“I thank you, oprichniks!” His voice carries throughout the hall.
“Long live His Majesty!” Batya cries.
We take up the call threefold:
“Long live, long live, long live His Majesty!”
“Hail!” His Majesty answers, smiling.
“Hail! Hail!! Hail!!” sweeps across the hall like a great wave.
We sit, lifting our faces to him. Our sun waits for us to calm down. He gazes at us warmly, with a fatherly expression:
“How was your day?”
“Work and Word! We Live to Serve, Your Majesty! Good! Thank God!”
His Majesty pauses. He looks us all over with his transparent eyes:
“I know your work. I thank you for your service. I rely on you.”
“Hail!!” cries Batya.
“Hail!! Hail!!” we repeat.
The ceiling hums with our voices. His Majesty looks down from it:
“I want your advice on a certain matter.”
We immediately quiet down. That’s how His Majesty is: he values advice. This is his great wisdom, and his great simplicity. That’s why our state flourishes under him.
We sit holding our breath.
Our Sun takes his time. Then he speaks:
“About the mortgages.”
Now it’s clear. We understand. The Chinese mortgages. An old problem. A tangled knot. How many times has His Majesty threatened to cut it open, and his own people got in the way, held him back. And not only his own, but some of us. And outsiders. And simply—others…
“A half hour ago I had a conversation with Zhou Shen Min. My friend, the Celestial Ruler, is concerned about the situation of the Chinese in western Siberia. You know that after I issued the decree forbidding the transfer of the local volosts under mortgage to the districts, things seemed to straighten out. But as it turns out, it wasn’t for long. The Chinese are now getting mortgages not with the volosts, but with the settlements that have no landholdings under the so-called Tan Xu13 buy-up with business petitions, so that our district officials have the right to register them as contract laborers rather than as taxed persons. They use the law On the Four Taxes. The tax collectors in the district councils, as I’m sure you realize, have been bought by them and register them not as taxpayers but as temporary hired workers with bag and baggage. And temporary workers are contract laborers according to the new regulations. It turns out that they cultivate allotments of arable land, but pay the tithe only as contract laborers, since their wives and children are listed on the shares as six-month parasites. Therefore, the district assessments of all the six-month-untaxed parasites are divided not in half, but two to three. Consequently, every six months China loses a third of its tithes. And the Tan Xu buy-up helps the Chinese living in our country to deceive their Celestial Ruler. Considering that there are twenty-eight million Chinese in western Siberia, I quite understand the concern of my friend Zhou Shen Min: China loses almost three billion yuan every six months. Today I had a conversation with Tsvetov and Zilberman. Both ministers advised me to get rid of the law On the Four Taxes.”
His Majesty stops speaking. So that’s what it is! Once again the tax law has stuck in the craw of one of the departmental clerks. They didn’t get to share the lucre, the thieves!
“I want to ask my oprichnina: What do you think about this whole issue?”
A grumble is heard in the hall. It’s clear what we think! Each wants to have his say. But Batya raises his hand. We quiet down. Batya says:
“Your Majesty, our hearts tremble with anger. It wasn’t the Chinese who invented the Tan Xu buy-up. You, Your Majesty, in your heartfelt goodness, you have taken care of our friendly Celestial neighbors, but enemies from the western Siberian districts are weaving their wily webs. They are working with a pink minister, with an ambassadorial, and along with customs they invented the Tan Xu buy-up.”
“True! That’s right! Work and Word! We Live to Serve!” sound numerous voices.
Nechai jumps up, a Moscow-born oprichnik who has skinned more than one cat in his time:
“Work and Word! Your Majesty! When the Ambassadorial Department was purged last year, the extremist Shtokman confessed on the rack that Tsvetov personally pushed On the Four Taxes in the Duma, and drilled the assessors! It makes one wonder, Your Majesty: Why is that cur so interested in On the Four Taxes now?”
Sterna jumps up:
“Your Majesty, it seems to me that On the Four Taxes is a good law. There’s only one thing that’s not clear—why ‘four’? Where did this number come from? Why not six? Why not eight?”
