Hard to Be a God (12 page)

For these kinds of blunders, any minister would be hung upside down by his feet at the top of the Merry Tower, but Don Reba somehow remained in power. He abolished the Ministries of Education and Welfare, established the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown, and removed the ancestral aristocrats and the few scientists from their government posts. He caused a complete economic collapse, wrote the
treatise
On the Brutish Nature of the Farmer,
and finally, a year ago, organized the “protective guard”—the gray troops. The monopolies had stood behind Hitler. No one was standing behind Don Reba, and it was obvious that the storm troopers would eventually devour him like a fly. But he kept twisting and turning, piling one absurdity on top of another, writhing around as if he was trying to deceive himself, as if he knew nothing but the paranoid task of exterminating any trace of culture. Just like Waga the Wheel, he had no past. Two years ago, any aristocratic mongrel would contemptuously speak about the “worthless boor who was deceiving His Majesty,” but nowadays every aristocrat you asked claimed to be related to the Minister of the Defense of the Crown through the maternal line.

And now he wants Budach, Rumata thought. Another absurdity. Another bizarre feint of some sort. Budach is a bookworm. Bookworms get sent to the gallows. With a lot of pomp and noise, so that everyone knows about it. But there's no pomp or noise. Therefore, he needs Budach alive. Why? Don Reba can't be stupid enough to hope to force Budach to work for him. Or maybe he really is stupid. Maybe Don Reba is nothing more than a stupid, lucky schemer who doesn't know what he wants himself, slyly making a fool of himself for all to see. It's funny, I've been watching him for three years, and I still don't understand what he is. Although if he'd been watching me, he wouldn't understand either. That's the curious thing—anything is possible. Basis theory only concretely specifies the psychological motivations of the principal personality types, but there are in fact as many types as there are people; any sort of person could come to power. For example, take a man who has spent his entire life annoying his neighbors. Spitting into their pots of
soup, putting ground glass into their hay. Of course he'll be removed eventually, but he'll have plenty of time to spit, to chortle, to make mischief. And it doesn't matter to him that he won't make a mark on history, or that distant descendants will rack their brains as they attempt to fit his behavior into an already developed theory of historical progress.

I don't have time for theory anymore, thought Rumata. I only know one thing: man is an objective bearer of reason, and everything that gets in the way of developing this reason is evil and must be eradicated as quickly as possible and in any way possible. Any way possible? Any at all? No, probably not. Or maybe I really do mean
any?
Stop dithering! he thought to himself. I should make up my mind. Sooner or later I will have to make up my mind.

He suddenly remembered about Doña Ocana. Make up your mind, then, he thought. Start right there. If God undertakes to clean an outhouse, let him not believe that his hands will remain clean. He felt nauseated at the thought of what awaited him. But it's better than murder. Better dirt than blood. Walking on his tiptoes, so as not to wake up Kira, he went to his study and changed clothes. He turned the transmitter-circlet over in his hands, then decisively shoved it in a drawer. Then he stuck a white feather—the symbol of passionate love—into his hair behind his right ear, strapped on his swords, and put on his best cloak. When he was already downstairs, unbolting the doors, he thought, You know, if Don Reba finds out, that'll be the end of Doña Ocana. But it was already too late to go back.

T
he guests were already gathered, but Doña Ocana wasn't there yet. The royal guardsmen, famed for their duels and sexual escapades, were having drinks by the gilded table, covered with appetizers—preening, arching their backs, and sticking out their wiry behinds. A number of scrawny middle-aged women giggled by the fireplace; they were completely insignificant and for this reason had been chosen by Doña Ocana to be her confidantes. They were sitting on low couches side by side, and three little old men, with skinny legs in constant motion, were bustling in front of them— famous dandies from the time of the previous regency, avowed authorities on long-forgotten anecdotes. Everyone knew that without these old men a drawing room wasn't a drawing room. In the middle of the hall, his jackbooted feet
apart, stood Don Ripat, a loyal and sensible agent of Rumata's, a lieutenant of a gray company of haberdashers, with a magnificent mustache and no principles whatsoever. With his big red hands stuck into his leather belt, he was listening to Don Tameo, who was giving a rambling account of his new project of suppressing the peasants in order to benefit the merchant class, and would occasionally twitch his mustache in the direction of Don Sera, who was wandering from wall to wall, probably in search of a door. In the corner, glancing around cautiously, two famous portrait painters were finishing a stew of alligator with wild garlic, and in a nearby recess sat an elderly woman in black—a duenna engaged by Don Reba to keep an eye on Doña Ocana. She was staring fixedly into space with a strict expression on her face, her whole body occasionally all of a sudden pitching forward. At some distance from the others, a royal and the secretary of the Soanian embassy were playing cards. The royal was cringing; the secretary was smiling patiently. He was the only person engaged in useful activity in the room: he was gathering material for the next embassy report.

