The Fairytale About a Dead Body, Belonging to No One Knows Whom
Vladimir Odoevsky
Translated by Ekaterina Sedia
In truth, the parish clerk as he left the tavern on all fours, saw that the new moon was dancing in the sky for no reason, and swore to it up and down the village; but the laity shook their heads and even made fun of him.
—Gogol, “Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka”
THE COUNTY COURT has sent the following announcement to all trade villages of Rezhensky County:
“From the Rezhensky County Court it is announced that in its jurisdiction, on the pastures of Morkovkino-Natashino village, on the twenty-first of past November there was found an unidentified dead body of a male sex, dressed in an old grey flannel overcoat; embroidered cummerband; red and green flannel vest; in a red shirt and a speckled quilted leather-billed billed hat; the deceased appears to be about 43 years of age, 6 feet 1 inch tall, light brown hair, fair and smooth skinned, grey-eyed, beard shaven with some grey stubble, nose is large and slightly to the side; weak build. Theretofore, any relatives or owners of said body are asked to notify the authorities of Morkovino-Natashino where the investigation is situated; and if there are no such persons, also kindly notify to this end the same village Morkovino.”
Three weeks passed in anticipation of the dead body’s owners, but no one showed up, and finally the assessor and the county doctor set out to visit the Morkovino landowner; in the escheat cabin the clerk Sevastyanych was temporarily headquartered, as he too was sent there for the investigation. In the same cabin, in the larder, the dead body was kept, to be examined and buried the next day in the usual manner. The kind landowner, to cheer up Sevastyanych in his solitude, sent him from his own table a goose in gravy and a carafe of homemade digestive tincture.
It was already dark. Sevastyanych, a neat and responsible man, unlike most of his colleagues who would surely be already up in the bunkbed by the warm clay stove, decided it would be proper to work on the paperwork for tomorrow’s meeting, seeing how the goose was nothing but bones but only a quarter of the carafe had been emptied. He adjusted the wick in the iron night lamp, maintained for just such an occasion by Morkovino’s elder, and from his leather pouch he took out a worn, grimy notebook. Sevastyanych could not look at it without great delight: it contained excerpts and notes from various ukaze, and he inherited it from his father, blessed be his memory—a clerk dishonorably discharged in Rezhensk for libel, covetousness, and lewd behavior, with a special dispensation to never assign him to any position or accept any requests from him—the reason he was still greatly respected by the entire county.
Sevastyanych could not help but remember that this notebook was the only codex guiding the Rezhensky County Court; that only Sevastyanych alone could be the interpreter of the mysterious symbols of this Sybillian book; that because of its magic power he held in his obedience the chief of police and the assessors, and required all citizens to come to him for advice and guidance; and this is why he guarded it like the apple of his eye, never showed it to anyone, and took it from its secret place only in the most dire necessity; he smiled as he leafed through the pages where in the hand of his deceased father and his own hand were scribbled and then crossed out various insignificant words, such as: not, or etc., and naturally his mind drifted to how stupid people were, and how smart were he and his father.
By the by he emptied the second quarter of the carafe, and started working; but as his habitual hand quickly curved letters on paper, his self-regard, inflamed by the sight of his notebook, worked as well: he reminisced of many times he transported dead bodies across county lines to save trouble to his chief of police; and just in general—put together a request, file a petition, interpret the law, to interact with the petitioners, report to the superiors that their demands cannot be met—Sevastyanych was everywhere and in everything; he smiled as he remembered a remedy of his own invention: to divert every general investigation to every possible direction; he remembered that only recently he had saved a good acquaintance of his using this very approach. The good acquaintance had done something, for which he could have easily undertaken a long and unpleasant journey to certain environs; he was questioned and investigated and during the investigation Sevastyanych advised his acquaintance to get a signed testimony from one well-educated and loyal fellow; they took the testimony from the educated fellow, which he signed after crossing himself, and Sevastyanych himself then started questioning local citizens—what about you, and you, and you?—and he was asking them so rapid-fire that while they were bowing and scratching their heads, and the well-educated fellow, since all others were illiterate, signed the testimony with their names, crossed himself, and thus recorded unanimous agreement with his testimony. And with no lesser delight Sevastyanych remembered when his chief of police was suspected in a significant embezzlement, he managed to drag fifteen more people into the case, divide the embezzled sum between all of them, and then work out a favorable plea for all. In short, Sevastyanych knew that that in all significant cases of Rezhensky Court, he was the only perpetrator, the only creator, and the only executor; that without him the assessor, the chief of police, the county judge and the marshal of nobility would all be goners; that he was the only man upholding the glory of Rezhenksy county—and the sweet awareness of his own importance filled his soul.
