REVOLUTION

November 1891 Beryozovsky District

Anatoly Isayevich Bulgakov awoke from the deepest sleep he had managed since he and his partner, Lev, had set up camp, six arduous months previously, in this mining settlement, two hundred and fifty miles from their homes in the mountainous Urals. He could tell immediately that it had snowed again from the dark shadows on the canvas roof of their tent, the iciness infiltrating the interior and causing him to shiver involuntarily. His head was pounding furiously and he struggled to concentrate; his vision swimming in and out of focus.

Anatoly looked over at the cot of his friend but Lev was not there and, with a start, he realised the reason for the way he felt. Laying back down and closing his eyes, the events of the previous night resurfaced. How the two had celebrated their find, the result of much feverish activity, working non-stop, fully committed to striking it rich. How, finally, they had been rewarded with the discovery of a huge nugget, undeniably larger than either of them could ever have possibly dreamed of finding. How Lev had disappeared, returning an hour later with four flasks of vodka, insisting that they celebrate.

The remembrance, now, of his alcoholic intake made Anatoly, normally a non-drinker, retch but recalling their strike, all other emotions were dispelled as he felt, once again, the addictive thrill of discovery. They were rich beyond belief! He turned to the corner of the tent where they had gouged a hole in the frozen turf and hidden the gold, his head spinning, his eyes straining to see past the blurriness of his vision, finally focussing on…a pile of earth! Surely not…

Scrambling on his knees, he pulled back in horror from the hollow where the gold had once been. Panicking, he searched under Lev’s cot for his chemodan, the large kit bag that contained everything that Lev held sacred: his clothing, the watch that his father had given him, the letters from his mother, but the chemodan, like the gold, was missing, also.

Not thinking about his boots or his napka, Anatoly stumbled out through the tent flap, the icy coldness hitting his entire body with a shock. The canvas lean to, attached to the tent, under which they housed their mules, the animals that had carried them here from the Urals, was empty. Lev had gone, together with their gold. And, to prevent Anatoly from giving chase, he had departed with both beasts of burden.

As this realisation, the collation of each individual, pre-planned, heinous act by the one person in all of the world that he had trusted with his life, penetrated his liquor-fogged brain, impervious to the freezing wetness of the snow creeping slowly up his undergarments, Anatoly Isayevich Bulgakov released a scream that chilled the hearts of those few souls within the encampment already awake.

November 1916 Vilyuy, Siberia

“Papa”. The boy, ten years old, swathed in a fur napka and reindeer fur -lined boots, trudged through the snow to greet his father as he, similarly dressed, a ushanka atop his head, laboriously made his way through the fresh fall, leading the caribou that pulled the sleigh, loaded up with timber. The man’s face and beard were speckled with frozen particles, clinging to him like limpets. As he paused and knelt to hug his son, his eyes took in the tracks, recently made, that led past the front of the house.

“There is a strange man here, Papa”, the boy whispered. Immediately alert, the man stood and took his rifle from the front of the sleigh. Followed by his son, he strode purposefully towards the house’s side and, there, he saw the troika, hitched to two reindeer, that had been placed, out of view. Senses heightening, he spoke to his son.

“Sasha, take Miji to the barn and unharness him. Can you do that for Papa?”

Instinctively understanding that this was not a request but an order, the boy nodded silently and the father turned towards the front door of the house, an izba, that the man, himself, had painstakingly built from logs for his family. Kicking the snow off his boots on the timber verandah, cautiously, he unlatched the handle of the door and entered. The first person he saw was his wife, standing in the area that served as a kitchen, who raised a finger to her lips before pointing into the main room, the focal point of the house, warmed by a roaring fire. His gun raised, he entered the spacious room and stared at the form of a man, well built, dressed ostentatiously in a mink coat, mink ushanka upon his head, warming his hands by the fire.

“Perfect timing, it seems, old friend. I, myself, arrived here but ten minutes ago”.

It was the voice that Anatoly recognised, rather than the stature of Lev. For the man that had robbed him blind, twenty five years previously, almost to the day, had put on a great deal of weight in the interim, made even bulkier by his expensive form of clothing.

