Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel

by Boris Akunin

  And the next day it emerged that the Americans had spent a perfectly wonderful night—on the advice of the ubiquitous Cooks agency, they had hung hammocks in the garden and slept quite gorgeously.

  The exhausted Pelagia rattled and bounced along in the hantur, occasionally falling into a doze. Constantly jerked back into wakefulness by the jolting, she gazed around uncomprehendingly at the bald tops of the hills, then began nodding off again. She gave her hat to the camel so that it would leave her alone and covered her head with her gauze scarf.

  Then suddenly, somewhere on the boundary between waking and sleeping, a clear voice declared sadly: “Hurry, you’re late.” Polina Andreevna’s heart was pierced by a strange anxiety. She started, and the heavy veil of sleep evaporated without a trace as her brain woke up.

  What am I doing—have I completely lost my mind? Pelagia asked herself. I’m nothing but another tourist—the railway wasn’t good enough for me. And a whole day has been completely wasted. What unforgivable, criminal stupidity!

  She had to hurry! She must get to Jerusalem soon!

  She lifted her head, shook the final remnants of sleep off her eyelashes and saw a city floating in the mist in the distance.

  The Heavenly City

  THERE IT IS, JERUSALEM, Pelagia realized, and sat up on the bench. Her hand flew up to her throat, as if she were afraid that her breathing might stop. The dust and the heat were forgotten, and so was the mysterious voice out of nowhere that had roused the pilgrim from her drowsy stupor.

  Salakh explained in two languages that he had deliberately turned off the high road to show them Jerusalem at its most beautiful. The Americans squealed something or other; the horses flicked their ears; the camel crunched the final remnants of the hat; and Pelagia gazed, spellbound, at the city shimmering in the mist, and the lines from Revelation surfaced in her memory of their own accord: “And I, John, did see the holy city of Jerusalem, renewed, descending from God in His heaven, prepared as a bride decked out for her husband. It had twenty gates, and on them twenty angels. The foundations of the wall of the city were decorated with all manner of precious stones: the first foundation was jasper, the second sapphire, the third chalcedony, the fourth emerald, the fifth sardonyx, the sixth carnelian, the seventh chrysolite, the eighth beryl, the ninth topaz, the tenth chrysoprase, the eleventh hyacinth, the twelfth amethyst. And the twelve gates were twelve pearls: each gate made of one pearl. The streets of the city were paved with gold like transparent glass.” In the older language the final sentence sounded even more beautiful: “And the streets of the city were of gold most pure, most bright like unto glass.”

  There it was, the most important place on earth. And it was right that the road to it was so difficult and exhausting. The right to this vision had to be earned, for the light shines brightly only for eyes weary of the darkness.

  The nun got down onto the ground, knelt, and recited the joyful psalm: “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and let all that is within me praise His holy name,” but she concluded the prayer oddly, not in the canonical fashion: “And teach me, Lord, to do what must be done.”

  The hantur set off again toward Jerusalem, and the city first disappeared behind the next hill, then reappeared, this time without any mist and bearing no resemblance whatever to a heavenly city.

  The dreary streets followed one after the other, lined with single-story and two-story houses. This was not even the East, but some kind of backwater of Europe, and if not for the Arab script on the signs and the fezzes on the heads of the passersby, it would have been easy to imagine that you were somewhere in Galicia or Rumania.

  Polina Andreevna felt quite distraught at the sight of the Jaffa Gate. What on earth was this? Fiacres, the London Credit Bank, a French restaurant, and even—horror of horrors—a newspaper kiosk!

  The American couple got out in front of the Lloyd Hotel and handed over the camel to a doorman in red livery. Mrs. Lisitsyna was now the only passenger in the hantur.

  “Is the Sepulchre of Our Lord there?” she asked in a tremulous voice, pointing to the wall topped by battlements.

  “There, but we not go there. Since you Russian, you need migrash a-rusim, Russian church center,” said Salakh, waving his hand vaguely to the left.

