Day of the Oprichnik

by Sorokin, Vladimir

  She turns her well-groomed face toward me:

  “Quite, Mr. Oprichnik.”

  Not a muscle in her face twitches. Totally calm, like a snake.

  “Is this an official inquiry?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that there’s a great deal of blood in this film.”

  “You think that Russian women are afraid of blood?”

  “All women are afraid of blood. And Russian…”

  “Mr. Oprichnik, thanks to you and your colleagues, Russian women have long since grown accustomed to blood. To amounts small and large.”

  Whoa! Can’t catch her bare-handed!

  “Perhaps, but…It seems to me that there are far more pleasant films for the female eye. And this one contains a lot of suffering.”

  “Everyone has their preferences, Mr. Oprichnik. You recall the love song ‘It Matters Not Whether I Love or Suffer’…”

  Somehow she’s way too haughty.

  “Forgive me, I was just asking.”

  “And I am just answering.” She turns away and again stares coldly at the screen.

  She intrigues me. I take her picture on my mobilov, and give the signal for our security service to pinhole this lady. The answer comes immediately: Anastasia Petrovna Stein-Sotskaya, daughter of the Duma clerk Sotsky. Holy Mother of God! The very same clerk who worked on the pernicious plan to “Saw and Sell” with the Duma chairman. I wasn’t yet in the oprichnina during those strife-filled years. I was working quietly in customs with antiques and precious metals…I understand, yes, I understand why she’s looking at the film that way. Why, it’s her family history, for heaven’s sake! If memory serves, Sotsky was beheaded on Red Square shortly thereafter, along with nine other plotters…

  On my bubble there are tigers in cages and Soviet cooks, but I look right through them. Right here, next to me, is a victim of the Russian state. What did they do with her? She didn’t even change her surname, she took a hyphenated one. Proud. I order a detailed biography: thirty-two years old, married to the textile merchant Boris Stein, spent six years in exile with her mother and younger brother, got a law degree, character core “Running Sister—18,” left-handed, broken collar bone, weak lungs, bad teeth, miscarried two times, the third gave birth to a boy, lives in Orenburg, enjoys archery, chess, playing guitar, and singing Russian love songs.

  I turn off my tigers and try to doze.

  But thoughts keep welling up: here’s this person sitting close by who holds a grudge for all time. Not only against us oprichniks, but against His Majesty. And nothing can be done about it. But she’s raising a son, and she and Stein probably have open house on Thursdays; the Orenburg intelligentsia probably gathers. They sing old songs, drink tea with cherry preserves, and then they have—conversations. And you don’t have to be the clairvoyant Praskovia to guess what and who they are talking about…

  And after everything that’s happened, there are hundreds upon hundreds of these people. If you count their children, husbands, and wives—thousands upon thousands. Now that’s a substantial force, which needs to be taken into account. Now you need to think ahead, calculate your plays. And the fact that they’ve been kicked out of their well-feathered Moscow nests and stuffed into Orenburgs and Krasnoyarsks doesn’t help, it’s not a solution. In a word: His Majesty is merciful. And thank God…

  I manage to drift off after all.

  Even in my sleep I see something fleeting and slipping away. But not a white stallion—something small, crumbly, dreary…

  I awake when they announce the landing. Out of the corner of my eye I glance at the bubble with the historical film: it’s the denouement, the interrogation in the Secret Department, the rack, red-hot pokers, and the face of the minister, distorted by anger:

  “I hate…how I hate you!”

  And the finale, the last scenes: His Majesty, still young, stands against a familiar landscape, bathed in the light of the rising sun, holding the first brick in his hands; he looks toward the west and utters those familiar, beloved words:

  “The Great Russian Wall!”

  We land.

  Potrokha meets me at the airplane: he’s young, red-cheeked, snub-nosed, and has an overly gilded forelock. I get into his Mercedov and, as always, have the feeling that it’s my car. Déjà vu. All oprichniks have identical cars, whether in Moscow, Orenburg, or Oimyakon: 400-horsepower Mercedov coupes the color of ripe tomatoes.

  “Hi there, Potrokha.”

  “Hi, Komiaga.”

