Day of the Oprichnik

by Sorokin, Vladimir

  I sit at the breakfast table, which is already set: adorned with white roses, and laid with gold dishes and crystal. Four servants in silvery emerald caftans stand by the walls.

  Forty minutes have already passed, but Her Highness isn’t here yet. She spends a long time on her morning toilette. I sit and think about our lady. She has a hard time of it, for many reasons. Not only because of natural feminine weaknesses. But because of blood. Her Highness is a half-Jewess. There’s no way around it. That’s partly why so many pasquinades are written about her, why so much gossip and rumor is spread about her around Moscow and all of Russia, for that matter.

  I’ve never had a problem with Jews. My departed father wasn’t a kike eater either. He told me that people used to say that anyone who played the violin more than ten years automatically became a Jew. Mama, may she rest in peace for eternity, didn’t have any problems with Jews; she said it wasn’t the Yids that were dangerous for Russia, but the pseudo-Jews, people whose blood was Russian but pretended to be kikes. When I didn’t want to study German as an adolescent, my mathematician grandfather would recite a little poem he wrote, a parody of the famous Soviet poet Mayakovsky.11

  Were I

  A Jew

  Late in life,

  Even then—

  Nicht zweifelnd und bitter12

  I’d learn

  German

  If only because,

  ’Twas German spoken

  by Hitler.

  But not all were such Jew lovers as my relatives. Outbursts did occur, yes, and Judaic blood was spilled on Russian land. All of this smoldered and dragged on right up until His Majesty’s “Decree On Russian Orthodox Names.” This decree required all Russian citizens who were not christened in the Orthodox faith to have non-Orthodox names: they had to have names corresponding to their ethnicity. After that many of our Borises became Borukhs; Viktors—Agvidors; and Levs—Leibs. That’s how Our Sage Majesty resolved the Jewish question in Russia once and for all. He took all the smart Jews under his wing. The dimwitted ones scattered. It quickly became obvious that Jews were really quite useful to the Russian government. They were irreplaceable in treasury, trade, and ambassadorial affairs.

  The problem with Her Highness was different. This wasn’t a matter of the Jewish question. The question was the purity of blood. Had our lady Her Highness been half Tatar or Chechen it would have been the same problem. There’s no getting around it. And thank God…

  The white doors open, the greyhound Katerina bounds into the little dining room, sniffs me, barks twice and sneezes like dogs do, and jumps up on her chair. I stand and watch the open door with the motionless servants on each side. Sedate, assured steps are coming closer, building up, and—in a rustle of dark blue silk Her Highness appears in the doorway. She’s large, wide, stately. Her fan is folded in her strong hand. Her luxuriant hair is pulled back, coiffed, held with gold combs, iridescent with precious stones. On Her Highness’s neck is a velvet ring with the “Padishah” diamond, bordered with sapphires. Her face is powdered, she wears lipstick on her sensual lips, and her deep eyes shine under her black eyelashes.

  “Sit down,” she says with a wave of her fan, while she sits in the chair the servant has moved up for her.

  I sit. The servant brings in a small shell with finely chopped dove meat and sets it in front of Katerina. The greyhound devours the meat, and Her Highness strokes her on the back.

  “Eat up now, my little oyster.”

  The servants bring in a gold carafe of red wine, and fill Her Highness’s glass. She picks it up in her large hand and says:

  “What will you drink with me?”

  “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

  “Oprichniks should drink vodka. Pour him some vodka!”

  They pour vodka into a crystal glass for me. Silently the servants place the zakuski on the table: beluga caviar, snakeroot, Chinese mushrooms, Japanese soba noodles on ice, boiled rice, vegetables stewed in spices.

  I raise my glass and stand, terribly nervous:

  “To your health, Your H-h-h-high-highness…”

  I am tongue-tied with emotion: this is the first time in my life I’ve sat at Her Highness’s table.

  “Sit down.” She waves her fan, and takes a swallow from her wineglass.

  I gulp the vodka down and sit. I sit like a stuffed dummy. I didn’t expect to feel so shy. I’m not as shy in front of His Majesty as I am with Her Highness. And besides, I’m not exactly the most bashful of oprichniks…

  Her Highness eats her hors d’oeuvres unhurriedly, paying me no mind.

