Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

Goats and Sheep

At the Institute of Asian and African Countries, Alisa defended the thesis “Kan-re-do: Bourgeois Ideology of the Civil Service in the Post-War Japan.” Afterwards, while she was interning with Professor Yotiro Simada at the Tokyo University, she heard him formulate a civil servant’s motto as follows: “A man must swim with the current in such a way that it does not drag him out to sea, where he may lose sight of land forever.” Alisa framed her sensei’s maxim in a cedar frame and put it above her desk. Another thing her professor taught her was breathing exercises. The sequence Alisa learned from him helped to focus one’s inner force, “hara,” on achieving one’s goal, while remaining, outwardly, utterly unperturbed.

Alisa’s father, a high-ranking Soviet official, as he pulled the strings to get his daughter a job, told her the tale of the lion who came to be sheriff in a new forest: “Just remember to send a goat or a sheep up to the bigger lions every so often, and you’ll be fine.”

That is how she did things. Bosses promoted Alisa for her agreeable disposition and sharp wits, and sprang to attention at the sight of her waspish waist, but Alisa remained faithful to one Olady Evlampovich, a successful artist she married after she returned from Japan. His position as secretary to the Soviet Artists’ Union, however, proved to be not quite important enough in the new Russia. Alisa transferred to the Ministry of Culture and started helping her husband obtain commissions. She was always good at manipulating state funds, wasn’t greedy, but never missed a good opportunity, knowing full well that a civil servant in traditional Russia is an immortal force, and no one and nothing would ever end the sheriffhood. Her daddy was right: the “goats and rams,” transformed into the brick and mortar of her dacha on the Klyazma reservoir were mute just as one expects cattle to be.

In her work of implementing the government’s priorities, Alisa often had to fight against conservatism and provincialism, but that was okay – she liked a good fight. For instance, take the recent government decision to cut federal funding for regional museums. It meant cultural institutions would have to learn how to make money on their own. The Pottery Museum in Stargorod fell victim to the cuts. The museum was undeniably provincial, with an inflated budget of a million dollars a year and its only claim to fame as an archaeological site was that Putin himself had visited and subsequently allocated funds to build an open-air dig. The director, loyal to Alisa, pocketed most of the money and gave her a kickback. And everything would have gone smoothly, if not for a small-time ram of a researcher who blew up the whole story in the local press. The director got cold feet, fired the researcher and shut down the dig.

Alisa flew out to Stargorod post-haste; she had to nip the scandal in the bud. They raked the director over coals of such heat that everyone knew right away: his days were numbered. The archaeologists and other museum employees, with the bitter provocateur in the rank of assistant professor at their helm, looked on with distrust. Alisa made sure to speak to them quietly, intimately, her eyes hidden under half-lowered eyelids, so that the overhead light did not allow them to read her expression (a trick she learned from her Japanese mentors); she called the director an embezzler, and asked the staff to give her a year to set things straight in the capital. They struck a deal: the museum would be disbanded, and then created anew. The archaeologists, in the meantime, were to organize themselves into an independent structure, a corporation that would later become the basis of the resurrected museum. A grant to continue exploration would ensure their independence of their old supervisor.

A glimmer of hope lit up in the eyes of the rebels – as if their scientific explorations could change anything. Big money was beginning to flow into Stargorod; a Moscow general (not without Alisa’s prompting) had begun a wholesale renovation of the city’s historic center. As the Ministry’s official, Alisa needed to implement archaeological and historical oversight over the renovation, but it didn’t matter to her who would get to do it and file the reports.

As she departed, she said casually, “Come visit, I’m always happy to help.”

That evening, at her dacha, Alisa sat in a rocking chair under an apple tree. The museum’s director called. He apologized, made promises, flattered and fawned. The proud assistant professor did not call – did not send “a goat and a ram” up to the bigger lion – and missed his chance. In a year’s time, the scandal would be forgotten; Alisa decided to forgive the loyal director.

A number of different animals lived at the dacha – it’s fashionable now. Olady, seeing his wife in low spirits, brought to her Glasha, her favorite nanny-goat. Glasha took a piece of carrot from Alisa’s hand and licked her fingers.

“Go milk her, I’ve had enough of this!”

The husband obediently led Glasha to the little barn in the back. Alisa had long been bored with Olady Evlampovich; getting any use out of him was like milking a billy-goat. Alisa closed her eyes, drew in the air and focused on her “hara”; she imagined herself swimming out into an endless ocean. The chair rocked gently, peacefully. With her narrow, exquisite foot, Alisa felt for the ground – just in case – and there it was, she hadn’t lost it. She never will.