Day of the Oprichnik (14 page)

“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.”

“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.”