Once, a Rolls-Royce
Wound its way,
All round Moscow.
A Count most forlorn,
Who resembled an owl,
Rode in it alone.
Sullenly squinting, morosely he yawned,
While humming an air
from a Wagner song.
All of a sudden,
In a glass ’cross the lane,
The Count
Spied a Marquess,
Encircled by flame.
A swarm of idlers,
Crowded the pavement,
The ancestral mansion
Was fully ablaze.
Gloating, the loafers
Ogled fire and pitch,
After all, such abodes
Were just for the rich.
Out of the cozy Rolls-Royce
The Count raced.
Ne’er a moment he wasted,
He cut through the rabble,
Of miserable swine,
Making very good time,
Then up, up, up,
Up the drainpipe
He climbed.
The third floor,
The fourth,
The fifth…
Then the last one,
Engulfed by the fire.
Out came piteous cries,
Then moans growing fainter—
Flames were now licking
The balcony sides.
Pale and quite naked,
Framed by the window,
The Marquess fluttered
In fantastical plumes;
Then a flare of the fire,
’Midst the dove-colored fumes,
Did illumine her milky white breast
On the pyre.
His hands strong and lithe,
The Count drew himself up,
Then with all of his might,
Slammed his brow
’Gainst the glass.
It shattered; shards took flight,
And lo! This remarkable sight,
Was met with but silence below.
One blow, another—
The window frame shuddered;
He stubbornly
Smashed the sash,
And crawled through the window,
Ripping his frock coat.
The idlers below whispered:
“Idiot…Ass…”
Then, in the window,
He appeared, stood up straight,
And embraced the young Marquess—
To his dickey he pressed her;
Above them smoke swirled,
Black, gray, and brindled,
Tongues of red fire,
Flickered and kindled.
The Count moaned
As he lowered his lips
To the breasts,
That he gripped in his hands.
The mob smirked with malice,
Spectators took note,
As a monstrous phallus
Arose in the smoke!
Onlookers gazed,
From way down below,
They saw the Count shudder,
As he entered the Marquess,
They glimpsed the pair quake,
And pull back from the window,
And then she and the Count
Disappeared in the haze!
A cloud of dust whirled,
And mingled with ash,
The firemen’s cars sped
Hither and yon,
The rabble stepped back,
The police blew their whistles,
The firemen’s helmets
Shone in the sun.
In the blink of an eye,
Copper helmets spread out;
Ladders reached higher and higher.
Fearless and brave,
One after the other,
Those fellows in Teflon
Climbed up and straight on
Through smoke and the fire.
The flames were replaced
By poisonous fumes,
From the pump water gushed
In a powerful stream.
An elderly servant,
Ran up to the firemen,
“Brothers, please save my lady, my queen!”
“Sorry,” replied
The firemen affably,
“No lady was found
In this mansion!
We looked through and through,
We searched with great care;
Your beloved young Marquess
Was not anywhere!”
The old man sobbed,
And tore at his whiskers,
People gaped
At the balcony black.
Then out of the blue,
A dog’s abrupt yelp,
Turned to a
Mournful whimper for help.
The crowd looked back and gawked.
Speeding off, the Rolls-Royce
Had run over a dog.
As its windows whizzed by,
a dim profile was glimpsed,
And silently faded,
Eclipsed by the glint,
Of a diamond hedgehog!
The mob on the sidewalk
Stood still, transfixed.
People followed
The Rolls-Royce’s trail—
In the distance, the posh
Limousine drove off,
To the splatter of
Sputtering wheels.
Firemen are looking,
The Police are looking,
Even priests are looking
Through our capital city,
They’re seeking a Count
Whom they never have seen,
A particular Count
About age thirty-three.
And you, gentlemen of the Malachite Chamber,
This werewolf you haven’t chanced to encounter?
The last line fades. The subversive poem disappears, melts in the dark air. The blinds are raised. Buturlin sits silently. His brown eyes are focused on Batya, who glances at us. The target of this pasquinade is as clear as day. By our eyes Batya can tell that there isn’t any doubt: the gloomy count with the diamond hedgehog carved in his ring is none other than Count Andrei Vladimirovich Urusov, His Majesty’s son-in-law, professor of jurisprudence, an active member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, honorary chair of the Mind Department, chairman of the All-Russian Equine Society, chairman of the Association to Promote Air Flight, chairman of the Society of Russian Fisticuffs, comrade of the chairman of the Eastern Treasury, owner of the Southern Port, owner of the Izmailovsky and Donskoi markets, owner of the Moscow Association of Building Contractors, owner of the Moscow Brick Factory, co-owner of the Western Railroad. And the hint about the Malachite Chamber was also obvious: this new space, located under the Kremlin Concert Hall, was built for the rest and relaxation of the Inner Circle and their retinue. It’s new, therefore fashionable. For that matter, the construction of the Malachite Chamber elicited quite a few subversive questions. Yes, yes, there were opponents…
“Is that clear, oprichniks?” Buturlin asks.
“Clear as a bell, Prince,” Batya answers.
“There’s just one little problem: find the author of the pasquinade.”
