Day of the Oprichnik

by Sorokin, Vladimir

  “He stirred things up, shuffled people around.”

  “Drove three Rolls-Royces.”

  It’s true—Urusov had three Rolls-Royces: gold, silver, and platinum.

  “So what’s he gonna drive now?” Yerokha asks.

  “A lame electric goat!” Zamosya answers.

  We chuckle.

  “Well, that’s not the last bit of news,” says Batya, standing up naked.

  “He’s coming here. To the baths. To take the steam and ask for our protection.”

  Those standing sit down again. This is too much! Urusov—coming to see Batya? On the other hand, if you think about it rationally, where else does he have to hide, now that he’s naked? His Majesty kicked him out of the Kremlin, businessmen will flee from him, the departmentals as well. As a fornicator, the Patriarch won’t shelter him. To Buturlin? They can’t stand each other. To Her Highness? Her stepdaughter despises her for “debauchery,” she hates her stepdaughter and her stepdaughter’s husband, even though he’s already a former one, all the more. The road to China is closed for the count: Zhou Shen Min is a friend of His Majesty and won’t go against his will. What can the count do? Sit in his estate and wait for us to roll up with our brooms? So, out of desperation, he decides to pay obeisance to Batya. That’s the right thing to do! For a naked man the road can lead only to the bathhouse.

  “So that’s the way the cookie crumbles and the chips fly,” Batya sums up. “And now—to the baths!”

  Batya is the first to enter. Naked, like Adam, we follow him. Batya’s bathhouse is rich: the ceilings are vaulted and abutted by columns; the floor is marble mosaic; the pool is large; the lounge chairs comfortable. The aroma of bread is already coming from the steam room—Batya likes to use kvass for his steam.

  He immediately commands:

  “Right wing!”

  Batya is commander in chief in his bathhouse. We rush to the steam room. Ivan is already waiting there in his felt cap and gloves, with two bunches of twigs—birch and oak. The carousel begins: we lie down on the sweating shelves, deaf Ivan starts the kvass steam, grunts, and chants an unusually loud jokey jingle as he begins to lash the oprichniks with the birch brooms.

  I lie there, my eyes closed. I wait my turn, breathing in the steam. Then the waiting is over: whisk, whisk, whisk—on my back, my ass, my legs. Ivan is so experienced in bath whipping it’s unbelievable—he doesn’t stop until you’re steam-cleaned. But at Batya’s you shouldn’t steam too long, for other pleasures lie in store. Even in the steam room my heart grows cold in anticipation.

  Ivan steams away, chanting:

  “Hark, hark,

  Grind beans and bark

  Yurop to gas

  With oprichnik ass.

  “Ass bone white,

  Works day and night,

  Smear it with lard,

  Show Yurop what’s hard!”

  Ivan’s little ditty is old, and he’s not too young himself: there’s no one in Europe to show a Russian ass to anyway. No decent people remain beyond the Western Wall, only Arab cyberpunks crawling over the ruins. Europe or an ass, it’s all the same to them.

  Oak branches rustle on the nape of my neck, and birch branches tickle my heels.

  “Ready!”

  I climb off the shelf and fall into Zufar’s strong hands: now it’s his turn. He grabs me like a sack of potatoes, hoists me over his back, and lugs me out of the steam room. Taking a running start, he chucks me into the pool. Oh, I feel good! Everything is top-notch at Batya’s—the steam is hot and the water ice-cold. It goes straight to the bone. I swim, and wake up. But Zufar doesn’t give you a breather—he pulls me up, tosses me onto the futon, jumps on my back, and starts walking on me. My vertebrae crack. His Tatar feet walk along a Russian spine. They walk skillfully—they do no harm, won’t destroy, won’t bruise…His Majesty knows how to join all the peoples of the Russian land under his mighty wing: the Tatars and Mordovians, Bashkir, Jews, Chechens, Ingush, Cheremis, the Evenki and Yakuts, the Marii, Karelians, Buriats, Urdmurts, the simple-hearted Chukchi, and many, many others.

