Day of the Oprichnik

The flight back isn’t bad, although there are more people in the plane. I drink Yermak beer, chew on salted peas, watch a film about our valiant moneychangers from the Treasury. How they fought with China Union Pay four years ago. It was a stormy time. The Chinese wanted to grab us by the throat again, but things didn’t work out for the slant-eyes. The Treasury held on, and responded with the second mintage. New coins sparkled with Russian gold in those slanted eyes. Diao da lian!⁵ Friendship is friendship, as they say, but Treasury tobacco is something else altogether.

It’s evening in Moscow.

I drive from Vnukovo Airport into the city, and turn on the enemy radio.

My loyal Mercedov finds the Swedish radio station Paradigm, for our underground intellectuals. It’s a major resource, seven channels. I run through the channels. Today they’re having an anniversary program: “The Russian Cultural Underground.” All stuff that’s twenty or even thirty years old. It’s meant to let our senile bloody fifth column shed some tears.

The first channel is broadcasting a book by someone named Rykunin, Where Did Derrida Dine? It has detailed descriptions of the places the Western philosopher ate during his visit to post-Soviet Moscow. One of the most important chapters is called “Leftovers of the Great.” The second channel is marking the twenty-fifth anniversary of the exhibition “Caution, Religion!” Some old lady who participated in the legendary obscurantist exhibition is being awarded a medal for being a “Victim of the Russian Orthodox Church.” In a trembling little voice the old bag reminisces, babbling on about “the bearded barbarians in cassocks, bursting in and obliterating our beautiful, honorable, authentic works of art.” On the third channel there’s a discussion between Vipperstein and Onufrienko about cloning the genre of the Great Rotten Novel, about the behavioral model of Sugary Buratino, and about medhermeneutical adultery. On the fourth, some Igor Pavlovich Tikhy speaks seriously about the “Negation of a Negation of Negation of a Negation” in A. Shestigorsky’s novel The Ninth Wife. On the fifth, Borukh Gross’s bass voice babbles about America, which has become the subconscious of China, and about China, now the subconscious of Russia, and about Russia, which has still not become even its own subconscious. The sixth channel is given over to the puppies of a man-dog, a well-known “artist” in the years of the White Troubles. The puppies are howling something about “freedom of corporeal discourse.” And finally, the seventh channel of this stinking radio station is permanently relegated to the poetry of Russian minimalism and con-sep-chew-a-lism…In a gloom-and-doom voice, Vsevolod Nekros reads his verse, which consists mostly of coughs, quacks, and interjections:

“boo, buck, bod,

there you have God.

bek, bud, bok,

there you have Bach.

piff, paff, pof,

now you’ve got a Crotch.

And that’s quite enough.”

Hmmm. What can you say? Our underground intellectuals feed on this dung, this vomit, this deafening emptiness. Hideous polyps they are, growing on the body of our healthy Russian art. “Minimalism,” “paradigm,” “discourse,” “CON-SEP-CHEW-ALISM”…From early childhood I’ve heard these words. But I still don’t understand what they mean. But take the painting Boyarina Morozova, now—just as I got to know it when I was five years old, I know it to this very day. All this “contemporary” art isn’t worth one brushstroke of our great artist Surikov. When my soul feels low, when the enemy overwhelms us, when crafty circles begin to close in—you can run into the Tretiakov Gallery for a minute, visit the great canvas, and see: the sleigh with the unruly boyarina drives over the Russian snow, the boy runs, the village idiot, ready to cross himself, raises his two fingers, the coachman grins…Russia explodes from the wall. So intensely you’ll forget about the meaningless bustle of the world. Your lungs inhale Russian air. That’s all you need. And thank God…

The whips crack: it’s Prima Kozlova calling.

“Andrei Danilovich, I have the money.”

That’s good. We set a place, and meet near the People’s Library. I pick up a leather bag stuffed with coins of the first mintage. The first will do just as well.

I drive along Mokhovaya Street.