Our oprichniks buzz:
“Sterna, mind what you say!”
“True, it’s true what he says!”
“The number four isn’t the problem!”
“No, four is the problem!”
Svirid, older and experienced, stands up:
“Your Majesty, what would change if another number was written in the law? For example, a Chinese family would have not four assessments, but eight? Would the tax assessment increase twofold? No! But why, one wonders? Because they wouldn’t let it increase! The clerks. That’s what!”
The oprichniks mutter and clamor:
“True! You speak to the point, Svirid! The enemies aren’t in China, but in the departments!”
At this point I can’t restrain myself:
“Your Majesty! On the Four Taxes is a good law, only it has been diverted in the wrong direction: the district police officers don’t need regular business petitions, but black mortgages. That’s where they’re going with this law!”
The right wing approves:
“That’s right, Komiaga! The law isn’t the problem!”
But the left wing objects:
“The problem isn’t the mortgages, but the law!”
From the left wing Buben jumps up: “Chinese can handle six taxes! Russia will only gain from this! Your Majesty, the law needs to be rewritten with another number, to increase the assessments, then they won’t travel to pawn things—they won’t have time to straighten their backs!”
A lot of noise:
“True!”
“Not true!”
Then Potyka stands up; he’s young, but he’s tenacious when it comes to guile.
“Your Majesty, I see it this way. Whether there are six assessments or eight, this is what could happen. The Chinese have big families; they’ll begin to split and to divide, they’ll register by twos and threes, to reduce the tax. And then they’ll all mortgage one place, but not as contract workers anymore—instead, as single parasites. Then, by law they can turn in the tax to us by halves. We take two parts, set ourselves up on the third, and the rest will disappear back to the Chinese. It’ll turn out that they’re all sitting on the tax, bag and baggage. That sort of Chinese guy will marry one of our women—and then there’s no Chinese tax assessment at all! He’s a citizen of Russia!”
The room is abuzz. Good for Potyka! He sees to the root of things. It wasn’t in vain that he served in the Far Eastern customs before the oprichnina. Batya bangs his fist on the table with pleasure.
His Majesty says nothing. He looks at us from the ceiling with his attentive gray-blue gaze. We calm down. Once again silence reigns in the hall. His Majesty speaks:
“Well, I have listened to your opinions. I thank you. I’m glad that my oprichnina is as sharp as ever. I will make a decision about the law on taxes tomorrow. But today I’m taking another decision: to purge the district councils.”
A roar of approval. Thank God! Those western Siberian thieves will finally get what they deserve!
We all jump up, pull our daggers out of their sheathes, and lift them:
“Hail! Purge!”
“Hail the Purge!”
“Hail the Purge!”
With a sweeping gesture we stick our daggers in the tables, and clap our hands so hard that the chandeliers shake.
“Hail the Sweep of the Broom!”
“Hail the Sweep to Their Doom!!”
“Hail and Sweep Them Clean!”
Batya’s resounding voice thunders:
“Sweep them clean out! Sweep them clean out!”
We take up the cry:
“Sweep them out! Sweep them out!”
We clap till our hands hurt.
His Majesty’s face disappears.
Batya lifts his glass:
“To His Majesty’s health! Hail!”
“Hail! Hail!”
We drink and sit down.
“Thank God, we’ll have work!” grunts Shelet.
“It’s long overdue!” I put my knife back in its sheath.
“The councils out there are seething with maggots!” Pravda shakes his gold forelock indignantly.
Rumbling fills the refectory.
A conversation flares up at Batya’s table. The fat chairman of the All-Russian Society for the Observance of Human Rights throws up his plump hands:
“My good men! How long must our great Russia bow and cringe before China?! Just as we bowed before foul America during the Time of Troubles, so now we crawl hunchbacked before the Celestial Kingdom. Imagine, His Majesty worries about the Chinese paying their taxes properly!”
Churilo Volodevich seconds him:
“You speak the truth, Anton Bogdanych! They’ve crammed themselves into our very own Siberia, and we have to worry about their taxes to boot! They should pay us more!”
