Day of the Oprichnik (5 page)

“Is that clear, oprichniks?” Buturlin asks.

“Clear as a bell, Prince,” Batya answers.

“There’s just one little problem: find the author of the pasquinade.”

Batya nods. “We’ll track that worm down, he won’t get away.”

And, thoughtfully pulling on his short beard, he asks: “Does His Majesty know?”

“He knows,” sounds a majestic voice, and we all bow low, touching the parquet with our right hands.

The sovereign face appears in the air of the office. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the iridescent gold frame around the beloved, narrow face with dark blond beard and thin mustache. We straighten up. His Majesty looks at us with his expressive, sincere intent and penetrating blue-gray eyes. His look is inimitable. You’d never confuse him with anyone else. And I am ready without hesitation to give my life for this look.

“I read it, I read it,” says His Majesty. “It’s artfully written.”

“Your Majesty, we’ll find the pasquinader, I assure you,” says Buturlin.

“I don’t doubt it. Although I have to admit that’s not what concerns me, Terenty Bogdanovich.”

“What concerns you, Your Majesty?”

“My dear, I’m concerned about whether or not everything written in the poem…is true.”

“What specifically, Your Majesty?”

“All of it.”

Buturlin grows thoughtful.

“Your Majesty, I find that difficult to answer immediately. Permit me to take a look at the report of the Fire Department council.”

“Come now, you don’t need any fire reports, Prince.” His Majesty’s transparent eyes look straight through Buturlin. “You need witnesses to the event.”

“Who do you have in mind, Your Majesty?”

“The hero of the poem.”

Buturlin looks at Batya, who is gritting his teeth.

“Your Majesty, we do not have the right to question members of your family,” says Batya.

“And I’m not forcing you to interrogate anyone. I simply want to know—is it all true?”

Silence again fills the office. The shining image of His Majesty glitters with gold and rainbow colors.

Our sire grins. “Why so quiet now? It won’t work without me?”

“Without you, Your Majesty, nothing works,” says Buturlin, bowing his head so low that his bald spot shows.

“All right then, we’ll do it your way.” His Majesty sighs. In a loud voice he calls:

“Andrei!”

About fifteen seconds pass, and to the right of His Majesty’s face a small picture of Count Urusov appears in a violet frame. By the count’s grave, haggard look it is clear that he has read the poem—more than once.

“Good day, Father.” The count bows his large, big-eared head, which sits on a short neck; his brow is narrow and he has large facial features; his chestnut hair is thin.

“Hello, hello, son-in-law.” The gray-blue eyes look at him with absolute calm. “Read this poem about yourself?”

“I’ve read it, Father.”

“Not badly written, don’t you think? And here my academicians go on and on about how we don’t have any good poets!”

Count Urusov keeps quiet, pursing his thin lips. His mouth, like a frog’s, is extremely wide.

“Tell us, Andrei, is it true?”

The count says nothing, casts his eyes down, inhales, sniffs, and exhales carefully:

“It’s true, Your Majesty.”

Now His Majesty himself grows thoughtful, and frowns. We all stand there, waiting.

“So you mean to say that you actually like to fornicate at fires?” asks His Majesty.

The count nods his grave head:

“It’s true, Your Majesty.”

“Hmmm. That’s how it is, hey?…Rumors had reached me before this, but I didn’t believe them. I thought that envious people were slandering you. But you…Hmm, so that’s what you are.”

“Your Majesty, I can explain everything—”

“When did this start?”

“Your Majesty, I swear to you in the name of all the saints, I swear on my mother’s grave—”

“Don’t swear,” His Majesty says suddenly, and in
such
a voice that all of us feel our hair stand up.

It isn’t a shout, and he isn’t grinding his teeth, but it has the effect of red-hot tongs. His Majesty’s fury is terrifying. And even more terrifying because our sire never raises his voice.

Count Urusov is no coward—he’s a statesman, a wheeler-dealer, a millionaire of millionaires, an inveterate hunter who goes after bears with nothing but a spear out of
principle
—but even he pales before this voice, like some second-year high school student called to the principal’s office.

“Tell me, when did you first indulge in this vice?”

The count licks his dry, froglike lips.

“Your Majesty, it…it was completely by accident…even really, you know…as though I were being forced. Although, of course, I’m guilty…only I…I…it’s my sin, mine, forgive me.”

