by Iliazd
No matter how repulsive the beings who already filled the cathedral, the look of those entering turned out to be even more shocking. Boys opened the procession, two by two, dressed in crimson broadcloth, in overly tight trousers that emphasized their loathsome, rickety legs. Their bloodless faces reflected inchoate vices. But on the muzzles of those who followed after them, carrying crosiers and wearing caftans embroidered with gold, the vices had been inscribed with diligent application, and, looking at the cavities and humps, bunions and sores that ornamented the courtiers, Laurence was more and more amazed. But this amazement gave way to squeamishness when the old men who were already completely decayed, so you couldn’t tell how they were still bearing up, made their appearance. But, no matter how great Laurence’s revulsion, which had begun to be complicated with fear, everything turned out to be trivial in comparison with the sensations that took hold of him: he shuddered, stiffened, stood transfixed, when he saw the emperor
Bringing up the rear of the procession, hunched over, wiping his eternally sweating hands, shaking the red beard dappled with gray that sprouted from his waxen face, wandering with the nervous gaze of his dull, bloodshot eyes, faded, paunchy, decrepit, Brother Mocius, dressed in a jester’s costume, moved along, heading for the emperor’s throne and noiselessly treading the marble of the church
Laurence’s hand, grasping the sheet of paper and already on the point of being lifted up, hung in the air. Filled with trepidation, the young man watched Brother Mocius reach the throne, kiss the cross, and take his seat under the baldachin decorated with double eagles. The bandit couldn’t believe his ears when he heard: “For the emperor Mocius, let us pray.” To hand this person his petition, this pitiful pretender who had already been put to death once, someone like that—would he have what it takes? Could he really disentangle the contradictions that had been tied together in the course of the story to form the noose in which Laurence would perish? Breathe life into a brain drained of blood? Could he give sound back to the grass, clarity to the snowy ridges, and stillness to a shaking hand, and dreams to a hollow, unrestorative sleep? Could he reconcile Laurence with everything that had happened, rendering it suitable for toothless tales told to grandsons and granddaughters?
But, when Laurence recalled the misadventures of the past year, he forced himself to believe that Brother Mocius could do all. Brother Mocius would forgive him—he was, after all, one of his own, a neighbor, he would understand that Laurence had gone astray, had been punished as he deserved and that it was time to return to the sawmill, to his earlier tedium, hardworking and poor
Still, hadn’t Laurence gone mad? How could this murdered holy fool, buried up there in the cemetery, not only be living, but in possession of the empire, ruling over impure spirits? And that he was now alive, who had been slain, you could handle that, but how could it be that he was a holy ascetic, supposedly, but when you took a closer look, he was pulling strings (and the pudding), the great prince of darkness, and so on, and so forth. And weren’t his spawn just poor imitations of their emperor? And what about Captain Arcady’s outrages? The gendarmes’ brutality? Bureaucratic arbitrariness? The instigator of all the crimes that entangled the mountains and the plains—was he not this lout? And to think what Laurence had endured on account of his saintliness, which was in fact sin
And now to prostrate himself, abase himself, bending the knee, submit to his mercy and acknowledge the depravity ruling this world? Or was it better to finish off the creep?
