Day of the Oprichnik

“Putting out stars is harder than mixing honey and water,” our Batya likes to say. And it’s true. Nonetheless, it’s an important affair, an affair of state. But skill is needed, a special approach. In a word, it’s an “intelligent” affair. And intelligent hands are needed. You have to invent or fabricate something every time. It’s nothing like burning down Zemsky mansions.

Therefore, I head back for the center of town again. I drive along crowded Yakimanka, again in the red lane. I drive onto the Great Stone Bridge. The sun has peeked out from behind the winter clouds, illuminating the Kremlin. And it is shining. How marvelous that for the last twelve years its walls have been painted white. And instead of those demonic pentacles on the Kremlin towers the state’s two-headed eagles shine gold.

The Kremlin is glorious in clear weather! It glows. The Palace of the Russian Government blinds the eyes, it takes your breath away. The Kremlin walls and towers sparkle like white lumps of sugar, the cupolas reflect the sun tinsel gold, the Ladder of Paradise bell tower of Ioann Lestvichnik rises in the air like an arrow. Blue-tinted firs surround it like stern guards, and Russia’s flag flies proud and free. Here, just over the crenellated, blindingly white, stone walls, is the heart of the Russian land, the throne of our state, the core and hub of Mother Russia. There’s nothing shameful in laying down your life for the sugary white Kremlin and its towers, the majestic eagles, the flag, the relics of Russia’s rulers reposing in the Cathedral of the Archangel, Riurik’s sword, the crown of Monomakh, the Tsar-Pushka cannon, the Tsar-Kolokol bell tower, the pavestones of Red Square, for Uspensky Cathedral or the Kremlin towers. And there’s no shame in laying down a second life—for His Majesty.

Tears well up in my eyes…

I turn on to Vozdvizhenka Street. My mobilov pesters me with three cracks of the whip: it’s the captain of the Good Fellows, reporting that they’ve got everything ready for the extinguishing. But he wants to clarify details, elucidate, sort out, brainstorm, go over things. He’s not sure of himself, that’s obvious. That’s why I’m coming to see you, you dimwit! Young Count Ukhov from the Inner Circle runs this show, and the order answers directly to His Majesty. Their full name is the Fellowship of Russian Good Fellows for Good. They’re young blades, zealous, upright, but they need supervision, because their leadership went awry from the very beginning—no luck with brainy types, no matter what you do! Each year His Majesty changes their captain, but not much changes. It’s baffling…In the Oprichnina we nicknamed these ruffians “Good-for-Noughts.” Not all they do turns out for the good, oh no, not by a long shot…But that’s all right, we’ll help. We’ll lend a hand, not for the first time.

I drive up to their richly decorated headquarters. They don’t have much in the way of brains, but they’ve got money coming out of their asses. Suddenly—there’s a red call on my mobilov. Something important. It’s Batya:

“Komiaga, where are you?”

“Heading for the Good-for-Noughts, Batya.”

“The devil take them. I want you off to Orenburg—fast. Our guys have locked horns with customs.”

“That’s the left wing’s problem, Batya, I’m a former in that business.”

“Chapyzh is burying his mother, Seryi and Vosk are in a meeting with Count Savelev in the Kremlin, and Samosya, the idiot, ran into one of the Streltsy on Ostozhenka Street.”

So that’s it.

“What about Baldokhai?”

“On a business trip, in Amsterdam. Come on, Komiaga, get over there while they still haven’t bamboozled us. You worked in customs, you know the ins and outs. It’s a serious haul, around a hundred thousand. If it falls through, we’ll never forgive ourselves. As it is, those customs guys have gotten too cheeky lately. Go sort it out!”

“Work and Word!, Batya.”

Hmm. Orenburg. That means—the Road. There’s no joking with the Road. It’s worth drawing blood for it. I call the Good-for-Noughts and reschedule for the evening:

“I’ll be there by the time the wailing starts!”

I turn on to the boulevard, then over the Great Stone Bridge again and into the Kaluzhskaya-2 Underground Highway. It’s a good road, wide and smooth. I accelerate to 260 versts per hour, and eighteen minutes later I’m at Vnukovo Airport. I park my Mercedov in the government parking lot and enter the terminal. A young woman steps forward to greet me in the blue uniform of Aeroflot: with aiguillettes, silver embroidery, Hessian boots, and white leather gloves. She invites me into the security corridor. I place my right hand against the glass square. My whole life appears in the pine-scented air: date of birth, rank, home address, status, chart of habits, physical-mental characteristics, birthmarks, illnesses, psychosomatics, my character core, preferences, prejudices, size of my limbs and organs. The girl gazes at my mind and body, distinguishing, comparing. “Full and complete transparency,” as His Majesty says. And thank God: we’re in our own homeland, nothing to be shy about.

“What is your desired destination, Mr. Oprichnik, sir?” she asks.

“Orenburg,” I answer. “First class.”

“Your airplane departs in twenty-one minutes. The cost of the ticket is twelve rubles. Duration of the flight is fifty minutes. How would you prefer to pay?”

“In cash.”

Nowadays we always pay for everything with genuine coins.