  Zufar pours water over me and gives me to Cao. And now I’m reclining in the washroom, looking at the painted ceiling, and the Chinese Cao is washing me. His soft, quick fingers slip over my body, rub fragrant foam into my hair, pour aromatic oils on my stomach; he runs his fingers through my toes, and massages my calves. No one can wash you like a Chinese. They know how to handle the human body. On the ceiling there’s a scene of a heavenly garden; birds and beasts, heeding the voice of God. Man isn’t in this garden yet—he hasn’t been created. It’s lovely to look at the garden of paradise when you’re being washed. Something long-ago forgotten awakens in your soul, something drawn out by the lard of time…

  Cao splashes cool water on me from the lime flower washtub, and helps me to stand. You feel heartened and ready after a Chinese bath. I walk into the main hall. Gradually, everyone joins, passing through the Russian-Tatar-Chinese conveyor. Clean, rosy bodies plop down on the lounge beds, swigging nonalcoholic drinks, chatting. Uzh, Shelet, and Samosya have already been through the steam room; Mokry just got wet; Vosk collapsed on the lounge with a grunt; and Yerokha is oohing and aahing in gratitude. Chapyzh and Buben down the kvass greedily, coming to their senses. Great is the brotherhood of the bathhouse. Everyone is equal here—the right and the left, the old and the young. Gilded forelocks have gotten wet and tousled. Tongues have loosened:

  “Samosya, so where d’ya hit that colonel anyway?”

  “I smashed his side at the turn from Ostozhenka. That Streltsy idiot chickened out, wouldn’t get out of the car. Then their people came with a square, a hand, the duty policeman folded, I didn’t pass for a good guy, and I didn’t want to butt heads with a cudgel…”

  “Brothers, listen, a new joint opened on Maroseika Street—called Kissel Shores. Pretty expensive: twelve kinds of kissel, vodka made from lime-tree buds, hare in noodles, girls singing…”

  “For Shrovetide His Majesty is giving presents to athletes: a hydrogen Mercedov apiece; gorodki players get a fat-tailed motorcycle, the women archers a viviparous fur coat…”

  “In short, the SOBs locked themselves in, and Batya forbade us to use fireworks—the house wasn’t in disgrace. Couldn’t use gas or lasers either. So we did things the old way—in the lower quarter: this and that, the enemies are upstairs. We asked them statesmanlike, officially, they came out with suitcases and icons, we singed them, began to smoke the upstairs ones out. We thought they’d open up, but they jumped out the window. The elder landed on the fence—the spike went straight through his liver—the younger broke his leg but survived, and then he gave evidence…”

  “Avdotia Petrovna personally broke the toilets with her humongous ass, I swear…”

  “Yerokha, hey, Yerokha…”

  “Whaddya want?”

  “Where’s my pie?”

  “You knucklehead! Pick up your balls, they’re rolling around on the floor!”

  “Buben, is it true that gray profits in the Trade Department are being closed down through the tax collectors?”

  “Unh-uh. Only bonuses go through the tax collectors, but the gray are still covered by the junior clerks.”

  “There’s enemies for you! No poker made could ever pick them out…”

  “Wait until the fall, Brother Okhlop. We’ll pick them all out.”

  “Autumn, autumn, they’re burning shiiiiips…young man, where did you get your tattoo?”

  “In Nebuchadnezzar.”

  “That’s nice. Especially down below, with the dragons…”

  “Come on, Brother Mokry, let me have a swig of kvass.”

  “Swig as much as you want, for the love of Christ, Brother Potyka.”

  “They keep on about bribes, bribes, bribes…what the hell do I need to dig up bribes for?”

  “See-saw, saw-see, Brother Yerokha doesn’t like me…”

  “I’ll crack your forehead open, you troublemaker!”

  “
Did you hear why His Majesty closed the Third Western Pipeline? Those shithead Europeans didn’t give the court any Château Lafite again; just half a car, and they can’t even get that together!”

  As always, Batya is the last into the steam room. The bathhouse attendants hold his wide body up and bring him to us. They hand over our kinsman:

  “Batya, we hope you enjoyed your bath!”

  “We hope it went all the way to the bone!”

  “To your health!”

  “Into the backbone.”

  “Into the marrow!”

  Batya’s body gives off heat.

  “Oof, Holy Mother of God…give me some kvass!”

  Silver cups are held out to our beloved Batya.

  “Drink, Brother Batya!”

  Batya scans us with bleary eyes, making his choice:

  “Vosk!”

  Vosk holds the cup for Batya. Of course, today the left wing is in favor. Rightly so. They earned it.

  Batya drains the cup of honey kvass, takes a breath, and belches. He looks us over. We freeze. Batya bides his time, winks at us. And utters the long-awaited “Cluck, cluck cluck!”