  The wagon set off along the fortress wall, and a few minutes later the traveler found herself in a small square that seemed to have been transported there directly from Moscow at the wave of some magic wand. Following the torments of the mountains and the deserts, the nun’s gaze delighted in the domes of an Orthodox Christian church, unmistakably Russian administrative buildings, and signs with inscriptions in Russian: Bakery, Hot Water Plant, Public Dining Hall, Lodging House for Female Pilgrims, St. Sergius Conventuary.

  “Good-bye, madam,” Salakh said with a bow, suddenly very polite at their parting—no doubt he was hoping for baksheesh. “Everyone here ours, Russian. You want go back to Jaffa or go somewhere else, come Damascus Gate, ask Salakh. Everyone there know me.”

  Polina Andreevna didn’t give him any baksheesh—he didn’t deserve any—but she bade him a friendly farewell. He was a trickster, of course, but he had got her there.

  FOR THE CONVENIENCE of the pilgrims, an employee of the pilgrim reception committee sat here under a parasol in the most conspicuous spot, exactly as in the port of Jaffa. He explained the local customs, answered questions, and recommended lodgings to people according to their status and means: for those who were poor, bed and board cost only thirteen kopecks, but it was possible to be accommodated in comfort for four rubles.

  “How can I see the father archimandrite?” Polina Andreevna asked. “I have a letter for him from the His Eminence Mitrofanii, the Bishop of Zavolzhsk.”

  “His Reverence is away at the moment,” replied the attendant, a benign old man in iron-rimmed spectacles. “He has gone to Hevron to look for a site for a school. But you take a rest while you wait, madam. We have our own bathhouse, it even has a section for nobility. Good laundresses to wash your linen. And you can confess after the journey. There isn’t enough room in the church, so the father archimandrite has blessed the hearing of confessions in tents in the garden, as in the early Christian times.”

  And indeed, there were four tents crowned with golden crosses standing under the trees at the edge of the square, with a line leading to each one: one long line, two moderate lines, and only two people waiting in front of the fourth tent.

  “Why are the lines so uneven?” Pelagia inquired curiously.

  “Well, that, if you please, reflects what people want. They are keenest of all to see Father Iannuarii. But not many are brave enough to go over to the other side, to Father Agapit. He is a harsh and rather intemperate character. I am so sorry, dear madam,” the old man said with a shrug, “but a confessional is not a hotel, it has no first and second class. All are equal before God. So if you wish to see Father Iannuarii, you will have to wait with the simple folk—that’s four hours in the hot sun, at the very least. Some gentlemen, it is true, hire someone to stand there for them, but that, God knows, is a sin.”

  “It’s all right, I can confess later,” Polina Andreevna replied frivolously “when the heat dies down a bit. But meanwhile, please find me lodgings.”

  Just then she heard a shout from the confessional that was least popular with the pilgrims (it was the one closest to the square). The canvas walls of the tent swayed and a swarthy-skinned gentleman in spectacles came flying out, almost measuring his full length on the grass. He appeared to have been flung out of the tabernacle of the mystery by the scruff of his neck, as they say.

  With an effort, he managed to stay on his feet, and he stared back at the entrance to the tent, from which a hirsute priest, crimson-faced with rage, emerged and howled, “You get off back to your Moshes! Back to the Rov ga-Iuda! The Jews can take your confession!”

  “There now, you see!” the old attendant for the reception of pilgrims exclaimed in a pained voice. “He’s at it again!”

  “Bu
t what is the Rov ga-Iuda?” Polina Andreevna asked quickly, gazing at the menacing Father Agapit very attentively.

  “The Jewish quarter in the Old City. Inside the wall over there, there are four quarters …”

  But Pelagia was no longer listening—she had taken several steps toward the tent, as if she were afraid of missing a single word in the escalating squabble.

  Having recovered from the initial shock, the swarthy gentleman also began shouting: “How dare you! I am a baptized Christian! I shall complain about you to the father archimandrite!”

  “Baptized!” the confessor exclaimed mockingly and spat. “As the people say: ‘A Yid’s like a devil: he’ll never repent!’ And another thing they say is: ‘Baptize a Jew, then push him under the ice!’ A Christian, pah! Pah! Begone!”