“With which kind?”

“The second mintage.”

“Wonderful.” She fills in the ticket, stirring the air with her sparkling gloves.

I hand over the money: a gold ten-ruble piece with His Majesty’s noble profile, and two rubles. They disappear into the frosted glass wall.

“This way, please,” she says, directing me toward the first-class waiting room with a half-bow.

I enter. A man in a white papakha hat and a white Cossack uniform takes my outer clothes with a low bow. I hand him the black caftan and hat. In the spacious first-class lounge there aren’t many travelers: two richly dressed Cossack families, four quiet Europeans, an old Chinese man with a small boy, a noble with three servants, some woman traveling alone, and two loud, tipsy merchants. And all of them, with the exception of the woman and the Chinese, are eating something. The tavern is good. I know, I’ve eaten here a number of times. And after golden sterlets you always feel like having a bite. I sit down at a table and immediately a transparent waiter appears, as though he’d come right out of Gogol’s immortal pages—plump cheeks, red lips, crimped hair, a smile:

“What, may I inquire, is your desire, sir?”

“My desire, friend, is drink, appetizers, and a light meal.”

“We have rye vodka with gold or silver sand, Shanghai sturgeon caviar, Taiwanese smoked fillet of sturgeon, marinated milk mushrooms in sour cream, jellied beef aspic, Moscow perch in aspic, Guangdong ham.”

“Give me the silver rye, mushrooms in sour cream, and the jellied beef. And what do you have to eat?”

“A nice sterlet soup, Moscow borsht, duck with turnip, rabbit in noodles, charcoal-grilled trout, grilled beef with potatoes.”

“The fish soup. And a glass of sweet kvass.”

“Thank you kindly.”

The transparent disappears. You could talk about anything at all with him, even about Saturn’s moons. His memory is basically boundless. Once, when I was in my cups, I asked the local transparent the formula for viviparous fibers. He told me. And went on to describe the technical production process in great detail. Our Batya, when he’s had a bit to drink, has one question he likes to ask the transparent: “How much time remains until the sun explodes?” They answer precisely within a year…But now—there’s no time for boldness, and besides, I’m hungry.

The order immediately arises from the table. That’s the kind of handy tables they have here. They always give you a carafe of vodka. I drink a shot, take a bite of marinated mushrooms in sour cream. Humankind has yet to invent any better zakuska. Even Nanny’s half-sour pickles can’t hold a candle to this. I consume an excellent piece of jellied beef aspic with mustard, drink the glass of sweet kvass in one gulp, and set to work on the fish soup. You must always eat it slowly. I look around. The merchants are polishing off their second carafe, jabbering on about some “third-level magnetic tape sorter” and 100-horsepower paracletes they bought in Moscow. The Europeans talk quietly in English. The Cossacks mumble in their own language, wolfing pastries and washing them down with tea. The Chinese man and boy chew on something of their own from a bag. The lady smokes aloofly. Finishing the soup, I order a cup of Turkish coffee, pull out my cigarettes, and light up. I put in a call to our guys on the Road: I need to get up to speed. Potrokha’s face appears. I switch the mobilov to secret conversation mode. Potrokha rattles off the main points:

“Twelve trailers; ‘High Fashion’ ‘ Shanghai-Tirana.’ We put a little fly in their ointment, stopped them right after the gates, drove them straightaway onto the sample clarifier, but the insurance guys dug in their heels—they were paid by the old docket, they don’t want to cook up a new contract. We lean on them through the chamber, but the head honcho says they have their own interests with those merchants, there’s a wet petition; we go back to customs, but they’re getting a piece of the action, too, the chief closes the case, and the clerk turns. The upshot—they’ll let them go in two hours.”

“Got it.” I start thinking.

In these kinds of affairs you need to be a good chess player, to think ahead. This case isn’t simple, but it’s clear. Since the Customs Department clerk turned, they must have a corridor with clout, and they renewed the contract right after the frontier post. So that means they went through the Kazakhs clean. It’s obvious: customs closed down so they could smile at the western gates. They’ll hand in the second contract, pay in white, then they’ll tear up the insurance contract, and the Western clerks will draw up a four-hour report. Then they’ll hide the mole, sign a clean contract—and twelve trailers of “High Fashion” will sail off to the Albanian city of Tirana. And customs will get the better of us again.

I think. Potrokha waits.

“Here you go, man. Take the cardiac, made a deal with the clerk about a white discussion, take the greased junior clerk to the meeting, and get your physicians in place. Do you guys have a rotten contract with you?”

“Of course. What time should I set the meeting?”

I look at my watch:

“In an hour and a half.”

“You got it.”

“And tell the clerk that I have it.”

“Understood.”

I put away the mobilov. I put out my cigarette. The plane is already boarding. I place my palm on the table, thank the transparent for the meal, and walk down a delicate pink hallway that smells like blossoming acacia into the airplane. It’s not big, but it’s comfortable—a Boeing-Itsendi 797. Not surprisingly, there are signs in Chinese everywhere. He who builds the Boeings orders the music. I enter the first-class cabin and sit down. Other than me there are three people in first class—the old Chinese man with the boy, and that lone woman. All three of the Russian newspapers are available: Rus, Kommersant, and Vozrozhdenie. I already know all the news and don’t feel like reading about it on paper.

