Stargorod

by Peter Aleshkovsky

  4

  “Yes..,” Vovochka said, regarding Rafa and Galya who had long since pushed away from the table. “You eat, eat the jam, poor bastards, I’ll keep to the tea – I miss the Indian stuff, we only get it before the November holidays. Yes, we drank to our hearts’ content, those were the days. Later, my Karelian got bored and headed home, somewhere around Petrozavodsk. He asked me to come with him, but I didn’t and went home to Arzamas instead. So we parted like that, and afterwards I never heard from him. He may be doing time again, or maybe got married, we both felt like settling down – you can only play that hard while you’re young and loaded with easy Taymyr money. Since then I don’t drink, only on holidays, and don’t miss it in the least and highly recommend you do the same. Now, Zoika won’t let me lie, I’m nuts about my chickens and don’t need anyone else. When I get my Orlovs bred back –that’s when we’ll have one last party, and after that I can die happy!”

  Tea made Vovochka flushed and somehow less solid; he spilled over the armchair and was quiet for a moment, but could not sit still for long.

  “All right, girls, off to bed!” he shooed Rafa’s twins. “Time, time, you’ve already stayed up way late.” He grabbed one under each arm and dragged them off to their room.

  After he put them to bed, Vovochka began to pack. He re-tied his boxes, sent Galya to wash dishes in the kitchen and explained to Rafa what to do with the sick hen, which he put into a separate box.

  “Listen, do me a small favor, would you please? Just handle it without sentimentality. Take this poor thing back to Moskalev in Podolsk. I would stay myself, but first, I gotta be back at the plant the day after tomorrow and, second, I’m afraid I’d just strangle him like a chick if I lay eyes on him now. That’s not right. Just give him the bird back and tell him he must’ve made a mistake in the dark. If he tries to give you 50 rubles back – don’t take it, money’s not the matter. Tell him it’s his problem, I’ll come back some other time. And don’t worry – I won’t touch him and certainly won’t poison his birds, you should see how beautiful they are… too bad they got fixed up with such a shitty guy. I’ll get the breed going, you can be sure of that, you’ll marvel at them yet – Moskalev will come to me trying to buy, only I won’t sell him any. Would you?”

  And he looked at Rafa in such a way that he had to agree. What else was he going to do?

  Then they went to bed and Vovochka disappeared into the bathroom – to wash up.

  “He doesn’t have any children of his own, but did you see how good he was with ours?” Galya said.

  Rafa nodded and for some reason stroked his wife’s hair.

  “Go to sleep,” whispered Galya, already half asleep. “Some people do find just the right thing to do with their lives.”

  They fell asleep with this thought.

  5

  In the morning, Vovochka rose before dawn, tiptoed into the kitchen and sat there quietly drinking tea until everyone else awoke. Galya rushed to make him breakfast, but he refused.

  “Habit is second nature. I only have tea in the morning – by lunch time, or better still, by supper, that’s when I can eat a horse. You go ahead and eat, don’t mind me, I mean it, I’m fine.”

  And he didn’t eat.

  After breakfast Rafa went out to flag down a taxi and was planning to see Vovochka off at the train station, but Vovochka told him not to.

  “You’d better, while it’s Sunday, go to Podolsk, find that snake and give him the hen back. Will you, Rafa?”

  And again he gave Rafa such a look that it was impossible to refuse.

  “All right, guys, farewell, thanks for everything, and if you’re ever in Arzamas make sure to stop by. Straight from the station – to my place, I wrote the address down for Galya on the fridge. That’s it, let’s go!”

  And his taxi drove off, and the girls waved after him for a long time.

  Then Rafa made his way to Podolsk.

  He spent the entire trip anticipating how he would drop the cardboard box at the feet of the liar, and how he would turn down the money, and he got himself so worked up that he rang the doorbell with great determination and, as soon as someone opened the door, he stepped inside the apartment, holding the box in front of him like a bomb.