  We always call each other by the familiar form, ty, since we’re one oprichnik family. Even though I’m about one and a half times older than Potrokha.

  “Why aren’t you catching any mice here? As soon as Chapyzh leaves, you all stop dead in your tracks.”

  “Don’t get all steamed up, Komiaga. This affair’s a matter of grease. They have a hook in the Department. Up till now, Chapyzh has been in good with them. I’m a nobody as far as they’re concerned. A shoulder is what’s needed.”

  “You need a left shoulder but I’m from the right!”

  “It doesn’t matter at this point, Komiaga. The main thing is—you have an Official Seal. When you’ve got a disputed deal, you need an oprichnik with authority.”

  I know, we’ve been through that. An oprichnik with authority. And that means the Official Seal. Only twelve oprichniks have the seal. It’s in the left hand, in the palm, under the skin. And it can only be taken from me along with my hand.

  “Did you set up a meeting with the clerk?”

  “Of course. The white discussion is in a quarter of an hour.”

  “The physicians?”

  “All there.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Potrokha drives deftly through the airport gates onto the highway, and steps on the gas. We race not to Orenburg—famous for its fine, intricate shawls and its narrow-eyed Russian-Chinese beauties—but in the opposite direction. Along the way Potrokha explains the situation to me in greater detail. It’s been a long time since I worked with customs, a long time. Many new things have appeared in the meantime. Much that we couldn’t have dreamed about back then. Transparent illegals have cropped up, for instance. There’s this unexplained “export of empty spaces.” Subtropical air is in demand in Siberia these days—they run air in volumes. From some kind of celestial devices with compressed desires. Go figure! Thank God today’s business is simpler.

  In a quarter of an hour Potrokha reaches the Road. It must be three years since I’ve been here. And each time I see it—it takes my breath away. The Road! It’s an amazing thing. It runs from Guangzhou across China, then winds its way across Kazakhstan, enters through the gates in our Southern Wall, and then traverses the breadth of Mother Russia to Brest. From there—straight to Paris. The Guangzhou–Paris Road. Since the manufacturing of all necessary goods flowed over to Great China bit by bit, they built this Road to connect China to Europe. It’s got ten lanes, and four tracks underground for high-speed trains. Heavy trailers crawl along the road with their goods 24/7, and the silvery trains whistle. It’s a real feast for the eyes.

  We drive closer.

  The Road is surrounded by three layers of security, protecting it from saboteurs and lamebrained cyberpunks. We drive into a roadside stop. It’s gorgeous, large, glass, built specially for long-distance drivers. You’ve got a winter garden with palms, a bathhouse with a pool, Chinese cookshops, Russian taverns, workout gyms, a hotel, a movie theater, a bordello with skilled whores, and even ice-skating rinks.

  But Potrokha and I head for the meeting site. Everyone’s sitting and waiting: the clerk from the Customs Department, the junior clerk from the same place, who’s been greased by us, two guys from the Insurance Chamber, the commander of the Highway Department, and two Chinese representatives. Potrokha and I sit down and begin the discussion. A Chinese xiao jie, tea girl, comes in, brews white tea, a real tonic for the body, and pours some for everyone with a smile. The customs clerk digs in his heels and refuses to budge.

  “T
he train is clean, the Kazakhs have no objections, the contract is point-to-point, everything’s in order.”

  It’s obvious that the whole train has greased the clerk, all twelve trailers, and all the way to Brest. Our goal is to detain the Chinese long enough that their highway insurance runs out, and then our insurance will kick in. And our insurance is 3 percent. Every last dog on the Road knows it. On this 3 percent the oprichnina treasury stays quite plump. And not only the oprichnina’s. There’s enough for all upright people; they’ll all get something. This 3 percent covers a lot of legitimate expenses. And our expenses, as servants of His Majesty, are countless. Does the customs clerk, stuffed with yuan, really care?

  The highway commander is ours. He starts pumping:

  “Two of the trailers have counterfeit Chinese inspection stickers. We need an expert report.”

  The Chinese break in:

  “The inspection is in order, here are the findings.”

  Shining characters of confirmation appear in the air. I learned conversational Chinese, of course; who could get along without it now? But the characters are just one big swamp for me. Potrokha, on the other hand, is nimble with Chinese; he dug up the findings on replacing the second turbine, and he illuminates it with a little thumbelinochka.

