the Pobednyevas and the Nadnikovas. So that even in the aftermath of his passion, the poor man couldn’t have a moment’s peace, but be subject to her incessant demands for new clothes, better furniture and the thousand and one things that her covetous darting eyes had lighted upon. Was that why he had killed her?
Perhaps that is what being a wife is, he thought. Maybe it’s a mystery passed on from mother to daughter: hit them while they are still warm.
With a final kiss, he lay back beside his wife, his head next to hers on the pillow. Since his wedding day he had known no other woman. Not for him a string of lovers in far away places like Kuibyshev; not on a Chief of Police’s salary.
“You don’t need a new dress to be the most beautiful woman there,” he said gently as his hand began to explore the warm places of her body for a second time.
“Oh Kostya Izorov,” she giggled, “you’re such a greedy pig!”
* * *
All over Berezovo, preparations were in hand to ensure that the attendance at that night’s festivities would be a well-groomed, if not glittering, occasion. Shoes were polished, stockings darned, buttons sewn on, underskirts pressed, hems repaired and, amongst the better run households, jackets brushed. Critical decisions were agonised over and made: Madame Pobednyeva would indeed wear her new dark blue barathea; Madame Nadnikova her grey outfit; Madame Kuibysheva, her creme. In his bedroom, the librarian Maslov paced up and down, nervously repeating his lines. In the play in which he was appearing, and which lasted for the best part of twenty minutes, he had less than thirty lines, but each, he told himself, was crucial to the development of the action. He had had more: the script had shown thirty-four lines of dialogue to be exact, but over a fifth had been excised by the Doctor. It was, he recognised, professional jealousy on the part of an inexperienced and insecure director, but he would rise above it.
At the Dresnyakovs, no mention had been made of the performance that evening until, as she was gathering together her music, Alexandra Alexandrovna asked her brother:
“I don’t suppose the piano at the barracks has been tuned properly?”
Upon receiving the answer in the negative, she smiled meaningfully:
“Good! I do so like a challenge.”
In the Kavelin household there was little relish for the forthcoming evening’s entertainment, and considerably less good humour. The Great Silence that had reigned over the house since the confrontation with Irena Kuibysheva in the Hotel New Century’s mezzanine lounge on the morning of the Mayor’s disastrous luncheon was now entering its second week. Shiminski’s prediction that it was inevitable that, sooner or later, there would be a thaw in his domestic relations was not a conviction shared by Tatyana Kavelina. She knew that their household and their marriage had entered an Ice Age the duration of which was yet to be determined but could, in all likelihood, be measured in years rather than weeks and would, with equal likelihood, lead to a rearrangement of the marital landscape. The most recent humiliation of her husband’s unceremonious ejection from the Town Council had made things even worse. Her one comfort had been that in the hour of one’s greatest need her prayer in the church had been answered; her friends had stuck by her.
Willingly joining Olga Nadnikova’s cabal, Tatyana revelled in its malign purpose. They would all pay: her husband Leonid, Irena Kuibysheva, the Pobednyevs and Fyodor Gregorivich. The wives of Berezovo would know by whose hand they had been struck down. In the meantime she needed no guidance on how she should comport herself. Her friends would expect her to appear confidently sparkling at her husband’s side in public, at the same time enjoying the privilege of being silent, sullen and unforgiving at home. Now, as she put the finishing touches to her hair, dressing it with a nest of beads to complement her dress that she knew to be a finer shade of grey and of a more recent style than that possessed by Olga Nadnikova, she practised a cheerful outgoing smile at her reflection in her dressing mirror.
Elsewhere in the town, unaware of the terrible beauty newly born in the Kavelin household, servants were being dispatched to order sleighs, ponies were harnessed, and carriage lamps trimmed. From the poorer quarters, honest tradesmen and their wives, bearing lanterns, began to leave their dwellings, setting out on foot towards the distant barracks. Vociferous and laughing, the revolutionary exiles, already fortified by strong spirits for the grim spectacle of the bourgeoisie at play, mingled with the growing crowd. Not every person was going: this being a Sunday there would be, for example, no Father Arkady. Neither would Madame Wrenskaya stir from her sitting room, although she had sent her maidservant Mariya – now back in favour – to observe the proceedings from the back of the barrack hall and report upon the scene.
