Day of the Oprichnik (4 page)

As His Majesty says:

“Law and order—resurrected from the Gray Ashes, that’s what Holy Rus stands on and will always stand on.”

It’s the sacred truth!

In Uspensky Cathedral, as always, the atmosphere is murky, muggy, and majestic. Candles burn, the icons’ gold casings shine, the censer smokes in the hand of narrow-shouldered Father Juvenale, his delicate voice echoes; the bass voice of the fat, black-bearded deacon booms from the choir steps. We stand in crowded rows—all the oprichniks of Moscow. Batya is here, and Yerokha, his right hand, and Mosol, his left hand. And we’re all native Muscovites, including me. We’re the backbone. We also have the young ones. His Majesty is the only one absent. On Mondays he usually graces us with his presence—he comes to pray with us. But today our sun isn’t here. His Majesty, our head of state, is completely immersed in state affairs. Or he might be in the Church of the Deposition of the Robe of the Virgin Mary, his domestic temple, praying for Sacred Russia. His Majesty’s will is law and mystery. And thank God.

It’s a normal day today, Monday. The usual service. The Epiphany has passed, sleighs have been ridden along the Moscow River, the cross has been lowered in an ice hole. Under a silver gazebo, twined ’round with spruce boughs, infants have been baptized, we ourselves have taken a dip in the icy water, fired the cannons, bowed to His Majesty and Her Highness, feasted in the Granite Chamber with the Kremlin entourage and the Inner Circle. Now there are no holidays until Candlemas, just plain workdays. There are jobs to do.

“And God will be resurrected and His enemies shall be in ruins…” reads Father Juvenale.

We cross ourselves and bow. I pray to my favorite icon, the Savior of the Ardent Eye; I tremble before the fury of our Savior’s eyes. Formidable is our Savior, immovable in His Judgment. I gather strength for battle from His stern gaze, I fortify my spirit, train my nature. I amass hatred for our enemies. I sharpen my mind and reason.

Yes, all God’s and His Majesty’s enemies shall be scattered.

“Grant victory over all who oppose us…”

There are plenty of opponents, that’s true. As soon as Russia rose from the Gray Ashes, as soon as she became aware of herself, as soon as His Majesty, Father Nikolai Platonovich, laid the foundation stone of the Western Wall sixteen years ago, as soon as we began to fence ourselves off from the foreign without and the demon within—opponents began to crawl out of the cracks like noxious centipedes. A truly great idea breeds great resistance. Our state has always had enemies inside and out, but the battle was never so intense as during the period of Holy Russia’s Revival. More than one head rolled on the block at Lobnoe Mesto during those sixteen years, more than one train carried our foes and their families beyond the Urals, more than one
red rooster
crowed at dawn in a noble’s mansion, more than one general farted on the rack in the Secret Department, more than one denunciation was dropped in the Work and Word! box at Lubianka, more than one moneychanger had his mouth stuffed with the bills of his ill-gotten gains, more than one clerk was dunked in boiling water, more than one foreign envoy was escorted out of Moscow by three shameful yellow Mercedovs, more than one reporter was pushed from the tower at Ostankino with goose feathers up his ass, more than one hackneyed rabble-rouser of a writer was drowned in the Moscow River, more than one nobleman’s widow was dropped off at her parents’ home, naked and unconscious, wrapped in a sheepskin…

Each time I stand in Uspensky Cathedral with a candle in my hand, I think secret, treasonous thoughts on one subject: What if we didn’t exist? Would His Majesty be able to manage on his own? Would the Streltsy, the Secret Department, and the Kremlin regiment be enough?

And I whisper to myself, softly, beneath the singing of the choir:

“No.”

Our repast in the White Chamber is quite ordinary today.

We sit at long, bare, oak tables. The servants bring us kvass made from bread crumbs, day-old cabbage soup, rye bread, beef boiled with onion, and buckwheat porridge. We eat, discuss our plans quietly. Our silent bells sway back and forth. Each
wing
of the oprichnina has its own plans: some are busy in the Secret Department today; some in the Mind Chamber; some in the Ambassadorial; some in the Trade Department. Right now I have three affairs going.

The first: deal with the clowns and minstrels, and approve the new performance for the holiday concert.