  “Where’s the quality certificate? The manufacturer’s address? The lot number?”

  “Shantou, Red Wealth factory, 380-6754069.”

  Hmm…The turbine’s “local.” The inspection sticker won’t do it. Work on the Road is complicated now. Before, the trailers would simply be wrecked: the tires slashed, or windows all bashed in, or you’d slip something into the driver’s noodles while he was eating. Nowadays they’re on the lookout for these things. Yes, well, no matter. We have our own ways, tried and true. The tea is served by a greased xiao jie.

  “Gentlemen, I consider this discussion to be concluded,” says the clerk, and then he clutches his chest.

  There’s a big fuss and bustle: What happened?

  “A heart attack!”

  Now, how do you like that? And the xiao jie doesn’t even blush. She bows and carries her tea tray out with her. The physicians appear and take the clerk away. He’s moaning, and pale. We reassure him:

  “You’ll get better, Savely Tikhonovich!”

  Of course he’ll get better. The Chinese stand up—business is done. Not so quick. Now it’s our turn: the last statement is directed to the greased junior clerk:

  “Look here, the travel documents appear to have been backdated.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not possible! Let me see, let me see…” The junior clerk stares walleyed at the travel documents, aims the thumbelinochka at them. “You’re right! The blue imprint is smudged! Oh dear, highway robbers! They deceived our trusting Savely Tikhonovich! They took him in! Crooks! Zui xing!2” This is a new turn of events. One of the Chinese mutters:

  “No way! The travel document was notarized by both border committees.”

  “If a representative of the Russian customs has noticed a discrepancy, bilateral expertise is required,” I answer. “In this dispute I represent our side, as an oprichnik with authority.”

  The Chinese are in a panic: gobs of time will be lost on this and their Chinese insurance will expire. And drawing up new travel permits, well, it’s not like throwing together a fish-bone pie. You’ve got to get a health inspection, technical inspection, and border check done all over again, not to mention getting a visa from the Antimonopoly Chamber. So it all boils down to:

  “Take out insurance, gentlemen.”

  The Chinese are wailing. Threats. Who, just who are you threatening, sha bi3? Complain to whomever you like. The commander of the Highway Department sniffs at the Chinese:

  “Russian insurance is the best defense against cyberpunks.”

  The Chinese grit their teeth:

  “Where’s the seal?”

  So why the hell did I fly here, you wonder? Here’s the seal: I place my left palm on the square of frosted glass, leaving an Official Seal on it. And no more questions. Potrokha and I wink at each other: the 3 percent is ours! The Chinese walk out, all bent out of shape. The junior clerk leaves; he’s done his greasy work. Only Potrokha and I remain.

  “Thanks, Komiaga.” Potrokha squeezes my wrist.

  “Work and Word!, Potrokha.”

  We finish the tea and walk outside. It’s colder here than in Moscow. We oprichniks have an old feud with customs, and there’s no end in sight. It’s all because customs is run by His Majesty’s brother Alexander Nikolaevich, and will be run by him for a long time to come. And dear Alexander Nikolaevich can’t stomach our Batya. Something happened between them, something that even His Majesty cannot reconcile. And nothing can be done about it—there was, is, and will be a war…

  “We should rest a bit.” Potrokha scratches his overgilded forelock and pushes his sable hat back on the nape of his neck. “Let’s go to the bathhouse. They’ve got a good masseur. And there are two hunanochki.4”

  He takes out his mobilov and shows me. Two charming Chinese girls appear in the air: one is riding naked on a buffalo, the other stands naked under a flowing waterfall.

  “So?” Potrokha winks at me. “You won’t regret it. Better than your Moscow girls. Eternal virgins.”

  I look at my watch: 15:00.

  “No, Potrokha. I have to fly to Tobol next and then back to Moscow to snuff a star.”

  “As you like. Then to the airport?”

  “That’s right.”

  While he’s driving, I look up the schedule of flights, and choose one. There’s a one-hour break before the next flight, but I put the outgoing airplane on hold: they can friggin’ wait. Potrokha and I say goodbye, I board the Orenburg–Tobol plane, and get in touch with Praskovia’s security service, letting them know to meet me. I put on earphones, order Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. And fall asleep.

