Day of the Oprichnik

Our repast in the White Chamber is quite ordinary today.

We sit at long, bare, oak tables. The servants bring us kvass made from bread crumbs, day-old cabbage soup, rye bread, beef boiled with onion, and buckwheat porridge. We eat, discuss our plans quietly. Our silent bells sway back and forth. Each wing of the oprichnina has its own plans: some are busy in the Secret Department today; some in the Mind Chamber; some in the Ambassadorial; some in the Trade Department. Right now I have three affairs going.

The first: deal with the clowns and minstrels, and approve the new performance for the holiday concert.

The second: snuff out the star.

The third: fly out and visit Praskovia, the clairvoyant of Tobol, on a special errand.

I sit in my place, the fourth to Batya’s right. It’s a place of honor, a lucrative place. Only Shelet, Samosya, and Yerokha are closer to him on the right side. Batya is strong, imposing, young in countenance, though completely gray. It’s a pleasure to watch him eat: he doesn’t hurry, he takes his time. Batya is our foundation, the main root of the oak that supports the entire oprichnina. He was the first to whom His Majesty entrusted the Work. During difficult, fateful times for Russia, our rulers leaned on him. Batya was the first link in the iron chain of the oprichniks. After him other links were attached, welded, fused into the Great Ring of the oprichnina, its sharp barbs pointed outward. With this ring His Majesty drew a sick, rotting, collapsing country together, he lassoed it like a wounded bear, dripping ichor blood. And the bear grew strong of bone and muscle, its wounds healed, it put on fat, its claws grew out. And we let its blood, blood that was rotten, poisoned by enemies. Now the roar of the Russian bear is heard by the entire world. Not only China and Europe, but lands beyond the ocean heed our roar.

I see Batya’s mobilov blink red. Indirect conversations are forbidden during the repast. We all turn off our mobilovs. A red signal means His Majesty is calling. Batya puts his solid gold mobilov to his ear, and it jingles against his bell earring.

“At your service, Your Majesty.”

Everyone in the refectory grows quiet. Batya’s voice is the only sound:

“Yes, Your Majesty. I understand. We’ll be there right away, Your Majesty.”

Batya stands up, looks us over quickly:

“Vogul, Komiaga, Tiaglo, with me.”

Ah. By Batya’s voice I can sense something has happened. We stand, cross ourselves, and leave the refectory. By Batya’s choice I understand—an affair of the mind awaits us. Everyone chosen has a university education. Vogul studied the workings of the treasury in St. Petrograd; Tiaglo specialized in book manufacturing in Nizhny Novgorod; and I joined the oprichnina from my third year at the history department of Moscow’s Mikhailo Lomonosov State University. Actually, I didn’t join…You don’t join the oprichnina. You don’t choose it. It chooses you. Or, more precisely, as Batya himself says when he’s had a bit to drink and snort: “The oprichnina pulls you in like a wave.” Oh, how it pulls you in! It pulls you in so fast that your head spins, the blood in your veins boils, you see red stars. But that wave can carry you out as well. It can carry you out in a minute, irrevocably. This is worse than death. Falling out of the oprichnina is like losing both your legs. For the rest of your life you won’t be able to walk, only to crawl…

We go out in the yard. From the White Chamber to His Majesty’s Red Palace is just a stone’s throw. But Batya turns toward our Mercedovs. So that means we’re not going to chat in the Kremlin. We all get into our cars. Batya’s Mercedov is distinguished—wide, bug-eyed, squat, with glass three fingers thick. It’s high quality work by Chinese masters, custom-made on special order, what they call te tzo dei. On the front hood is the head of a German shepherd, on the back a steel broom. Batya drives toward Savior Gates. We fall in line behind him and drive out through a cordon of Streltsy. We cross Red Square. Today is a market day; peddlers take up most of the square. The hawkers shout, saloop men whistle, bread sellers boom, the Chinese sing. The weather is sunny, nippy; there was a good snow during the night. The main square of our country is cheerful, musical. As a boy I witnessed an entirely different Red Square—grim, stern, frightening, with a big pile of granite housing the corpse of the Red Revolt’s maker. At that time a cemetery of his henchmen stood nearby. A gloomy picture. But His Majesty, our little father, tore down the granite box, buried the corpse of the squint-eyed rebel in the ground, and demolished the cemetery. Then he ordered the Kremlin walls to be painted white. And the main square of the country became genuinely krasny— red as in krasivo, beautiful. And thank God.