Batya nods. “We’ll track that worm down, he won’t get away.”
And, thoughtfully pulling on his short beard, he asks: “Does His Majesty know?”
“He knows,” sounds a majestic voice, and we all bow low, touching the parquet with our right hands.
The sovereign face appears in the air of the office. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the iridescent gold frame around the beloved, narrow face with dark blond beard and thin mustache. We straighten up. His Majesty looks at us with his expressive, sincere intent and penetrating blue-gray eyes. His look is inimitable. You’d never confuse him with anyone else. And I am ready without hesitation to give my life for this look.
“I read it, I read it,” says His Majesty. “It’s artfully written.”
“Your Majesty, we’ll find the pasquinad
er, I assure you,” says Buturlin.
“I don’t doubt it. Although I have to admit that’s not what concerns me, Terenty Bogdanovich.”
“What concerns you, Your Majesty?”
“My dear, I’m concerned about whether or not everything written in the poem…is true.”
“What specifically, Your Majesty?”
“All of it.”
Buturlin grows thoughtful.
“Your Majesty, I find that difficult to answer immediately. Permit me to take a look at the report of the Fire Department council.”
“Come now, you don’t need any fire reports, Prince.” His Majesty’s transparent eyes look straight through Buturlin. “You need witnesses to the event.”
“Who do you have in mind, Your Majesty?”
“The hero of the poem.”
Buturlin looks at Batya, who is gritting his teeth.
“Your Majesty, we do not have the right to question members of your family,” says Batya.
“And I’m not forcing you to interrogate anyone. I simply want to know—is it all true?”
Silence again fills the office. The shining image of His Majesty glitters with gold and rainbow colors.
Our sire grins. “Why so quiet now? It won’t work without me?”
“Without you, Your Majesty, nothing works,” says Buturlin, bowing his head so low that his bald spot shows.
“All right then, we’ll do it your way.” His Majesty sighs. In a loud voice he calls:
“Andrei!”
About fifteen seconds pass, and to the right of His Majesty’s face a small picture of Count Urusov appears in a violet frame. By the count’s grave, haggard look it is clear that he has read the poem—more than once.
“Good day, Father.” The count bows his large, big-eared head, which sits on a short neck; his brow is narrow and he has large facial features; his chestnut hair is thin.
“Hello, hello, son-in-law.” The gray-blue eyes look at him with absolute calm. “Read this poem about yourself?”
“I’ve read it, Father.”
“Not badly written, don’t you think? And here my academicians go on and on about how we don’t have any good poets!”
Count Urusov keeps quiet, pursing his thin lips. His mouth, like a frog’s, is extremely wide.
“Tell us, Andrei, is it true?”
The count says nothing, casts his eyes down, inhales, sniffs, and exhales carefully:
“It’s true, Your Majesty.”
Now His Majesty himself grows thoughtful, and frowns. We all stand there, waiting.
“So you mean to say that you actually like to fornicate at fires?” asks His Majesty.
The count nods his grave head:
“It’s true, Your Majesty.”
“Hmmm. That’s how it is, hey?…Rumors had reached me before this, but I didn’t believe them. I thought that envious people were slandering you. But you…Hmm, so that’s what you are.”
“Your Majesty, I can explain everything—”
“When did this start?”
“Your Majesty, I swear to you in the name of all the saints, I swear on my mother’s grave—”
“Don’t swear,” His Majesty says suddenly, and in such a voice that all of us feel our hair stand up.
It isn’t a shout, and he isn’t grinding his teeth, but it has the effect of red-hot tongs. His Majesty’s fury is terrifying. And even more terrifying because our sire never raises his voice.
Count Urusov is no coward—he’s a statesman, a wheeler-dealer, a millionaire of millionaires, an inveterate hunter who goes after bears with nothing but a spear out of principle—but even he pales before this voice, like some second-year high school student called to the principal’s office.
“Tell me, when did you first indulge in this vice?”
The count licks his dry, froglike lips.
“Your Majesty, it…it was completely by accident…even really, you know…as though I were being forced. Although, of course, I’m guilty…only I…I…it’s my sin, mine, forgive me.”
“Explain everything in order.”
“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, I won’t hide anything at all. Once, when I was seventeen years old, I was walking along Ordynka Street and I saw a house on fire, and there was a woman crying out. The firemen hadn’t gotten there yet. People gave me a boost up, I climbed in the window to help her. She threw herself on my chest…Your Majesty, I don’t know what overcame me…I must have blanked out…and, well, the woman, wasn’t exactly a beauty to put it mildly, medium height…well, and…I…you see…”
“And?”
“Well, I had her, Your Majesty. They were barely able to pull us out of the flames later on. After that, I wasn’t myself anymore. I kept thinking and thinking about the incident…A month later I was in St. Petrograd—I was walking along Liteiny—and there was an apartment burning on the third floor. That time my legs just led me there—I broke down the door—I don’t know where I got the strength. And inside there was a mother with her child. She was pressing him to her breast, and screaming out the window. Well, I took her from behind…And then six months later in Samara the treasury burned down, and my deceased father and I had come for the market, and then…”
“That’s enough. Whose house burned the last time?”
