Day of the Oprichnik

The clock in the hall strikes midnight. The end of the oprichniks’ evening repast. We all stand. In a loud voice Batya thanks the Lord for our food. We cross ourselves and bow. Our guys head for the exit. But not everyone. The inner oprichniks stay—what we call the oprich of the oprichniks. And I’m among them. My heart thumps in anticipation. Sweet, oh how sweet is its beating! In the emptied hall where the servants quickly bustle about, the two wings remain, along with the most adroit, outstanding young oprichniks—Okhlop, Potyka, Komol, Yelka, Avila, Obdul, Varyony, and Igla. All first-class—blood with milk, gold-forelock fire fellows.

Batya walks from the large hall to the small hall. We follow him—the right wing, the left, and the young people. The servants close the door behind us. Batya approaches the fireplace decorated with three bronze warriors, and pulls Ilya Muromets by his cudgel. A door opens in the wall next to the fireplace. Batya is the first to step through the door, and we follow by rank. As soon as I enter, the bathhouse smell hits my nostrils. And from the very aroma of it my head spins, the blood in my temples beats with little silver hammers: Batya’s bath!

We descend the dim stone staircase, down, down, down. Each step down is a gift, the expectation of joy. There is just one thing I can’t understand—why Batya decided to have the baths tonight. Will wonders never cease?! Earlier today we enjoyed the golden sterlets—and now we’re also going to take the steam.

The light flares: the dressing room opens. Batya’s bath attendants meet us—Ivan, Zufar, and Cao. They’re older, experienced, trustworthy. They’re all different in personality and blood, and in their bathhouse skills. Only injury unites them: Zufar and Cao are mute, and Ivan is deaf. This is wise not only for Batya, but for them as well—the oprichniks’ bathhouse attendants sleep a deeper sleep and live longer.

We sit down and disrobe. The attendants help Batya to undress. And he doesn’t lose any time:

“About work. Who has what?”

The left wingers are ahead right away: Vosk and Seryi finally got underground Kitaigorod away from the treasurers; now we control all the construction. Nechai has two denunciations against Prince Oboluev, Buben has the money from a deal that was bought off. In Amsterdam, Baldokhai correctly rubbed up against the Russian community, and brought back black petitions; Samosya’s asking for personal damages—he smashed a Streltsy car. Without a single word of reproach, Batya gives him five hundred rubles in gold.

Our fellows from the right wing weren’t so resourceful today: Mokry fought with tradesmen for the Odintsov Paradise restaurant, but hasn’t gotten very far yet; Posokha tortured criminal pilots with the departmentals; Shelet had meetings in the Ambassadorial Department. Yerokha flew to Urengoi to deal with white gas; Pravda arranged surveillance and set fire to the apartment of someone in disgrace. I’m the only one with a profit:

“Here, Batya, Kozlova bought a half-deal. Twenty-five hundred.”

Batya takes the purse, shakes it, unties it, counts out ten gold pieces, and gives me my due. He sums up the day:

“In the black.”

Other oprichnik days are “festive,” “wealthy,” “hot,” “disbursed,” “losing,” and “sour.” The young people sit and listen, learning a bit of wisdom.

The money and the papers disappear into the white square shining on the wall of the old storeroom. The bath attendants take off Batya’s pants. He slaps his hands on his knees:

“I have some news for you, gentlemen oprichniks: Count Andrei Vladimirovich Urusov is naked.”

We sit there, dumbstruck. Baldokhai is the first to open his mouth:

“How’s that, Batya?”

“He’s been removed from all his posts by His Majesty’s decree, and his accounts frozen. But that’s not all.”

Our commander takes us all in with his searching gaze:

“His Majesty’s daughter, Anna Vasilevna, has sued for divorce from Count Urusov.”

Now there you go! That really is news! His Majesty’s family! I can’t refrain:

“Motherfucker!”

Batya immediately socks me in the jaw.

“Shameless!”