We drive toward the Hotel Moscow, along Mokhovaya Street, past the National Hotel, past the Bolshoi and Maly theaters, past the Metropol Hotel, and onto Lubianskaya Square. That’s what I thought: the conversation will take place in the Secret Department. We drive around the square past the monument to Malyuta Skuratov. Our forefather stands there in bronze, dusted with snow, short, stocky, stooping, with long arms; he gazes intently from under overhanging eyebrows. For centuries he has watched over Moscow with the Ever-Watchful Eye of the State; he watches us, the heirs of the oprichniks’ Great Work. He watches silently.

We drive up to the left gates; Batya honks. The gates open, and we enter the inner courtyard, park, and get out of our Mercedovs. We enter the Secret Department. Each time I walk under its gray marble arches, with their torches and stern crosses, my heart skips and then starts to beat differently. It’s an out-of-the-ordinary, special beat. The beat of the state’s Secret Work.

A dashing, fit lieutenant in a light blue uniform greets us and salutes. He accompanies us to the elevators, which carry us to the topmost floor, to the office of Terenty Bogdanovich Buturlin, the head of the Secret Department, a prince, and a close friend of His Majesty. We enter the office—first Batya, then the rest of us. Buturlin greets us. He and Batya shake hands; we bow to our waists. Buturlin’s expression is serious. He shows Batya to a chair, and sits down across from him. We stand behind Batya. The head of the Secret Department has a menacing face. Terenty Bogdanovich is no joker. He loves to monitor important, complex, critical state affairs, to uncover and undermine conspiracies, catch traitors and spies, smash subversive plots. He sits silently, looking at us, fingering his carved bone beads. Then he says one word:

“Pasquinade.”

Batya waits. We freeze and don’t even breathe. Buturlin looks at us searchingly, and adds:

“On His Majesty’s family.”

Batya turns in the leather armchair, frowns, and cracks his large knuckles. We stand absolutely still. Buturlin gives a command, and the blinds on the office windows are lowered. A kind of twilight fills the room. The head of the Secret Department gives another command. Words are pulled up from the Russian Network; they hang in the dim light. The letters are iridescent, burning in the dark:

by Well-Meaning Anonymous

WEREWOLF AT A FIRE

Firemen are looking,

The police are looking,

Even priests are looking

Through our capital city.

They’re seeking a Count,

Whom they haven’t yet found,

Nor ever have seen,

A Count round about age thirty-three.

Of medium height,

Pensive and glum,

He’s smartly attired,

In tails and cummerbund.

Cut in the signet ring

On his finger,

A hedgehog of diamond gleams and glims,

But not a whit more is known about him.

Nowadays,

Counts are oft

Pensive and glum,

Stylishly garbed,

In tails and cummerbund.

They adore the alluring

Dazzle of diamonds,

The dolce vita

Is just waiting to find them.

Who is he?

Whencesoever?

What manner of beast

The count whom they seek

In our

Capital city?

What hath he done,

This chic aristocrat?

Here’s what Moscow’s salons

Say to that!

Once, a Rolls-Royce

Wound its way,

All round Moscow.

A Count most forlorn,

Who resembled an owl,

Rode in it alone.

Sullenly squinting, morosely he yawned,

While humming an air

from a Wagner song.

All of a sudden,

In a glass ’cross the lane,

The Count

Spied a Marquess,

Encircled by flame.

A swarm of idlers,

Crowded the pavement,

The ancestral mansion

Was fully ablaze.

Gloating, the loafers

Ogled fire and pitch,

After all, such abodes

Were just for the rich.

Out of the cozy Rolls-Royce

The Count raced.

Ne’er a moment he wasted,

He cut through the rabble,

Of miserable swine,

Making very good time,

Then up, up, up,

Up the drainpipe

He climbed.

The third floor,

The fourth,

The fifth…

Then the last one,

Engulfed by the fire.