The plane takes off.

I ask for tea, and order an old movie: Striped Passage. On business trips I always watch old comedies; just a habit. This one’s a good little flick, cheery, even though it’s Soviet. You watch lions and tigers being transported on a ship; they break out of their cages and scare people. And you start thinking—those were Russian people living back then, during the Red Troubles. And they really weren’t all that different from us. Except that almost all of them were atheists.

I take a look to see what the others are watching: the Chinese—River Factories, that makes sense; but the lady…oh-ho, now that’s interesting—The Great Russian Wall. I would never have said by her looks that she’d like that sort of film. The Great Russian Wall…It was made about ten years ago by our great director Fyodor Baldev, nicknamed “Fyodor-the-Bare-Who-Ate-the-Bear.” The most important movie in the history of Russia’s Revival. The film is about the plot hatched by the Ambassadorial Department and the Duma, the construction of the Western Wall, and His Majesty’s battle; about the first oprichniks, heroic Valuya and Zveroga, who perished at the dacha of the traitorous minister. The whole affair went down in Russian history as the plan to “Saw and Sell.” What a hullabaloo that film caused, how many arguments, how many questions and answers! How many cars and faces were bashed in because of it! The actor who played His Majesty entered a monastery afterward. I haven’t watched it for a very, very long time. But I remember it by heart. For the oprichniks it’s a kind of textbook.

I can see the face of the minister of foreign affairs on the blue bubble, and his accomplice, the chairman of the Duma. They’re composing the terrible agreement on the division of Russia at the minister’s dacha.

CHAIRMAN OF THE DUMA: So, we take power. But what do we do with Russia, Sergei Ivanovich?

MINISTER: Saw it up and sell it.

CHAIRMAN: To whom?

MINISTER: We sell the east to the Japanese; Siberia goes to the Chinese; the Krasnodarsk region—to the Ukies; Altai—to the Kazakhs; Pskov Oblast—to the Estonians; Novgorod Oblast—to the Belorussians. But we’ll leave the center for ourselves. Everything is ready, Boris Petrovich. We’ve not only hand picked all our people, they’re already in place.

(A significant pause. A candle burns.)

Tomorrow! What do you say?

CHAIRMAN (looking around): It’s a bit scary, Sergei Ivanovich…

MINISTER (breathing hot and heavy, embracing the Duma chairman): Don’t be afraid, don’t be scared! Together we’ll control Moscow! Eh? Moscow?

(He squints lustfully.)

Think about it, my dear fellow! We’ll have all of Moscow right here!

(He shows his pudgy palm.)

Come now, will you sign?

Then there’s a close-up: the eyes of the Duma chairman. First they look back and forth, intimidated, frightened, like a wolf brought to bay. Then anger awakens in them, intensifying to a furious rage. Menacing music grows louder, a disturbing, slanted shadow falls, the night wind billows the curtains and blows out the candle; a dog begins to bark. In the dark the chairman clenches his fists, at first shaking with fear, then with anger and hatred for the Russian state.

CHAIRMAN (clenching his teeth): I’ll sign it all!

He’s a good director, Fedya Baldev. It was no accident that right after this film came out His Majesty appointed him head of the Cinema Chamber. But this lady…she looks like a noble. And for the nobility this film is like a stab in the heart. The lady looks at the film on the bubble as though she weren’t seeing anything. Her face is cold, indifferent. It’s not very pretty, but clearly pedigreed. You can tell she didn’t grow up in some Novoslobodsk orphanage.

I can’t help myself:

“Excuse me, madame, do you like that film?”

She turns her well-groomed face toward me:

“Quite, Mr. Oprichnik.”

Not a muscle in her face twitches. Totally calm, like a snake.

“Is this an official inquiry?”

“Not at all. It’s just that there’s a great deal of blood in this film.”

“You think that Russian women are afraid of blood?”

“All women are afraid of blood. And Russian…”

“Mr. Oprichnik, thanks to you and your colleagues, Russian women have long since grown accustomed to blood. To amounts small and large.”

Whoa! Can’t catch her bare-handed!

“Perhaps, but…It seems to me that there are far more pleasant films for the female eye. And this one contains a lot of suffering.”

“Everyone has their preferences, Mr. Oprichnik. You recall the love song ‘It Matters Not Whether I Love or Suffer’…”

Somehow she’s way too haughty.

“Forgive me, I was just asking.”

“And I am just answering.” She turns away and again stares coldly at the screen.