  “What’s new in the capital?”

  I shrug my shoulders:

  “Nothing in particular, Your Highness.”

  “And not in particular?”

  Her black eyes stare steadily at me. You can’t hide from them.

  “Nothing not in particular either. Well, we suppressed a noble.”

  “Kunitsyn? I know, I saw.”

  Probably as soon as Her Highness wakes up they bring her a news bubble. What else would you expect? It’s government business…

  “What else?” she asks, spreading beluga caviar on rye toast.

  “Well…you know…somehow…” I mumble.

  She stares at me.

  “How did you bungle Artamosha?”

  So that’s what it is. She knows this, too. I inhale deeply.

  “Your Highness, it’s my fault.”

  She looks at me attentively:

  “That was well put. If you’d tried to dump the whole thing on the Good Fellows, I would have ordered you flogged right here and now. Right here.”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness. I was late due to other affairs, and didn’t get there in time. I wasn’t able to forestall events.”

  “It happens,” she says, biting off a piece of toast with caviar and washing it down with wine. “Eat.”

  Thank God. There are better things to do in my position than just to keep quiet. I grab some snakeroot, put it in my mouth, follow it with a piece of rye bread. Her Highness chews, sipping wine. And then she suddenly laughs nervously, puts down her glass, and stops chewing. I stop, too.

  She eyes me intently:

  “Tell me, Komiaga, why do they hate me so much?”

  I inhale deeply. And exhale. What can I say? And there she is, looking straight through me.

  “So I love young guardsmen. So what? What difference does it make?”

  Her black eyes fill with tears. She wipes them away with a handkerchief.

  I pluck up my courage:

  “Your Highness, it’s just a handful of malicious dissenters.”

  She looks at me like a tigress at a mouse. I regret opening my mouth.

  “It’s not a handful of dissenters, you idiot. It’s our barbaric people!”

  I understand. The Russian people aren’t easy to work with. But God hasn’t given us any other people. I keep quiet. But Her Highness, forgetting about food, presses the end of her closed fan to her lips:

  “They’re envious because they’re slaves. They know how to pretend. But they don’t really love us, the powerful. And they never will. If they had the chance—they’d cut us to pieces.”

  I gather my courage again:

  “Your Highness, please don’t worry—we’ll throttle that Artamosha. We’ll squash him like a louse.”

  “Oh, what does Artamosha have to do with it!” She whacks her fan on the table and stands up abruptly.

  I jump up immediately.

  “Sit!” She waves at me.

  I sit. The greyhound barks at me. Her Highness paces the dining room, her dress rustling menacingly.

  “Artamosha! As if he were the problem…”

  She walks back and forth, mumbling something to herself. She stops and tosses the fan on the table.

  “Artamosha! It’s the nobles’ wives, they’re jealous of me, they set the holy fools against me, and they in turn stir up the people. This subversive wind blows from the nobles’ wives through t
he fools and to the people. Nikola Volokolamsky, Andriukha Zagoriansky, Afonya Ostankinsky—what kinds of things are they saying about me, huh? Well?!”

  “Your Highness, these stinking curs make the rounds of the churches and spread disgusting rumors…But His Majesty has forbidden us to touch them…otherwise long ago we would have…”

  “I’m asking you—what are they saying?!”

  “Well…they say that at night you rub a Chinese ointment on your body, after which you turn into a dog…”

  “And I run around with hounds! Is that it?”

  “That’s it, Your Highness.”

  “So what does Artamosha have to do with it? He’s just singing rumors! Artamosha!”

  She walks around, muttering angrily. Her eyes glitter. She takes her glass and drinks. She sighs:

  “Hmmm…you ruined my appetite. All right, get out of here…”

  I stand, bow, and walk backward, step by step.

  “Wait…” She stops and thinks. “What was it you said Praskovia wanted?”

  “Baltic herring, fern seeds, and books.”

  “Books. Well then, come with me. Otherwise I might forget…”

  Her Highness quits the dining room, throwing open the doors in front of her. I try to keep up behind her. We enter the library. Her Highness’s librarian jumps up and bows, a moss-covered man in glasses:

  “What do you desire, Your Highness?”