  The light goes down, and from the marble wall a shining hand, full of pills, extends outward. And like the confession for the Holy Communion, we stand in a humble line at the illumined palm. Each of us approaches, takes his tablet, places it in his mouth under the tongue, and moves away. I do the same. I take the tablet, which doesn’t look like anything unusual. I place it in my mouth, and already my fingers are trembling, my knees are weak, and my heart is beating like an anxious hammer; my blood is pounding at my temples like oprichniks breaking into a Zemstvo estate.

  My trembling tongue covers the tablet as a cloud covers a temple high atop a hill. The tablet melts, melts sweetly under the tongue, the saliva flooding down upon it like the River Jordan flows in springtime. My heart throbs, I gasp for breath, the ends of my fingers grow cold, and my eyes are more sharp-sighted in the gloom. And now comes the long-awaited moment: a rush of blood to my member. I lower my eyes. I behold it, filling with blood. My refurbished member—with two cartilaginous inserts, a blade of hyperfilaments, pellets in bas relief—rises like a wave of meat with moving tattoos. It levitates like the trunk of a Siberian mammoth. And under my bold member the crimson light of my weighty genitals begins to glow. And not only mine. The genitals of everyone who took communion from the shining palm are glowing, like fire-flies in rotten tree stumps on Midsummer’s Eve. The oprichniks’ genitals have been kindled, each with its own light. For the right wing this color ranges from scarlet to the dark murrey of blood; for the left from sky blue to violet; and for the greenhorns, green light of all hues. And it is only our Batya whose genitals shine a special color, distinct from all the others—our dear Batya’s genitals shine yellow-gold. The great strength of the oprichnik brotherhood lies here. Oprichniks all have genitals revamped by ingenious Chinese doctors. Light flows from the genitals, craving manly love. It gathers strength from the rising member. And until the light has waned—we, the oprichniks, are entwined in brotherly embraces. Strong hands grasp strong bodies. We kiss one another on the lips. We kiss silently, like men, without any women’s sweet talk. We greet and excite one another through our kissing. The bath attendants bustle among us with clay pots filled with Chinese ointments. We scoop out the thick, aromatic ointment and spread it on our members. The wordless attendants move to and fro among us like shadows, for they do not shine.

  “Hail!” Batya exclaims.

  “Hail, hail!” we cry.

  Batya is the first to rise. He moves Vosk close to him. Vosk sticks his member in Batya’s asshole. Batya groans with pleasure, grins, and bares his white teeth. Shelet embraces Vosk, pokes his greased dick in him. Vosk lets out a belly screech. Seryi fills up Shelet; Seryi is speared by Samosya, Samosya by Baldokhai, Baldokhai by Mokry, Mokry by Nechai, who has to push his sticky stud in, and then my turn comes. I clasp the leftwing brother with my left hand, and with my right I direct my member into his asshole. Wide is Nechai’s hole; I drive my member all the way to his purple core. Nechai doesn’t even grunt; he’s used to it, he’s one of the elder oprichniks. I get a stronger grasp on him, press him to me, tickle him with my beard. Buben attaches himself to me. My trembling asshole feels his club. It’s large—without a push it won’t go in. Buben pushes and pokes, then drives his fat-head member in. His machine reaches all the way to my innards, squeezing a guttural moan out of me. I moan in Nechai’s ear. Buben groans in mine, embracing me with his valiant arms. I don’t see who sticks him, but by the groans I know—it’s a worthy member. Well, there aren’t really any unworthy among us—the Chinese have renewed our genitals, strengthened them, equipped them. We have the wherewithal to delight one another, as well as to punish Russia’s enemies. The oprichnik caterpillar gathers, coupling. Behind me I hear groans and screeches. The law of the brotherhood requires that the left wingers and right wingers alternate, and only then do the younger ones join together. That’s Batya’s rule. And thank God…

  By the cries and muttering I sense that the youngsters’ turn has come. Batya cheers them on:

  “Don’t be scared, greenhorns!”

  The youngsters are trying, they long to burst into each other’s tight assholes. The dark bath attendants help them, they direct them, support them. The next-to-last cries out, the last groans—and the caterpillar is ready. It’s complete. We stay stock-still.

  “Hail!” cries Batya.

  “Hail! Hail!” we roar in reply.