“Explain everything in order.”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, I won’t hide anything at all. Once, when I was seventeen years old, I was walking along Ordynka Street and I saw a house on fire, and there was a woman crying out. The firemen hadn’t gotten there yet. People gave me a boost up, I climbed in the window to help her. She threw herself on my chest…Your Majesty, I don’t know what overcame me…I must have blanked out…and, well, the woman, wasn’t exactly a beauty to put it mildly, medium height…well, and…I…you see…”

“And?”

“Well, I had her, Your Majesty. They were barely able to pull us out of the flames later on. After that, I wasn’t myself anymore. I kept thinking and thinking about the incident…A month later I was in St. Petrograd—I was walking along Liteiny—and there was an apartment burning on the third floor. That time my legs just led me there—I broke down the door—I don’t know where I got the strength. And inside there was a mother with her child. She was pressing him to her breast, and screaming out the window. Well, I took her from behind…And then six months later in Samara the treasury burned down, and my deceased father and I had come for the market, and then…”

“That’s enough. Whose house burned the last time?”

“Princess Bobrinskaya’s.”

“Why does this rhymester call a Russian princess a ‘marquess’?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty…Probably out of hatred for Russia.”

“All right. Now tell me honestly…did you set that house on fire deliberately?”

The count freezes as though he’s just been bitten by a snake. He lowers his lynxlike eyes. And says nothing.

“I’m asking you—did you set that house on fire?”

The count heaves a painful sigh:

“I cannot lie to you, Your Majesty. I set it on fire.”

His Majesty is silent for a moment. Then he says:

“It is not for to me to judge your vice—each of us will answer to God for these things. But I cannot forgive arson. Get out of here!”

Urusov’s face disappears. The four of us remain alone with His Majesty. His brow is creased with sadness.

“Hmmm…well.” His Majesty sighs. “And I entrusted my daughter to a swine like that.”

We remain silent.

“So that’s it, Prince,” His Majesty continues. “It’s a family affair. I’ll deal with him myself.”

“As you command, Your Majesty. And what about the pasquinader?”

“Act according to the law. On second thought…don’t. It could arouse unhealthy curiosity. Simply tell him not to write anything like that again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you all for your service.”

“We serve the Fatherland!” we say as we bow.

His Majesty’s image disappears. We look at one another in relief. Buturlin paces the office, shaking his head:

“That cad, Urusov…shame on him!”

“Thank God that we don’t have to deal with that mess,” says Batya, smoothing his beard. “But who is the author?”

“We’ll find out right now,” says Buturlin. He walks over to his desk and sits in his work chair. His voice commands:

“Writers—come here!”

Immediately the faces of 128 writers appear in the air of the office. They are all framed in stern brown and arranged in a neat square. Three enlarged faces float over the rest: the gray-haired chairman of the Writers’ Chamber, Pavel Olegov, with a continually suffering expression on his puffy face, and two even grayer, gloomier, anxious deputies, Anany Memzer and Pavlo Basinya. By the doleful expression on all three mugs, I realize that a difficult conversation awaits them.

“We’ll leave, Terenty Bogdanovich,” Batya says, reaching out to shake hands with the prince. “Writers are your bailiwick.”

“All the best, Boris Borisovich.” Buturlin shakes Batya’s hand.

We bow to the prince and follow Batya out. We walk along the hallway to an elevator, accompanied by the same dashing officer.

“Listen, Komiaga, how come Olegov is always such a sour puss? What is it—toothache?” Batya asks me.

“His soul aches, Batya. For Russia.”

“Ah, that’s good.” Batya nods. “And what’s he written? You know I’m not one for books.”

“
The Russian Tile Oven in the Twenty-first Century
. A weighty piece. I didn’t get all the way through it…”

“The Russian oven…that’s wonderful…” Batya sighs thoughtfully. “Especially when you bake liver pies…Where are you off to now?”

“To the Kremlin Concert Hall.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “See you sort that one out. Those clowns are up to something new…”

I nod in reply. “We’ll sort it out, Batya.”

The Kremlin Concert Hall has always delighted me. It thrilled me when I first visited it with my deceased parents twenty-six years ago, to see
Swan Lake
; when I ate blini with red caviar during the intermission; when I called my friend Pashka on Papa’s mobilov from the buffet; when I peed in the spacious toilet; when I watched the mysterious ballerinas in snow white tutus; and even now, when my temples are sprinkled with their first gray.