She intrigues me. I take her picture on my mobilov, and give the signal for our security service to pinhole this lady. The answer comes immediately: Anastasia Petrovna Stein-Sotskaya, daughter of the Duma clerk Sotsky. Holy Mother of God! The very same clerk who worked on the pernicious plan to “Saw and Sell” with the Duma chairman. I wasn’t yet in the oprichnina during those strife-filled years. I was working quietly in customs with antiques and precious metals…I understand, yes, I understand why she’s looking at the film that way. Why, it’s her family history, for heaven’s sake! If memory serves, Sotsky was beheaded on Red Square shortly thereafter, along with nine other plotters…

On my bubble there are tigers in cages and Soviet cooks, but I look right through them. Right here, next to me, is a victim of the Russian state. What did they do with her? She didn’t even change her surname, she took a hyphenated one. Proud. I order a detailed biography: thirty-two years old, married to the textile merchant Boris Stein, spent six years in exile with her mother and younger brother, got a law degree, character core “Running Sister—18,” left-handed, broken collar bone, weak lungs, bad teeth, miscarried two times, the third gave birth to a boy, lives in Orenburg, enjoys archery, chess, playing guitar, and singing Russian love songs.

I turn off my tigers and try to doze.

But thoughts keep welling up: here’s this person sitting close by who holds a grudge for all time. Not only against us oprichniks, but against His Majesty. And nothing can be done about it. But she’s raising a son, and she and Stein probably have open house on Thursdays; the Orenburg intelligentsia probably gathers. They sing old songs, drink tea with cherry preserves, and then they have—conversations. And you don’t have to be the clairvoyant Praskovia to guess what and who they are talking about…

And after everything that’s happened, there are hundreds upon hundreds of these people. If you count their children, husbands, and wives—thousands upon thousands. Now that’s a substantial force, which needs to be taken into account. Now you need to think ahead, calculate your plays. And the fact that they’ve been kicked out of their well-feathered Moscow nests and stuffed into Orenburgs and Krasnoyarsks doesn’t help, it’s not a solution. In a word: His Majesty is merciful. And thank God…

I manage to drift off after all.

Even in my sleep I see something fleeting and slipping away. But not a white stallion—something small, crumbly, dreary…

I awake when they announce the landing. Out of the corner of my eye I glance at the bubble with the historical film: it’s the denouement, the interrogation in the Secret Department, the rack, red-hot pokers, and the face of the minister, distorted by anger:

“I hate…how I hate you!”

And the finale, the last scenes: His Majesty, still young, stands against a familiar landscape, bathed in the light of the rising sun, holding the first brick in his hands; he looks toward the west and utters those familiar, beloved words:

“The Great Russian Wall!”

We land.

Potrokha meets me at the airplane: he’s young, red-cheeked, snub-nosed, and has an overly gilded forelock. I get into his Mercedov and, as always, have the feeling that it’s my car. Déjà vu. All oprichniks have identical cars, whether in Moscow, Orenburg, or Oimyakon: 400-horsepower Mercedov coupes the color of ripe tomatoes.

“Hi there, Potrokha.”

“Hi, Komiaga.”

We always call each other by the familiar form, ty, since we’re one oprichnik family. Even though I’m about one and a half times older than Potrokha.

“Why aren’t you catching any mice here? As soon as Chapyzh leaves, you all stop dead in your tracks.”

“Don’t get all steamed up, Komiaga. This affair’s a matter of grease. They have a hook in the Department. Up till now, Chapyzh has been in good with them. I’m a nobody as far as they’re concerned. A shoulder is what’s needed.”

“You need a left shoulder but I’m from the right!”

“It doesn’t matter at this point, Komiaga. The main thing is—you have an Official Seal. When you’ve got a disputed deal, you need an oprichnik with authority.”

I know, we’ve been through that. An oprichnik with authority. And that means the Official Seal. Only twelve oprichniks have the seal. It’s in the left hand, in the palm, under the skin. And it can only be taken from me along with my hand.

“Did you set up a meeting with the clerk?”

“Of course. The white discussion is in a quarter of an hour.”

“The physicians?”

“All there.”

“Let’s go!”

Potrokha drives deftly through the airport gates onto the highway, and steps on the gas. We race not to Orenburg—famous for its fine, intricate shawls and its narrow-eyed Russian-Chinese beauties—but in the opposite direction. Along the way Potrokha explains the situation to me in greater detail. It’s been a long time since I worked with customs, a long time. Many new things have appeared in the meantime. Much that we couldn’t have dreamed about back then. Transparent illegals have cropped up, for instance. There’s this unexplained “export of empty spaces.” Subtropical air is in demand in Siberia these days—they run air in volumes. From some kind of celestial devices with compressed desires. Go figure! Thank God today’s business is simpler.

In a quarter of an hour Potrokha reaches the Road. It must be three years since I’ve been here. And each time I see it—it takes my breath away. The Road! It’s an amazing thing. It runs from Guangzhou across China, then winds its way across Kazakhstan, enters through the gates in our Southern Wall, and then traverses the breadth of Mother Russia to Brest. From there—straight to Paris. The Guangzhou–Paris Road. Since the manufacturing of all necessary goods flowed over to Great China bit by bit, they built this Road to connect China to Europe. It’s got ten lanes, and four tracks underground for high-speed trains. Heavy trailers crawl along the road with their goods 24/7, and the silvery trains whistle. It’s a real feast for the eyes.

We drive closer.