Out came piteous cries,

Then moans growing fainter—

Flames were now licking

The balcony sides.

Pale and quite naked,

Framed by the window,

The Marquess fluttered

In fantastical plumes;

Then a flare of the fire,

’Midst the dove-colored fumes,

Did illumine her milky white breast

On the pyre.

His hands strong and lithe,

The Count drew himself up,

Then with all of his might,

Slammed his brow

’Gainst the glass.

It shattered; shards took flight,

And lo! This remarkable sight,

Was met with but silence below.

One blow, another—

The window frame shuddered;

He stubbornly

Smashed the sash,

And crawled through the window,

Ripping his frock coat.

The idlers below whispered:

“Idiot…Ass…”

Then, in the window,

He appeared, stood up straight,

And embraced the young Marquess—

To his dickey he pressed her;

Above them smoke swirled,

Black, gray, and brindled,

Tongues of red fire,

Flickered and kindled.

The Count moaned

As he lowered his lips

To the breasts,

That he gripped in his hands.

The mob smirked with malice,

Spectators took note,

As a monstrous phallus

Arose in the smoke!

Onlookers gazed,

From way down below,

They saw the Count shudder,

As he entered the Marquess,

They glimpsed the pair quake,

And pull back from the window,

And then she and the Count

Disappeared in the haze!

A cloud of dust whirled,

And mingled with ash,

The firemen’s cars sped

Hither and yon,

The rabble stepped back,

The police blew their whistles,

The firemen’s helmets

Shone in the sun.

In the blink of an eye,

Copper helmets spread out;

Ladders reached higher and higher.

Fearless and brave,

One after the other,

Those fellows in Teflon

Climbed up and straight on

Through smoke and the fire.

The flames were replaced

By poisonous fumes,

From the pump water gushed

In a powerful stream.

An elderly servant,

Ran up to the firemen,

“Brothers, please save my lady, my queen!”

“Sorry,” replied

The firemen affably,

“No lady was found

In this mansion!

We looked through and through,

We searched with great care;

Your beloved young Marquess

Was not anywhere!”

The old man sobbed,

And tore at his whiskers,

People gaped

At the balcony black.

Then out of the blue,

A dog’s abrupt yelp,

Turned to a

Mournful whimper for help.

The crowd looked back and gawked.

Speeding off, the Rolls-Royce

Had run over a dog.

As its windows whizzed by,

a dim profile was glimpsed,

And silently faded,

Eclipsed by the glint,

Of a diamond hedgehog!

The mob on the sidewalk

Stood still, transfixed.

People followed

The Rolls-Royce’s trail—

In the distance, the posh

Limousine drove off,

To the splatter of

Sputtering wheels.

Firemen are looking,

The Police are looking,

Even priests are looking

Through our capital city,

They’re seeking a Count

Whom they never have seen,

A particular Count

About age thirty-three.

And you, gentlemen of the Malachite Chamber,

This werewolf you haven’t chanced to encounter?

The last line fades. The subversive poem disappears, melts in the dark air. The blinds are raised. Buturlin sits silently. His brown eyes are focused on Batya, who glances at us. The target of this pasquinade is as clear as day. By our eyes Batya can tell that there isn’t any doubt: the gloomy count with the diamond hedgehog carved in his ring is none other than Count Andrei Vladimirovich Urusov, His Majesty’s son-in-law, professor of jurisprudence, an active member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, honorary chair of the Mind Department, chairman of the All-Russian Equine Society, chairman of the Association to Promote Air Flight, chairman of the Society of Russian Fisticuffs, comrade of the chairman of the Eastern Treasury, owner of the Southern Port, owner of the Izmailovsky and Donskoi markets, owner of the Moscow Association of Building Contractors, owner of the Moscow Brick Factory, co-owner of the Western Railroad. And the hint about the Malachite Chamber was also obvious: this new space, located under the Kremlin Concert Hall, was built for the rest and relaxation of the Inner Circle and their retinue. It’s new, therefore fashionable. For that matter, the construction of the Malachite Chamber elicited quite a few subversive questions. Yes, yes, there were opponents…

“Is that clear, oprichniks?” Buturlin asks.