It seemed to Fyodor Gregorivich, as he polished the last glasses and stacked them neatly and readily to hand on his makeshift counter by the side of the auditorium, that by the size of the crowd that had already taken its seats, the Drama Committee had for once underestimated the attraction of their production. Captain Steklov had been heard to voice reservations about the evening, after the rowdy reception given by his troops the day before. Now even he was looking on approvingly at the front of the hall as his troops set about fulfilling his promise to Dr. Tortsov that he would “do something about the lighting”. Three chandeliers, fashioned out of gun carriage wheels with candles fixed in holders on their rims, were lowered, lit and hoisted high again above the growing crowd, each pull of their rope by the teams of soldiers cheered by the more boisterous members of the audience. In brackets that lined each side of the length of the hall and that, on the rare occasions that the Colonel of the Regiment visited, held the faded regimental colours, bayonets were fixed and more candles impaled on their tips, until the whole hall seemed ablaze with light and hot wax began to drip onto the napkins with which Fyodor Gregorivich had covered the trays of pastries and sweetmeats he had prepared for the interval.
At his post behind the ticket desk, Andrey Roshkovsky was growing increasingly anxious about whether the barracks would be able to contain the whole audience. The tin cash box on the table before him was already three quarters full of roubles and most of the seats had been taken. Still more people were entering, fractious at the length of time they had had to queue outside the barrack hall. When the Dresnyakovs appeared, he hurriedly explained the situation. The schoolteacher rubbed his hands together and regarded the complaining crowd with satisfaction.
“Don’t worry so, Andrey Vladimovich,” he said, “I shall take over now. Be so kind as to show my sister to her seat, would you? She is in the first row, I believe.”
Turning to the waiting spectators, the schoolmaster began effortlessly to restore order.
Chapter Twenty Three
Sunday 18th February 1907
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
Onstage, Skyralenko was peering anxiously through a slit in the stage curtain.
“Hullo, Alexandra Dresnyakova has arrived,” he announced in an excited whisper. “She is making her way to the piano. One of the violinists looks drunk, and the other one has just broken a string. The front row is filling up. The Mayor has just arrived and is talking to Kostya Izorov. It won’t be long now.”
Standing beside him Yeliena, her face a mask of white greasepaint with heavily shaded cheeks and carmine lips, listened to the noise of the audience. Hidden from
view it sounded like a roaring wave.
Skyralenko gave a low whistle.
“Irena Kuibysheva has just turned up,” he announced cheerfully, adding, “She’s still alive then. I must say, she looks something.”
Standing in the wings, Chevanin watched Yeliena turn away and begin pacing nervously to and fro across the stage. He was aware that, following their conversation at lunchtime, and fearing that he would make a scene, she had taken great care to ensure that they had not been alone together. Feelings of hopelessness and loss welled up within his breast. So intent was he on his unhappy thoughts that the sound of the trio of musicians beginning to tune up barely registered on his consciousness.
From the other side of the stage, Dr. Tortsov appeared and gathered them together.
“We have seven minutes to go,” he told them. “The curtain parts at the end of Hail to the Tsar. Don’t be nervous. Start straight away once the curtain parts.”
“I think I’ve forgotten my lines,” said Yeliena quietly.
“Don’t worry about that,” the Doctor said. “I shall be sitting at the side of the stage. If you begin to dry up, just look at me and I will give you a prompt. Just remember your first line, ‘I shall never go out. Why should I?’”
Turning to Skyralenko, he asked:
“Dimitri Borisovich, what are your first lines?”