Across from the old university I notice a flogging is about to take place. Interesting. I slow down and pull over. This is where they flog the intelligentsia. Manezh Square, a bit farther on, is usually for the Zemstvos; Lobnoe Mesto is for clerks. The Streltsy flog themselves in the garrisons. All sorts of other scum are steamed at Smolensk Square, Miusskaya Square, on the Mozhaisk highway, and at the market in Yasenevo.

As I drive up, I lower the window and light up a cigarette. People part so that I can see better: they respect the oprichniks. Shka Ivanov—a well-known executioner of the Moscow intelligentsia—stands on the wooden platform. On Mondays he always does the flogging here. The people know him and respect him. Shka Ivanov is big, stocky, has white skin, a broad chest, curly hair, and wears round eyeglasses. He reads the sentence in a booming voice. I listen with half an ear, and look around at the crowd. As far as I can figure out, some junior clerk, Danilkov, from the Literary Chamber is to be flogged for “criminal negligence.” He copied something important the wrong way, screwed it up, and then hid it. An educated crowd mills around, a lot of students, upper-school girls. Shka Ivanov rolls up the sentence, sticks it in his pocket, and whistles. His assistant appears—Mishanya the Quotationer. He’s a tall, narrow-shouldered, shaven-headed beanpole with an eternally mocking expression on his face. He got his nickname because he says everything as if it’s in quotation marks. After every word, he raises his hands to his temples and makes his “quotation marks,” at which point he strongly resembles a gray hare. Mishanya brings the convicted Danilkov out on a chain: he’s an ordinary junior clerk with a long nose. He crosses himself, muttering something.

Mishanya speaks to him in a loud voice:

“Now, townsman, we’re going to thrash you!”

And right away, he makes those quotation marks with his fingers.

“We’ll give you a real beaut of a thrashing!”

And again, the quotation marks. People laugh and applaud. Students whistle. The torturers grab the junior clerk and tie him down. Shka Ivanov grins:

“Lie down, lie down, you fucking fruit!”

Executioners and army elders in Russia are allowed to curse. His Majesty exempted them in recognition of their difficult professions.

Danilkov is tied down; Mishanya sits on his legs and pulls down his pants. Judging by the scars, the junior clerk’s ass has been flogged more than once. So this isn’t the first time Danilkov has been steamed. The students whistle and hoot.

“So you see, friend,” Mishanya says, “literature ain’t some sort of motorcycle!”

Shka Ivanov swings the knout and begins to flog him. He does it so well that you get carried away watching. He knows his job, this butcher does, he loves it. The people respect him for work well done. The whip strolls across the junior clerk’s ass: first from the left, then from the right. A neat grate forms on the ass. Danilkov screams and wails; his long nose turns purple.

But it’s time to go. I flick my cigarette butt to a beggar, and turn onto Tverskaya. I’m heading for the concert hall on Strastnoi Boulevard. The star’s performance is already coming to an end. On my way, I get in touch with the Good Fellows and get the details. They seem to have everything ready. I park the car, and enter by the service door. One of the Good Fellow underlings meets me and escorts me to the auditorium. I sit in the fourth row, on the aisle.

The star is on stage. A people’s storyteller, bard, and epic tale spinner, Savely Ivanovich Artamonov—or, as the people call him, Artamosha. Gray-haired, white-bearded, stately, with a handsome face, though he isn’t young. He sits on his usual fake bench in a black silk peasant shirt with his usual saw in hand. Artamosha runs his bow across the saw—and the saw sings in a delicate voice, bewitching the hall. Under the enchantment of the whine Artamosha continues reciting-singing another of his bylinas in a deep, chesty, unhurried voice:

“Look, our Fox, our Sly one, our lovely Patrikeevna, ay ay is me,

Has come to the Kremlin, to the Kremlin’s low kennel, oh woe is me ay ay…

The kennel built of mighty logs, ay ay.

All the kennel windows are teeny-tiny, ay ay.

All the grates are closed, ay ay.

The kennel doors are thick and oak,

Locked with ten-ton locks and bolts, lovey-dovey mine…”

Artamosha throws back his white head, squeezes his eyes shut, and rolls his stately shoulders. His saw sings. The people in the auditorium are all worked up— toss a match and they’ll explode. Artamosha’s old fans are in the first rows, swaying in time to the saw, wailing along. In the middle of the auditorium, some half-witted woman is moaning a lament. In the back rows they’re sniffling and someone mutters angrily. A difficult audience. How the Good Fellows are going to work here is beyond me.