“Clear as a bell, Prince,” Batya answers.

“There’s just one little problem: find the author of the pasquinade.”

Batya nods. “We’ll track that worm down, he won’t get away.”

And, thoughtfully pulling on his short beard, he asks: “Does His Majesty know?”

“He knows,” sounds a majestic voice, and we all bow low, touching the parquet with our right hands.

The sovereign face appears in the air of the office. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the iridescent gold frame around the beloved, narrow face with dark blond beard and thin mustache. We straighten up. His Majesty looks at us with his expressive, sincere intent and penetrating blue-gray eyes. His look is inimitable. You’d never confuse him with anyone else. And I am ready without hesitation to give my life for this look.

“I read it, I read it,” says His Majesty. “It’s artfully written.”

“Your Majesty, we’ll find the pasquinader, I assure you,” says Buturlin.

“I don’t doubt it. Although I have to admit that’s not what concerns me, Terenty Bogdanovich.”

“What concerns you, Your Majesty?”

“My dear, I’m concerned about whether or not everything written in the poem…is true.”

“What specifically, Your Majesty?”

“All of it.”

Buturlin grows thoughtful.

“Your Majesty, I find that difficult to answer immediately. Permit me to take a look at the report of the Fire Department council.”

“Come now, you don’t need any fire reports, Prince.” His Majesty’s transparent eyes look straight through Buturlin. “You need witnesses to the event.”

“Who do you have in mind, Your Majesty?”

“The hero of the poem.”

Buturlin looks at Batya, who is gritting his teeth.

“Your Majesty, we do not have the right to question members of your family,” says Batya.

“And I’m not forcing you to interrogate anyone. I simply want to know—is it all true?”

Silence again fills the office. The shining image of His Majesty glitters with gold and rainbow colors.

Our sire grins. “Why so quiet now? It won’t work without me?”

“Without you, Your Majesty, nothing works,” says Buturlin, bowing his head so low that his bald spot shows.

“All right then, we’ll do it your way.” His Majesty sighs. In a loud voice he calls:

“Andrei!”

About fifteen seconds pass, and to the right of His Majesty’s face a small picture of Count Urusov appears in a violet frame. By the count’s grave, haggard look it is clear that he has read the poem—more than once.

“Good day, Father.” The count bows his large, big-eared head, which sits on a short neck; his brow is narrow and he has large facial features; his chestnut hair is thin.

“Hello, hello, son-in-law.” The gray-blue eyes look at him with absolute calm. “Read this poem about yourself?”

“I’ve read it, Father.”

“Not badly written, don’t you think? And here my academicians go on and on about how we don’t have any good poets!”

Count Urusov keeps quiet, pursing his thin lips. His mouth, like a frog’s, is extremely wide.

“Tell us, Andrei, is it true?”

The count says nothing, casts his eyes down, inhales, sniffs, and exhales carefully:

“It’s true, Your Majesty.”

Now His Majesty himself grows thoughtful, and frowns. We all stand there, waiting.

“So you mean to say that you actually like to fornicate at fires?” asks His Majesty.

The count nods his grave head:

“It’s true, Your Majesty.”

“Hmmm. That’s how it is, hey?…Rumors had reached me before this, but I didn’t believe them. I thought that envious people were slandering you. But you…Hmm, so that’s what you are.”

“Your Majesty, I can explain everything—”

“When did this start?”

“Your Majesty, I swear to you in the name of all the saints, I swear on my mother’s grave—”

“Don’t swear,” His Majesty says suddenly, and in such a voice that all of us feel our hair stand up.

It isn’t a shout, and he isn’t grinding his teeth, but it has the effect of red-hot tongs. His Majesty’s fury is terrifying. And even more terrifying because our sire never raises his voice.

Count Urusov is no coward—he’s a statesman, a wheeler-dealer, a millionaire of millionaires, an inveterate hunter who goes after bears with nothing but a spear out of principle—but even he pales before this voice, like some second-year high school student called to the principal’s office.

“Tell me, when did you first indulge in this vice?”

The count licks his dry, froglike lips.