And, nevertheless, there, high, high above the righteous hamlet, among the ice floes and stars, Ivlita was waiting for Laurence, reconciled to his evil for the sake of her future child
What hadn’t Laurence borne on account of this woman! And it was still too little—he had to go on to new humiliations, mortal, to grovel in the dust once more and, possibly, even after death. “Isn’t Ivlita Brother Mocius’s ally?” flashed through the young man’s head
The service was coming to an end. Incense filled the cathedral, and the sun’s rays could no longer seep through the dove-colored density. The Prodigal Hand’s eternally tired face became even grayer, melted, and he doubled up. Anna exchanged one or two glances with the police officers standing next to her, but prolonged the action. For as time slipped away, her rapture in the young man deepened, and she no longer wanted him to carry out the assassination attempt, on the contrary, she planned to get in his way. He would, of course, be apprehended by the police, beaten, hanged, this one and only decent human being. She had to save him; and no matter how pleasant it would be to see The Prodigal Frigging Hand prostrate, Laurence’s fate was more precious
The clergy were crowding around the emperor. The ritual had ended. The bowlegged youths formed up once more, the gilded smut-mouths, the undead elders. They moved toward the exit. Laurence raised his paper again and, descending the steps, pushed his way through the ranks that separated him from the procession. “Should I submit it or not? Humiliate myself or kill him?” he was still repeating. Anna didn’t take her eyes off of him, and when she saw that ten paces, not more, separated the emperor from Laurence and that they would shortly collide, she pulled a pistol from her purse, aiming at the emperor. But the hand of someone who had been following Anna rather attentively flung her hand up forcefully
A shot rang out, and the bullet, flying over the emperor, struck an infant painted on the wall
Ivlita descended to the people. After her reconciliation on high, she decided to seek the swamp of daily life. The frosty nights that had begun to blot out the sun, and solitude, little suited her condition and would be entirely unfit for her newborn. She had to live among people
In the hamlet, where Ivlita returned on the evening following the fire, she was met with studied indifference. They already knew here about how the peasant women had paid for their attack and so there was no talk of taking hostile action against the pregnant woman. They steered clear of her, staring with trepidation at her awkward belly, and that was all. Whatever superstitions ruled the highlanders, however, Ivlita was so rich, refusing her proposal that they sell one of their houses to her meant missing out on an extremely rare business transaction; and that very same evening, Ivlita became, in exchange for a bundle of money that had become damp in the cave, the owner of a structure on piles, recently thrown together not far from the cretins’ stable and divided into several miniature rooms
Ivlita didn’t find her old friends. Laurence’s clash with the old wenny made her the wenny family’s enemy forever. When Ivlita tried calling on the spoiled class, those of Laurence’s associates among the toiling class who had survived would not allow the woman to cross the threshold of their yard, greeting her with gobs of clay and abuse. But Ivlita didn’t attach any meaning to this. She had no time for sorting out trifles. The nativity was approaching
The eldest of the wenny daughters alone refused to submit to her brothers’ humor and moved into Ivlita’s henhouse, dragging along a mahogany cradle, a gift from the spoiled—its luxuriant carvings and finish recalled the moldings and shutters of the palace that had vanished. Just as if by a wave of the hand, everything in the new dwelling was arranged and appointed. In the morning, the wenny daughter would busy herself with chores, after noon she would sit down to cut swaddling cloths and sew little blankets, and at dusk she would take up her guitar and, settling on her bed at Ivlita’s feet, sing always the same ravishing songs. The nights were foggy and quiet. They were done with architecture and repairs until spring, and so the sun would come up on a seemingly desolate hamlet: there was neither a hatchet chopping nor a cry. Even the soldiers made no appearance. And it was like that the whole day
That’s why when, during one of their suppers, the door slowly opened and admitted Laurence into the dining room, his advent was scandalous and shocking. The wall lamp weakly lit the man who entered, but even what Ivlita could see was enough. After a few days’ absence, Laurence had wasted away and grown old. Laurence removed his hat, guiltily balling up the felt, and a gr
ay lock fell into the bandit’s eyes, half hiding his pupils, smoldering with a strange and baleful light. Not a hint of his bravery, strength, magnificence remained. His clothing was not just soiled, but even slovenly, and the former dandy, who would never before have dared show himself to his wife in such a state, didn’t even think it necessary to apologize for his oversight. He was bent and seemed to have shrunk. And the former hero expressed nothing but impotence and improbable exhaustion
Without greeting her, shifting from one leg to the other, not daring to look Ivlita in the eye, Laurence haltingly told how he had wanted to plead forgiveness, but in the church, just as he was getting ready to hand over his petition, someone opened fire on the emperor and in the confusion that arose as a result Laurence had been shoved aside. What’s more, someone began calling out “Laurence,” which forced him to save himself by running away
Ivlita was listening to his story without any enthusiasm, as though knowing beforehand what it contained. But when Laurence, with bitterness in his voice, added that the silliest thing in this whole farce was that the emperor was none other than Brother Mocius, Ivlita flared up, and without warning, Laurence seemed so intolerable and repulsive that she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth to keep from attacking him
“Where have there not been any victims of Laurence,” she thought. They were here in the villages, reposing in humble cemeteries and forest damp, frolicking on river bottoms and sea shoals, dwelling in the mountains, in cities; and even corrupting on the throne, ruling over millions and millions in an enormous empire, a man put to death by Laurence. Death penetrated everywhere, sparing no one, with unimaginable speed, and the last clod lost in the raging flood and ready from moment to moment to disappear was Ivlita and her womb
The contradiction between Ivlita and Laurence was so great there could be no thought of their reconciliation. And how naïve had been her wish for him to lay down his arms and renounce the past. Could Laurence, death itself, really cease to be himself? And how right the peasant women had been, asserting that a bandit ought to remain childless. But would Laurence really not remain childless, just the same, after infecting his wife and offspring with death?
