Day of the Oprichnik (15 page)

“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 left
wing
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.

“We’re listening, dear Andrei Vladimirovich!” Batya says in a loud voice. He lowers himself onto his chaise lounge again. “Lie down, don’t be shy.”

The count sits sideways on the chaise and locks his fingers together:

“Boris Borisovich, you’re aware of my situation?”

“I’m aware.”

“I fell from grace.”

Batya nods. “It happens.”

“To what extent, I don’t yet know. But I hope that sooner or later His Majesty will forgive me.”

Batya nods again. “His Majesty is merciful.”

“I have a proposition for you. My accounts are frozen by His Majesty’s decree, and my trade and manufacturing properties have been expropriated, but His Majesty left me my personal property.”

“Thank God.” Batya belches Chinese carbon dioxide.

The count looks at his well-groomed nails, touches his ring with the diamond hedgehog, and pauses. Then he speaks:

“I have an estate near Moscow, in the Pereyaslavsky district, and one near Voronezh, in Divnogor. And of course the house on Piatnitsky Street, you’ve been there…”

“I’ve been there.” Batya inhales.

“So this is the offer, Boris Borisovich. I give the house on Piatnitsky to the oprichnina.”

Silence. Batya says nothing. Urusov says nothing. Nor do we. Cao freezes with an uncorked bottle of Szechuan champagne in his hand. Urusov’s house on Piatnitsky…It’s shameful to even call it a house: it’s a palace! Columns of layered marble, a roof with sculpture and vases, openwork grills, gatekeepers with halberds, stone lions…I haven’t been inside, but it isn’t hard to imagine that it’s even more incredible inside. They say that the count’s drawing room floor is transparent, and that under it—there’s an aquarium with sharks. And all the sharks are striped like tigers. How inventive!

“The house on Piatnitsky.” Batya squints. “Why such a valuable gift?”

“It isn’t a gift. You and I are businesspeople. I give you the house, you give me a roof over my head,
protection
. When I’m back in good graces—I’ll add more. I won’t forget you.”

“It’s a serious proposition,” says Batya, squinting and casting his gaze over us. “We’ll have to discuss it. All right, who’s first?”

The sophisticated Vosk raises his hand.

“Why don’t we hear the young ones first.” Batya glances at the youngest. “All right?”

The ever alert Potyka raises his hand.

“If you’ll permit me, Batya!”

“Go on, Potyka, speak.”

“Forgive me, Batya, but it seems to me that there’s no benefit for us in protecting dead men. Because a dead man doesn’t care whether there’s a roof over his head or not. For that matter, it’s not a roof he needs, but a coffin.”

Silence hangs in the bathhouse. It’s silent as the grave. The count turns green. Batya smacks his lips:

“So you see, Count. Note that this is the voice of our young people. You can imagine what the elder oprichniks would have to say about your proposition?”

The count licks his bloodless lips:

“Listen, Boris. You and I aren’t children. What dead man? What coffin? So I fell under His Majesty’s hot hand, but it’s not forever! His Majesty knows how much I’ve done for Russia! A year will pass—and he’ll forgive me! And you’ll still have the profit!”

Batya frowns:

“You think he’ll forgive you?”

“I’m certain.”

“Oprichniks, what do you think: Will His Majesty forgive the count or not?”

“No-o-o-o,” we answer in unison.

Batya’s hands gesture in dismay.

“You see?”

“Listen!” the count jumps up. “Stop fooling around! I don’t have time for jokes! I’ve lost almost everything! But I swear to God—everything will be returned! Everything will be returned!”

Batya sighs and stands up, leaning on Ivan:

“You’re just like Job, Count. Everything will be returned…But nothing will be returned to you. And you know why? Because you placed your lust higher than the state.”

“Boris, don’t go too far!”

“I’m not taking anything too far.” Batya walks up to the count. “You think His Majesty is angry because you like to fornicate in fire? Because you’re shaming his daughter? No. That’s not why. You burned state property. Therefore, you took a step against the state. Against His Majesty.”

“Bobrinskaya’s house is her own property! What does His Majesty have to do with it?!”

“You blockhead, what he has to do with it is that we are all His Majesty’s children, and all of our property belongs to him! The whole country is his! You of all people should know that! Life hasn’t taught you anything, Andrei Vladimirovich. You were His Majesty’s son-in-law, but you became a rebel. And not just a rebel, but a son of a bitch. Rotten, dead meat.”

The count’s eyes flash with dark fury:

“What?! You cur, you…”

Batya puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. And as though by command, the young guys rush the count and grab him.

“Into the pool with him!” Batya orders.

The oprichniks tear the sheet off the count and throw him into the pool. The count comes up, sputtering:

“You’ll answer for this, you dogs, you’ll answer…”

All of a sudden knives appear in the youngsters’ hands. Now that’s new! It should be clear to you now, you dolt! Why didn’t I know? Curtains for the count? They gave the go-ahead?