“Forgive me, Batya, the devil made me do it, I couldn’t help…”

“Fuck your own mother, it will be less expensive.”

“Batya, you know my mother passed away…” I try to get him on pity.

“Fuck her in the grave.”

I’m silent as I wipe my split lip with my undershirt.

“I’ll beat the brazen, rabble-rousing spirit out of you!” Batya threatens us. “Whoever fouls his lips with curses—will not stay long in the oprichnina!”

We grow quiet.

“So, then,” he continues. “His Majesty’s daughter has filed for divorce. I don’t think the patriarch will divorce them. But the Moscow Metropolitan could divorce them.”

He could. We understand. He very likely would. Just like that! If that happened, Urusov would be completely naked. How wisely His Majesty conducts internal politics; oh, how wisely! If you look at it from the family point of view, what does that pasquinade mean for him? Underground rebels write all sorts of things…After all, no matter what you say, it’s his son-in-law, the spouse of his beloved daughter. And if you look at it from the governmental point of view, it’s an enviable resolution. Cunning! No wonder His Majesty prefers skittles and chess to all other games. He calculated a multistep combination, drew back, and swung the bat at his own. Knocked a fattened son-in-law out of the Inner Circle. And immediately strengthened the people’s love for him two- or threefold. Gave the Inner Circle something to think about: don’t go too far. He reigned in the departmental clerks: that’s how a statesman should act. He energized us, the oprichniks: in the New Russia no one is untouchable. No one is and no one can be. And thank God.

Both wings sit shaking their heads, clicking their tongues:

“Urusov—naked. Hard to believe!”

“There you go! Turned Moscow topsy-turvy!”

“He shone in His Majesty’s favor.”

“He stirred things up, shuffled people around.”

“Drove three Rolls-Royces.”

It’s true—Urusov had three Rolls-Royces: gold, silver, and platinum.

“So what’s he gonna drive now?” Yerokha asks.

“A lame electric goat!” Zamosya answers.

We chuckle.

“Well, that’s not the last bit of news,” says Batya, standing up naked.

“He’s coming here. To the baths. To take the steam and ask for our protection.”

Those standing sit down again. This is too much! Urusov—coming to see Batya? On the other hand, if you think about it rationally, where else does he have to hide, now that he’s naked? His Majesty kicked him out of the Kremlin, businessmen will flee from him, the departmentals as well. As a fornicator, the Patriarch won’t shelter him. To Buturlin? They can’t stand each other. To Her Highness? Her stepdaughter despises her for “debauchery,” she hates her stepdaughter and her stepdaughter’s husband, even though he’s already a former one, all the more. The road to China is closed for the count: Zhou Shen Min is a friend of His Majesty and won’t go against his will. What can the count do? Sit in his estate and wait for us to roll up with our brooms? So, out of desperation, he decides to pay obeisance to Batya. That’s the right thing to do! For a naked man the road can lead only to the bathhouse.

“So that’s the way the cookie crumbles and the chips fly,” Batya sums up. “And now—to the baths!”

Batya is the first to enter. Naked, like Adam, we follow him. Batya’s bathhouse is rich: the ceilings are vaulted and abutted by columns; the floor is marble mosaic; the pool is large; the lounge chairs comfortable. The aroma of bread is already coming from the steam room—Batya likes to use kvass for his steam.

He immediately commands:

“Right wing!”

Batya is commander in chief in his bathhouse. We rush to the steam room. Ivan is already waiting there in his felt cap and gloves, with two bunches of twigs—birch and oak. The carousel begins: we lie down on the sweating shelves, deaf Ivan starts the kvass steam, grunts, and chants an unusually loud jokey jingle as he begins to lash the oprichniks with the birch brooms.