Identifying this visitor made Anatoly’s mind race, a thousand images, remembrances, nightmares, all buried for two and a half decades, swimming now before his eyes; anger, confusion, betrayal, vying for his attention. Collecting himself, he went immediately to his wife.

“The boy is in the barn. Go to him. Stay away until I say”.

Unquestioning, she grabbed her own fur-lined napka and left the house. Anatoly returned, once more, to the interior, his rifle still held in his right arm. Pulling a rough hewn chair from the dining table, he sat, on the opposite side of the fireplace, the gun pointing at Lev, and studied his former friend, the thief.

“Do you know how hard it has been for me to find you? You’re like a little squirrel, hiding yourself away from the world, Anatoly”.

The two men stared at each other, both attempting to recognise the boy he had played with, gone to school with and, as young adults, had set off with on a glorious adventure, prospecting, sharing a desire to discover gold, grow rich and live opulent lives. Screw everybody else; they would look out only for each other. It had been a beautiful dream and, against all odds, they had almost accomplished it until…

“You must hate me, detest me, I know. I robbed you of your share of a great fortune. But, believe me or not, whatever hate you feel for me, my own self hatred is greater still”.

The man doing all the talking was, to Anatoly, unrecognisable from the friend he had grown up with. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. Several chins rested on the collar of his mink coat.

“God, it’s hot in here, is it not?”

Lev stood and shrugged off his coat revealing the true bulk of his body. As he took off his ushanka and placed it on top of his coat, Anatoly was shocked to see that Lev’s head was completely bald, sweat running in rivulets down his face.  Retrieving a flask from his coat, Lev drank deeply, disappointment writ clear upon his face at the realisation that he had drained the contents.

“Yes, you may stare at me. I know that I have not aged as well as you, my friend. I fool myself of course but the mirror never lies. Living high takes its toll”.  

Once more he fruitlessly raised the flask to his mouth, shaking it in an attempt to savour one last drop.

“Tell me, do you ever wonder what the value of the nugget was?”

Anatoly remained silent, his eyes revealing nothing; not the slightest curiosity, though his mind was working overtime.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I will tell you. Six million rubles! Half of that was rightly yours, my old friend”.

Still, Anatoly said nothing. The day was growing old and, soon, the temperature outside would fall below zero. He thought of his wife and child in the barn.

“It has taken me years to track you down. I have used dozens of investigators and, when, finally, this hideaway was discovered, I scarce believed it. For six months, I have had you watched, made discreet enquiries as to your situation. I know everything about you; everything. The more I learned, the more I hated myself for depriving you of a life of riches. I must say that, if I could have backed anybody to make a great success of himself, it would have been you, Anatoly, helped by wealth or not. You were always the brightest, the cleverest at school. It was your idea to go prospecting, you who chose our site, you who discovered the nugget. Hell, you even chose the best place to hide it. Instead, I find you living…this life; one of deprivation and hardship”.

At last, Anatoly broke his silence, curiosity getting the better of him.

“What do you want?”

Lev, surprised at the question, paused, deep in thought, before answering. The fire crackled and Anatoly could feel the melting ice particles that had invaded his beard dripping, now, into his own clothing but he took no notice, his eyes never leaving the corpulent figure in front of him, his two hands wrapped tightly upon his gun. Suddenly, with a loud exhalation, Lev fell to his knees, as if in agony, tears beginning to stream from his eyes. Startled, Anatoly pulled back as Lev reached out both hands imploringly.

“Anatoly Isayevich Bulgakov, my old friend, I come to apologise, to make amends. I confess my sins and I seek your forgiveness. I crave your absolution, I beg you”.

With this outcry, Lev prostrated himself at the feet of Anatoly, sobs rending his body.

A strained atmosphere pervaded the room as Anatoly, shaken to his core, knowing that he had come close to squeezing the trigger of his gun, so alarmed had he been, waited for Lev to recover himself, made no effort to comfort or absolve him. Finally, after several minutes that seemed, to Anatoly, like a lifetime, he prodded the immense girth at his feet, surprised and disgusted as his boot sank into several layers of flesh. Slowly, recovering himself, Lev rose clumsily and reached for his coat.