“Princess Bobrinskaya’s.”
“Why does this rhymester call a Russian princess a ‘marquess’?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty…Probably out of hatred for Russia.”
“All right. Now tell me honestly…did you set that house on fire deliberately?”
The count freezes as though he’s just been bitten by a snake. He lowers his lynxlike eyes. And says nothing.
“I’m asking you—did you set that house on fire?”
The count heaves a painful sigh:
“I cannot lie to you, Your Majesty. I set it on fire.”
His Majesty is silent for a moment. Then he says:
“It is not for to me to judge your vice—each of us will answer to God for these things. But I cannot forgive arson. Get out of here!”
Urusov’s face disappears. The four of us remain alone with His Majesty. His brow is creased with sadness.
“Hmmm…well.” His Majesty sighs. “And I entrusted my daughter to a swine like that.”
We remain silent.
“So that’s it, Prince,” His Majesty continues. “It’s a family affair. I’ll deal with him myself.”
“As you command, Your Majesty. And what about the pasquinader?”
“Act according to the law. On second thought…don’t. It could arouse unhealthy curiosity. Simply tell him not to write anything like that again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you all for your service.”
“We serve the Fatherland!” we say as we bow.
His Majesty’s image disappears. We look at one another in relief. Buturlin paces the office, shaking his head:
“That cad, Urusov…shame on him!”
“Thank God that we don’t have to deal with that mess,” says Batya, smoothing his beard. “But who is the author?”
“We’ll find out right now,” says Buturlin. He walks over to his desk and sits in his work chair. His voice commands:
“Writers—come here!”
Immediately the faces of 128 writers appear in the air of the office. They are all framed in stern brown and arranged in a neat square. Three enlarged faces float over the rest: the gray-haired chairman of the Writers’ Chamber, Pavel Olegov, with a continually suffering expression on his puffy face, and two even grayer, gloomier, anxious deputies, Anany Memzer and Pavlo Basinya. By the doleful expression on all three mugs, I realize that a difficult conversation awaits them.
“We’ll leave, Terenty Bogdanovich,” Batya says, reaching out to shake hands with the prince. “Writers are your bailiwick.”
“All the best, Boris Borisovich.” Buturlin shakes Batya’s hand.
We bow to the prince a
nd follow Batya out. We walk along the hallway to an elevator, accompanied by the same dashing officer.
“Listen, Komiaga, how come Olegov is always such a sour puss? What is it—toothache?” Batya asks me.
“His soul aches, Batya. For Russia.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Batya nods. “And what’s he written? You know I’m not one for books.”
“The Russian Tile Oven in the Twenty-first Century. A weighty piece. I didn’t get all the way through it…”
“The Russian oven…that’s wonderful…” Batya sighs thoughtfully. “Especially when you bake liver pies…Where are you off to now?”
“To the Kremlin Concert Hall.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. “See you sort that one out. Those clowns are up to something new…”
I nod in reply. “We’ll sort it out, Batya.”
The Kremlin Concert Hall has always delighted me. It thrilled me when I first visited it with my deceased parents twenty-six years ago, to see Swan Lake; when I ate blini with red caviar during the intermission; when I called my friend Pashka on Papa’s mobilov from the buffet; when I peed in the spacious toilet; when I watched the mysterious ballerinas in snow white tutus; and even now, when my temples are sprinkled with their first gray.
A magnificent hall! Everything in it is grand, it has all the amenities for state holidays, everything is perfect. Only one thing is wrong—not all the events produced on this mighty stage are appropriate. Subversiveness seeps through even here. Well, that’s why we exist, to keep order and exterminate rebellion.
We sit in the empty hall. On my right is the director. On my left, an observer from the Secret Department. In front of me is Prince Sobakin of the Inner Circle. Behind me—the head of the Culture Chamber. Serious people, state servants. We’re watching the holiday concert that’s coming up. It begins powerfully, like a peal of thunder: a song about His Majesty shakes the dimly lit hall. The Kremlin choir sings well. Russia knows how to sing. Especially if the song is from the soul.
The song ends; the valiant fellows in decorated shirts bow, the girls in sarafans and holiday headdresses curtsey. Sheaves of grain bow in an iridescent rainbow, and above them frozen river willows bow. Natural sunlight shines, almost blindingly. Good. I approve. All the others approve as well. The long-haired director is happy.
The next song is about Russia. No questions here, either. It’s a strong piece, finely polished. Next—an historical number: the time of Ivan III. A grim, fateful time in Russian history. A serious struggle for the integrity of the Russian state is under way—a fledgling state, not yet strong, only beginning to stand on its own. There’s thunder and lightning on stage, Ivan’s warriors are heading for the breach, the Metropolitan raises a cross illumined by flickering flames. Rebellious Novgorod, which opposes the unification of Russia, is conquered; the apostates fall on their knees, but Great Prince Ivan Vasilevich’s sword touches their guilty heads with mercy:
Day of the Oprichnik Page 4