“Now how shall you open the bolts and locks, Mama dearest?

How shall you unblock the locks and slide the oak, Grandmama dear?

How shall you climb and clamber through the window, my baby bunting?

How shall you dig, my dear little lamb?”

I glance at the audience out of the corner of my eye and look around: the Good Fellows have sat themselves in the center. Obviously the Artamonov followers wouldn’t let them in the first rows. Judging by the quantity of Good Fellow mugs, it seems they decided to take over with numbers, like they usually do. God grant. We’ll keep an eye out, we’ll see…

“She coughs, our Fox, our sly Patrikeevna, she coughs up and up, ay ay,

A key of gold she vomits up,

To open the ten-ton cast-iron lock,

To open the door of oak, ay ay,

She creeps through the kennel, through the Kremlin,

To the hounds in the dark, in the deep,”

The audience begins to sing along: “To the hounds! To the hounds! To the hounds!” The first rows begin to toss and sway; in the back behind they’re shouting, crying, lamenting. Near me a richly dressed fat lady crosses herself, sings and sways. Artamosha plays his saw, his head thrown back so far you can see his Adam’s apple.

“To the hounds dreaming nose to tail, the hounds so sound asleep,

To the hounds well-fed and sleek.

To the hounds so lean, the hounds so young and keen.

She comes to trifle and to fiddle with them, bringing her wanton, whorish fiddling!

Plucking at them to do it, ay ay.

She fiddles and plucks, ay ay, to sate her filthy…”

Just a tiny bit more, and the hall will erupt. I feel like I’m sitting on a powder keg. But the Good Fellows keep quiet, the muttonheads…

“Then the hounds awake, ay ay ay,

Then the hounds wag the sleep from their eyes, ay ay…”

Artamosha opens his eyes, pauses, and scans the audience intently. His saw howls.

“How they throw themselves upon our Fox, upon our Sly Patrikeevna!

How they fuck her in the kennel!

Full of canine excrement!

In the corner, in the stinking corner!

And she’s delighted!

More, come on, more of you!

Hotter, quicker, more!

It won’t be too much for me!

I’ll satisfy you all!

I’m ready for anything!

I have no shame!

All my hounds!

All my hounds!

All my lovely hounds!”

Artamosha’s shout is hoarse, his saw squeals. The hall explodes. In the first rows there are cries: “Let her have it! The bitch! That’s right, the shameless harpy!” Some cross themselves and spit, others wail, some sing along, “All my hounds!” And then, finally, the captain of the Good Fellows, a guy nicknamed Khobot, stands up and throws a rotten tomato at Artamosha. The vegetable hits the bard in the chest. As if by command, all the other Good Fellows stand in the middle of the hall and launch a hail of tomatoes at Artamosha. In a moment the bard is covered in red.

The audience gasps.

And Khobot roars so loud that his kind face turns crimson: “Ooobsceeene!!! Slander against Her Highness!!!”

The Good Fellows, following up Khobot:

“Slander! Subversion! Work and Word!”

The audience freezes. I freeze, too. Artamosha sits on his bench drenched in tomatoes. Suddenly he raises his hand. He stands. His look quiets the Good Fellows like a command. Only Khobot tries to shout “Slander!” but his voice is alone. I already know—they’ve lost. It’s a disaster.

“There they are, the Kremlin hounds!” Artamosha says in a loud voice, pointing toward the center of the audience with a red finger.

A sort of atomic explosion takes place in the hall: everyone attacks the Good Fellows. They clobber them, beat the living daylights out of them. The Good Fellows defend themselves, they fight back, but in vain. The stupid idiots sat in the center to boot, so they’ve ended up surrounded. They’re flattened on all sides. Artamosha stands on the stage covered in tomatoes, like some kind of dripping red St. George the Dragonslayer. The fat lady near me shrieks and pushes toward the thick of things:

“Hounds! Hounds!”

Clear enough. I rise. And leave.