  “Let’s go, Teryosha.”

  The librarian minces along after her. Her Highness goes over to the shelves. There are a lot of them. And there’s a ton of books. I know that our mama likes to read from paper. And not just Pernicious Pugs. She’s well read.

  She stops. Looks at the shelves:

  “This will burn well and for a long time.”

  She makes a sign to the librarian. He takes the collected works of Anton Chekhov off the shelves.

  “Send these to Praskovia,” Her Highness tells the librarian.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nods, shifting the books.

  “That’s it!” Our mama turns and walks right out of the library.

  I hurry after her. She sweeps into her quarters. The golden doors open wide, the tambourines sound, the unseen balalaika strums, and valiant voices sing.

  “Go on and hit me, me-oh-mine,

  A big fat stick upon my spine!

  A stick that’s excellent and fine.

  My spine is quilted well, and lined!”

  Her Highness is met by a pack of her hangers-on. They howl, squeal joyfully, and bow. There are a lot of them. All kinds: jesters, nuns well read in scripture, wandering minstrels, storytellers, playful souls, and dumpling makers crippled by science, witch doctors, masseurs, spinsters, and gingerbread men who run on electricity. “Best of the morning to you, Mamo!” all these hangers-on howl in unison.

  “Good morning, my lovelies!” Her Highness smiles.

  Two old jesters run up to her—Pavlusha the Hedgehog and Duga the Devil grab her by the hands, pull her along, kissing her fingers. As always, round-faced Pavlusha mutters, “Pow-yer, pow-yer, pow-yer!”

  Hairy Duga grunts along:

  “Eur-gasia, Eur-gasia, Eur-gasia!”

  The rest begin to dance in a circle around Her Highness. I can see right off—her face grows kinder, her eyebrows calmer, her eyes no longer flash.

  “How are my darlings doing here without me?”

  There’s wailing and whimpering in reply.

  “No good, Mamo! No goooood!”

  The hangers-on fall to their knees in front of Mama.

  I step backward toward the exit. She notices:

  “Komiaga!”

  I freeze. She beckons to her chamberlain, takes a gold piece out of her purse, and tosses it to me:

  “For your efforts.”

  I catch it, bow, and leave.

  Evening. It’s snowing. I am driving my Mercedov through Moscow. I hold the wheel and squeeze the gold piece in my fist. It burns my palm like burning charcoal. It’s not pay, it’s a gift. Not much money, only ten rubles, but it’s dearer to me than a thousand…

  Her Highness always creates a storm of feelings in my soul. Hard to describe. Like two tsunamis colliding: one wave is hatred, the other is love. I hate our mama because she shames His Majesty, undermines the people’s belief in their sovereign. I love her for her character, for her strength and integrity, for her unyielding obstinacy. And for…her white, tender, incomparable, boundless, ample breast, which occasionally I manage to glimpse out of the corner of my eye, thank God. Those unexpected evening viewings are unlike anything else. A sidelong peep at Her Highness’s breast…is rapture, gentlemen! One thing’s a pity, though: Her Highness prefers guardsmen to oprichniks. And it’s unlikely her preference will change. Well, let God be her judge.

  I look at the clock: 21:42.

  Today is Monday; the oprichnik repast begins at 21:00. I’m late. But it’s no big deal. Our communal evening meal is at Batya’s residence on Mondays and Thursdays only. That’s on Yakimanka Street, in the merchant Igumnov’s house, the very same house where French ambassadors nested for nearly a century. The house has been occupied by the oprichnina since the famous events of summer 2021, when His Majesty publicly tore up the French ambassador’s credentials and sent the envoy packing, having unearthed his plot to foment rebellion. No more skinny-legged Frenchmen walk there: it’s our dear Batya who paces the floors in his Moroccan leather boots. Each Monday and Thursday he has dinner for all of us. The house is whimsical, it reminds you of old-time Russia as though it had deliberately been built for Batya. It was waiting until our dear Batya moved in, and it waited long enough. Thank God.