  And he made the sign of the cross over the man in spectacles, as furiously as if he were trying to strike him with his bunched fingers, first on the forehead and then in his stomach, adding final blows to the right and left collarbones. The rejected supplicant staggered back to avoid these threatening gestures and soon fled from the field of battle, muttering to himself and sobbing.

  This scene made a serious impression on the two other pilgrims waiting their turn to confess to Father Agapit. They retreated in rapid order, one joining the queue to Father Martirii and the other joining the queue to Father Kornilii.

  “Wait!” the old man called to Polina Andreevna. “I’ll tell you how to find the hotel for female pilgrims of noble blood.”

  “Thank you, but, you know, I think I’ll confess first after all,” Pelagia replied. “There isn’t a line just now.”

  A false brachycephalic

  AFTER THE FEMALE pilgrim pronounced the formula, “I confess all my sins to the Lord and to you, Father,” the priest suddenly asked: “Why is your hair so ginger?”

  Polina Andreevna was so surprised by the question that she opened her mouth disrespectfully.

  Father Agapit knitted his brows: “You wouldn’t happen to be a baptized Jew, would you?”

  “No,” said the woman who had come to repent of her sins. “On my word of honor!”

  But the priest was not satisfied with a “word of honor.” “Maybe your father was a Cantonist? Do you have any Jewish blood at all, on your father’s or your mother’s side? You don’t get red hair without a touch of the Yid.”

  “Oh, no, Father, I’m completely Russian. Except for my great-grandfather …”

  “A Yid, was he?” the confessor broke in, screwing up his eyes. “Aha! I have a good eye!”

  “No, he came from England, a hundred years ago. But he married a Russian woman and accepted the Orthodox faith. But why are you asking so many questions?”

  “Ah-ah, then that’s a different matter,” said Father Agapit, reassured. “It’s all right if he came from England. He must have been from Irish stock. That’s all right. Red hair comes from two sources: the Celts and the Jews. I questioned you like that so I wouldn’t commit a blunder and defile the mystery of the confession. There are lots of Jews and half-Jews nowadays trying to squirm their way into the Orthodox faith. A Yid’s lousy enough anyway, but a baptized Yid’s twice as bad.”

  “Is that why you threw that gentleman out?”

  “It’s written all over his ugly mug that he’s a kike. I tell you, I’ve got an eye for it. They can burn me at the stake, but I won’t stand for any blasphemy!”

  Pelagia assumed an expression of total sympathy with such self-sacrificing determination, but aloud she remarked:

  “However, our church does welcome new converts, including those from the Jewish faith …”

  “Not the church, not the church, but the fools in the church! They’ll weep for it some day, but it will be too late. Letting a black sheep into a flock of white ones is either plain stupidity or the prompting of the Devil.”

  The priest went on to elucidate this not entirely clear allegory: “There are white sheep, which graze on the slopes of heaven, close to the gaze of the Lord God. And there are black sheep, whose pastures are the lowlands of the earth, where the thorns and the tares grow. The white sheep are the Christians, the black ones are the Jews. Let the Yids eat their prickles, just as long as they don’t try to join our flock and spoil the whiteness of the fleece. It was said at the Sixth Ecumenical Council: go not to a Jew for healing, do not wash with him in the bathhouse, do not take him for your friend. And we are God’s sheepdogs—the reason we exist is to make sure that God’s flock doesn’t mingle with the mangy sheep. If a sheep from another flock creeps across to our pasture, we sink our fangs in its legs and give it a good hiding, to teach the rest of them a lesson.”

  “And what if it’s the other way around?” Pelagia asked with an innocent air. “If someone wants to move from the white flock to the black one? There are some people who reject Christianity and accept Judaism. For instance, I’ve heard talk about the sect of the Foundlings …”

  “Traitors to Christ!” Father Agapit thundered. “And that leader of theirs, Manuila, is a devil sent from the depths of hell to kill the Son of Man for a second time! That Manuila ought to be set in the ground with an aspen stake stuck through him!”

  Polina Andreevna’s voice became even quieter and more velvety. “Father, I’ve also heard that this bad man supposedly set out to come to the Holy Land.”