A magnificent hall! Everything in it is grand, it has all the amenities for state holidays, everything is perfect. Only one thing is wrong—not all the events produced on this mighty stage are appropriate. Subversiveness seeps through even here. Well, that’s why we exist, to keep order and exterminate rebellion.

We sit in the empty hall. On my right is the director. On my left, an observer from the Secret Department. In front of me is Prince Sobakin of the Inner Circle. Behind me—the head of the Culture Chamber. Serious people, state servants. We’re watching the holiday concert that’s coming up. It begins powerfully, like a peal of thunder: a song about His Majesty shakes the dimly lit hall. The Kremlin choir sings well. Russia knows how to sing. Especially if the song is from the soul.

The song ends; the valiant fellows in decorated shirts bow, the girls in
sarafans
and holiday headdresses curtsey. Sheaves of grain bow in an iridescent rainbow, and above them frozen river willows bow. Natural sunlight shines, almost blindingly. Good. I approve. All the others approve as well. The long-haired director is happy.

The next song is about Russia. No questions here, either. It’s a strong piece, finely polished. Next—an historical number: the time of Ivan III. A grim, fateful time in Russian history. A serious struggle for the integrity of the Russian state is under way—a fledgling state, not yet strong, only beginning to stand on its own. There’s thunder and lightning on stage, Ivan’s warriors are heading for the breach, the Metropolitan raises a cross illumined by flickering flames. Rebellious Novgorod, which opposes the unification of Russia, is conquered; the apostates fall on their knees, but Great Prince Ivan Vasilevich’s sword touches their guilty heads with mercy:

“Neither enemie nor adversary be I. I am Protector, Father, and Defender of you and all the Great Russian Kingdom.”

Bells ring. A rainbow shines above Novgorod and over all of Rus. The heavenly birds sing. The Novgorodians bow and sob with joy.

Now, that’s good, that’s appropriate. But the warriors should have broader shoulders and the Metropolitan could be taller, more dignified. And there’s a good deal of unnecessary fuss in the background. The birds fly too low, they’re distracting. The director agrees with the suggestions, and makes notes in his book.

The next act is a page from our recent past, troubled and sad. Three Stations Square in Moscow, during the years of the accursed White Revolt. Simple people mill about, brought out of their homes onto the square by a wave of rebellion, forced to sell whatever comes to hand to earn enough for a piece of bread, stolen from them by criminal rulers. My earliest childhood memories are of those
foul
times. The Time of the White Pus, which poisoned our Russian bear…back when the inhabitants of Russia stood on the square with teakettles, frying pans, shirts, even shampoo and soap in their hands. Refugees and people who had lost everything flooded into Moscow and traveled there from grief. Elderly men, the war-wounded, veterans and heroes of labor. Seeing that crowd left a bitter taste indeed. The sky above is overcast and dank. Sad music sounds from the orchestra pit. Then, as though a pale ray of hope has suddenly pierced the gloomy picture, the colors of center stage grow warmer and we see three homeless children, rejected by the world: two little girls in torn dresses and a grimy little boy holding a teddy bear. The timid flute of hope comes alive, awakes and sounds, striving upward with its delicate voice. Over the gloomy, sullied square we hear a touching children’s song:

“I hear a voice arising, lovely in the distance—

The voice of dawn, adorned in silver dew.

I hear a voice, and now the road, insistent,

Does daze me like the childhood swings that I once knew.

“O distance lovely, don’t be cruel.

Do not be cruel, oh cruel never be!

From purest streams to lovely distance

The road to lovely distance beckons me.

“I hear a voice arising in the distance,

It summons me to far and marv’lous climes.

I hear a voice; it asks of me, insistent,

What deed I’ve done today to aid tomorrow’s time.

“O distance lovely, don’t be cruel.

Do not be cruel, oh cruel never be!

From purest streams to lovely distance,

The road to lovely distance beckons me.”

Tears well up in my eyes. It’s the
hangover
, of course. But the dignified Prince Sobakin is sniffing as well. He has a large family, many small grandchildren. The brawny observer from the Secret Department sits still as a statue. Well, of course—they have nerves of steel, they’re ready for anything and everything. The portly head of the Culture Chamber sort of shakes his shoulders like he’s caught a chill—he seems to be fighting off tears, too. The piece hits a raw nerve even in strong, seasoned men. That’s wonderful…

His Majesty awakened in us not simply pride in our country, but compassion for her painful past. Three Russian children stand stretching their hands out to us from the past of an insulted and injured country. And we cannot help them at all.