To tell the truth, from far away—as if from the clouds—he glimpsed the angry eyes of the governor and the accusatory face of the chairman of the criminal commission, but he looked at the windows covered with drifting snow, thought about three hundred miles separating him from this terrible apparition; to boost his cheer he drank the third quarter—and his thoughts became much more joyful: he thought of his cozy Rezhensk home, earned by his own wits; bottles of homemade schnapps on the windowsill between two flowerpots with basil; a china hutch with his favorite crystal peppermill on a porcelain saucer in the middle of it; and here is his stout, fair Lukerya Petrovna, a crusty loaf of homemade bread in her hands; here’s a calf fattened for the Yule, looking at Sevastyanych; a large kettle is bowing to him and moving closer; and here is a warm cot and next to it a luxurious bed with feather mattress and jacquard duvet…and under the mattress, there is a folded quilt, and inside the quilt there is a white linen cloth, and in the linen cloth there is a leather billfold, and in the billfold there are grey papers…and then his imagination transported Sevastyanych to his youthful years, he imagined his destitute life in his father’s house; how often he went hungry because of his mother’s thrift; how they sent him away to study with a deacon—he laughed as he remembered climbing his teacher’s apple trees and scaring him half to death when the deacon mistook him for a real thief; how he was caned for his trespass and retaliated by breaking his master’s Lent on the very Passion Friday; how finally he surpassed all his contemporaries and rose to read the Apostles in his parish church, starting in a thickest bass and finishing in the highest pitch possible, to everyone’s amazement; how the local marshal, noticing his promise, assigned him to the county court; how he matured and married his Lukerya Petrovna; received the title of the Gubernatorial Registrar, which he held to this day, using it to increase his good fortune. His heart melted in gratitude, and he drained the last quarter of the charming beverage. It then occurred to Sevastyanych that not just in the court, but he was a true Jack of all trades: how they listened to him at nights, in the revelry hours, when he would spin tales of Bova the Prince and of the adventures of Vanka Cain, about the travels of trader Korobeynikov to Jerusalem—unstoppable gusli!—and then Sevastyanych started dreaming how nice it would be to have the strength of Bova the Prince, so if he grabbed someone’s arm—the arm would come off, grabbed someone’s head—the head would come off! Then he wondered the island named Cyprus described by Korobeynikov, rich with oil that came from a tree and Greek soap, where people ride donkeys and camels, and he started laughing at those natives who couldn’t fig
ure out to yoke them to the sleds, and as he kept reasoning he found that the books are filled with untruths, and the Greeks must be a very dumb people, because he asked the Greeks who came to Rezhensky Fair to sell soap and gingerbread, who you would think should know what was happening in their own land, why did they conquer Troy—as Korobeynikov noted—but gave up Constantinople to the Turks, and all in vain. There was no rhyme or reason with those people, what was that Troy? The Greek couldn’t tell him, suggesting that the city must’ve been built and conquered during their absence—and as he conducted this important investigation, before his mind’s eye marched the Arab thieves and the Rotten Sea; the funeral procession of a cat and the palace of the Pharaoh, all gilded on the inside, and the bird Ostricamel, as tall as a man, with a duck’s face and stony hooves…
His daydreaming was interrupted by the following words someone spoke right next to him:
“Father Ivan Sevastyanych! I came to you with a most humble request.”
These words reminded Sevastyanych of his role as a clerk, and he, out of habit, started writing much faster, bending his head as low as possible, and keeping his eyes on the paper answered in a monotone, “What can I do for you?”
“You sent the court request for the owners of the dead body found in Morkovino.”
“It is so.”
“So you see, that body is mine.”
“Is it so.”
“So would you be so kind and do me a kindness and let me collect it soonest?”
“Is it so.”
“You can count on my gratitude.”
“So the deceased was a serf of yours.”
“No, Ivan Sevastyanych, what serf! This is my body, my very own…”
“Is it so.”
“You can only imagine what it is like for me, without a body! So do me a kindness, help me as quickly as possible.”
“Everything is possible but it is difficult to expedite such things—it’s not a flapjack, can’t just flip it over! I have to collect a lot of papers, send out requests…if only someone could butter things up.”
“Of that you have no doubt! Just let me have my body and I will give you fifty rubles with no regrets!”
At those words, Sevastyanych lifted his head but seeing no one said, “Come on it, what’s the point standing in the cold.”
“I am here, Ivan Sevastyanych, standing right next to you.”
Sevastyanych adjusted the light, rubbed his eyes and seeing nothing at all, mumbled, “Darn it to hell, have I gone blind? Can’t see you, sir.”
“That is not at all surprising! How would you see me? I am bodiless.”
“Truly, I can make no sense of your words, let me see you.”
“I’ll oblige, show myself for just a moment…because it is a great effort for me.”
And with those words a face without clear features appeared in the dark corner, appearing and fading away again—like a young man attending a ball for the first time, eager to approach the ladies but too shy, sticking his head out of the crowd and hiding from view again.
“Beg pardon,” the voice was saying meanwhile, “do a kindness, I beg your pardon, you cannot imagine how difficult it is to show yourself without a body, do a kindness, give it to me soonest—I am telling you, fifty rubles…”
“I am glad to serve you, sir, but I cannot quite grasp what is it that you are asking of me, do you have a written query?”