I lie there, my eyes closed. I wait my turn, breathing in the steam. Then the waiting is over: whisk, whisk, whisk—on my back, my ass, my legs. Ivan is so experienced in bath whipping it’s unbelievable—he doesn’t stop until you’re steam-cleaned. But at Batya’s you shouldn’t steam too long, for other pleasures lie in store. Even in the steam room my heart grows cold in anticipation.

Ivan steams away, chanting:

“Hark, hark,

Grind beans and bark

Yurop to gas

With oprichnik ass.

“Ass bone white,

Works day and night,

Smear it with lard,

Show Yurop what’s hard!”

Ivan’s little ditty is old, and he’s not too young himself: there’s no one in Europe to show a Russian ass to anyway. No decent people remain beyond the Western Wall, only Arab cyberpunks crawling over the ruins. Europe or an ass, it’s all the same to them.

Oak branches rustle on the nape of my neck, and birch branches tickle my heels.

“Ready!”

I climb off the shelf and fall into Zufar’s strong hands: now it’s his turn. He grabs me like a sack of potatoes, hoists me over his back, and lugs me out of the steam room. Taking a running start, he chucks me into the pool. Oh, I feel good! Everything is top-notch at Batya’s—the steam is hot and the water ice-cold. It goes straight to the bone. I swim, and wake up. But Zufar doesn’t give you a breather—he pulls me up, tosses me onto the futon, jumps on my back, and starts walking on me. My vertebrae crack. His Tatar feet walk along a Russian spine. They walk skillfully—they do no harm, won’t destroy, won’t bruise…His Majesty knows how to join all the peoples of the Russian land under his mighty wing: the Tatars and Mordovians, Bashkir, Jews, Chechens, Ingush, Cheremis, the Evenki and Yakuts, the Marii, Karelians, Buriats, Urdmurts, the simple-hearted Chukchi, and many, many others.

Zufar pours water over me and gives me to Cao. And now I’m reclining in the washroom, looking at the painted ceiling, and the Chinese Cao is washing me. His soft, quick fingers slip over my body, rub fragrant foam into my hair, pour aromatic oils on my stomach; he runs his fingers through my toes, and massages my calves. No one can wash you like a Chinese. They know how to handle the human body. On the ceiling there’s a scene of a heavenly garden; birds and beasts, heeding the voice of God. Man isn’t in this garden yet—he hasn’t been created. It’s lovely to look at the garden of paradise when you’re being washed. Something long-ago forgotten awakens in your soul, something drawn out by the lard of time…

Cao splashes cool water on me from the lime flower washtub, and helps me to stand. You feel heartened and ready after a Chinese bath. I walk into the main hall. Gradually, everyone joins, passing through the Russian-Tatar-Chinese conveyor. Clean, rosy bodies plop down on the lounge beds, swigging nonalcoholic drinks, chatting. Uzh, Shelet, and Samosya have already been through the steam room; Mokry just got wet; Vosk collapsed on the lounge with a grunt; and Yerokha is oohing and aahing in gratitude. Chapyzh and Buben down the kvass greedily, coming to their senses. Great is the brotherhood of the bathhouse. Everyone is equal here—the right and the left, the old and the young. Gilded forelocks have gotten wet and tousled. Tongues have loosened:

“Samosya, so where d’ya hit that colonel anyway?”

“I smashed his side at the turn from Ostozhenka. That Streltsy idiot chickened out, wouldn’t get out of the car. Then their people came with a square, a hand, the duty policeman folded, I didn’t pass for a good guy, and I didn’t want to butt heads with a cudgel…”

“Brothers, listen, a new joint opened on Maroseika Street—called Kissel Shores. Pretty expensive: twelve kinds of kissel, vodka made from lime-tree buds, hare in noodles, girls singing…”

“For Shrovetide His Majesty is giving presents to athletes: a hydrogen Mercedov apiece; gorodki players get a fat-tailed motorcycle, the women archers a viviparous fur coat…”

“In short, the SOBs locked themselves in, and Batya forbade us to use fireworks—the house wasn’t in disgrace. Couldn’t use gas or lasers either. So we did things the old way—in the lower quarter: this and that, the enemies are upstairs. We asked them statesmanlike, officially, they came out with suitcases and icons, we singed them, began to smoke the upstairs ones out. We thought they’d open up, but they jumped out the window. The elder landed on the fence—the spike went straight through his liver—the younger broke his leg but survived, and then he gave evidence…”

“Avdotia Petrovna personally broke the toilets with her humongous ass, I swear…”

“Yerokha, hey, Yerokha…”

“Whaddya want?”

