Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

Blessed are...

“...let us commend ourselves, and one another, and all our life unto Christ our God.”

“To Thee, Our Lord,” the congregation responds. A moment later, a confirming, albeit discordant “Amen!” resounds through the church.

The deacon steps down from the ambo. From the choir, the reader, in a clear, measured voice, recounts the beatitudes from the Holy Scripture. The congregation – and it is sparse today – repeats The Savior’s words after the reader, whispering meekly, obediently:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven...”

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted...”

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”

A man in a long gray raincoat slips into the refectory sideways, glancing about him, and takes a spot behind a column. His eyes search the congregation; he is looking for someone specific, but he is not seeing him or her. He crosses himself in time with the old ladies next to him.

The reader continues:

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.”

The man in the gray raincoat makes an inconspicuous motion to adjust the stub-barreled, small machine gun, so tiny it is almost toy-like, hanging on his chest beneath the coat. The man glances around him, but people are preoccupied with their own thoughts and no one pays him any attention. His eyes keep scanning the front row of old ladies, but the one he is looking for doesn’t seem to be there. This is bad news. Very bad news. The man is tense: what if she is late? What if she comes in now – it would be easy to spot him, she’ll recognize him. He presses his whole body into the column, becomes one with stone.

The reader’s cadences roll forth, peaceful and heart-felt:

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

Solemnly, slowly, the Royal Doors swing open, as if the Pearly Gates themselves allowed mortal souls to glimpse the Kingdom of Heaven, and the congregation beholds the magnificent altar, the seat of the divine glory and the supreme fountain of knowledge whence the Truth issues forth and the news of eternal life is brought.

The priest and the deacon approach the altar, lift the Holy Scripture from it, and carry it through a side door to the people.

Peacefully, with measured steps, they proceed to the center of the church. Both bow their heads. The priest looks at the floor; he is silent, focused. The deacon lifts his orarion, like a wing, at the gilded Royal Doors, and inquires loudly:

“Do you Bless, Master, the holy entrance?”

“Blessed is the entrance of Thy holy ones, always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages,” the priest responds.

And that’s when the man in the raincoat sees it – the familiar headscarf in the crowd, a glimpse of the woman’s face: his mother is gazing steadily at the Gospel, crossing herself. Yes, he is certain – it is she!

“Thank God,” he whispers.

She is here, and this means nothing stands between him and the pantry in his mother’s apartment. He adjusts the gun again – a motion that looks as if he’s shrugging his shoulders – and begins a slow retreat to the exit.

“Wisdom!” the deacon’s bass thunders, the last thing the man in the raincoat hears.

He has made certain: his mother is here, in church, and she will be praying for a long time. She will pray for him, too, among other things. Usually, he doesn’t care one way or the other, but today he wouldn’t turn down a bit of protection from the higher powers, even if he doesn’t believe they exist.

The man checks his watch. Everything is going exactly as he has planned, perfect. He’s got plenty of time. He looks at the street, the side alley. The alley is empty. Behind? There’s no one behind him either. Excellent.

Through backyards he knows so well, through nooks and alleys, avoiding the brightly lit boulevard, the man makes his way to a large barrack-like apartment building that belongs to the railroad. He grew up here; here he knows every in and out. The man pauses for a moment behind a woodshed, checks his approaches: there’s no one around. He runs up the stairs, leaping over the fifth and the seventh step – they’ve been creaking for years now. He slips into his mother’s little room, and closes the door behind him. Just in case, he locks it.

He is home now.

The man takes off his raincoat, pulls his machine gun off over his head and places it neatly on a bedside table. He opens the pantry, pushes a sack of potatoes aside. Here’s the floorboard he had cut out, and below it: his secret cache. There, wrapped in a rag, is a revolver and a half-dozen wonderful little bullets. The man unfolds the rag carefully, checks his weapon, strokes it affectionately. He opens the cylinder and slips in the bullets, pressing each hard with his finger: six gleaming capsules, six exactly – he counts them with a gravity that befits the occasion. The revolver is also short-barreled, foreign – it took him forever to hunt it down. The boys from Petersburg helped. Those guys are gold – they never let him down.

The man slips the revolver into a holster, and adjusts it under his arm, next to his heart. He can’t deny himself a moment of joy: he whips out the gun, pretends to aim it – Bang! – spins it on his index finger and throws it smartly back into its nest. Everything will go just fine! He’ll pay them back for everything. He checks his watch again: plenty of time until show time.

Now, the machine gun. It’s a splendid piece, just splendid, but it’ll have to wait its turn, it won’t speak today. From looking at it, you’d never know it was homemade: it’s small, compact, and it cost, let’s be honest, a fortune, but money means so little when you remember what the goal is. And Petrovich is an ace! An expert! He just studied the drawings (that was a separate story, how he got those), named his price, and voila! – two months later, he had it made! Excellent.

The man stroked the steel of the barrel, pulled out the cartridge, and laid them both out on the rag. Then he wrapped it up, tied it with a rubber band he brought with him specifically for this purpose, and rested the bundle at the bottom of his cache. He put the board in place, swept some potato dust over it, and finally dragged the sack back into place. No one would ever think to look here. And even if someone did – the board looks no different from all the other floorboards around it, he made sure of that.

Suddenly, the man thinks about his mother. Let her pray, what else has she got left to do in her old age? What was it they said in church? Rejoice and be glad! That’s right – watch out now, you sons of bitches, he’s about to go do some rejoicing! He’s spent a long time planning it, and he’s got every second laid out.