  Batya takes a step. And we follow him, we follow the head of the caterpillar. Batya leads us into the pool. It’s spacious, roomy. It’s filled with warm water instead of ice water.

  “Hail! Hail!” we shout, embracing each other, shuffling.

  We follow Batya. We walk. We walk. We walk in caterpillar steps. Our genitals glow, our members shudder between buttocks.

  We enter the pool. Around us the water boils with air bubbles. Batya submerges himself up to his genitals, then to his waist, his chest. The entire oprichnik caterpillar enters the pool. And rises.

  Now it’s time to be silent. Muscular arms tense, valiant nostrils flare, the oprichniks have begun to moan. The time for the sweet work has come. We coax each other. The water ripples around us, waves heave, splashing out of the pool. And now the long-awaited moment has come: a tremor rolls through the entire caterpillar.

  And:

  “Haaaaaaaiiiilll!”

  The arched ceiling shakes. And the pool—becomes a nine-point storm.

  “Haaaaiiiilll!”

  I roar into Nechai’s ear, and Buben screams into mine:

  “Haaaaiiiilll!”

  Lord, don’t let us die…

  Indescribable. Because it’s so divine.

  Reclining on the soft chaise lounges after oprichnik copulation is like the bliss of paradise. The light is on, buckets of champagne sit on the floor, forest air, Rachmaninov’s Second Concerto for piano and orchestra. Our Batya likes to listen to the Russian classics after copulation. We lie there weakly. The lights in our genitals go out. We drink silently, catch our breath.

  Wisely, oh so wisely, Batya arranged everything with the caterpillar. Before it, everyone broke off in pairs, and the shadow of dangerous disorder lay across the oprichnina. Now there’s a limit to the pleasures of the steam. We work together, and take our pleasure together. And the tablets help. And wisest of all is that the young oprichniks are always stuck at the tail of the caterpillar. This is wise for two reasons: first of all, the young ones know their place in the oprichnik hierarchy; second, the seed moves from the tail of the caterpillar to the head, which symbolizes the eternal cycle of life and the renewal of our brotherhood. On the one hand, the young respect the old; on the other, they replenish them. That’s our foundation. And thank God.

  It’s pleasant to sip Szechuan champagne, feeling how healthy oprichnik seed soaks into the walls of the large intestine. Health isn’t the least thing in our dangerous life.
I take care of mine: I play skittles twice a week, then I swim, I drink maple juice with ground wild strawberries, I eat overgrown fern seeds, I breathe properly. Other oprichniks strengthen their bodies as well.

  Batya is informed from above that Count Urusov has appeared. The bath attendants hand out sheets to everyone. Covering our extinguished private parts, we lie back on our chairs. The count enters from the bathhouse dressing room. He’s wrapped his sheet to look like a Roman toga. The count is a stocky man; he has white skin and thin legs, a large head and short neck. His face, as usual, is gloomy. But something new is imprinted on this well-known face.

  We look at him silently, as though he were a ghost: previously we saw this man only when we were wearing tuxedos or gold-embroidered caftans.

  “Health to you, oprichniks,” the count says in a flat voice.

  “Health to you, Count,” we answer separately.

  Batya, lying on his chaise, says nothing. The count’s mirthless eyes find him:

  “Hello, Boris Borisovich.”

  And…he bows to the waist.

  Our jaws drop. Now that’s heavy. Count Urusov the mighty, all-powerful, unapproachable, bowing to the waist in front of our Batya. Makes you remember the ancient: sic transit gloria mundi.

  Batya takes his time standing up.

  “To your health, Count.”

  He bows in reply, crosses his arms on his stomach, and looks at the count silently. Our Batya is a head taller than Urusov.

  “So then, I decided to visit you,” the count says, breaking the silence. “I’m not intruding, am I?”

  “We’re always happy to have guests,” says Batya. “There’s still some steam.”

  “I’m not terribly keen on steam baths. I have a pressing matter to discuss with you, one that will brook no delay. Shall we retire to a more private setting?”

  “I have no secrets from the oprichniks, Count,” Batya answers calmly, making a sign to the attendants. “Champagne?”

  The glum count purses his lips, glances at us sideways with the eyes of a wolf. And he is a wolf—only exhausted, at bay. Cao brings them champagne. Batya takes a slender glass, gulps it down, puts it back on the tray, and grunts as he wipes his mustache. Urusov only puts his lips to the glass, as though it were hemlock.