“Not a night has passed in all these years when I have not regretted my actions. Since I found your whereabouts, my guilt has doubled, knowing that you live this simple life when…when you should have had a life of riches…”

Fumbling inside his mink coat, he withdrew an envelope.

“This contains a promissory note for three million rubles. Your share. Too late, I know, but…”

Lev handed the envelope towards Anatoly and, rising, he took it, placing it on the mantel overhanging the fireplace. Remaining standing, he addressed the man who had just handed him a great fortune.

“You say that you have been watching me, know everything about me but, I, too, have been watching you, albeit from afar, Lev Ivanovich Yashinski. 

When I first heard of your presence in Moscow, I thought to follow, seek my revenge, take what was mine. But the more I read of your exploits in the newspapers, the less inclined I became. Oh yes, I know all about your factories and your construction businesses. How you doubled, then quadrupled your assets, year upon year, continuing to grow wealthier, welcomed into high society.

I know of your first marriage to Anastasia, causing her to commit suicide when you deserted her for her younger sister though that one did not last long either. Then your third and, now, your fourth, already in trouble according to the gossip pages. You are always seeking something beyond your grasp; happiness.  

I read of the pittance you pay your workers, the terrible conditions that they are forced to work under. Your latest scandal when a building you had constructed collapsed, killing many innocent people. They say you had been using shoddy materials. Naturally, you deny it and we will find out who lies and who speaks the truth when your trial takes place. As well, I see your reliance on alcohol continues. Judging from your appearance, it has now taken you over.  

Yes, even here, though several days late, I still receive regular copies of Russkoe slovo and Moskovskie vedemosti. Even, on occasion, Provincial Gazette. In Moscow, you are a big man, big spender…big news. But for how much longer?

All this, I gleaned watching from a distance. And I thanked you. For, if you hadn’t done what you did, stolen from the one person who truly loved you, I would have ended up with the same lifestyle, the same selfish, crooked way of existing. It would be me facing trial alongside you; crooked brothers in arms.  Screw everybody else, wasn’t that our mantra?

Now, as you quite rightly say, I have only what you see: a modest house but it is as dear to me as the finest palace. A wife from peasant stock, yes, but who loves me even more than I deserve and who would lay down her life for me. A son who I am rearing to be self reliant, honest as the day is long and who is my pride and joy; all, more than I could ever wish for.  

We live simply, it’s true, but we want for nothing. We have fish aplenty from the Vilyuy to supplement what I hunt, eggs from our chickens, our homegrown vegetables in the summer. We are healthy and happy and no amount of money will change that. We have good neighbours who we know we can depend on if needed; people who actually care about others. My life, compared to yours, is as heaven compared to hell”.

Putting his rifle to one side, Anatoly rose to his feet and retrieved the envelope from the mantel, pausing only for a second or two before throwing it upon the fire.

“I do not want to touch anything that has come from the misfortune of others. Once, twenty five long years ago, you gave me the gift of life, though you but knew it. Now, in return, I will give the same to you. Listen carefully. Take whatever ill-gotten gains you have stashed away and leave Russia. For a great change is coming. The people, ordinary peasants like myself, have had enough. Very soon, the people will rise and it will lead to the destruction of people like you. This is my advice, a gift of thanks to you, Lev Ivanovich Yashinski: Run! Flee for your life!”

Lev stared at Anatoly, his mouth agape, fear spreading across his visage.

“I…I have friends, at court, in high places…I have the ear of the Tsar…”, he spluttered in protest.

Smiling ruefully, Anatoly retorted: “Not even the Tsar will be able to help you in this gathering storm”.

The woman and child watched from atop the hay in the barn as the stranger, his shoulders slumped, his face one of abject misery, climbed into his troika, finally, and drove away from the house.  

Climbing down from the loft, they timidly exited the building to find Anatoly already trudging through the drift towards them. As fast as the snow would allow, they ran swiftly towards each other; all three embracing, lovingly. Seeing the fearful, unspoken question in his wife’s eyes, Anatoly Isayevich Bulgakov kissed his wife tenderly and reassured her:

“A very old friend, come to say his farewells. We will never see him again for he is leaving Russia forever”.