THE KURGANS OF STARAYA LADOGA
Their proper name is mounds, sopki, from the Russian word meaning to pour or pile up . . . The word kurgan came later; it’s Turkish.
Semipyatnitsky left his car by the side of the road, which was practically deserted except for the occasional vehicle passing by every half hour or so, the great eyes of its headlights blazing as it rounded the curve. He walked out onto the grass and followed a clay path up to the top of one of the bigger mounds. And looked out onto the world.
His breath caught in his chest, his head spun. The grandeur of the landscape that opened out before him blinded and paralyzed him. The Volkhov’s dark, motionless, glossy surface reflected the newly risen moon and stars in the infinite expanse of the sky, making the river itself seem billions of light years deep. Gentle, warm spots of light twinkled from the dachas and cottages on the opposite shore. A light breeze stirred the trees and bushes, like puffs of down on a black swan whose wings rustled, barely audibly, in the summer night.
For a few minutes, maybe more, Maximus couldn’t move, then he sank down onto the grassy earth. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the beauty. And when he opened them again . . .
Remembering that moment later, Maximus was inclined to explain his vision as a drug flashback of some kind. That can happen. You go for days, weeks, or even months without taking anything, and then suddenly, completely unexpectedly and in the most unlikely time and place, you’re back where you had been back then. Maximus hadn’t taken any of the pink pills that day, but evidently there was enough of the drug left in his system to bring on a hefty hallucination.
When he opened his eyes, Maximus saw the same landscape. But it was also not the same. The Volkhov was broader, the water came up to the very base of the kurgan. The contours of the trees and the lights from the other shore looked different too. But most importantly . . .
People. Throngs of them, even now, in the middle of the night. A sailboat glided down the river; fishing boats rocked gently near the shores. Sounds wafted up from all directions: people laughing and talking, voices singing, the splash of rigging, the occasional knock of hammer against anvil. Maximus looked first to one side, then to the other, then back again. No hint of pustosh now: All the land was in use. In the town, stone mansions crowded up to the water’s edge, and beyond them wooden buildings, settlements and farmsteads stretching all the way to the horizon. Even the open fields showed signs of human habitation: waves of ripening rye and dark patches in the grass where flocks of livestock grazed. A caravan of ox carts moved along the well-trodden, smooth surface of the road, accompanied by a convoy of horsemen, their swords and armor gleaming in the white light of the moon. Everything was vibrant and alive, and everything was of this place.
Maximus fell onto the grass, roaring with laughter, then leaped to his feet and shouted in what he thought was a booming, resonant voice, though in fact what came from his dry throat was a hoarse croak:
“So this is what you are, O Russian land, your true origin and essence! Not sad wasteland, not pustosh, but fertile, rich Gardarika!”
KHAGAN
Saat resumed his life on the steppe in the same place he’d lived before. New people were living there, yes. They had him groom the horses and muck out the corrals, and in exchange they gave him food to eat and mare’s milk to drink. Now and then they would take a whip and give him a beating, for not working hard enough or just because they felt like it. And afterward they would send him away, into the steppe. But why go to the trouble of finding another place? A man always feels most at home and free in the place where he was born and lived most of his life. At home even the switches are sweet, the whippings tender, and hunger is like one of the family.
Where is there to go, anyway? Man is not a bird who can fly away and seek warmth and food in some distant land. If he were a star, he could just twinkle in the sky, high above it all. But Saat was a man. He would go on sending roots deep into his native earth, deeper and deeper with every passing year, until his time came and he would lie down on the ground at last and take his rest. And the land would cover him. Land of his birth, native land.
But a new sorrow befell Khazaria: The Khagan died. You’d think, what difference would that make to an ordinary herdsman? Saat had never even seen the Khagan in person. Maybe the Khagan died a natural death. People of all walks of life die of natural causes. Or maybe he’d outlived his preordained time. That’s what the old women said, whispering, with dull eyes. Or maybe he was done away with, according to custom.
