Day of the Oprichnik

In our difficult and important work things don’t always turn out right. My fault this time—I didn’t instruct them, didn’t keep an eye on them. Didn’t anticipate or warn them. Well, there was no time—I was fighting for the Road. That’s how I justify it to Batya. When it’s over I want to drop by to see Khobot, and bop him on the head, but I feel sorry for him—he’s had enough for one day. From the people.

Hmmm…Artamosha sure gets them worked up. But he’s playing with fire. He’s gone overboard. Gone so far that it’s time to snuff him out. The scoundrel began as a genuine bard. At first he sang traditional Russian epics. About the deeds of Ilya Muromets, Buslai, Solovei Budimirovich. He became famous all across New Rus. Made a good living. Set himself up with two houses. Acquired high-placed patrons. He could have gone on living and living, wallowing in his popularity, but no—something got into him. He began to sing exposés of morals and manners. Not just of anyone, but of Her Highness. As they say, you couldn’t fall higher. And Her Highness…well, that’s a whole story in itself. A bitter one.

To take the broad view, the state’s point of view, His Majesty had a stroke of bad luck. In fact, he didn’t have any luck. Big time. The one blotch in our New Russia is His Majesty’s spouse. And you can’t wash this spot away, or cover it up, or remove it. You can only wait, be patient, and hope…

Whistle-blow-moan.

The red signal on my mobilov.

Her Highness!

Speak of the devil, God forgive me…She always calls as soon as I start thinking about her. It’s downright mystical! I cross myself, turn to answer the phone, and, bowing my head:

“Yes, Your Highness.”

I see her plump, willful face, with a little mustache above crimson, carnivorous lips:

“Komiaga! Where are you?”

Her voice is chesty, deep. You can see that our mama has just woken up. Her eyes are pretty, black, with velvet eyelashes. These eyes always shine with a powerful fire.

“I’m driving around Moscow, Your Highness.”

“You saw Praskovia?”

“Yes, Your Highness. I did everything you asked.”

“Why aren’t you reporting to me?”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, I just flew in.”

“Well buzz yourself over here on the double. Fast as a fly.”

“I hear and obey, Your Highness.”

Back to the Kremlin again. I turn onto Miasnitskaya Street, and it’s jam-packed—it’s evening, rush hour, of course. I turn on my State Snarl and cars part in front of my Mercedov with the dog’s head; I steadily make my way to Lubianskaya Square, and there I stop dead: a traffic-fucking-jam, God forgive me. I’ll have to wait.

A powdery snow falls, dusting the cars. And as before on Lubianskaya our Maliuta stands tall, bronze, stooped, preoccupied; powdered with snow, he stares out intently from beneath his overhanging eyebrows. In his time there weren’t any traffic jams. There were only fruit jams…

On the Children’s World department store building there’s an enormous frame with a live advertisement: for Sviatogor flannel leggings. A curly-headed youth sits on a bench; a beauty of a girl in a traditional Russian headdress kneels down in front of him with new leggings in her hands. The young man extends his bare leg to the strum of a balalaika and the sobs of a harmonica. The young lady wraps it in the leggings, and pulls on his boot. A voice declares:

“Sviatogor Trading Company leggings. Your foot will feel like it’s in a cradle.” Right away you hear a lullaby, and see a wicker cradle rocking gently with legging-wrapped legs in it: rock-a bye baby…And the girl’s voice says: “They’ll cradle your legs!”

Suddenly I’m feeling kind of sad…I turn on Radio Rus video channel and order a “minute of Russian poetry.” A slightly nervous young man declaims:

“The fields flow with fog,

Bark and birch are injured,

The ground’s a bare black bog,

Spring’s not icumen in.

The birch bark’s been bled

With a jagged axe blade,

Down, down the sap runs,

Calling to matins.”

One of the new poets. Not bad, it creates a certain mood…One thing I don’t get, though: how does birch sap call to matins? Church bells should call to matins. Up ahead I notice a traffic cop in a fluorescent coat. I call him on the government line:

“Officer! Clear the road for me!”

Together—he with a baton, I with the State Snarl—we clear the way. I turn onto Ilyinka, make my way down Rybny and Varvarka streets to Red Square, drive in through the Spassky Gates, and race to Her Highness’s residence. I drop the car with the doorkeepers in raspberry-colored caftans, and run up the granite steps. The guards, who wear gilded livery, open the first door for me. I fly into the pink marble lobby, stop before the second door—a transparent one that shines weakly. This door is one ray from the ceiling to the floor. Two lieutenants of the Kremlin regiment stand on either side, and look straight through me. I catch my breath, clear my thoughts, and walk through the shining door. It’s impossible to hide anything from this broad ray—neither weapons, nor poison, nor any evil design.

I set foot in Her Highness’s residence.

A stately assistant meets me with a bow:

“Her Highness awaits you.”