  Moskalev, we must note, was a very shabby sort of a man, clearly pushy and unpleasantly unkempt. In his old sweatpants with baggy, threadbare knees, and a well-worn corduroy blazer dating back to the days when corduroy wasn’t considered fashionable, with his cloudy, bulging eyes, he certainly fit the profile of an old con man, and the fact that he was visibly unnerved by Rafa’s initial determination only proved that his conscience was not entirely spotless.

  “Take back your hen, please. It’s not very nice, you know, to take 50 rubles and pawn off half-dead goods. Vovochka asked me to tell you that when he comes next time…”

  “What Vovochka?” the buggy-eyed Moskalev interrupted, grabbing the box and opening it. The hen, indeed, was barely alive: she rolled her eyes and feebly twitched one foot.

  “What Vovochka?” Moskalev began, growing increasingly incensed. He shoved his fists onto his hips in a totally obnoxious way: “You mean Tolyanych from Stargorod, who came here yesterday?”

  “What Tolyanych?” Rafa inquired, uncomprehending, but the old man cut him off:

  “You must be from the same gang, then! I wonder why I haven’t seen you at the Bird Market before…”

  Moskalev made a threatening move towards Rafa and then – then things took a really ugly turn. Rafa could not and did not really want to get the story straight: apparently Vovochka – or Tolyanych – paid for Moskalev’s Orlovs with three Kilzummers that promptly died during the night. Rafa couldn’t quite grasp the difference in values, but someone owed someone a 25 and someone else gave someone a five-ruble break – it was all muddled in the horrendous noise and cursing that ensued.

  To make the comedy complete, two enormous Moskalev-juniors emerged from a side door, pounced on Rafa and threw him out of the apartment in a rather dishonorable fashion. As if that were not enough, they festooned him with the three dead chickens, which were molting and certainly not as pretty as they had appeared only a day earlier.

  On the train ride back, great sadness swept over Rafa. All he wanted was a good bath and not to think about anything. He was part of some terrible mistake, that much was clear.

  At home, he told Galya everything, and when she bawled, Rafa, who could not stand anyone’s tears, slapped the bathroom door shut behind him and locked himself in.

  “Truly, girls and women are no good,” he muttered angrily.

  And that’s when he spotted the familiar screw-cap bottle that was meant for “people’s diplomacy.” The bottle was shoved behind the laundry hamper. Next to it could be observed the plastic cup that normally held the toothbrushes. The bottle still had about a hundred and fifty grams on the bottom; Rafa, first replacing the glass back on its shelf, regarded the bottle for a while, shook his head, then suddenly swallowed its entire contents and stepped into a hot shower with a warm faith in humankind.

  “No, it is true, it is: girls and women are no good,” he muttered and smiled sweetly at some secret thought.

  * * *

  23. Khokhols – a derogatory nickname for Ukrainians.

  Ox and Mother Love

  Since as early as the fifteenth century, it has been widely accepted in Stargorod that woman is a vessel of evil. It is interesting to note that the following story has come to us from two different, one could even say, independent, sources: one from our times and the other from times long past. The first time I heard the tale was in the steam room of Banya No. 2, on the Right Bank, from an ancient old-Believer. Later, the same anecdote was related to me by a researcher who, in the late Stagnation Era, had the miraculous opportunity to visit Mount Athos’ Rossikon Monastery, where he found it, much to his embarrassment, among the fifteenth-century chronicles that had been transcribed, by the way, in Stargorod’s own Sage-Nicholas Monastery.


  Later comparisons revealed no significant discrepancies between the two narrators’ stories; the “banya” version, admittedly, was spiced with more exuberant epithets and metaphors, not all of them fit to print, and there’s surely a certain significance in this, but we, having resolved to relate the chronicler’s version, will reproduce it here humbly, without deep philosophical digressions into the burlesque culture of the skomorokh, the longevity of this ancient novella, its relevance to the present-day and other similarly complex problems that shall remain untroubled by our probing minds.