  I drive up to the house. There’s red all over from our Mercedovs. Like ladybugs around a piece of sugar, they’ve crowded around the house. I get out of the car and walk to the carved stone entrance. Batya’s stern doorkeepers let me in silently. I enter, throw my caftan to the servants’ waiting hands, and run down the stairs to a set of wide doors. Two guards in light-colored caftans stand by them. They bow, open the doors—and what a hubbub! The dining hall buzzes like a beehive. The sound dispels all exhaustion.

  The great hall is completely full, as always. The entire Moscow oprichnina sits here. The chandeliers shine, candles burn on the table, gilded forelocks shimmer, little bells sway. Glorious! I enter with a bow to the floor, as is fit when you’re late. I proceed to my place, closer to Batya. The long tables are arranged such that all abut one central table, where Batya sits with the two wings—the right and left. I sit down at my lawful place—fourth from Batya on the right, between Shelet and Pravda. Batya winks at me while taking a bite of a savory pie. It’s no sin to be late here: we all have business to take care of, and sometimes dinner drags on till after midnight. The servant brings me a bowl of water, I wash my hands, dry them with a towel. And what do you know?—everyone’s just moving on to the next course. The servants bring in Batya’s grilled turkeys. And on the tables there’s bread and marinated cabbage. At weekday repasts Batya doesn’t care for all sorts of lavish dishes. There are carafes of wine, kvass, and springwater to drink. No vodka here on weekdays.

  Pravda pours me some wine:

  “So, Brother Komiaga, too many irons in the fire?”

  “That’s right, Brother Pravda.”

  I clink glasses with Pravda and Shelet, and empty my goblet in one gulp. I realize that I haven’t eaten a serious meal in some time: with Her Highness I couldn’t swallow a bite, I was so nervous. Hunger isn’t a maiden—you can’t treat it to a mere sturgeon-spine pie. Just in time, oh, just in time the servant places a dish with turkey, baked potatoes, and steamed turnip on the table. I pull off a turkey leg for myself, and sink my teeth into it: it’s good, roasted to a T in Batya’s wonderful stove. Shelet rips off a wing, and smacks his lips:

  “You can’t eat better anywhere than at our Batya’s!”

  “That’s the holy truth!” Pravda belches.

  “One thing’s for sure,” I mutter, swallowing
the juicy turkey meat. “Our Batya feeds and warms us, gives us a living, and teaches us how to keep our heads on our shoulders.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I glance at Batya, and he, our heart and soul, senses our affection and winks while eating his meal, slowly, as always. We all feel protected by him. Thank God.

  I eat, glancing at Batya’s table now and then. At the edges, where the oprichnik wings end, honored guests sit, as is customary. Today as well: on the right is the broad-shouldered Metropolitan Kolomensky with the gray-bearded paraxyliarch of Yelokhovsky Cathedral; the ten-pood chairman of the All-Russian Society for the Observance of Human Rights wearing the badge of the Alliance of St. Michael the Archangel; smiling Father Germogen, Her Highness’s spiritual adviser; some young official from the Trade Department; the trade rep of the Ukraine, Stefan Goloborodko; and Batya’s old friend the entrepreneur Mikhail Trofimovich Porokhovshchikov; on the left is the oprichnina’s devoted doctor, Pyotr Sergeevich Vakhrushev with his eternal assistant Bao Cai; the imposing one-eyed commander of the Kremlin regiment; the folk singer Churilo Volodevich; the inevitably disgruntled Losiuk from the Secret Department; the Russian boxing champion Zhbanov; Zakharov, the round-faced Treasury representative; Batya’s game warden, Vasya Okhlobystin; the boyar Govorov; and the head Kremlin bathhouse attendant, Anton Mamona.

  Batya lifts his wineglass and stands. The commotion dies down. In a stentorian voice, he proclaims:

  “To His Majesty’s health!”

  We all stand:

  “To His Majesty’s health!”

  We drain our glasses. Wine isn’t champagne, though, you can’t gulp it down. We drink slowly. We grunt, wipe our mustaches and beards, and sit down. Suddenly, like thunder from the heavens, a rainbow frame appears on the ceiling of the hall, and a painfully familiar, narrow face with a dark blond beard appears. His Majesty!