  The stewardess wakes me with a gentle touch:

  “Mr. Oprichnik, sir! We’ve already landed.”

  Marvelous. Taking a swig of Altai springwater, I disembark, and step onto a moving sidewalk that takes me into the huge terminal of the Yermak Timofeevich Airport. It’s new, just built by the Chinese. I’ve already been here three times. And all on the same business—to see the clairvoyant.

  Near the enormous figure of Yermak with his glowing sword, two goons from the great soothsayer’s security service are waiting for me. Each of them is a head taller than me, and two times as wide, but nonetheless, next to Yermak’s giant boot they look like field mice in red caftans.

  I walk over to them. They bow and lead me to the car. As we leave the airport I manage to take a breath of the Tobol air: it’s even colder here than in Orenburg. It’s a good 32 below. Now here’s that global warming foreigners are always blathering about. We still have snow and freezing weather in Russia, gentlemen, have no doubts.

  They lead me to a powerful Chinese off-road vehicle, the Zhu-Ba-Ze, with a bumper that resembles a boar’s snout. Nowadays these off-roaders are used all over Siberia. They’re reliable, trouble-free in brutal winter conditions as well as in the heat. Siberians call them “Boars.”

  We first drive along the highway, then turn onto a narrow road. The captain from Moscow reports: everything is ready for snuffing out the star, the performance is at eight this evening. Fine, but first I have to get there.

  The road stretches through woodlands, then crawls into the taiga. We ride silently. Pines, firs, and deciduous trees surround us, heavy with snow. But the sun is already heading toward sunset. Another hour or so and it will be dark. We drive about ten versts. Our Zhu-Ba-Ze turns onto a snow-covered country road. My city Mercedov would get stuck right away. But the Boar couldn’t care less—the one-and-a-half-arshin tires chew up the snow like a meat grinder. The Chinese boar barges through the Russian snow. We continue on for a verst, then another, and a third. And the age-old taiga suddenly opens. We’ve arrived! A fantastical tower rises over a wide clearing; it’s
built of ancient pines, has fanciful turrets, latticework windows, carved window casings, a copper-tiled roof, and is topped with a weather cock. The tower is surrounded by a ten-arshin pike fence made of incredibly thick logs sharpened at the top. Neither man nor beast could crawl over those pikes. Perhaps the stone Yermak Timofeevich might try, but even he would scrape his granite balls.

  We drive up to the plank gates coated in forged iron. The Zhu-Ba-Ze sends an invisible, inaudible signal. The bolts slide back. We drive into the courtyard of Praskovia’s estate. Guards in Chinese attire surround the car with swords and cudgels. All the clairvoyant’s inner guards are Chinese, masters of kung fu. I get out of the Boar and climb the steps of the carved entrance, decorated with Siberian animals carved out of wood. All the beasts here exist in loving harmony. It’s not a portico, but a wonder of wonders! Here you have a lynx licking a roe deer’s forehead, wolves playing with a boar, hares kissing foxes, and grouse sitting on an ermine. Two bears support the pillars of the doorway.

  I enter.

  Inside everything is totally different. Here there’s nothing carved, Russian. Smooth, bare walls of marble, a granite floor illuminated green from below, a ceiling of black wood. Lamps burn, incense smokes. A waterfall streams down a marble wall, white lilies float in a pool.

  The clairvoyant’s servants approach me silently. Like shadows from the afterlife, their hands are cool, their faces impenetrable. They take my weapons, mobilov, caftan, jacket, hat, and boots. I stand there in my shirt, pants, and goat-wool socks. I stretch my arms back. The noiseless servants dress me in a silk Chinese robe, button the cloth-covered buttons, and give me soft slippers. That’s the way it is for everyone who comes here. Counts, princes, lords of the capital from the Inner Circle—all change into robes when they visit the clairvoyant.

  I pass into the interior of the house. As always, it’s empty and quiet. Chinese vases and beasts chiseled out of stone stand in the dim light. Chinese characters recalling wisdom and eternity adorn the walls.

  A Chinese voice speaks:

  “Missus awaits you near the fire.”