“Have mercy, what query? How would I write anything without a body? Do me a kindness, labor to draft one yourself.”
“Easy to say, sir, ‘labor,’ I keep telling you that I don’t understand a damn thing here.”
“Just write, and I will tell you what.”
Sevastyanych took out a sheet of paper with the official crest. “Just tell me: do you have a title, name, patronymic, and surname?”
“Of course! My name is Sweerley John Louis.”
“Title?”
“Foreigner.”
Sevastyanych wrote in large letters on the crested sheet: “To Rezhensky County Court, from a foreign minor-aged nobleman Savely Zhaluev, an explanation.”
“What’s next?”
“Be so kind as to just keep writing, I will tell you what; write ‘I possess…’ ”
“Land?”
“No; I possess an unfortunate weakness…”
“For strong beverages? Ah, that is not commendable.”
“No; I possess an unfortunate weakness to exit my body…”
“What the devil!” Sevastyanych cried out, throwing down the quill. “You are bamboozling me!”
“I assure you that I speak only truth, keep writing and know this: fifty rubles to you for the query alone, and fifty more if you successfully resolve it.”
And Sevastyanych took up the quill again.
“On 20th October of this year, I was traveling in a wagon, on a personal business, along the Rezhensk Road, on a single rut, and since it was cold and the Rezhensk County roads are especially poor…”
“No, you will have to excuse me,” Sevastyanych objected, “but I cannot write this down, it is a personal affront, and there is a ukaze forbidding personal attacks in official queries.”
“As you wish; then just: it was so cold that I was afraid to freeze my soul, and I was in such a hurry to get to the place of my overnight stay that I lost patience and, as of my usual habit, jumped out of my body…”
“Have mercy!” Sevastyanych cried out.
“Easy, easy, no matter, just continue: what can you do if I have such a habit? There is nothing unlawful in it, is there?”
“It is so,” Sevastyanych answered. “What’s next?”
“Be so kind to write this down: jumped out of my body, laid it out nicely inside the wagon…tied its hands with reins so it wouldn’t fall out and headed to the station, hoping that the horse will follow the familiar road to the inn.”
“I must say,” Sevastyanych observed, “that is this case you behaved quite imprudently.”
“When I arrived at the station, I climbed the clay stove to warm up my soul and when, by my calculations, the horse should have returned to the inn, I went out to check on it, but that entire night neither the horse nor my body returned. The next morning I hurried to the place where I left my wagon…but even that was gone. I suspect that my non-breathing body fell out of the wagon while going over a bump and was found by local police, and the horse followed some traders…after three weeks of fruitless searching, I, having found out today of the Rezhensky County Court announcement, calling for the owners of the found body, I request that said body is returned to me as I am its lawful owner, and to which I append a most humble request for the abovementioned court to kindly submerge my abovementioned body in cool water, to let it recover; and if in this frequently mentioned body there is some flaw due to the fall, or if it was damaged by the frost in places, I also request a county doctor to fix it up at my expense and to carry everything out in a lawful manner, to which I am signing.”
“Well, then be so kind and sign,” Sevastyanych said as he finished the document.
“Sign! Easy to say! I tell you, I don’t have my hands with me—they stayed with my body! You sign for me, due to the absence of hands…”
“No! Beg your pardon,” Sevastyanych objected, “there is no such protocol, and a query not signed according to proper protocol cannot be accepted by the court; if you so desire, illiteracy…”
“As you choose! It is all the same to me.”
And Sevastyanych wrote, “To this explanation, for reasons of illiteracy, by the petitioner’s own request, The Gubernatorial Registrar, Ivan Sevastyanovich Blagoserdov put down his signature.”
“I am in your most sensitive debt, most respected Ivan Sevastyanovich! Well, now you please go ahead, solicit on my behalf, that this case is decided quickly; you cannot even im
agine how awkward it is to exist without a body!…now I am going to run, to see my wife, but rest assured that I will not shortchange you!”
“Wait, wait, your honor!” Sevastyanych cried out. “There is a contradiction in your petition! How could you—without hands!—lie, or lay your body down in the wagon? Devil take it, I don’t understand this at all!”
But there was no answer. Sevastyanych read the petition once more, started noodling over it, and thought, and thought…
When he woke up, the lamp had burned out and the morning light was sifting in through the bladder-covered window. He looked with consternation at the empty carafe, standing before him, and this consternation forced the last night’s incident from his mind; he gathered his papers without looking and sauntered to the landowner’s mansion in hopes of finding a drink to treat his hangover.
As soon as he downed a shot of vodka, the assessor started looking over Sevastyanych’s papers and found the petition from the foreign minor-age nobleman.
“Ah, brother Sevastyanych,” he cried out after reading it, “yesterday I see you really indulged before sleep; look at this nonsense! Listen to this, Andrey Ignatyevich,” he added, addressing the county doctor, “look at the petitioner Sevastyanych is bringing before us.” And he read out loud the curious request to the county doctor, all the while near dying from laughter.
The Big Book of Classic Fantasy Page 13