The man puts on his raincoat – a wonderful piece: so large, it hides the revolver even better than it conceals the machine gun. Not machine gun – his “little toy.” That’s how he likes to think of it.

Retreat, through the yard. And he’s lucky again – there is not a soul anywhere. And it’s beginning to drizzle. And dusk is seeping into the air.

He is lucky! Lucky!

The man is now walking down the main street. He is walking calmly, confidently. He doesn’t care that the street lamps are bright – it’s even better that way, it’ll be easier to take aim.

The man checks his watch – everything is going according to the plan. Excellent!

And here’s the Park of Culture and Leisure, which people simply call “the spot.” Some are already beginning to gather at the spot – the open-air dance floor on Merry Hill. The man crouches, ostensibly to tie his shoelace – and dashes into the bushes. The bushes are wet – it is drizzling – but the man can’t think about that: it’s now or never!

Holding his breath, he sneaks up closer to where the police patrol usually stands. There they are: two policemen in raincoats next to a traffic-police Moskvich sedan. They stand with their backs to him, smoking, talking about something.

It’s quiet in the park, only once in a while does someone walk by – the bigger crowd flows down the main street: back and forth, fat on its free feed, dumb as cattle. Trucks thunder by.

The man pulls out his gun, raises it, aims with both hands, knees slightly bent, back leaned back just a bit.

Pss! Pss! Pss!

Damn it! God damn it! All six – misfire!

Were the bullets wet? Did Vityunya let him down? Oh, you just wait, you bastard!

Disappear – right now! Everything’s been planned!

Through the park, past the kremlin. Stay calm. Those two didn’t even hear anything – the street noise swallowed the sound. Double-up, come back. Just like that. Now, go past the post, take a look.

Everything is fine: the pigs are standing where he left them, suspecting nothing. And only five minutes ago... All right, let it go.

His nerves are strung so tight they seem to hum.

Now go, mix with the crowd, vanish. Get on a bus. Go home!

At the door – hug her, so warm, cozy, and also tense, worried, she’s been waiting. Kiss her on the lips, pull her close, hold her tight.

“Did it... did it work?”

“No. Vityunya, son of a bitch, slipped me bad bullets – either they were wet, or the caps didn’t fit the firing pin. But they seemed fine when I tried them at his place!”

The man, defeated, shrugs off his raincoat, drops the holster with the toy Italian revolver, but doesn’t let it hit the floor – he catches it and puts it carefully on an armchair. It’s a nice piece, really. Four-hundred and fifty rubles kind of nice. His wife comforts him:

“That’s alright, Valya, don’t worry about it now. Everything went as you wanted, didn’t it? So you just think of it as done. Go wash up, quick, I’ve made pancakes with cheese and honey, the way you like.”

He goes to the bathroom, and splashes ferociously in the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror, and makes a face, like a fearsome gangster. Screw it!

“You know,” he shouts to the kitchen, “Petrovich did make me a machine gun. Wait till you see it! I’ll go to Petersburg on the weekend and show the guys, they’ll flip! Even Semyonov’s Parabellum is not as good, and he had it made at the Kirov factory.”

“You’ll have a great time, Valya!” his wife has come into the bathroom, put her hands on his shoulders. “You’re such a boy, really. Thirty-seven, and you’re still playing at guns.”

Valya turns and grabs her – the whole smooth, warm, delicious bundle of her – but the wife struggles free:

“Oh no, not right now. Off to the kitchen, Mr. Secret Agent!”

“Oui, mon général!”

The two scarf down the pancakes; each thinking about his or her own. The wife is happy that the not-entirely-safe game has ended well, that no one got into any trouble. Let him go to Petersburg for the weekend, hang out with his guys at the dacha, and shoot to his heart’s content. They call themselves “Scouts.” When they were little, they played Indians, and now they spend hours chasing each other in the woods and shooting paint at each other. She doesn’t mind, though – he needs to let off some steam, anyone would after sitting at a desk all week, drawing boxes at the architecture office. And the main thing, of course: it’s long been clear they won’t have a little one of their own to play with, but it doesn’t mean you can’t play at all, does it?

“Hey! I’ve got an idea,” Valya perks up suddenly. “You know what?”

“What?”

“What if I buy Semyonov’s bow, like he offered, and you and I go duck-hunting at the lake? He’s had new arrows made too, from bamboo, just like Thompson Seton wrote, exactly. They are awesome. And he only wants 500 for the lot.”

“That’ll be fun!” the wife agrees in advance.

“You know, we could go, make a fire, maybe we’ll even catch a fish to cook. Spend the night there! Nights are still warm. What do you say?”

“I’d love it, Leatherstocking!”

“Katya, come on, I mean it.”

“I mean it, too. We should go to the Senga, to the channel, there’s never anybody there.”

“And you don’t have to worry about the money – there’s a bonus coming at work.”

“I never do – what’s money, if you can’t buy anything anyway?”

Valya gives her a peck on the cheek, goes back to the room and turns on Vremya on TV. While he watches the news, Katya clears the table and washes the dishes. Then she joins him, sits in the armchair and picks up her knitting.

“Come here, Katya,” Valya says, patting his knee. His wife slips out of her armchair and nestles in his lap, and he presses his face into her hot chest.

“You are such a miracle! I just don’t know what I might have done to be so blessed.”

“So am I, sweetie, so am I,” she says, stroking his hair. Eventually, she says, “Why don’t we turn in now.”

“Yes, I’m tired... You know, it was quite a rollercoaster today, nerve-wise. It’s just a game, of course, but still... it takes its toll. You’d think it was for real.”

Katya turns off the TV.