She leads me through the residence, through countless rooms and halls. The doors open by themselves, noiselessly. They close just as quietly. Finally—the lilac bedroom of our lady, Her Highness. I enter. Before me on a wide lounge bed is His Majesty’s spouse.

I bend over in a long bow to the ground.

“Hello, murderer.”

That’s what she calls all of us oprichniks. But not with reproach, with humor.

“The best of health to you, Your Highness Tatyana Alekseevna.”

I raise my eyes. Her Highness reclines in a nightgown of violet silk that goes with the tender lilac color of the bedroom. Her black hair is in slight disarray, it falls over her large shoulders. Her down comforter is thrown aside. On the bed is a Japanese fan, Chinese nephrite balls for rolling in your fingers, a gold mobilov, a sleeping greyhound named Katerina, and Darya Adashkovaya’s book Pernicious Pugs. In her plump white hands Her Highness holds a gold snuffbox, strewn with diamond pustules. She takes a pinch of tobacco from the snuffbox, and stuffs it up her nostril. She freezes. Her moist black eyes look at me. Then she sneezes. So hard that the lilac pendants on the chandelier quiver.

“Oh, my God, I am going to die.” Her Highness throws her head back on four pillows.

The assistant wipes her nose with a cambric handkerchief, and brings her a shot of cognac. Without this Her Highness’s morning doesn’t begin. And her morning is our evening.

“Tanya, the bath!”

The assistant comes out. Her Highness has a bite of lemon with her cognac, and stretches her hand out to me. I grab her weighty arm. Leaning on me, she rises from the lounge bed. She claps her heavy hands, and heads for the lilac door. It opens. Her Highness floats into the room. In body she’s portly, tall, stately. God certainly provided her ample volumes of white flesh.

Standing in the bed chamber, my gaze follows Her Wide Highness.

“Why’d you stop? Come in here.”

I submissively follow her into the spacious white marble bathroom. Here two other helpers are bustling about, preparing the bath, opening champagne. Her Highness takes a thin glass, then sits down on the toilet. That’s what she always does—first a bit of cognac, then some champagne. Her Highness does her business, sipping from the champagne glass. Then she stands up:

“Well, why aren’t you talking? Tell me about it.”

She raises her white arms. In a twinkling the helpers take off her nightgown. I lower my eyes, but manage once more to notice how buxom and white-skinned is Her Highness. Oy, there’s not another like…She descends the marble steps into her filled bathtub. She sits down.

“Your Highness, I followed your instructions. Praskovia said it would be tonight. She did everything correctly.”

Her Highness is quiet. She drinks her champagne. Sighs. So hard that the bubbles in the bath flutter.

“Tonight?” she asks again. “That’s…your nighttime?”

“Our nighttime, Your Highness.”

“I think that means…lunchtime. All right.”

She sighs again. Finishes off the glass of champagne. They give her another.

“What did the clairvoyant ask for?”

“Baltic herring, fern seeds, and books.”

“Books?”

“Yes. For the fireplace.”

“Ah…yes…”

Her main assistant enters without knocking:

“Your Highness, the children have come.”

“Already? Bring them in.”

The assistant leaves and returns with the ten-year-old twins—Andriusha and Agafia. They dash in and run to their mother. Her Highness rises from the bath, baring herself to the waist, covering her enormously wide breasts. The children kiss her on the cheek:

“Good morning, Mamochka!”

She embraces them without letting go of her champagne glass.

“Good morning, my dears. I’m running a bit late today, I thought we would breakfast together.”

“Mama, we already had dinner!” Andriusha shouts and slaps the water.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” she says, wiping the spray of foam from her face.

“Mamulya, I won at Go Ze.⁶ I found the bao xian.⁷”

“Hao hai zi.⁸” Her Highness kisses her daughter. “Min min.⁹”

Her Highness’s Chinese is really rather old-fashioned…

“And I won at Go Ze a long time ago!” Andriusha says, splashing water on his sister.

“Sha gua!¹⁰” Agafia splashes back.

“Gashenka, Andriusha…” Her Highness frowns, furrowing her beautiful black eyebrows, and covering her breast as before. She immerses herself in her bath. “Where’s Papa?”

“Papa’s with the armies,” says Andriusha, pulling a toy pistol out of its holster and aiming at me. “Bang, baaang!”

The red target ray settles on my forehead. I smile.

“Pouff! Bang Bang!” Andriusha pulls the trigger and a tiny ball hits me in the forehead.

It bounces off.

I smile at the future heir to the Russian state.

“Where is His Majesty?” Her Highness asks the tutor standing just outside the door.

“At army headquarters, Your Highness. Today is the anniversary of the Andreev Corps.”

“So that means there’s no one to breakfast with me…” Her Highness sighs, taking another glass of champagne from the gold tray. “All right, go on all of you…”

The children, servant, and I head for the door.

“Komiaga!”

I turn around.

“Have breakfast with me.”

“At your service, Your Highness.”