The Road is surrounded by three layers of security, protecting it from saboteurs and lamebrained cyberpunks. We drive into a roadside stop. It’s gorgeous, large, glass, built specially for long-distance drivers. You’ve got a winter garden with palms, a bathhouse with a pool, Chinese cookshops, Russian taverns, workout gyms, a hotel, a movie theater, a bordello with skilled whores, and even ice-skating rinks.

But Potrokha and I head for the meeting site. Everyone’s sitting and waiting: the clerk from the Customs Department, the junior clerk from the same place, who’s been greased by us, two guys from the Insurance Chamber, the commander of the Highway Department, and two Chinese representatives. Potrokha and I sit down and begin the discussion. A Chinese xiao jie, tea girl, comes in, brews white tea, a real tonic for the body, and pours some for everyone with a smile. The customs clerk digs in his heels and refuses to budge.

“The train is clean, the Kazakhs have no objections, the contract is point-to-point, everything’s in order.”

It’s obvious that the whole train has greased the clerk, all twelve trailers, and all the way to Brest. Our goal is to detain the Chinese long enough that their highway insurance runs out, and then our insurance will kick in. And our insurance is 3 percent. Every last dog on the Road knows it. On this 3 percent the oprichnina treasury stays quite plump. And not only the oprichnina’s. There’s enough for all upright people; they’ll all get something. This 3 percent covers a lot of legitimate expenses. And our expenses, as servants of His Majesty, are countless. Does the customs clerk, stuffed with yuan, really care?

The highway commander is ours. He starts pumping:

“Two of the trailers have counterfeit Chinese inspection stickers. We need an expert report.”

The Chinese break in:

“The inspection is in order, here are the findings.”

Shining characters of confirmation appear in the air. I learned conversational Chinese, of course; who could get along without it now? But the characters are just one big swamp for me. Potrokha, on the other hand, is nimble with Chinese; he dug up the findings on replacing the second turbine, and he illuminates it with a little thumbelinochka.

“Where’s the quality certificate? The manufacturer’s address? The lot number?”

“Shantou, Red Wealth factory, 380-6754069.”

Hmm…The turbine’s “local.” The inspection sticker won’t do it. Work on the Road is complicated now. Before, the trailers would simply be wrecked: the tires slashed, or windows all bashed in, or you’d slip something into the driver’s noodles while he was eating. Nowadays they’re on the lookout for these things. Yes, well, no matter. We have our own ways, tried and true. The tea is served by a greased xiao jie.

“Gentlemen, I consider this discussion to be concluded,” says the clerk, and then he clutches his chest.

There’s a big fuss and bustle: What happened?

“A heart attack!”

Now, how do you like that? And the xiao jie doesn’t even blush. She bows and carries her tea tray out with her. The physicians appear and take the clerk away. He’s moaning, and pale. We reassure him:

“You’ll get better, Savely Tikhonovich!”

Of course he’ll get better. The Chinese stand up—business is done. Not so quick. Now it’s our turn: the last statement is directed to the greased junior clerk:

“Look here, the travel documents appear to have been backdated.”

“What are you talking about? It’s not possible! Let me see, let me see…” The junior clerk stares walleyed at the travel documents, aims the thumbelinochka at them. “You’re right! The blue imprint is smudged! Oh dear, highway robbers! They deceived our trusting Savely Tikhonovich! They took him in! Crooks! Zui xing!²” This is a new turn of events. One of the Chinese mutters:

“No way! The travel document was notarized by both border committees.”

“If a representative of the Russian customs has noticed a discrepancy, bilateral expertise is required,” I answer. “In this dispute I represent our side, as an oprichnik with authority.”

The Chinese are in a panic: gobs of time will be lost on this and their Chinese insurance will expire. And drawing up new travel permits, well, it’s not like throwing together a fish-bone pie. You’ve got to get a health inspection, technical inspection, and border check done all over again, not to mention getting a visa from the Antimonopoly Chamber. So it all boils down to:

“Take out insurance, gentlemen.”

The Chinese are wailing. Threats. Who, just who are you threatening, sha bi³? Complain to whomever you like. The commander of the Highway Department sniffs at the Chinese:

“Russian insurance is the best defense against cyberpunks.”

The Chinese grit their teeth:

“Where’s the seal?”

So why the hell did I fly here, you wonder? Here’s the seal: I place my left palm on the square of frosted glass, leaving an Official Seal on it. And no more questions. Potrokha and I wink at each other: the 3 percent is ours! The Chinese walk out, all bent out of shape. The junior clerk leaves; he’s done his greasy work. Only Potrokha and I remain.

“Thanks, Komiaga.” Potrokha squeezes my wrist.

“Work and Word!, Potrokha.”

We finish the tea and walk outside. It’s colder here than in Moscow. We oprichniks have an old feud with customs, and there’s no end in sight. It’s all because customs is run by His Majesty’s brother Alexander Nikolaevich, and will be run by him for a long time to come. And dear Alexander Nikolaevich can’t stomach our Batya. Something happened between them, something that even His Majesty cannot reconcile. And nothing can be done about it—there was, is, and will be a war…

“We should rest a bit.” Potrokha scratches his overgilded forelock and pushes his sable hat back on the nape of his neck. “Let’s go to the bathhouse. They’ve got a good masseur. And there are two hunanochki.⁴”

He takes out his mobilov and shows me. Two charming Chinese girls appear in the air: one is riding naked on a buffalo, the other stands naked under a flowing waterfall.