The youngsters stand around the edge of the pool.

“Haaiiilll!” cries Batya.

“Hail, hail!” cry the youngsters.

“Hail, hail!” the rest of us take up the cry.

“Death to the enemies of Russia!” Batya exclaims.

“Death! Death! Death!” we continue the chant.

The count swims up to the edge of the pool, and grabs on to the marble. But on the other side, Komol strikes with a flourish: his knife flies like lightning, piercing the count’s stooped back up to its handle. The count lets out a furious wail. Okhlop waves his hand—and his knife flies, landing right next to the first. Yelka and Avila aim their knives—just as precisely, also at the back of the
naked
count. He screams with fury and indignation. How much anger that bastard has stored up. The knives of the remaining youngsters fly into him. And all of them hit their target. They know how to aim knives, those lads. We old-timers prefer to use our knives closer up.

The count no longer wails; he’s wheezing, tossing and turning in the water. He looks like a sea mine.

“There’s ‘everything will be returned’ for you.” Batya grins, taking a glass from the tray and sipping it.

A convulsion passes through the count’s body, and he stiffens forever. Life and fate.

“Upstairs with him.” Batya nods to the bath attendants. “Change the water.”

The attendants drag Urusov’s corpse out of the pool, take the gold cross and the famous hedgehog ring off him, and give them to Batya. Batya tosses what remains of the powerful count in his hand.

“There you have it: here and gone!”

They take out the corpse. Batya gives the gold cross to Svirid:

“Give this to our church tomorrow.”

He puts the hedgehog ring on his pinkie.

“We’ve had our steam bath. Upstairs! Everyone—upstairs!”

The grandfather clock strikes 02:30. We’re sitting in the tiled drawing room. After midnight Batya has kept only five of us: Potyka, Vosk, Baldokhai, Yerokha, and me. After the
wet stuff
our Batya had a hankering for
coke
with vodka. We sit at a round table of red granite. There’s a dish with stripes of white, candles, and a carafe of vodka. Yerokha warms the dish with the candle, drying the
coke
from below. Batya’s already loaded, and when he’s really loaded, he likes to give us lofty lectures. Our dear Batya has three speeches: one about His Majesty, one about his deceased mama, and one about the Christian faith. Today it’s faith:

“Now you, my dear Enochs, you’re wondering, why was the Wall built, why are we fenced off, why did we burn our foreign passports, why are there different classes, why were intelligent machines changed to Cyrillic? To increase profits? To maintain order? For entertainment? For home and hearth? To create the big and beautiful? For fancy houses? For Moroccan leather boots, so everyone could tap their heels and clap? For all that’s good, true, and well made, so that there’d be plenty all around? To make the state as mighty as a pole from the heavenly tamarind tree? So that it supports the heavenly vault and the stars, goddamnit, so the stars and moon would shine, you sniveling scarecrow wolves, so that the warm wind would blow-not-stop-blowing on your asses, is that it? So your asses would stay nice and warm in your velvet pants? So your heads would feel cozy under their sable hats? So you sniveling wolves wouldn’t live by lies? So you’d run in herds, fast, straight, close together, most holy, obedient, so you’d harvest the grain on time, feed your brother, love your wives and children, is that it?”

Batya pauses, inhales a good snort of white
coke
and washes it down with vodka. We do the same thing.

“Now you see, my dearest Enochs, that’s not what it was for. It was so the Christian faith would be preserved like a chaste treasure, you get it? For only we, the Orthodox, have preserved the church as Christ’s body on earth, a single church, sacred, conciliar, apostolic, and infallible, isn’t that right? After the Second Nicene Council we are the only ones who glorify the Lord correctly, for we are Russian Orthodox, because no one took the right to glorify the Lord correctly away from us, did they? We didn’t retreat from the community of our church, from sacred icons, from the Mother of God, from the faith of the fathers, from the life-giving Trinity, from the Holy Spirit, from the life-giving Lord who comes from the Father, who venerates the Father and Son and speaks the prophet, right? We have rejected everything sacrilegious: Manichaeanism, and Monotheletism, and Monophysitism, right? For whomsoever the church is not mother, God is not the father, right? For God by His nature is beyond understanding, right? For all true-believing Orthodox priests are heirs of Peter, right? For there is no purgatory, only hell and heaven, right? For man is born mortal and therefore he sins, right? For God is the light, right? For our Savior became human so that you and I, sniveling wolves, could become gods, right? That’s why His Majesty built this magnificent Wall, in order to cut us off from stench and unbelievers, from the damned cyberpunks, from sodomites, Catholics, melancholiacs, from Buddhists, sadists, Satanists, and Marxists; from megamasturbators, fascists, pluralists, and atheists! For faith, you sniveling wolves, isn’t a change purse! It’s no brocaded caftan! No oak club! What is faith? Faith, my noisy ones—is a well of springwater, pure, clear, quiet, modest, powerful, and plentiful! You get it? Or should I repeat it to you?”