We approve it.

Next—the present day. A full, bountiful cup. The Moiseev Ensemble performs dances of all the peoples of Great Russia. Here you’ve got the smooth Tatar dances, and the dashing Cossack whirls with sabers drawn; Tambov quadrilles to the sound of an accordion; and Nizhny Novgorod folk dances with their rattles and whistles; the whooping, yelping Chechen circle dance; Yakut tambourines; and the Chukots with their Arctic fox furs; the Kariaksky deer; the Kalmyk rams; Jewish frock coats—and Russian, Russian, Russian dancing till you drop—dashing, boisterous, bonding, reconciling everyone.

No question about this legendary group.

There are two more acts: “Flying Balalaikas,” and “A Young Girl Rushes to a Rendezvous.” Now these are real classics—everything honed, checked, polished. A feast for the eyes. You watch, and it’s just like you’re sledding down a hill. The observer applauds. We do, too. Good for His Majesty’s artistes!

Then comes a short literary piece: “Hello, My Dear Nanny, Arina Rodionovna!” It’s a little old, a bit forced. But the people love it and His Majesty respects it. The head of the Culture Chamber suggests lamely that Pushkin should be younger—the same not-very-young actor, Khapensky, has been playing the poet for the last twelve years. But we all know it’s pointless. The actor is one of Her Highness’s favorites. The director shrugs his shoulders, opens his hands:

“Gentlemen, you must understand, it’s not up to me…”

We understand.

And now we come to the most important act. A new piece on the topic of the day: “Like Hell I Will!”

Each of us squirms in his seat and tenses. The stage is dark, the only sounds are the howl of the wind, and the strumming of the Kazakh dombra and the Russian balalaika. The moon crawls out from behind clouds, illuminating the scene with a faint light. In the middle of the stage is the Third Western Pipeline. The very one that’s caused so much hullabaloo the last year and a half, so much trouble and concern. The pipeline stretches across the stage, through Russian forest and field; sparkling in the dim light, it arrives at the Western Wall. There it passes through a flow-regulating valve marked closed, dives into the wall, and moves farther westward. Our border guard stands there with an automatic ray gun, looking through binoculars toward the other side. Suddenly the dombras and balalaikas grow anxious, a warning bass sounds—and near the valve a molehill erupts. In a flash, a mole-saboteur in black goggles crawls out, looks around, sniffs the air, jumps, grabs the valve, digs his huge teeth into it with all his might. He’s just about to turn it, to let the gas through. But—a ravaging ray flashes from the wall and cuts the mole in half! The mole’s guts tumble out, a howl rends the air, and the thieving saboteur breathes his last. Lights flare, and three bold border guards, full of mettle, leap from the wall. Their jumps are agile, accompanied by handsprings and valiant whistles. One of them holds an accordion, the second a tambourine, the third wields wooden spoons. Each of them wears an automatic, loyal and true, on his back. The fine young border guards sing:

“The valves we closed up:

Like His Majesty told us.

But fiendish foes did try

To suck our gas completely dry.

“Right off we told them: ‘No! We’ll fight!’

And honed our eagle gaze.

Europa Gas, that parasite,

For Russian gas must pay!

“Just try to stop those cyberpunksters,

Across the wall’s most chilly side.

What bifurcations, made by funksters,

Like mushrooms sprout both far and wide.

“Each time more brazen do they act,

But wait a moment, contemplate,

How could we give them gas like that?

In a thrice they’d suffocate.”

One border guard opens the valve while the two others rush to the end of the pipe, put it to their rear ends, and fart. With a menacing howl the good fellows’ farts pass through the pipe, flow through the wall, and…screams and wailing are heard in the West. The final chord sounds, and the three valiant fellows jump onto the pipe, raising their automatics in victory. Curtain.

The high-placed audience stirs. They’re looking at Prince Sobakin. He twists his mustache, thinking. He speaks:

“Well now, what opinions do we have, gentlemen?”

The head of the Culture Chamber speaks:

“I see an obvious element of obscenity. Although the piece is topical and executed with vim and vigor.”