  Thus, once upon a time, there lived in the glorious city of Konstantinopolis a very pious priest. His chastity, modesty and humility made him famous far beyond his community. His wife was just as chaste and innocent, just as obedient and joyful. And so it came to pass that, just before Easter, at the very end of Lent, our priest was overtaken by the demon of lust, and so tightly did the devil clutch him, that, to put it somewhat metaphorically, the poor man grew a giant and unshakable horn. The sorry soul bowed and prayed, and donned an encolpion reliquary containing holy remains, but the demon would not let up, “turmenting muche.” That’s when the priest went after his wife, asking and begging her to give him that “which is his, but is prohibited.”

  The priest’s wife, chaste “like duve,” loving her husband deeply, answered him simply and straightforwardly, blushing “like poppie bloome”:

  “My dear spouse, you are, before our Lord Jesus Christ, my master and ruler of my life; I am your humble servant now and forever, but do not ask of me what is impossible – your torments will end soon. Bear your burden, my heart, for your suffering is nothing before our Savior’s suffering on the cross. As soon as our Glorious King returns and the mystery of Resurrection is celebrated and complete, we shall be with each other, and I shall be yours, and you shall be mine. But this hour you must think of heavenly things and forget that which is worldly, for Satan is among us, desiring to undermine that which is holy, setting the pure of soul upon the road to perdition.”

  The priest left his wife and cried fiery tears, overjoyed as he was with his spouse’s purity, yet despairing at his own weakness. He went to the manger and chewed on the thrashed straw, but the demon would not let him go. He turned the grinding wheels in the mill-house and milled loads of flour, but the horn of his lust still protruded. When he could tolerate it no longer, he went to the stable and made use of a jenny, and a nanny-goat, and then the jenny again, to the count of three, and only then did the cursed tempter leave him be.

  Afterwards, the priest went back to the house, put on clean robes, and left for the church where he officiated the service, as was his duty. And the miracle came – Our Savior, who had been put to death by Pontius Pilate and died on the cross for our sins, rose and lived again, and the people’s joy knew no end. And later, when it was time for everyone to depart after Mass, the father fell prostrate on the ambon and confessed his cruel sins to his congregation, and begged forgiveness for the jenny, and for the nanny-goat, and for the jenny again, to the count of three. And he was given the people’s forgiveness, and his Christian brethren came and kissed him and praised Christ thrice.

  And at that moment there came a fearsome sight: horrific copper-beaked birds of prey came from everywhere, flocking onto the church’s roof. Their beaks and claws were sharper than a barber’s blade, and in place of feathers they were bedecked of hard-cast arrows. The creatures flew in the skies, barking hideously, instilling fear in people’s hearts, and not letting anyone go home.

  Seeing this frightful sight, the priest’s wife approached him, and helped him up from the ambon, kissed him thrice and led him to the door. Out they went into the yard, and the birds flew lower and lower, in circles smaller and smaller, until they dove all as one at the wife and tore her to little pieces. All that remained was her copper cross.

  But this is an ancient myth, from bygone days. Our mission, however, is to chronicle recent history, and we believe the present-day version of the story gives us a no-less edifying plot than this doubtful tale, this Decameron-esque fare, this anti-clerical contrivance of some Firentsuolus who loses his mind after contracting the French disease. Stargorod is no place for vague eroticism – everything here is touchable and visible. Take, for instance, the story of Ox and Mother Love.

  Exactly what brand of Christians the people in this story are – of that we cannot be sure: maybe they are Anabaptists, or Baptists, or maybe some sort of Adventists, but certainly not Khlysts. The folks who have lived for as long as anyone can remember on the Right Bank, behind the Rodina Hotel, have never done harm to anyone. In fact, no one has ever seen anything but aid and goodwill from them, and if they get together in one big house to read the Bible and sing their songs – who could complain about that? Come to think of it, they must be some sort of Old Believers, because Baptists don’t sing like that – longingly, sweetly and melodically, so that the song pulls at your heartstrings, even though you don’t understand a word of it – it’s like the priest’s chant at High Mass during Easter, when it’s time to praise the Savior in Greek. But they don’t have priests; that’s a fact. Their old men all wear prayer beads wrapped around their wrists and those long cassocks, down to the ground, with upright collars. They bow so much when they pray that everyone has a little personal pillow – we think it’s so they don’t bludgeon their foreheads into mush, or maybe to keep their knees from callusing over.