“Your Majesty, it…it was completely by accident…even really, you know…as though I were being forced. Although, of course, I’m guilty…only I…I…it’s my sin, mine, forgive me.”

“Explain everything in order.”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, I won’t hide anything at all. Once, when I was seventeen years old, I was walking along Ordynka Street and I saw a house on fire, and there was a woman crying out. The firemen hadn’t gotten there yet. People gave me a boost up, I climbed in the window to help her. She threw herself on my chest…Your Majesty, I don’t know what overcame me…I must have blanked out…and, well, the woman, wasn’t exactly a beauty to put it mildly, medium height…well, and…I…you see…”

“And?”

“Well, I had her, Your Majesty. They were barely able to pull us out of the flames later on. After that, I wasn’t myself anymore. I kept thinking and thinking about the incident…A month later I was in St. Petrograd—I was walking along Liteiny—and there was an apartment burning on the third floor. That time my legs just led me there—I broke down the door—I don’t know where I got the strength. And inside there was a mother with her child. She was pressing him to her breast, and screaming out the window. Well, I took her from behind…And then six months later in Samara the treasury burned down, and my deceased father and I had come for the market, and then…”

“That’s enough. Whose house burned the last time?”

“Princess Bobrinskaya’s.”

“Why does this rhymester call a Russian princess a ‘marquess’?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty…Probably out of hatred for Russia.”

“All right. Now tell me honestly…did you set that house on fire deliberately?”

The count freezes as though he’s just been bitten by a snake. He lowers his lynxlike eyes. And says nothing.

“I’m asking you—did you set that house on fire?”

The count heaves a painful sigh:

“I cannot lie to you, Your Majesty. I set it on fire.”

His Majesty is silent for a moment. Then he says:

“It is not for to me to judge your vice—each of us will answer to God for these things. But I cannot forgive arson. Get out of here!”

Urusov’s face disappears. The four of us remain alone with His Majesty. His brow is creased with sadness.

“Hmmm…well.” His Majesty sighs. “And I entrusted my daughter to a swine like that.”

We remain silent.

“So that’s it, Prince,” His Majesty continues. “It’s a family affair. I’ll deal with him myself.”

“As you command, Your Majesty. And what about the pasquinader?”

“Act according to the law. On second thought…don’t. It could arouse unhealthy curiosity. Simply tell him not to write anything like that again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you all for your service.”

“We serve the Fatherland!” we say as we bow.

His Majesty’s image disappears. We look at one another in relief. Buturlin paces the office, shaking his head:

“That cad, Urusov…shame on him!”

“Thank God that we don’t have to deal with that mess,” says Batya, smoothing his beard. “But who is the author?”

“We’ll find out right now,” says Buturlin. He walks over to his desk and sits in his work chair. His voice commands:

“Writers—come here!”

Immediately the faces of 128 writers appear in the air of the office. They are all framed in stern brown and arranged in a neat square. Three enlarged faces float over the rest: the gray-haired chairman of the Writers’ Chamber, Pavel Olegov, with a continually suffering expression on his puffy face, and two even grayer, gloomier, anxious deputies, Anany Memzer and Pavlo Basinya. By the doleful expression on all three mugs, I realize that a difficult conversation awaits them.

“We’ll leave, Terenty Bogdanovich,” Batya says, reaching out to shake hands with the prince. “Writers are your bailiwick.”

“All the best, Boris Borisovich.” Buturlin shakes Batya’s hand.

We bow to the prince and follow Batya out. We walk along the hallway to an elevator, accompanied by the same dashing officer.

“Listen, Komiaga, how come Olegov is always such a sour puss? What is it—toothache?” Batya asks me.

“His soul aches, Batya. For Russia.”

“Ah, that’s good.” Batya nods. “And what’s he written? You know I’m not one for books.”

“The Russian Tile Oven in the Twenty-first Century. A weighty piece. I didn’t get all the way through it…”

“The Russian oven…that’s wonderful…” Batya sighs thoughtfully. “Especially when you bake liver pies…Where are you off to now?”

“To the Kremlin Concert Hall.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “See you sort that one out. Those clowns are up to something new…”

I nod in reply. “We’ll sort it out, Batya.”