Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

Winds of Change

The Garden of Eden Estate, a federally protected historical landmark, lies about ten miles from Stargorod. One of our own, the famous architect Barsov, designed and built the place at the end of the eighteenth century for Tsar Pavel’s General Ableukhov. The manor house, hunting lodges and magnificent park stood vacant and decaying for a long time. In the last couple of years, the property has tempted ten investors, each of whom, however, gave up soon after they started making renovations. Restoring a place like that is meticulous, expensive work that requires constant consultations with scholars, who tend to meddle and waver and fuss over every old pebble. All of this notwithstanding, one bright May day Garden of Eden was sold at auction for the eleventh time, this time with a 69-year lease.

Our new governor found new investors with very serious intentions. The way things were presented to them – packaged as the governor’s Old Estate Project – was essentially no different from every previous venture, but the press trumpeted it as “the winds of change.” There were two main contenders for the property: Vassily Paip, an oil magnate, a man who, in the highest echelons of power was simply referred to as The General. Few could appreciate the delicacy of the situation in which the governor found himself: his friendship with Paip was important in view of emerging profitable projects, but to slight The General meant to rock even harder the already-leaky boat of the governor’s relationship with the current administration. The governor decided to sacrifice a pawn: the head of the Culture Department, Kim Volokitin, a civil servant of the old, Soviet school. Volokitin accepted his part and memorized his lines.

When the prospective investors were being taken on a tour of the park, Kim approached The General and mentioned to him, in passing, that the president visited “The Garden of Eden” once, on his way to the capital, spent a long time contemplating the melancholy cupids on the mansion’s frieze, and then said, with an elegiac sigh: “Now here’s a place to retire to – it’s just perfect!” The General was not previously aware of this information, and swallowed the bait.

On the other hand, Paip’s relations with the Kremlin were, at the time, highly neurotic. The General, while letting Paip outbid him, instantly conceived of a plan to present Paip’s new purchase in the most unfavorable light to the Powers That Be. The oil magnate’s company won the auction, and the fact was covered by the news the same evening. The General departed to feast at the governor’s guest house, and stayed the night.

In the morning, strange howling was heard outside his door. The General stuck his head out into the hallway. Walking on his knees along the tufted carpet towards him was Kim Volokitin, naked to the waist, flailing himself unmercifully with a lash and whining monotonously: “Have mercy, it’s my fault, the rats ate the wiring!”

A curt order to explain followed. With the lash held up for the distinguished guest in his outstretched arms, the head of Stargorodian culture recounted the misfortune: rats sniffed out the organic-rubber wiring under the hood of The General’s Mercedes and gnawed it to shreds. The car now would not start, and for this he, the idiot who could take care of it, is asking to be whipped.

“I’ll forgive you if you tell me who sent you to trick me,” The General looked the trembling official straight in the eye – an experience few could bear. The General had a chance to make a few inquiries.

“General, sir, I thought of it myself, the fool, I thought it was for the better – ten investors already went bankrupt with the place, the foundations are built on quicksand.”

“Fine work!” The General barked and went to get dressed.

History, as we all know, repeats itself. In 1767 Catherine the Great stopped in Stargorod in the guest palace on her way to the First Throne. Local yokels had an argument with the Tsarina’s drivers, and beat them up. Someone instantly reported this to the monarch. An imperial order was issued: to whip every tenth man in the city. Then the city head with his entire cabinet prayed to the Mother Empress on their knees and gained the Most Benevolent’s clemency for their wayward citizenry. Ever since then, on the feast day of Our Lady of Kazan (when the discomfiture originally transpired) they gave a thanksgiving service in the city hall. They did so every year, until the Soviets stopped it. This, however, did not save the Stargorodians from receiving, from the surrounding towns, the moniker “whipped”; still, it’s no worse than the historical name given to the residents of Tver – “the goats,” or the inhabitants of Torzhok – “crooks and snoops,” or those from Kashin – “guzzlers.”

I doubt Kim Volokitin was aware of his city’s history. The General took his complaint to the governor, who was compelled, in the name of making amends, to let him have the above mentioned guest palace. It is now being converted into a boutique hotel with all the trappings of heavenly repose. This actually worked out well for the city: the school for mentally handicapped children that had been housed in the palace was moved from downtown to the edge of the city, but only time will tell how well the renovators will get along with the conservationists.

Kim Volokitin did not remain the head of the culture department for long: The General appreciated his acting talent and took him to Moscow. They say he is managing a super-secret garage there now, has been awarded his long-awaited colonel’s rank, and could not be happier.