The observer from the Secret Department:

“First of all, I don’t like the enemy scout being killed rather than captured alive. Second, why only three border guards? I know for a fact that outposts have a dozen. So there should be twelve guards. Then the fart itself would be more powerful…”

I:

“I agree in regard to the composition of the border guard. And this is a much-needed number, a topical number. But there is an element of obscenity. And His Majesty, as we all know, champions chastity and cleanliness on stage.”

Prince Sobakin says nothing, but nods. Then he speaks:

“Tell me, gentlemen, does hydrogen sulfide, which our valiant warriors fart—does it burn?”

The observer nods. “It burns.”

“Well, if it burns,” the prince continues, twisting his mustached, “then what does Europe have to fear from our farts?”

Now that’s a member of the Inner Circle for you! He sees right to the bottom of things! You can heat European cities with Russian farts! Everyone grows thoughtful. I blame my brain: I didn’t catch on to an obvious thing! But then, my education was in the humanities…

The director pales and coughs nervously.

The observer scratches his beard. “Hmm. Yes…there’s a little discrepancy…”

“A blunder in the script!” The culture head lifts a fat finger in forewarning. “Who’s the author?”

In the darkness of the hall a lean man in glasses and a belted peasant shirt appears.

“My good man, how did you slip up like this? The story of our gas is as old as the world!” the culture head asks him.

“I’m at fault. I’ll fix it.”

“Fix it, fix it, my dear,” yawns the prince.

“Just remember that dress rehearsal is the day after tomorrow!” the observer says sternly.

“We’ll make it in time, of course.”

“One more thing,” the prince adds. “On the subject of moles: the ray gun causes his intestines to fall out. It’s a bit too much.”

“What, your Highness?”

“Intestines. Naturalism is out of place here. Fewer gizzards, my man.”

“At your command. We’ll fix everything.”

“And what about the obscenity?” I ask.

The prince glances at me sideways:

“It isn’t obscenity, Sir Oprichnik, but healthy army humor, which helps our Streltsy bear the severe conditions on the far borders of our Motherland.”

Laconic. Can’t argue. The prince is smart. And judging by his cold, sideways look—he doesn’t like us oprichniks. Well, that’s understandable: we step on the Inner Circle’s toes, we breathe down their necks.

“What else is there?” the prince asks, taking out a nail file.

“The aria of Ivan Susanin.”

Don’t have to watch that one. I rise, bow, and head toward the exit. Suddenly in the darkness someone grabs me by the hand:

“Sir, Sir Oprichnik, I beg of you!”

A woman.

“Who are you?” I pull my hand away.

“I beg of you, hear me out!” she says in a hot, fitful whisper. “I’m the wife of the arrested scribe Koretsky.”

“Get away, you Zemstvo spawn.”

“I beg you, I beg of you!” She falls on her knees and grabs my legs.

“Away with you.” I kick her in the chest with my boot.

She lies on the floor. Then, from behind me—another pair of hot female hands, and more whispering:

“Andrei Danilovich, we beg you, beg you!”

I grab my dagger from its scabbard:

“Away, you whores!”

Thin hands recoil in the darkness:

“Andrei Danilovich, I am not a whore. I am Uliana Sergeevna Kozlova.”

Ah! The prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Theatre. His Majesty’s favorite, the best Odile and Giselle of all…I didn’t recognize her in the dark. I look closer. Yes—it’s her. And the Zemstvo bitch lies prone. I remove my dagger:

“Madame, how may I be of service?”

Kozlova comes closer. Her face, like the faces of all ballerinas, is far more ordinary than on stage. And she’s not in the least tall.

“Andrei Danilovich,” she whispers, glancing at the dim stage, where Susanin, with his stick and sheepskin coat, sings his aria slowly, “I beseech you to intercede, I implore you in the name of all the saints, I beg you with my heart! Klavdia Lvovna is the godmother of my children, she’s my closest, most beloved friend, she’s an honest, pure, God-fearing woman, together we built a school for orphans, an orphanage, a neat, spacious school, where orphans study. I beg of you, we beg of you…the day after tomorrow Klavdia Lvovna will be sent to the settlement, there’s only a day left, I beseech you as a Christian, as a man, as a theatergoer, as a cultured person, we will be in your eternal debt, we will pray for you and for your family, Andrei Danilovich—”