Childless, just the same? No, no, her child would live, it was playing and wanting out. Ivlita did not fear dying, but would defend her greatest treasure. She would penetrate wherever you like, even to the edge of the world—to the birds, the beasts, the fish, hide like a toad under a stone, dig like a shrew into the earth—just so long as Laurence would never find her, could do nothing, and the infant, saved, protected, would enter the world and grow. And Ivlita, snarling with her hate-filled, fearless gaze, reduced Laurence to ashes, reddened in her anger, and Laurence, about to raise his eyes to hers, first lost his nerve, and then was surprised at her manifest hostility, threw down his hat and started racing around the room, waving his arms
As though he were to blame, after submitting to everything, that someone shot at The Prodigal Frigging Hand. And what was it, in fact, Laurence had done to make Ivlita begin hating him now? After all, hadn’t he been killing all along—either in self-defense, or punishing crafty types (they were asking for it) or for her sake? Could she blame him because love had gone to his head? And what kind of artful ploy was this, puffing up a few murders (every highlander trailed as many, if not more) into an extraordinary affair, in terms of evil
No, enough rationalizing. If Ivlita didn’t want him to murder and rob, he wouldn’t; he was ready to while away his days with her in poverty. For now, it goes without saying, he couldn’t live here because of the soldiers, but once they took themselves back home when the snows arrived, he would move in here. Ivlita, however, should not go back into the mountains. It was already cold, and then there was the child. Therefore, Laurence would settle in the forest and visit Ivlita when night came on. And Laurence lay down to sleep, without even taking his shoes off
Ivlita didn’t shut her eyes for a whole eternity, and when, at the first cock crow, Laurence departed from her dwelling, she, too, got up, dressed hurriedly, gave orders to the wenny daughter and, without waiting for daylight, dashed into the forest. Her belly sorely hindered her, but the damp ground prospered her, and when, on the far side of the thinning leaves, dawn and fog disrupted the stars to the point of breakdown, Ivlita was already far from the unpronounceable hamlet
The fog outstripped the sunshine. At first, it slid in toward Ivlita over the trees, slowing her pace, then thickened, descended, and trunks and branches were left floating in disagreeable dregs. Had it been long since the fog was in the pastures, dry and lightly evanescent? And now, oily and unyielding, it didn’t leave the road—it insistently hid from the refugee both where the west was and the spectacle of healing autumn, long expected and arrived at last, happy and absolving and too short to weary
But Ivlita was going uphill, not losing time. And day, growing stronger, whisked the fog down, until the environs of the canyon she’d left behind emerged, first vague, and then evident to a fault. How distinct in content was the much-praised scene from those Ivlita had grown used to and examined with tenderness from year to year
In the sky, patently made deeper and not shaped like a cup, but like a funnel, ready at any moment to initiate a blizzard, the clouds were the color the sky usually is, while the sky was perfectly white, without a single blood-red drop, despite the morning hours, and blood, which now turned out to be the most normal and repulsive human blood, spilled, lay in spots on the leaves (especially on the other side of the dale, to the east of the wennies’ hamlet), soaked into the moss, saturated the soil, now fresh and perfectly crimson, or a dried up red brown, or pink like an infant’s, and of every other condition—and Ivlita noticed for the first time since Jonah’s murder that her legs were wounded and bloody up to her knees. The snowy bodies rising up to the north, bordering the pastures, were just as empurpled and maimed. But without paying any more attention to the glaciers or to her illness, Ivlita hurried on, panting, if only to make it in time, and thought, trembling, that if she loitered, instead of a new body, death would fall to her
In the glades, not just the grass, even the bushes were completely chewed down. Tomorrow or the next day the shepherds would pass over these places with whistles and sighing, breaking the silence with their concluding hustle and bustle after preparing everything for their long overwintering and hibernation, and driving the goats before them. If only she could sit for a while and rest
Here is the plot with its boxwood hedge, hung all over with bits of clothing and headwear and tresses of feminine hair and little crosses in honor of the satyr and with requests for intercession. Ivlita immediately recognized the hedge. Hadn’t her way passed through here when, descending from the pastures, she had run naked in the direction of the sawmill? If the bears had not prevented her back then from stopping, there would have been no misfortunes. And tearing a lock from her head, Ivlita hung it, in a hurry, on one of the little branches. Take notice, my guardian!