The guardsmen by the table greeted Rumata with cheerful shouts. Rumata gave them a friendly wink and started making the rounds of the guests. He bowed to the old dandies, paid a few compliments to the confidantes, who immediately started staring at the white feather behind his ear, patted the royal's fat back, and headed toward Don Ripat and Don Tameo. As he walked by the window recess, the duenna swayed again, reeking of wine.

When he saw Rumata, Don Ripat took his hands out of his belt and clicked his heels, while Don Tameo cried softly, “Is that you, my friend? I'm so glad you came, I had already lost hope. ‘Like a broken-winged swan calls wistfully to a
star …' I was so lonely. If not for our dearest Don Ripat, I would have died of misery!” It was clear that Don Tameo had almost sobered up for dinner but still hadn't been able to stop.

“Is that how it is?” Rumata said with surprise. “We're quoting the rebel Zuren?”

Don Ripat immediately drew himself up and gave Don Tameo a predatory look.

“Er …” Don Tameo said, flustered. “Zuren? Is that so? Well, yes, I meant it in an ironic sense, I assure you, noble dons! After all, what is Zuren? A low, ungrateful demagogue. And I just wanted to emphasize—”

“That Doña Ocana isn't here,” continued Rumata, “and that you've been lonely without her.”

“That's just what I wanted to emphasize.”

“By the way, where is she?”

“She should be here any minute,” Don Ripat said with a bow, and walked away.

The confidantes, mouths identically agape, kept staring at the white feather. The elderly dandies snickered coyly. Don Tameo finally also noticed the feather and began to tremble. “My friend!” he whispered. “Why are you doing this? You never know when Don Reba might come by. True, he's not expected today, but still …”

“Let's not talk about it,” said Rumata, impatiently looking around. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. The guardsmen were already approaching with cups.

“You're so pale,” whispered Don Tameo. “I do understand, love, passion … but, Holy Míca! The state is above … and finally, it's dangerous … to offend his feelings …”

Something changed in his face, and he began to retreat, depart, move back, bowing the entire time. Rumata was surrounded by guardsmen. Someone offered him a full cup.

“For honor and for the king!” a guardsman declared.

“And for love,” another one added.

“Show them what the guardsmen are made of, noble Rumata,” said a third.

Rumata took the cup and suddenly saw Doña Ocana. She was standing in the doorway, fanning herself and sensuously swaying her shoulders. Yes, she certainly was good-looking! At this distance, she was even beautiful. She wasn't at all to Rumata's taste, but she was doubtlessly good-looking, the silly, lascivious bird. Huge blue eyes without a shadow of thought or warmth, a soft and extremely experienced mouth, a gorgeous, skillfully and carefully exposed body. The guardsman behind Rumata's back apparently couldn't control himself and smacked his lips rather loudly. Rumata shoved the cup toward him without looking and took long strides toward Doña Ocana. Everyone in the room looked away from them and started assiduously talking nonsense.

“You're stunning,” Rumata muttered, bowing deeply, his swords clanging. “Let me lie at your feet … like a greyhound lies at the feet of a nude and indifferent beauty …”

Doña Ocana covered herself with the fan and slyly narrowed her eyes. “You're very brave, noble don,” she said. “We poor provincial women cannot hope to withstand such an assault.” She had a low, husky voice. “Alas, all that remains for me is to open the castle gates and let the victor in.”

Rumata, gritting his teeth from shame and rage, bowed even deeper.

Doña Ocana lowered her fan and yelled out, “Noble dons, enjoy yourselves! Don Rumata and I will be back soon! I promised to show him my new Irukanian rugs.”