“‘It isn’t right Madame. You’re just destroying yourself. The maid and the cook have gone off fruit picking…’”
“Yes, yes, very good,” said the Doctor. “Anton Ivanovich, what about yours?”
“‘You fool, you’re too fond of talking’,” recited Chevanin dully. “‘Madame, I have the honour to present myself…’”
“Excellent, but you must try to put more vim into it. You sound much too sad. Remember, this play is a comedy. People should be laughing. Remember all the tricks I showed you. Give them plenty of time to laugh, and plenty of business to laugh at. Right! To your places, and good luck!”
As they moved away, Anton caught Yeliena by the arm.
“Yeliena!” he began. “I…”
“Not now,” she whispered. “Afterwards.”
She turned away and then turned back, concerned by his troubled expression.
“Don’t worry! You’ll be marvellous.”
He shook his head. It is hopeless, he thought. She does not care.
Misery overwhelmed him. Tears began to well in his eyes, and he felt his face crumple.
“I can’t live without you, Yeliena,” he gasped brokenly.
In alarm, Yeliena took his hand and pushed him towards the side of the stage.
“Don’t cry!” she urged softly. “Oh, please don’t cry! You will ruin your make up.”
Despite his misery, Chevanin gave a tremulous smile at the incongruity of her warning. Without thinking, he lifted up his sleeve to wipe his face, but Yeliena pushed his arm away.
“Don’t,” she whispered, “you’ll make it even more of a mess.”
In the front of the curtain, the musical trio broke into the first bars of the National Hymn and the barracks was filled with the sound of chairs being scraped back.
Seeing them together in a huddle, Skyralenko hurried over.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Yeliena quickly, steering Chevanin around so that the prison director could not witness his wretched state. “Anton Ivanovich has just got some dust in his eye, that’s all. Go and take your place on the stage while I try and get it out for him.”
When he had gone, she quickly pulled out a handkerchief from the band of her costume dress.
“Listen to me,” she whispered urgently as she began drying his eyes. “You must be very brave. All is not lost. We can’t talk about it now. Wait until the play is over.”
“Then you still love me?” he asked tremulously.
“Later,” she promised, turning away. “We’ll talk later.”
* * *
At the piano Alexandra Dresnyakova smiled grimly as she hammered out the last crashing chords of the Tsarist anthem, nodding encouragingly to the other two musicians struggling to keep up with her. Standing near the entrance at the back of the hall, Roshkovsky watched as the actors began their performance of the evening’s first play, The Bear. Partly because of the distance and partly because a few latecomers had not yet settled down, their words were indistinct. He hoped that they would get better as the evening wore on. He had volunteered to look out for any stragglers who might try to sneak in without paying. It meant keeping an eye on the door, but that suited his purpose. Just as the audience burst into its first laughter of the evening, the door opened, and he saw Trotsky sidle in. Roshkovsky hurried over to meet him. The exile wasted no time.
“Is Goat’s Foot here?” he demanded.
“No, but I’ve already seen him and everything is arranged,” Roshkovsky assured him.
“What happened last night?”
“He gave the driver some money to buy deer and he spent it getting drunk instead.”
Trotsky swore violently.
“What do you expect?” asked Roshkovsky, with a shrug.
“So, the money, it’s all gone?” Trotsky hissed.
“Goat’s Foot isn’t a school boy. He only advanced him five roubles and he did that in front of the fellow’s wife. A formidable lady, I might add. But it’s all settled now. You leave tonight.”
Trotsky looked at him sceptically.
“Tonight? Is that final?”
“Yes. Final and definitive. You’ll be taking the mountain road as we arranged. Two Ostyak sleighs passed that way yesterday so the trail is still clear.”
“What about the Tower?”
“I’ve fixed that. One of the local carriers is to take a slaughtered calf down the Tobolsk road at dawn. I’ve sent it to a man I know in Sverdlovsk. Now, this is the plan. I shall stay here for the whole time. After the second play starts, you are to go to my house, where my wife will have food and clothes ready for you, and something hot to eat. At about a quarter to eleven, Goat’s Foot will call for you and take you to where he has hidden the sleigh. Then the two of you will go by sleigh to meet the driver at his yurt.”