“So?” Potrokha winks at me. “You won’t regret it. Better than your Moscow girls. Eternal virgins.”

I look at my watch: 15:00.

“No, Potrokha. I have to fly to Tobol next and then back to Moscow to snuff a star.”

“As you like. Then to the airport?”

“That’s right.”

While he’s driving, I look up the schedule of flights, and choose one. There’s a one-hour break before the next flight, but I put the outgoing airplane on hold: they can friggin’ wait. Potrokha and I say goodbye, I board the Orenburg–Tobol plane, and get in touch with Praskovia’s security service, letting them know to meet me. I put on earphones, order Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. And fall asleep.

The stewardess wakes me with a gentle touch:

“Mr. Oprichnik, sir! We’ve already landed.”

Marvelous. Taking a swig of Altai springwater, I disembark, and step onto a moving sidewalk that takes me into the huge terminal of the Yermak Timofeevich Airport. It’s new, just built by the Chinese. I’ve already been here three times. And all on the same business—to see the clairvoyant.

Near the enormous figure of Yermak with his glowing sword, two goons from the great soothsayer’s security service are waiting for me. Each of them is a head taller than me, and two times as wide, but nonetheless, next to Yermak’s giant boot they look like field mice in red caftans.

I walk over to them. They bow and lead me to the car. As we leave the airport I manage to take a breath of the Tobol air: it’s even colder here than in Orenburg. It’s a good 32 below. Now here’s that global warming foreigners are always blathering about. We still have snow and freezing weather in Russia, gentlemen, have no doubts.

They lead me to a powerful Chinese off-road vehicle, the Zhu-Ba-Ze, with a bumper that resembles a boar’s snout. Nowadays these off-roaders are used all over Siberia. They’re reliable, trouble-free in brutal winter conditions as well as in the heat. Siberians call them “Boars.”

We first drive along the highway, then turn onto a narrow road. The captain from Moscow reports: everything is ready for snuffing out the star, the performance is at eight this evening. Fine, but first I have to get there.

The road stretches through woodlands, then crawls into the taiga. We ride silently. Pines, firs, and deciduous trees surround us, heavy with snow. But the sun is already heading toward sunset. Another hour or so and it will be dark. We drive about ten versts. Our Zhu-Ba-Ze turns onto a snow-covered country road. My city Mercedov would get stuck right away. But the Boar couldn’t care less—the one-and-a-half-arshin tires chew up the snow like a meat grinder. The Chinese boar barges through the Russian snow. We continue on for a verst, then another, and a third. And the age-old taiga suddenly opens. We’ve arrived! A fantastical tower rises over a wide clearing; it’s built of ancient pines, has fanciful turrets, latticework windows, carved window casings, a copper-tiled roof, and is topped with a weather cock. The tower is surrounded by a ten-arshin pike fence made of incredibly thick logs sharpened at the top. Neither man nor beast could crawl over those pikes. Perhaps the stone Yermak Timofeevich might try, but even he would scrape his granite balls.

We drive up to the plank gates coated in forged iron. The Zhu-Ba-Ze sends an invisible, inaudible signal. The bolts slide back. We drive into the courtyard of Praskovia’s estate. Guards in Chinese attire surround the car with swords and cudgels. All the clairvoyant’s inner guards are Chinese, masters of kung fu. I get out of the Boar and climb the steps of the carved entrance, decorated with Siberian animals carved out of wood. All the beasts here exist in loving harmony. It’s not a portico, but a wonder of wonders! Here you have a lynx licking a roe deer’s forehead, wolves playing with a boar, hares kissing foxes, and grouse sitting on an ermine. Two bears support the pillars of the doorway.

I enter.

Inside everything is totally different. Here there’s nothing carved, Russian. Smooth, bare walls of marble, a granite floor illuminated green from below, a ceiling of black wood. Lamps burn, incense smokes. A waterfall streams down a marble wall, white lilies float in a pool.

The clairvoyant’s servants approach me silently. Like shadows from the afterlife, their hands are cool, their faces impenetrable. They take my weapons, mobilov, caftan, jacket, hat, and boots. I stand there in my shirt, pants, and goat-wool socks. I stretch my arms back. The noiseless servants dress me in a silk Chinese robe, button the cloth-covered buttons, and give me soft slippers. That’s the way it is for everyone who comes here. Counts, princes, lords of the capital from the Inner Circle—all change into robes when they visit the clairvoyant.

I pass into the interior of the house. As always, it’s empty and quiet. Chinese vases and beasts chiseled out of stone stand in the dim light. Chinese characters recalling wisdom and eternity adorn the walls.

A Chinese voice speaks:

“Missus awaits you near the fire.”

That means we’ll talk near the fireplace. She likes to carry on conversations in front of the fire. Or maybe she’s just freezing? Staring at a fire is a great pleasure, though. As our Batya says, there are three things you want to look at continuously: fire, the sea, and other people’s work.