“Where’s my pie?”

“You knucklehead! Pick up your balls, they’re rolling around on the floor!”

“Buben, is it true that gray profits in the Trade Department are being closed down through the tax collectors?”

“Unh-uh. Only bonuses go through the tax collectors, but the gray are still covered by the junior clerks.”

“There’s enemies for you! No poker made could ever pick them out…”

“Wait until the fall, Brother Okhlop. We’ll pick them all out.”

“Autumn, autumn, they’re burning shiiiiips…young man, where did you get your tattoo?”

“In Nebuchadnezzar.”

“That’s nice. Especially down below, with the dragons…”

“Come on, Brother Mokry, let me have a swig of kvass.”

“Swig as much as you want, for the love of Christ, Brother Potyka.”

“They keep on about bribes, bribes, bribes…what the hell do I need to dig up bribes for?”

“See-saw, saw-see, Brother Yerokha doesn’t like me…”

“I’ll crack your forehead open, you troublemaker!”

“Did you hear why His Majesty closed the Third Western Pipeline? Those shithead Europeans didn’t give the court any Château Lafite again; just half a car, and they can’t even get that together!”

As always, Batya is the last into the steam room. The bathhouse attendants hold his wide body up and bring him to us. They hand over our kinsman:

“Batya, we hope you enjoyed your bath!”

“We hope it went all the way to the bone!”

“To your health!”

“Into the backbone.”

“Into the marrow!”

Batya’s body gives off heat.

“Oof, Holy Mother of God…give me some kvass!”

Silver cups are held out to our beloved Batya.

“Drink, Brother Batya!”

Batya scans us with bleary eyes, making his choice:

“Vosk!”

Vosk holds the cup for Batya. Of course, today the left wing is in favor. Rightly so. They earned it.

Batya drains the cup of honey kvass, takes a breath, and belches. He looks us over. We freeze. Batya bides his time, winks at us. And utters the long-awaited “Cluck, cluck cluck!”

The light goes down, and from the marble wall a shining hand, full of pills, extends outward. And like the confession for the Holy Communion, we stand in a humble line at the illumined palm. Each of us approaches, takes his tablet, places it in his mouth under the tongue, and moves away. I do the same. I take the tablet, which doesn’t look like anything unusual. I place it in my mouth, and already my fingers are trembling, my knees are weak, and my heart is beating like an anxious hammer; my blood is pounding at my temples like oprichniks breaking into a Zemstvo estate.

My trembling tongue covers the tablet as a cloud covers a temple high atop a hill. The tablet melts, melts sweetly under the tongue, the saliva flooding down upon it like the River Jordan flows in springtime. My heart throbs, I gasp for breath, the ends of my fingers grow cold, and my eyes are more sharp-sighted in the gloom. And now comes the long-awaited moment: a rush of blood to my member. I lower my eyes. I behold it, filling with blood. My refurbished member—with two cartilaginous inserts, a blade of hyperfilaments, pellets in bas relief—rises like a wave of meat with moving tattoos. It levitates like the trunk of a Siberian mammoth. And under my bold member the crimson light of my weighty genitals begins to glow. And not only mine. The genitals of everyone who took communion from the shining palm are glowing, like fire-flies in rotten tree stumps on Midsummer’s Eve. The oprichniks’ genitals have been kindled, each with its own light. For the right wing this color ranges from scarlet to the dark murrey of blood; for the left from sky blue to violet; and for the greenhorns, green light of all hues. And it is only our Batya whose genitals shine a special color, distinct from all the others—our dear Batya’s genitals shine yellow-gold. The great strength of the oprichnik brotherhood lies here. Oprichniks all have genitals revamped by ingenious Chinese doctors. Light flows from the genitals, craving manly love. It gathers strength from the rising member. And until the light has waned—we, the oprichniks, are entwined in brotherly embraces. Strong hands grasp strong bodies. We kiss one another on the lips. We kiss silently, like men, without any women’s sweet talk. We greet and excite one another through our kissing. The bath attendants bustle among us with clay pots filled with Chinese ointments. We scoop out the thick, aromatic ointment and spread it on our members. The wordless attendants move to and fro among us like shadows, for they do not shine.