“What is your address?”
“Number 2 Ostermann Street. It’s the last street to the north of the town. Go round the back. My wife will have lit a candle at the kitchen window to guide you.”
“Is there anything else?”
Roshkovsky thought for a moment then shook his head.
“No. You’d better try and find a seat now.”
He pointed towards the middle of the hall.
“Most of the other exiles are sitting over there.”
Trotsky nodded. From where they stood he could only see the backs of the audience’s heads, but there was sufficient light to reveal the seating plan. Even from the back of the barrack hall he could see that the front rows were occupied by the town’s government officials and their wives. Behind them sat the merchants and their families and the other business men. Then came the exiles, Tamara Karseneva’s rich auburn hair shining out like a beacon. To the rear of the exiles sat the plain people: clerks, the petit bourgeoisie and various groups of youths. Last were the peasants: some sitting, some standing. Beneath the row of flickering candles the walls on either side were lined with soldiers. He counted them quickly. Thirty four. But where were Izorov’s police?
Standing beside him, Roshkovsky glanced at his profile and wondered whether he should have told him not to approach him during the interval. It was too late now. He just had to hope that Trotsky wouldn’t compromise him further. Trotsky turned back to face him.
“So, it’s all settled.”
“Yes.”
The land surveyor paused awkwardly, torn between the demand for good manners and the desire to rid himself of his dangerous companion.
“Good luck! I’d like to shake you by the hand, but, well… It isn’t safe, you understand?”
“Oh, I understand,” rep
lied Trotsky mockingly. “Goodbye Roshkovsky.”
It wasn’t until much later that Roshkovsky realised that Trotsky had never thanked him for the risks he and Nina had taken on his behalf. To his dying day, he maintained that it was entirely in keeping with the man.
Following Roshkovsky’s directions, Trotsky found an empty seat and sat down. All around him the audience was voicing their enjoyment of the antics of the players. Onstage, stepping with exaggerated care over the wreckage of her drawing room chairs, Yeliena paced to and fro as she waited for the laughter to die down.
“You’re a rude ill-bred man!” she cried, shaking her fist at her adversary. “Decent people don’t talk to women like that.”
“Oh! What a business!” Chevanin roared back. “How do you want me to talk to you? In French or what?”
This jibe brought forth another gale of laughter from the audience. Amused by the simplicity of the plot – it was fairly obvious where the playwright was heading – Trotsky shook his head in mock despair. Looking around him, he realised that he could not remember the last time he had been surrounded by such benevolent humanity. Most of the meetings he attended over the years had been fractious and adversarial. There was something wonderfully comforting, he felt, almost uplifting, in being in the company of people so intent on enjoying themselves. It was as if every member of the audience, rich or poor, young and old, had sworn an oath to set aside their differences, all the prejudices, the pretensions and anxieties that separated them from their fellow man, for the period of that one evening and to enter into a conspiracy of enjoyment.
What simple and uncomplicated lives they must lead, he thought, to be able to engineer such an amnesty. One can’t imagine there being a theatrical performance so far from the cities.
Settling back in his seat, Trotsky shut his eyes and tried to remember the last time he had been to the theatre but all he could recall was the occasion when he and Natalya had first attended the opera in Paris and it was not a happy memory. It had been springtime, April, nearly four years before. Gustave Charpentier’s Louise had returned to the Opera Comique and Natalya had obtained some spare tickets in the “Gods” (from whom? he wondered now). It was only because of Charpentier’s popularity that he had been persuaded to accompany them at all. The composer, for all his flourishes, had his heart in the right place to the extent of ploughing most of the profits from his successful opera into a Conservatoire Populaire so that working class girls like his opera’s heroine could get a decent training in music and art, singing and dancing.