The silent guards lead me into the fireplace chamber. It’s dusky in here, quiet. The only sound is the logs burning, crackling in the wide fireplace. And it’s not only logs, but books as well. Books mixed in with birch wood, as always at the clairvoyant’s. Next to the fireplace there’s a pile of logs and a pile of books. I wonder what the clairvoyant is burning today? The last time it was poetry.

The doors open, I hear a rustle. She’s here.

I turn. The clairvoyant Praskovia moves toward me on her invariable shiny blue crutches, dragging her emaciated legs along the floor, staring at me with her immobile but cheerful eyes. Russ, rush, rustle. That’s her legs sliding across the granite. That’s her sound.

“Hello, dovey.”

“Hello, Praskovia Mamontovna.”

She moves smoothly, as though she were sliding on ice skates. She comes quite close and stops. I look into her face. Unusual, it is. There’s not another one like it in all Russia. It isn’t female and it isn’t male, neither old nor young, neither sad nor happy, neither evil nor kind. Her green eyes are always cheery. But this cheeriness is not for us, simple mortals, to understand. Only God knows what stands behind them.

“You flew in?”

“I flew in, Praskovia Mamontovna.”

“Sit down.”

I sit in an armchair in front of the fireplace. She lowers herself onto her chair of dark wood. She nods to the servant. He picks up a book from the pile and tosses it on the fire.

“The same old business?”

“The very same.”

“The old is like a stone in water. Fish splash around the stone, above the sky birds fly, in the white air playing high, birds long-winded, like people intended. People spin and turn, but never return. Their life is civil, but they gibber-jabber drivel, they topple in waves, surround themselves with graves, retreat far into the earth, from women again are birthed.”

She falls silent and stares at the fire. I stare quietly, too. A kind of shyness overtakes the soul when you’re with her. I’m not as shy with His Majesty as I am before Praskovia.

“You brought hair again?”

“I did.”

“And the shirt?”

“I brought the undershirt as well, Praskovia Mamontovna.”

“The shirt that’s under is always asunder, smarter ever after, avoids disaster, sours, turns baldish, in the wash is scalded; once dried and smooth, from beloved don’t remove, pressed to the skin, good will in the end.”

She stares into the fire. Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky’s Idiot is burning. It started with the ends, now the cover is smoking. The clairvoyant again signals the servant. He tosses another book on the fire: Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina; it lies there awhile, then suddenly flares. I watch, bewitched.

“What you looking at? You never burned books?”

“We burn only harmful books, Praskovia Mamontovna. Obscene and subversive books.”

“And you think these are useful?”

“The Russian classics are helpful to the state.”

“Dovey, books should only be practical: about carpentry, stove-building, contracting, electricity, shipbuilding, mechanical engineering, artificial hearing, on weaving and sheaving, on casting and basting, on foundries on boundaries, on plastic and mastic.”

I don’t argue with her. I’m wary. She is always right. If she’s angry she can easily throw you out by the scruff without a second thought. And I have important business to take care of.

“Why so quiet?”

“What…should I say?”

“Well, tell me what’s going on in Moscow?”

I know that the clairvoyant’s home has no news bubbles and no radio. That’s first of all. And second—she doesn’t like us, oprichniks. But then she’s not alone in that. And thank God…

“In Moscow life is good, the people live and prosper, there are no rebellions, a new underground highway is being built between Savelevsky Station and Domodedovo—”

“I’m not talking about that, dovey,” she interrupts me. “How many people did you kill today? I can tell—you smell like fresh blood.”

“We suppressed one noble.”

She looks at me intently and speaks:

“Suppressed one, but took out ten. Blood never covers blood. Blood in blood ends. Weary is the ending, sweat it out—then comes mending. What heals with scabs will turn to rags, crack and burst, in new blood birthed.”

Again she stares into the fire. You can’t figure her out: last time she almost kicked me out when she heard that six clerks from the Trade Department had been whipped on Lobnoe Mesto in Red Square. She hissed that we were dark bloodsuckers. And the time before that, learning about the execution of the Far Eastern general, she said it wasn’t enough…

“Your monarch is a white birch. On that birch there’s a dry branch. And on that branch is a black kite, pecking a live squirrel in the back; the squirrel gnashes its teeth—if you listen with a pure ear, you can make out two words in that screak: ‘key’ and ‘east.’ Understand, dovey?”

I remain silent. She’s allowed to say anything. She hits me on the forehead with her wizened hand.

“Think!”

What’s there to think about? You can think and think and you still won’t understand a damn thing.

“What fits between these words?”

“I don’t know, Praskovia Mamontovna. Maybe…a hollow trunk?”

“You’ve got a sorrowful excuse for a brain, dovey. Not a hollow tree, but Russia.”