And there’s the village on the far side. You could reach out and touch it. Last time, in her delirium, Ivlita hadn’t seen anything properly. And now, she studied with interested curiosity the human congeries, much more abundant and richer than the hamlet she had left behind. Although the view from here was not so expansive as from the glaciers, the plain was closer, and so it was easy to make out that the village with the sawmill was not alone, and that further along and lower down there were others, numerous and just as spacious, scattered over the limitless plateau, a new world, in which Ivlita would live a new life
Ivlita had only to begin her descent, and she ran into some peasants she didn’t know, but who immediately identified her. “Ivlita!” Where was she going, they would detain her, you know, it’s dangerous in the village. Some had just managed to begin speaking when others showed up. “Stop, it’s madness to go down, those aren’t people, but worse than beasts.” Behind the peasants that had run into her, new ones rolled in, trying to persuade her, begging her to turn back. B
ut she, with a rapt and inscrutable mien, continued on her way. And it bothered her not a bit that as she was approaching the village, she was already surrounded by hundreds. To these hundreds were added the villagers who came running from all around, and when Ivlita reached the village hall, in which Captain Arcady was quartered, the square in front of the hall was choked with a seething crowd of thousands
Captain Arcady, during the time he’d been staying in the village, had become accustomed to the fact that none of its inhabitants even dared cross the square, let alone stop opposite the village hall, and the customers of the taverns that lay across from the village hall, if, for once, they felt brave enough to pay a call on the tavern keepers, would only do so by the back entrances. “What doomsday is this?” thought the captain, sitting in his shirt at the table and tasting, despite its already being noon, his morning coffee, cursing for the umpteenth time Laurence and this savage country that had sucked him in with no hope for success. Yes, Arcady no longer believed it was possible to capture Laurence, especially after the fire incident, in which he’d watched the chance for selfless, unconscious betrayal go up in smoke, and he’d been so relying on it. And he had decided to write this very day a report to the leadership requesting transfer to another place and an assignment that could be carried out more conveniently. “What kind of prodigy is this?” he asked himself once more, got up and, yawning, walked to the glass doors that led to the balcony. On the square, directly in front of Arcady, stood a woman, two heads taller than all the peasants—they were familiar to him and had long since become irksome, but were today unnaturally transformed—who, being, in Arcady’s view, if you will, too heavy-set, was, all the same, so radiantly beautiful that the captain at once surmised this had to be Ivlita, the bandit Laurence’s concubine. But no matter how much Arcady had heard about her, the vision surpassed all his expectations. And could they really understand anything about beauty in the sticks? “If this woman were in the city, she’d be famous the world over, but here in this hole…” Ivlita rose up, not moving from the spot, sustaining the captain’s gaze taking her in piece by piece: head, shoulders, bust, thickened braids. But what was this? Pregnant? Such a beauty? It can’t be, and Arcady ran out onto the balcony to make sure he wasn’t mistaken