In the old days, when there was a bad harvest, they would take the Khagan out into the fields during the plowing and stab him to death right there, to make grain grow in the next season. And when there was an excess of grain, they would pile up stones and bury the Khagan alive. When the Chechmeks set fires in Itil, they burned the Khagan at the stake. And if their foes triumphed in battle, they would cut the Khagan to pieces with their sabers. Short is the lifespan of the Khagan, from one misfortune to the next. And there is so much misfortune in my homeland; all of our history is woven from it, like a wanderer’s ragged garment, all rips and tears, held together by mere threads.
But the people are not given to know that. Eternal is the Khagan, no more need be said. There is one Khagan; and there can be no other. He rules for thousands upon thousands of years. The Khagan is not a private individual; he is an immortal figure, and his role in our land is akin to a heavenly duty.
Saat lay exhausted, covered in horseshit, in the tall steppeland grass. Lay there on his back after the day’s work was done, as was his custom, and stared up at the sky. Suddenly above him there appeared a multitude of faces, a throng of officials!
“Are you Saat, son of Nattukh, herdsman of horses?” they asked. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Even if you could find some woodcarvers to whittle changes into the plank of wood that served as your passport, still your face would give you away, anyone could tell who you were.
“The Great Bek has commanded that you be brought to the palace. It is an important matter of State!”
O how Saat wept! A matter of State—everyone knows what that means: shootings and hangings. Or beheadings, or drownings in the river, or boilings in a copper kettle, after the pulling out of veins and tearing off of fingernails.
Saat knew of no sins staining his soul. He had not wealth enough, nor power, for great sins. Nor even enough strength for a small sin, like flirting. But who is ever taken to the gallows for sinning? Sin is awash in silver and gold and has been from the beginnings of time. When they say that “virtue abhors a vacuum,” “an empty place must fill with holiness,” it’s just words; it must, in fact, not be filled; it’s the emptiness that makes it holy. But if there’s a place of execution, then there indeed “nature abhors a vacuum”: That emptiness must be filled. Verily, it will not stay empty long! And if not, then what need is there for law and rulers? Judges cast their ivory dice, and if they wind up with the number on your passport board, then you are designated the guilty man, the sinner. Lo, Saat’s number tumbled out onto the table. Such is divine providence!
So thought Saat.
The officials took him gently under the arms, bundled him in soft cloth, stuffed a soft piece of bread, no crust, into his mouth, laid him crosswise across a saddle, and bore him away from his home. Saat saw nothing, heard nothing, and made no sound, until the great bolts of the fortress gate thundered sevenfold and clattered open and he found himself standing, unswaddled, in a great hall. Saat had eaten the bread; no point in dying on an empty stomach.
Saat opened his eyes and beheld, ten paces before him, two golden thrones. The officials stepped back, forming two rows along the walls on either side of the great hall, and stood motionless, heads bowed.
On one of the thrones sat the Great Bek, white of face, black of hair, yellow of teeth, beaming a broad smile of welcome. The Great Bek’s robe was embroidered with peacocks in gold thread and adorned with rubies. A great belly had the Great Bek, it rested on his thi
ghs. Must eat a lot, thought Saat. And why not? He holds all of Khazaria in his mouth, like a soft piece of bread!
The Great Bek arose from his shiny throne, descended from the podium, went down on his knees, and knelt on the floor in front of Saat. The officials along the walls immediately all dropped to their knees, and their weapons made a great clattering noise on the floor!
And the Great Bek spoke:
“Glory and honor to you, Saat, son of Nattukh! Following the Khazar custom, having duly meditated at the fire, having made offerings to our sorcerers and sacrifices to our gods, we, the Great Bek and Executive of Khazaria, have determined that there is no better Khagan for our realm than yourself. For you are of the generation of Ashin, son of the Khagan, uncle of the Khagan and brother of the Khagan, and you are the one to raise the golden kamcha and take your place on the throne of Ashin, at our left side.”