The bath attendant Mamona shakes his bald head:
“His Majesty’s goodness knows no bounds.”
The paraxyliarch strokes his gray beard:
“Those border predators feed off His Majesty’s kindness. All those insatiable mouths!”
Batya takes a bite of the turkey leg, chews, and holds the leg over the table:
“Where do you think this comes from?”
“From over there, Batya!” Shelet smiles.
“That’s right, from over there,” Batya continues. “And not only meat. We even eat Chinese bread.”
“We drive Chinese Mercedovs,” says Pravda, grinning, his teeth showing.
“We fly on Chinese Boeings,” Porokhovshchikov interjects.
The game warden nods. “His Majesty likes to shoot ducks with Chinese guns.”
“We make children on Chinese beds!” Potyka exclaims.
“We do our business on Chinese toilets!” I add.
Everyone laughs. And Batya lifts his index finger wisely:
“All true! And as long as that’s the way things are, we should befriend China and keep the peace, not make war and fight. His Majesty is wise, he sees to the root of things. But you, Anton Bogdanych, even though you’re supposed to be a statesman, your reason only touches the surface of things.”
“I feel bad for our country!” The chairman turns his round head such that his triple chin jiggles like meat jelly.
“Our state isn’t going anywhere, don’t worry. The main thing, as His Majesty says, is for each of us to toil honestly in his place for the good of the Motherland. Is that right?”
“True!” we echo Batya.
“Now, since that’s true—let’s drink to Rus! To Rus!”
“To Rus! Hail! To Rus! To Rus!”
Everyone jumps up. Glasses meet with a ring. Before we’ve even drunk everything, there’s a new toast. Buben shouts:
“To our Batya! Hail!”
“Hail! Hail!”
“To our dearest Batya! Good health to you! Success against opponents. Strength! May your eyes be ever sharp-sighted!”
We drink to our leader. Batya sits there, chews, washes the wine down with kvass. He winks at us. And suddenly, he locks his two pinkie fingers together.
The bathhouse!
Oh, Mamochka! My heart flares: Did I imagine it? No! Batya’s pinkies are locked together. Those who need to, see the sign. What news! The bathhouse is usually on Saturday, and even then not every Saturday…My heart is thumping, I glance at Shelet and Pravda: it’s news to them, too! They turn around, chuckle, scratch their beards, twirl their mustaches. Freckled Posokha winks at me and grins wide.
Wonderful! My exhaustion disappears. The baths! I look at the clock—23:12. A whole forty-eight minutes to wait. No matter! We can wait, Komiaga. Time moves on—and man puts up with it. Thank God…
The clock in the hall strikes midnight. The end of the oprichniks’ evening repast. We all stand. In a loud voice Batya thanks the Lord for our food. We cross ourselves and bow. Our guys head for the exit. But not everyone. The inner oprichniks stay—what we call the oprich of the oprichniks. And I’m among them. My heart thumps in anticipation. Sweet, oh how sweet is its beating! In the emptied hall where the servants quickly bustle about, the two wings remain, along with the most adroit, outstanding young oprichniks—Okhlop, Potyka, Komol, Yelka, Avila, Obdul, Varyony, and Igla. All first-class—blood with milk, gold-forelock fire fellows.
Batya walks from the large hall to the small hall. We follow him—the right wing, the left, and the young people. The servants close the door behind us. Batya approaches the fireplace decorated with three bronze warriors, and pulls Ilya Muromets by his cudgel. A door opens in the wall next to the fireplace. Batya is the first to step through the door, and we follow by rank. As soon as I enter, the bathhouse smell hits my nostrils. And from the very aroma of it my head spins, the blood in my temples beats with little silver hammers: Batya’s bath!
We descend the dim stone staircase, down, down, down. Each step down is a gift, the expectation of joy. There is just one thing I can’t understand—why Batya decided to have the baths tonight. Will wonders never cease?! Earlier today we enjoyed the golden sterlets—and now we’re also going to take the steam.