“Hail!” Batya exclaims.

“Hail, hail!” we cry.

Batya is the first to rise. He moves Vosk close to him. Vosk sticks his member in Batya’s asshole. Batya groans with pleasure, grins, and bares his white teeth. Shelet embraces Vosk, pokes his greased dick in him. Vosk lets out a belly screech. Seryi fills up Shelet; Seryi is speared by Samosya, Samosya by Baldokhai, Baldokhai by Mokry, Mokry by Nechai, who has to push his sticky stud in, and then my turn comes. I clasp the leftwing brother with my left hand, and with my right I direct my member into his asshole. Wide is Nechai’s hole; I drive my member all the way to his purple core. Nechai doesn’t even grunt; he’s used to it, he’s one of the elder oprichniks. I get a stronger grasp on him, press him to me, tickle him with my beard. Buben attaches himself to me. My trembling asshole feels his club. It’s large—without a push it won’t go in. Buben pushes and pokes, then drives his fat-head member in. His machine reaches all the way to my innards, squeezing a guttural moan out of me. I moan in Nechai’s ear. Buben groans in mine, embracing me with his valiant arms. I don’t see who sticks him, but by the groans I know—it’s a worthy member. Well, there aren’t really any unworthy among us—the Chinese have renewed our genitals, strengthened them, equipped them. We have the wherewithal to delight one another, as well as to punish Russia’s enemies. The oprichnik caterpillar gathers, coupling. Behind me I hear groans and screeches. The law of the brotherhood requires that the left wingers and right wingers alternate, and only then do the younger ones join together. That’s Batya’s rule. And thank God…

By the cries and muttering I sense that the youngsters’ turn has come. Batya cheers them on:

“Don’t be scared, greenhorns!”

The youngsters are trying, they long to burst into each other’s tight assholes. The dark bath attendants help them, they direct them, support them. The next-to-last cries out, the last groans—and the caterpillar is ready. It’s complete. We stay stock-still.

“Hail!” cries Batya.

“Hail! Hail!” we roar in reply.

Batya takes a step. And we follow him, we follow the head of the caterpillar. Batya leads us into the pool. It’s spacious, roomy. It’s filled with warm water instead of ice water.

“Hail! Hail!” we shout, embracing each other, shuffling.

We follow Batya. We walk. We walk. We walk in caterpillar steps. Our genitals glow, our members shudder between buttocks.

We enter the pool. Around us the water boils with air bubbles. Batya submerges himself up to his genitals, then to his waist, his chest. The entire oprichnik caterpillar enters the pool. And rises.

Now it’s time to be silent. Muscular arms tense, valiant nostrils flare, the oprichniks have begun to moan. The time for the sweet work has come. We coax each other. The water ripples around us, waves heave, splashing out of the pool. And now the long-awaited moment has come: a tremor rolls through the entire caterpillar.

And:

“Haaaaaaaiiiilll!”

The arched ceiling shakes. And the pool—becomes a nine-point storm.

“Haaaaiiiilll!”

I roar into Nechai’s ear, and Buben screams into mine:

“Haaaaiiiilll!”

Lord, don’t let us die…