A great trembling overcame the son of Nattukh. But he managed to speak nonetheless: “Allow me, O Great Bek, defender of the peoples, sharp saber in the scabbard of Khazaria, heavenly light, Khagan’s equal, to speak a word in my defense! Spare my life, poor herdsman that I am, and order that my passport board be reread carefully, for this is all a simple misunderstanding! I am a widow’s son, a poor beggar! How could the blood of Ashin be flowing in me?”
The Great Bek laughed. “Do you know your own father, Saat, that you can speak thus?”
Saat was puzzled at this. “I never saw my father with my own eyes, no, but my mother spoke of the herdsman Nattukh. And my mother was an honorable woman, she only ever knew one man. And that man, her husband, died of the belly sickness when I still slumbered curled up in her womb. And my mother died too, when I was seven springs from birth. And I grew up thus, an orphan.”
“Know, Saat, that your father was the Khagan, and his brother before him was Khagan as well, and after him the son of his brother became the Khagan, and all of you are scions of the ancient Khan Ashin. But do not judge your father, for so it is ordained: The Khagan is taken from his family and they are told that he has died. The doctors carve a death certificate and return it to the family in place of a body, saying that the corpse has been requisitioned for medical study. They give the widow and orphans a copper coin, and this satisfies them. And the court’s legend keepers devise a different biography and a different genealogy, in accordance with legend.”
Saat raised his hands aloft and clutched his head. If the Great Bek wasn’t just making all of this up for his own amusement, then this was a great secret indeed! But Saat’s heart would not be still, and he spoke again:
“Great Bek! Sun in the night of history! How am I to govern a great realm, when I have not been taught? I have not known a noble education, I have not even been to trade school! Governing is a great and intricate science!”
“Who said you had to govern? To govern, issue judgment, gather tribute, make war—that is my, the Bek’s, task. You will sit by my side on this as yet empty throne, and you will keep silent. On your right I shall sit and receive ambassadors and warriors and give commands in your name. Such is our way! Yours it is to taste ripe fruits, to listen to marvelous melodies, and to visit the harem, where your wives await, seven tens of them, each one shaming the next with her beauty!”
Joy flooded over Saat, and he began to believe in his good fortune. But fear came as well: “Great Bek! I am not accustomed to such a life—how will I manage? For are not palaces the Khagan’s cradle, must he not from his infancy partake of the very best, so that it will be second nature to him? Will I not bring dishonor on myself? I have eaten only hard crusts and water from the streams and steppe grasses! My only loves were the horses! And how can I wear brocades, when my only garments have been of the coarsest cloth?”
The Great Bek grew solemn. And spoke. “It is not true that Khagans multiply in palaces. The Khagan must know how to braid a horse’s tail, must spend nights outside beneath the cold sky, must know hunger and need, must march against the enemy bearing only a sling and with no armor covering his chest. Otherwise how can he be a martyr for the Khazar land? For this is our way in Khazaria: There is the Great Bek with his warriors, and they are the zealous benefactors—they govern. And then there is the Khagan, he does not govern, but suffers day and night, prays and weeps for his homeland! And this sustains Khazaria. Rise, then, Khagan, and take your place on the shining throne! And pray that the heavens will not witness our lawlessness, and that misfortune will pass us by. And if misfortune does strike, then do not complain. For you will be the first to die; you will die a martyr’s death, washing away our sins with your tears, like salt rinsing a stain away from a white tablecloth! Such is your destiny!”
Saat nodded. To take on suffering, was this anything new for him? And to know that it is for the sake of his native land!
Then Great Bek asked: “Tell me, Saat—only be honest—what did you think of during those dark nights, as you tossed and turned on the cold steppe, with your empty belly grumbling and your exhausted muscles aching from the day’s unbearable labor?”
Saat went numb and replied truthfully: “I pondered, Great Bek, the fate of Khazaria. How to ensure that the simple people would labor without thieving, that the doctors would heal without quackery, that teachers would teach with wise words and not with damp birch rods, that those in high positions would not forget their duties and obligations before society, that our warriors would be so strong that the very sight of them and their valor would keep foes far from the borders of Khazaria, that wealth would grow within from our industries and trade relations, doubling every year, that we should have peace and prosperity among ourselves, and should live in loving respect with our neighbors . . . This I pondered day and night, miserable, foolish herdsman that I am!”