The light flares: the dressing room opens. Batya’s bath attendants meet us—Ivan, Zufar, and Cao. They’re older, experienced, trustworthy. They’re all different in personality and blood, and in their bathhouse skills. Only injury unites them: Zufar and Cao are mute, and Ivan is deaf. This is wise not only for Batya, but for them as well—the oprichniks’ bathhouse attendants sleep a deeper sleep and live longer.
We sit down and disrobe. The attendants help Batya to undress. And he doesn’t lose any time:
“About work. Who has what?”
The left wingers are ahead right away: Vosk and Seryi finally got underground Kitaigorod away from the treasurers; now we control all the construction. Nechai has two denunciations against Prince Oboluev, Buben has the money from a deal that was bought off. In Amsterdam, Baldokhai correctly rubbed up against the Russian community, and brought back black petitions; Samosya’s asking for personal damages—he smashed a Streltsy car. Without a single word of reproach, Batya gives him five hundred rubles in gold.
Our fellows from the right wing weren’t so resourceful today: Mokry fought with tradesmen for the Odintsov Paradise restaurant, but hasn’t gotten very far yet; Posokha tortured criminal pilots with the departmentals; Shelet had meetings in the Ambassadorial Department. Yerokha flew to Urengoi to deal with white gas; Pravda arranged surveillance and set fire to the apartment of someone in disgrace. I’m the only one with a profit:
“Here, Batya, Kozlova bought a half-deal. Twenty-five hundred.”
Batya takes the purse, shakes it, unties it, counts out ten gold pieces, and gives me my due. He sums up the day:
“In the black.”
Other oprichnik days are “festive,” “wealthy,” “hot,” “disbursed,” “losing,” and “sour.” The young people sit and listen, learning a bit of wisdom.
The money and the papers disappear into the white square shining on the wall of the old storeroom. The bath attendants take off Batya’s pants. He slaps his hands on his knees:
“I have some news for you, gentlemen oprichniks: Count Andrei Vladimirovich Urusov is naked.”
We sit there, dumbstruck. Baldokhai is the first to open his mouth:
“How’s that, Batya?”
“He’s been removed from all his posts by His Majesty’s decree, and his accounts frozen. But that’s not all.
”
Our commander takes us all in with his searching gaze:
“His Majesty’s daughter, Anna Vasilevna, has sued for divorce from Count Urusov.”
Now there you go! That really is news! His Majesty’s family! I can’t refrain:
“Motherfucker!”
Batya immediately socks me in the jaw.
“Shameless!”
“Forgive me, Batya, the devil made me do it, I couldn’t help…”
“Fuck your own mother, it will be less expensive.”
“Batya, you know my mother passed away…” I try to get him on pity.
“Fuck her in the grave.”
I’m silent as I wipe my split lip with my undershirt.
“I’ll beat the brazen, rabble-rousing spirit out of you!” Batya threatens us. “Whoever fouls his lips with curses—will not stay long in the oprichnina!”
We grow quiet.
“So, then,” he continues. “His Majesty’s daughter has filed for divorce. I don’t think the patriarch will divorce them. But the Moscow Metropolitan could divorce them.”
He could. We understand. He very likely would. Just like that! If that happened, Urusov would be completely naked. How wisely His Majesty conducts internal politics; oh, how wisely! If you look at it from the family point of view, what does that pasquinade mean for him? Underground rebels write all sorts of things…After all, no matter what you say, it’s his son-in-law, the spouse of his beloved daughter. And if you look at it from the governmental point of view, it’s an enviable resolution. Cunning! No wonder His Majesty prefers skittles and chess to all other games. He calculated a multistep combination, drew back, and swung the bat at his own. Knocked a fattened son-in-law out of the Inner Circle. And immediately strengthened the people’s love for him two- or threefold. Gave the Inner Circle something to think about: don’t go too far. He reigned in the departmental clerks: that’s how a statesman should act. He energized us, the oprichniks: in the New Russia no one is untouchable. No one is and no one can be. And thank God.
Both wings sit shaking their heads, clicking their tongues:
“Urusov—naked. Hard to believe!”
“There you go! Turned Moscow topsy-turvy!”
“He shone in His Majesty’s favor.”
Day of the Oprichnik Page 13