Stargorod: A Novel in Many Voices

Karaoke

Hardy, orange-tinted apples hung on the branches. Father Artemon kept watch over the tree all through September, happy with how the Antonov apples were ripening. On the first Sunday in November – the bishop’s name day – Father Artemon rose before dawn and gathered a large basketful. So as not to spoil the beauty of the fruit, he did not wipe off the cool, damp droplets of evening rain. He walked through the city to the bishop’s residence and was let into the waiting room by a servant. He sat down on a chair outside the high office. The bishop had yet to arrive, and the church high priest and secretary of the eparchy were waiting for him in his office. The door was ajar and Father Artemon heard the servant’s voice: “…has come to intercede for Pavlin.”

“Three years he’s been interceding. That monkey-lover just won’t let it go,” the secretary sneered.

Four years earlier, the bishop sent the old priest into retirement: with his poor eyesight, Father Artemon had, in his church, administered communion to a chimpanzee, taking him to be a holy fool. Father Artemon, to be fair, had a different view of things: Foma the monkey had saved the church icon from a ferocious thief, laying down his life in the process, and Father Artemon faithfully believed that the monkey was an enchanted human being, and not a mute beast, but he had obeyed the bishop’s order. Now he stood through church services alongside the choir, thinking of how he might atone his sin: because of him, another priest – Father Pavlin Pridvorov, the one who had informed on Father Artemon – had also been banished from the city, to serve in Soggy Tundra. Pavlin, owing to his youthful mind, had entertained wild ideas and thirsted for a career. This was always repugnant to Father Artemon, but he had only to recall the poverty and utter hopelessness of his rural childhood, and he would begin to feel sorry for Pavlin’s six children,⁷ banished to the land of mosquitoes for their father’s mistake. Father Artemon had the dream of restoring the disgraced priest to the lush city post before he died. He believed that the bishop would listen to his entreaties and at first did not attach any significance to the secretary’s evil tongue.

The voice of the high priest floated out the office door:

“…He wrote a letter to the chief conservationist: ‘All the princes and persons of eminence in this world have given to the church, so why can’t the artist show his generosity and, out of his honorarium, give Father Pavlin a karaoke machine, in addition to the refrigerator and television he had already contributed, for which he would be inscribed in the church rosters as a warden and be eternally commemorated throughout the parish.’ That’s something, eh?”

“He’s indulging his fancy… We all know what he wants that karaoke for,” the secretary replied. “He is weaving intrigues. When we go out to sanctify that church, you keep Pavlin away from the Minister, while I keep him from the bishop. We keep our eyes peeled, and we’ll get through cleanly. I’ll get the message to the artist to not gift that karaoke.”

Father Artemon left the bucket with its greeting card in the corridor and quietly retreated. At home, he took his savings from beneath an icon and bought the best karaoke machine he could find in the department store, then boarded a bus for Soggy Tundra.

The Minister who is now all-powerful was born 57 years ago in Soggy Tundra. And now, as has become the custom at the pinnacles of power, he decided to restore the single little church in his tiny hometown. The restoration team had been working for two years, and the opening of the church was planned for Christmas, in the presence of the church leadership, politicians and the press. Everyone knew that after the holiday feast both the Minister and the bishop loved to sing Russian folk songs using a karaoke machine. Thus the lachrymose appeal to the brigadier of the restorers, which had somehow been intercepted by the eparchy. Father Pavlin’s calculations were precise: after the lavish feast and libations, the bishop’s and minister’s souls would thaw, songs would soften them to tears, and it would be the perfect moment to throw oneself at their feet and beg for forgiveness and a transfer – it hardly seemed likely that the bishop could refuse him in front of the worldly boss.

Father Artemon rode on the bus and fervently thanked Providence for sending him to the right place at the right time. His apples and cards had been ignored for three years. No, he had fallen behind the times, so far behind, and it was right that they sent him into retirement. He, with his unsophisticated nature, would never have come up with a plan such as this, but these envious fools, they’re quick on the uptake and just get in the way.

Father Pavlin welcomed him warmly. Rural life had been good to him. His children were healthy and did not look like a gang of ragamuffins; their childhood was nothing like his before the war. But the main thing was that Father Pavlin had become warmer and more easy-going; the first thing he did was embrace the old priest and ask his forgiveness. Gratefully accepting the karaoke machine and learning of the intrigues being woven at the eparchy, he broke down sobbing and called Father Artemon “sweet Father.”

They parted warmly the next day. The priest’s wife packed a basket of pies and fresh boiled eggs for Father Artemon. The old priest rode the bus and looked out the window at the November sky. No tracks are left in the heavens, he thought, for some reason; even the birds have flown away. The clouds hung low and thick, covering the endless, happy azure beyond like armor. Father Artemon closed his eyes and died quietly and joyfully, as he had lived.

7. Priests in the Orthodox Church can be married before taking their vows and thus have children.