Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

Reptile

They called him Lizard at first. Red-haired and green-eyed, the gleam in his pupils ferocious, he was quick and hungry, and learned the law early: fear no one and strike first, or else they’ll eat you alive. After his first night on the street, one old “wolf” pounced on him:

“Share what you’ve got.”

“I’ve nothing.”

“Then give me your ‘nothing’.”

Lizard nodded to his pillow, “There, go take it.”

The “wolf” shook down the stash.

“There’s nothing here, you punk!”

“So I told you – you can have your share of that.”

Later, when he came to be Reptile, he tested the newbies himself. Recruited a band of the fearless. Ruled over them more with his look and his word than his fist, having learned well that man has yet to invent a weapon sharper than a look and more accurate than a word; stole his words from the old-timers, did homework. Most didn’t. For the time being, hid his eyes – saved his look. He seemed in no hurry, but only seemed – in fact, he fought tooth and claw to be on top, and fought his way in. Changed his flag – became Captain, the one at the wheel, looked after Stargorod. Set his course under Gorbachev; the Gypsies then joked: “As long as the Gorbach’s in Kremlin, our horses will eat with gold teeth!” But he didn’t fuss over dough, and wasn’t one to show off, did not wear bling like a suit to work. Built himself a house across from the Governor’s and lived a quiet life, waved from the driveway and dropped by for shashlyk. Judged his people by the code, punished by the law, and over the next 20 years filled his house with stuff, but not with a family – bowed to the code on that count, he did, knew how it goes: a family drags you down – and it weren’t fools that cut you your shirt, so don’t go turning it inside out. Pinned a flag to his lapel, got a party card, and sat in the assembly, but put the business of power into expert hands – sent in Spade and Badger, who did accounting long before girls on TV sang about the job. Himself stayed in the back, didn’t go far, put his pieces on the board and got bored. Life’s a string – you give it some slack, it’ll twist into a noose on your own neck.

Did rounds of the city every day. He’d go to the gas station – they’d pour him a shot of 95, he’d down it straight, and see better. If things didn’t look sharper, it meant boys were mixing the good stuff with 76, he’d send the whole crew to the logging farm, “to the mosquitoes,” they’d straighten up in a blink – he wasn’t Yakuza or something, never chopped fingers. Then he’d visit his laundries, walk between spinning drums, watch his money dry, with the tips of his fingers he could sense second-rate work, punished the slackers, rewarded a beautiful job. Stuffed his pockets with bills, but didn’t take dirty ones – didn’t like the way they’d stick and wad up. Drove to his restaurant, held court, heard complaints, helped some folks, broke fights, rarely showed his teeth. Really, he only came to life if there was a raid, but raids were few and far between – his pawns in the proper corridors ran like clockwork. On City Day he stood on the Archdeacon’s right, and held his candle straight. The crowd whispered about him behind his back, in fear and awe.

He went abroad once – didn’t like it. Started running away to the woods, to a hut that looked like the one in which he’d been born. He went to hunt, the story was. Deep in the woods, alone, he’d drop his clothes, do a flip and his body would turn – scaly and covered with reddish-gray fur. He’d spend the night roaming under the trees, startling pigs, would sometimes wrangle a moose and drink the blood from its throat – to keep fit. His bodyguards knew nothing – he told himself; he could no longer see the way people looked at him when he came back. They looked with fear, they fawned: at night in the woods, the gleam in his eyes burned bright and dyed his pupils red, and the eyes would give him away, but he wasn’t one to look in the mirrors when he came back.

And still, in the woods he also got bored. No beast was his match – in speed, in wits, in pure strength – none of the many he’d seen in his life, all ferocious and merciless. Those who crossed him cooled their heels in the graveyard, and those who were smarter left him alone, and he did not bother them. And so it went, as the story goes.

Then – he must’ve lost his grip and slipped. Was walking in the forest, came to a clearing, sniffed – something seemed wrong. Looked up, scanned the tree line. All was quiet – too quiet indeed. You can’t hear a bullet lying inside the gun. You don’t smell a trigger yield.

He flew back a few steps, fell and died.

Three men in camouflage dropped from tree stands. Approached carefully, guns cocked.

“Look... his ears are down.”

Spade, who was in charge of the hunt, prodded the now harmless bulk of him, and pulled out his cell phone.

“Done, Comrade General. Positive – dead as a doornail.”

And fished for his flask in his backpack.

“Good job, boys, you’re all going to the Maldives. Bury him here,” he offered a drink to his whippers-in. “Whiskey, 12 years old.”

“And this ‘un here – all he drank was gas... Gave me an ulcer. Now this! That’s good shit.”

“What if we saved his head and stuffed it?”

“Are you nuts? They’d pack us in for poaching – these things all died out, he’s the last big one that was left! Damn reptile.”

“Don’t be so harsh, Vasya, let’s drink to the repose of his soul, poor sinner. His time’s over, it’s our time now,” the man drank, exhaled, and laughed with relief – a horsey, giggling laugh.

A neigh called back from the river – a young stallion tried out his voice, happy to be alive. The men spit into their hands, pulled the shovels they’d brought with them from the bushes and started digging a reptile-sized grave.