“Don't leave us long, enchantress!” bleated one of the old men.

“Seductress!” another old man said in a honeyed voice. “Nymph!”

The guards clattered their swords in unison. “His taste isn't bad,” the royal said, too audibly. Doña Ocana grabbed Rumata by the sleeve and dragged him along. When he was already in the hallway, Rumata heard Don Sera declare in an injured tone, “I see no reason why a noble don shouldn't look at some Irukanian rugs.”

At the end of the hallway, Doña Ocana came to a sudden halt, threw her arms around Rumata's neck, and with a throaty moan that was supposed to indicate a burst of passion, pressed her mouth hard against his. Rumata stopped breathing. The unwashed nymph reeked of body odor mixed with Estorian perfume. Her lips were hot, wet, and sticky from sweets. Making an effort, he attempted to return the kiss—and apparently succeeded, because Doña Ocana moaned again and fell into his arms with her eyes closed. This lasted an eternity. I'll show you, whore, thought Rumata and squeezed her in his arms. Something cracked, either her corset or her ribs, the beauty gave a plaintive squeak, opened her eyes in astonishment, and thrashed around, trying to get free. Rumata hurriedly let her go.

“Naughty boy,” she said with delight, breathing heavily. “You almost broke me.”

“I'm burning with love,” he mumbled guiltily.

“Me too. How I've waited for you! Let's go faster.”

She dragged him behind her through some cold, dark rooms. Rumata took out a handkerchief and furtively wiped his mouth. The plan now seemed completely hopeless. I should do it, he thought. But there are all sorts of things I should do! I won't get off with just talk. Holy Míca, why do they never bathe in the palace? What a temperament. If only
Don Reba would come by. She dragged him along silently and persistently, like an ant dragging a dead caterpillar. Feeling like a complete idiot, Rumata went on with some gallant nonsense about fast feet and red lips. Doña Ocana just giggled. She pushed him inside an overheated boudoir—which really was hung with rugs—flung herself onto the huge bed and, sprawling on the pillows, began looking at him with moist, protuberant eyes. Rumata stood stock-still. The boudoir smelled distinctly of bedbugs.

“You're beautiful,” she whispered. “Come to me. I've waited so long!”

Rumata closed his eyes; he felt sick. Beads of sweat started to roll down his face with a repulsive tickle. I can't do it, he thought. Damn the information. A she-fox … a monkey … It's just unnatural, it's dirty. Dirt is better than blood, but
this
is much worse than dirt!

“T-To hell with this,” Rumata said hoarsely.

She jumped up and ran over to him. “What is it? Are you drunk?”

“I don't know,” he managed to force out. “It's stuffy.”

“Should I order a basin?”

“Basin?”

“Never mind, never mind … It'll pass.” Her fingers shaking with impatience, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. “You're beautiful,” she mumbled breathlessly. “But you're as timid as a virgin. I would have never guessed. It's adorable, I swear by Holy Bara!”

He was forced to grab her hands. He was looking down at her, seeing the untidy hair shining with pomade, the round, naked shoulders dotted with clumps of powder, the small red ears. It's too bad, he thought. I can't do it. It's a pity—she must know some things. Don Reba talks in his sleep … He
brings her to interrogations—she is very fond of interrogations … I can't do it.

“Well?” she said irritably.

“Your rugs are beautiful,” he said loudly. “But I must go.”

She didn't get it at first, then her face contorted. “How dare you?” she whispered, but he had already felt for the door with his shoulder blades, run out into the hallway, and quickly walked away. Starting tomorrow, I'm not taking any more baths, he thought. This place needs hogs, not gods!

“Eunuch!” she shouted after him. “Gelding! Old woman! To the gallows with you!”

Rumata opened a random window and jumped down into the garden. He stood underneath the tree for a while, greedily gulping the cool air. Then he remembered the idiotic white feather, pulled it out, crushed it furiously, and threw it away. Pashka wouldn't have been able to do it either, he thought. No one would have been able to.
Are you sure about that?
Yes, I'm sure.
Then you aren't worth much!
But it makes me sick!
The Experiment doesn't care about your feelings—if you can't do it, don't try.
I'm not an animal!
If the Experiment demands it, you must become an animal!
The Experiment can't demand that.
As you can see, it can.
In that case …