That’s what it is…Russia. Since it’s Russia, I lower my eyes to the floor at once. I look at the fire. And see The Idiot and Anna Karenina in flames. I have to say—they burn well. In general, books burn well. Manuscripts go like gunpowder. I’ve seen many book and manuscript bonfires—in our courtyard, and in the Secret Department. For that matter the Writers’ Chamber itself burned quite a bit on Manezh Square, purging itself of its own subversive writers, thereby cutting our workload. One thing I can say for sure—they always make for a special fire. It’s a warm fire. It was even warmer eighteen years ago when people burned their foreign-travel passports on Red Square. Now that was an enormous fire! It made a strong impression on me, since I was an adolescent at the time. In January there was a deep freeze, but at His Majesty’s call people brought their foreign-travel passports to the main square of the country and tossed them into the fire. They kept bringing them and bringing them. From other cities they came to Moscow, the capital, to burn the legacy of the White Troubles. They came to take an oath to His Majesty. That fire burned nearly two months…

I glance at the clairvoyant. Her green eyes are fixed on the fire, everything forgotten. She’s sitting there like an Egyptian mummy. But business won’t wait. I cough.

She stirs:

“When did you last drink milk?”

I try to remember:

“The day before yesterday at breakfast. But I never drink milk separately, Praskovia Mamontovna. I use it with coffee.”

“Don’t drink cow’s milk. Only eat cow’s butter. You know why?”

I don’t know anything, for crying out loud.

“Cow’s milk at the bedstead sings: in the heart I’ll sit fast, poison amass, blend with water, with myself swaddle, pray to the calf, my other half, the calf’s bones come home, do nothing but moan, bones of white, lazybones smite. They’ll thunder, expire, sink your strength in the mire.”

I nod.

“I won’t. I won’t drink any milk.”

She takes my hand with her bony but soft hand:

“But eat butter. Because cow’s butter strength does utter, gathers churning all ’round turning, forms a ball, falls in the hall, fat delivers, enters the liver, spreads under the skin, strength bringing in.”

I nod. I like cow’s butter. Especially on hot rolls, with a bit of beluga caviar…

“Well, let’s hear your business.”

I reach into my inner pocket and take out the blue silk pouch embroidered with Her Highness’s initials. I draw a man’s undershirt of the finest make from the pouch, and, in a piece of folded paper, two locks of hair: one black and the other fair. Praskovia takes the hair first. She places it on her left palm, runs her fingers through it, examines it, moves her lips, and asks:

“His name?”

“Mikhail.”

She whispers something over the hair, mixes the two locks together, squeezes them in her fist. Then she orders:

“The basin!”

Her almost identical servants stir. They bring a clay bowl with cedar oil, place it on the clairvoyant’s knees. She throws the hair in the oil, takes the bowl in her bony hands, and lifts it to her face. Then she begins:

“Stick like glue and dry, for ageless ages, the heart of the goodfellow Mikhail to the heart of the beauty Tatyana. Stick like glue and dry. Stick like glue and dry. Stick like glue and dry. Stick like glue and dry. Stick like glue and dry.”

Praskovia takes the shirt of the young lieutenant of the Kremlin regiment, Mikhail Efimovich Skoblo, and places it in the oil. Then she gives the basin back to her servants. That’s it.

She turns her clairvoyant eyes to me:

“Tell Her Highness that today, close to dawn, the heart of Mikhail will adhere to her heart.”

“Thank you, Praskovia Mamontovna. The money will come, as always.”

“Tell them not to send me any more money. What am I supposed to do—pickle it in a barrel? Tell them to send me fern seeds, Baltic herring, and books. I’ve burned all of mine.”

“What kind of books specifically?” I ask.

“Russian, Russian…”

I nod and stand. And begin to feel nervous. It wouldn’t be bad to ask about my own affairs now. And you can’t hide anything from Praskovia.

“What are you fidgeting about? Decided to say a word or two of your own?”

“Yes, I have, Praskovia Mamontovna.”

“Don’t need to open your mouth, my eagle, you’re as clear as a bell: you have a girl coming up to her time.”

There you go. That’s it.

“Which one?”

“The one who lives in your house.”

Anastasia! Good Lord. I gave her pills. Ah, the sly cunt.

“A long time?”

“More than a month. She’ll have a boy.”

I’m quiet, trying to take myself in hand. Well, so what…it happens. It can be dealt with.

“You wanted to ask about your job?”

“Well, I…”

“So far, everything’s fine. But some are jealous.”

“I know, Praskovia Mamontovna.”

“So if you know, beware. Your car will break down in a week. You’ll come down with something, not too bad. They’ll drill through your leg. The left one. You’ll get some money. Not much. You’ll get hit in the mug. Not too hard.”

“Who’ll do it?”

“Your boss.”

What a relief. Batya is like my own father. Today he’ll give me a thrashing—tomorrow he’ll be kind. And my leg…that’s just the usual stuff.

“That’s all, dovey. Get out of here.”

All but not all. One more question. I haven’t ever asked it, but today something urges me to ask. A serious frame of mind. I screw up my courage.

“So what else do you want?” Praskovia looks at me steadily.

“What will happen to Russia?”

She doesn’t answer, but looks at me carefully.

I wait with trepidation.

“It’ll be all right.”

I bow, touching the stone floor with my right hand.

And I leave.