  What we don’t know, we don’t know, and there’s plenty of that, because most of our information comes from our neighbors who, although good Christians all, can’t always tell the difference between an akathist and an analogion, so we can’t blame them for their less than perfect grasp of confessional differences.

  When it’s evening, the Right Bank community gathers in their prayer house. Lyubov Mikhailovna always arrives first, although she is almost always there anyway – cleaning, polishing, scrubbing. And when Serafim Danilovich comes (he’s their holy man and Lyubov’s husband), she bows to him, leaves the church and sits on a little bench outside, by the window. The congregation gathers. They often stop and visit with her, calling her kindly “Mother Love,” because that’s what her name means, and when done chatting, they bow to each other and part: folks go on to church and she stays on her bench. The bench sits on a wooden platform, and that’s where she listens to the service, winter or summer. When it gets too hot, they open the windows, and she can hear everything, and even when it’s all closed up, she still stays there, singing and bowing. All of the folks learn the Mass as kids, before their multiplication tables.

  Tall cottonwoods and the fence around the prayer house hide her from strangers’ eyes; in the winter, when it grows dark early, you can barely spot her from the top floor of the five-story apartment building next door: there she is, bowing, praying, always at her post.

  Mother Love is small, but not hunched-over like many of the Right Bank women, and, in fact, not all that old. She must be about sixty, and one can still see the good Lord didn’t deny her the gift of beauty when she was younger, and her eyes – enormous, deeper than the Lake – glow with a strange, utterly un-ascetic, exuberantly plucky fire. In a word, she is a spell of an old woman – once you’ve seen her, you don’t forget her. However, we must give her husband his due, as well. Serafim Danilovich – he is tall and almost sickly thin, with a wispy little beard and a halting falsetto voice, but his eyes… His eyes compensate for the feebleness of his body – they are filled with glowing molten steel, with strength, and faith, and a truly prophetic certainty. Catch his eye in a crowd, and you won’t feel blessed exactly, but you won’t forget the man, either, because you’ll glimpse the sort of strength that can turn rock into sand, the type of restless intellect that is always at work. But for his eyes and his fingers, which are always compelled by some internal impulse to work his well-worn antique amber prayer beads, like a weaver’s shuttle through the shed, the man’s whole figure would seem subdued and ethereal. He’s got his spells, or so, at l
east, say the old retired ladies one to another – those women who are always shelling sunflower seed on benches before apartment buildings, keeping track of everyone else’s business, 365 days a year, except, of course, during leap years.

  Serafim Danilovich must be over 80, and he’s always lived on the Right Bank, near Kopanka, close to their sect’s cemetery, with its roofed wooden crosses and chapel of red coquina stone from beyond the Lake. He’s always lived here, as did his parents, and his grandparents before that. He only left once – to go to war. Among our truly Orthodox folk, only Anastasia Petrovna Terentieva remembers him as a boy – they went to school together, before the war, that same war, of course.

  “He was always so sickly,” grandma Nastya remembers, “girls had no use for him, although he hadn’t mangled himself yet, back then. But even then, it seems, he was an Ox.”

  Who knows what truth there is in her words, or where we might find it? What we know for sure is that when he came back from the war, they married him to Mother Love. She must’ve been very young, a girl, hardly fifteen then.

  “She was one little daredevil. Eyes like dinner plates, not like now, but wily, crafty. Yet she went to the altar without a peep – her father ordered it so, and they have it strict, you know, not like we sinners,” Grandma Nastya told us. “So, by and by, they lived together for about five years, didn’t bear any children, but lived quietly, at peace, went to church, and during the day Serafim Danilovich worked as a barber in Banya No. 1 over the bridge. He was good too, the men respected him; sometimes they’d line up in the street to wait their turn – he shaved without cuts or pain, and didn’t skimp on warm compresses. In a word, he was an expert.”