Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

Demons Possess Us

Demons do possess us, that’s a fact. Old Father Artemon often spoke of being possessed in his sermons, but also never neglected to warn his flock against false healers.

Not so long ago, in the Solombal district of Arkhangelsk region they found a body of an old woman who had died of multiple traumas – her ribcage was shattered. A certain Ms. Lagunova – a local self-proclaimed healer – apparently attempted to cast the demons out of the old lady’s body “by means of jumping on her chest,” as the police report put it. Such charlatans roam Russia in great numbers, no fewer than those of the demons that possess and torment us. Sometimes, however, the demons leave the soul of their poor victim when the fear of a greater force compels them.

Mikhail Yefremovich Nozdrevatykh – the head of the city administration, a retired general and combat helicopter pilot – suffered at the hands of an evil-eyed Moscow businessman known around here as The General. He, people say, whispered a jinx into Nozdrevatykh’s ear, and the hero of the Afghan war was paralyzed from the waist down. This could not have transpired at a worse time: elections to the regional Duma were just around the corner, with our local philanthropist and millionaire Anton Porfiriyevich Nebendov running on the United Russia ticket. Anton Porfiriyevich badly needed a seat in the legislature: the region’s new governor, in contrast to the previous one, who was now serving time for illegally logging a swath of land the size of one-seventh of France, proved to be intent on putting the free-wheeling local entrepreneurs (like Nebendov) under his thumb. For instance, he forced guys who poured a unique brand of iron to switch to producing the cheap vodka brand “For Unity.” The metalworkers outwitted him though: they bottled the governor’s vodka into elaborate cast-iron bottles which cost and weighed so much that people refused to buy them, thus bankrupting the governor’s little home industry.

Now Anton Porfiriyevich, he came to Stargorod from Poltava some 25 years ago. A recent Polytechnic University grad, he was given a job at a small plant that manufactured trenching tools. Once it was allowed, Nebendo (that was his name then) privatized the plant, added the letter “v” to his Ukrainian last name to show he had no intention of going back to Poltava, and set to work. Now his “Stargorodian” makes construction cranes, lightweight motorboats, pumps and hydrants, spades, Halligan bars and cisterns for firefighters, needles, nails and meat-grinders. Imagine then having this iron-works empire being ordered to begin producing toilet paper! Nebendov did not say “no” to the governor per se, but immediately departed for the capital where the Commander-in-Chief of all firefighters made him a card-carrying member of United Russia.

The Stargorod’s campaign headquarters’ chief of staff – city head Nozdrevatykh – was supposed to ensure Nebendov’s victory in the elections. If Nebendov made it to the legislature, the governor would leave him alone, but, on the eve of the elections the campaign found itself suddenly beheaded, or rather, be-legged: Nebendov’s faithful lieutenants reported that Mikhail Yefremovich had fallen into a deep depression, locked himself up in his dacha, was seeing no one, and just sat with his old mother pouring holy water on his head and old Father Artemon in the corner mumbling prayers to cast the demons out of his paralyzed body.

“The Afghan hero’s gone nuts, you say?” Nebendov shouted. “That’s nothing! We’ll fix him right up, my grandmother was the first witch at the Sorochynsky Fair – took off jinxes, evil eyes, and cast demons out too. Hitch up, boys!”

Fifteen minutes later, the official Mercedes delivered Nebendov to the city administration head’s dacha. Inside, the paralyzed Nozdrevatykh sat in a leather armchair next to a big round table.

“Trust me, Anton,” he said in a deflated voice, “it was easier for me in the war. I can’t bear it – people elected me, but it’s nothing but wolves and bloodsuckers out there.”

“What are you talking about, Misha?! The war’s just begun! Get up and crawl around the table, that’s an order!” Nebendov thundered like an angel of the apocalypse, as he grabbed the armchair and pulled it out from under Nozdrevatykh. “Crawl three times around the table and you’ll feel your legs, or else – great woe to you! I’m spending all the magic powers I got from my witch grandmother on you.”

The sight of him was terrifying: he stood short, disheveled, with his tie askew and his eyes burning like hot embers, arms spread wide. Nozdrevatykh tried to crawl, but his legs would not obey him. One way or another, groaning and creaking, he circled the table three times.

“You didn’t get it? Well, this’ll be the end of me, but you won’t live either!” and with these words, the Ukrainian exorcist whipped out a small firefighter’s axe from behind his back and charged at his jinxed comrade. The battle-tested general howled like a Chinook at lift-off, jumped to his feet and leapt out the window.

Nebendov caught up with him only at the dacha’s gate.

Two weeks later, the two were dining at the Olde Tymes, celebrating Nebendov’s new seat in the regional legislature.

“You gave me quite a fright back then, Misha,” Nebendov said.

“Shut up, I still get flashbacks of you with your axe,” the city head admitted.

From the jukebox, a cracked voice began singing “Say You’ll Haunt Me.”

“Are you saying I haunt you?” Nebendov asked. “Nonsense. I’m the one who was haunted. And then today the governor congratulated me with victory – and not a word about toilet paper!”

And he slapped his comrade’s exorcised knee – good and hard.