The Great Bek did not laugh at Saat’s thoughts, but folded his hands piously and expressed his approval: “Spoken like the true Khagan! Proof indeed that you are seed of Ashin, blood of the Khagans! Even as you starve, to be thinking of the economy of the land, of doubling the country’s wealth!
“O, Saat, son of Nattukh! Only the Khagan, the Khagan, blood, mind, and spirit, is concerned with this! Know now that the Murzlas, whose task it is to gather wealth for the realm, care only for their own bins of grain! The warlords share the spoils. Even I myself, the Great Bek, concern myself with intrigues, with maintaining my own power and position. This is what power means to us. And the simple people are no saints either: One poor man dreams of swindling another for a kopeck, the farmer cares only for his field; his neighbor’s melons can wither on the vine as far as he is concerned! Each is concerned only with his own personal well-being and pleasure! Only the Khagan can, forgetting about himself, give thought to the country and the people as a whole! By this is the true Khagan to be recognized!”
THE CHINESE QUESTION
“I hate my life.”
Maximus heard the words and awoke. Awoke and realized that it was he who had spoken. Not that he’d awakened with the thought; rather, the thought awoke first and woke Semipyatnitsky in turn.
“I hate my life. I hate my job.”
The words whirled in his head like a mantra. And occasionally they spoke themselves aloud, without Maximus’s help. But that didn’t make any of it any easier.
The night before, after he came down from his flashback on the hill, Maximus had set back for home. He drove for a long time along the dark night road, drove slowly, peering out into the darkness ahead, verifying the route by lights near and far, proceeding hesitantly like a blind man tapping the untrustworthy sidewalk before him with his white cane; the path ahead hides so many unwelcome surprises, so many steep curbs and open manholes. Maximus arrived at his apartment just before dawn. And only got up again with the greatest reluctance, a half-hour later than usual.
It takes a long time to get to work by car during rush hour. And Semipyatnitsky had had enough driving yesterday. So he set off on foot and took public transit.
When he descended into the metro, Semipyatnitsky noticed
that there were a lot fewer people around than there used to be before he’d gotten a car and stopped using the train. Even in the morning rush hour the crowd was sparse, like hairs in a Khazar’s beard.
The crowds had migrated onto the surface, where they now idled in tin boxes clogging up the streets leading from St. Petersburg’s residential suburbs to the commercial center. Within just a couple of years, all the luckless commuters had moved from trams and metro cars into automobiles, used and new, bought on credit. Every eighteen-year-old chick has her own car nowadays: If she’s poor, her car is a Daewoo Matiz; if the girl has a rich Dad—or Daddy, which is not at all the same thing—she can aspire to a huge SUV, a monster that takes up half the road. And only after she’s had enough of playing tank driver, and has overcome her childish fears, does she acquire a tiny, predatory little convertible—thereby holding traffic up more than ever, as it turns out.
And if the girl is still carless, well, that only means that she’s still taking driving lessons and working to get her license, without the least doubt that she is on the verge of becoming a full-fledged driver.
The workplace is overflowing with young women from universities out in Barnaul who have come to the big city with the conscious goal of career advancement, and the subconscious goal of finding a good husband (and isn’t that the best way to advance your career anyhow?). Subconscious because, ultimately, what else do you need a diploma and work experience for, really, if not to burst into tears and throw it back in your husband’s face in response to some incautious statement on his part about the grocery bill: “I’m not just some run-of-the-mill trade-school girl! I have a higher education! And if I hadn’t devoted my whole life to you, I would have become the CFO of some big corporation long ago, and would now be earning more than you do! I had real potential! How dare you get on my case about these petty expenses, you ingrate!” (Of course, some girls get the short end of the stick: They actually do have to become executives and make more money than men, which puts a damper on this particular attack. But their time, too, will come . . .) And so now here they are in the northern capital, where they spend half the workday scrolling through car ads on the Internet and discussing the pros and cons of all the different models with their friends.
The Maya Pill Page 12