  “He’s here, here! He has come to mock and sneer at the Sepulchre of Our Lord. He was seen at Easter, confusing the pilgrims with his blandishments, and he seduced some! Even the Jews wanted to stone him, even they were nauseated by him! He ran off and hid, the snake. Oh, I wish the brothers would come here!”

  “Do you have brothers?” the pilgrim asked naïvely.

  Agapit smiled menacingly. “Yes, I do. And many of them. Not blood brothers—soul brothers. Knights of the Orthodox faith, God’s defenders. Have you heard of the Oprichniks of Christ?”

  Polina Andreevna smiled, as if the priest had said something extremely agreeable. “Yes, I read about those people in the newspapers. Some said good things about them, and others said bad things. They called them bandits and thugs.”

  “Lies from the Yids and Yid-lovers! Ah, if only you knew, my daughter, how cruelly I am oppressed here! It’s all fine and well for our lads in Russia—it’s our own earth, it warms them from below, and they have the faithful brotherhood at their side. We are strong there. But to be alone in foreign parts is a hard and bitter lot.”

  This confession agitated the tenderhearted pilgrim terribly.

  “What?” she exclaimed in concern. “Do you really not have any fellow thinkers here in the Holy Land? Then who will protect the white sheep from the black? Where are these Oprichniks of yours?”

  “They’re where they ought to be, in Mother Russia. In Moscow, Kiev, Poltava, Zhitomir.”

  “In Zhitomir?” Polina Andreevna asked, very interested.

  “Yes, the Zhitomir group are faithful knights, militant. They give the Yids no quarter, and they keep an even keener eye on the Yid-lovers. If that Manuila started stirring things up in Zhitomir, or that weasel-face I just flung out of here dared to threaten me, a member of the clergy, their souls would soon be parting company with their bodies!”

  The memory of the recent confrontation roused Father Agapit’s temper again. “He’ll complain about me to the archimandrite! And won’t that tyrant be only too delighted! Our Reverence is possessed by the demon of universal tolerance—I’m like a bone stuck in his throat. They’ll drive me out of here, Sister,” the zealot of pure faith complained bitterly. “I don’t suit them, I’m too intransigent. The next time you come to confess, I won’t be here.”

  “So you’re entirely alone here?” Polina Andreevna murmured in disappointment and then added, apparently to herself: “Oh, that’s no good, no good at all.”

  “What’s no good?” the priest asked in surprise.

  At this point the pilgrim wiped all trace of sweetness from her face and gazed fixedly at Father Agapit, feeling as she did so
a quite unchristian desire to say something unpleasant to this horrible man—something that would cut him to the quick.

  It’s all right, I can do that, she thought, giving way to temptation. If I were in my habit, it would be wicked, but in a dress it’s permissible.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have Jewish blood yourself, would you?” Polina Andreevna asked.

  “What?”

  “You, know, Father, at the university I attended lectures on anthropology. I can tell you for certain that your mother, or perhaps your grandmother, sinned with a Jew. Take a look in the mirror. Your eyes are close-set—an obviously Semitic feature. Your nose is gristly, and your hair has a certain curl to it, the ears are typical, too, and—most important of all—the shape of the skull is absolutely brachycephalic.”

  “Absolutely what ?” Father Agapit exclaimed in horror, clutching at his head (which, to be quite precise, was more of the dolichocephalic type).

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Pelagia, shaking her head. “I don’t want to risk confessing to a Jew. I think I’ll go and stand in Father Iannuarii’s line.” And she walked out of the tent, feeling very pleased with herself.

  AS IT HAPPENED, there was one other pilgrim waiting outside the tent: a peasant in a large felt cap, with a thick beard that grew almost right up to his eyes. “You’d better go to the other priests,” Mrs. Lisitsyna advised him. “Father Agapit is not feeling well.”

  The peasant didn’t reply, in fact he turned away—evidently he didn’t want to defile himself by looking at a woman just before confession.

  But when the female pilgrim set off, he actually looked around and watched her walk away. And he purred quietly to himself: “Come on now, come on now …”

  Something gets into Berdichevsky