The second: snuff out
the star
.

The third: fly out and visit Praskovia, the clairvoyant of Tobol, on a special
errand
.

I sit in my place, the fourth to Batya’s right. It’s a place of honor, a lucrative place. Only Shelet, Samosya, and Yerokha are closer to him on the right side. Batya is strong, imposing, young in countenance, though completely gray. It’s a pleasure to watch him eat: he doesn’t hurry, he takes his time. Batya is our foundation, the main root of the oak that supports the entire oprichnina. He was the first to whom His Majesty entrusted the Work. During difficult, fateful times for Russia, our rulers leaned on him. Batya was the first link in the iron chain of the oprichniks. After him other links were attached, welded, fused into the Great Ring of the oprichnina, its sharp barbs pointed outward. With this ring His Majesty drew a sick, rotting, collapsing country together, he lassoed it like a wounded bear, dripping ichor blood. And the bear grew strong of bone and muscle, its wounds healed, it put on fat, its claws grew out. And we let its blood, blood that was rotten, poisoned by enemies. Now the roar of the Russian bear is heard by the entire world. Not only China and Europe, but lands beyond the ocean heed our roar.

I see Batya’s mobilov blink red. Indirect conversations are forbidden during the repast. We all turn off our mobilovs. A red signal means His Majesty is calling. Batya puts his solid gold mobilov to his ear, and it jingles against his bell earring.

“At your service, Your Majesty.”

Everyone in the refectory grows quiet. Batya’s voice is the only sound:

“Yes, Your Majesty. I understand. We’ll be there right away, Your Majesty.”

Batya stands up, looks us over quickly:

“Vogul, Komiaga, Tiaglo, with me.”

Ah. By Batya’s voice I can sense something has happened. We stand, cross ourselves, and leave the refectory. By Batya’s choice I understand—
an affair of the mind
awaits us. Everyone chosen has a university education. Vogul studied the workings of the treasury in St. Petrograd; Tiaglo specialized in book manufacturing in Nizhny Novgorod; and I joined the oprichnina from my third year at the history department of Moscow’s Mikhailo Lomonosov State University. Actually, I didn’t join…You don’t join the oprichnina. You don’t choose it. It chooses you. Or, more precisely, as Batya himself says when he’s had a bit to drink and snort: “The oprichnina pulls you in like a wave.” Oh, how it pulls you in! It pulls you in so fast that your head spins, the blood in your veins boils, you see red stars. But that wave can carry you out as well. It can carry you out in a minute,
irrevocably
. This is worse than death. Falling out of the oprichnina is like losing both your legs. For the rest of your life you won’t be able to walk, only to crawl…

We go out in the yard. From the White Chamber to His Majesty’s Red Palace is just a stone’s throw. But Batya turns toward our Mercedovs. So that means we’re not going to chat in the Kremlin. We all get into our cars. Batya’s Mercedov is distinguished—wide, bug-eyed, squat, with glass three fingers thick. It’s high quality work by Chinese masters, custom-made on special order, what they call
te tzo dei
. On the front hood is the head of a German shepherd, on the back a steel broom. Batya drives toward Savior Gates. We fall in line behind him and drive out through a cordon of Streltsy. We cross Red Square. Today is a market day; peddlers take up most of the square. The hawkers shout,
saloop
men whistle, bread sellers boom, the Chinese sing. The weather is sunny, nippy; there was a good snow during the night. The main square of our country is cheerful, musical. As a boy I witnessed an entirely different Red Square—grim, stern, frightening, with a big pile of granite housing the corpse of the Red Revolt’s maker. At that time a cemetery of his henchmen stood nearby. A gloomy picture. But His Majesty, our little father, tore down the granite box, buried the corpse of the squint-eyed rebel in the ground, and demolished the cemetery. Then he ordered the Kremlin walls to be painted white. And the main square of the country became genuinely
krasny—
red as in
krasivo
, beautiful. And thank God.

We drive toward the Hotel Moscow, along Mokhovaya Street, past the National Hotel, past the Bolshoi and Maly theaters, past the Metropol Hotel, and onto Lubianskaya Square. That’s what I thought: the conversation will take place in the Secret Department. We drive around the square past the monument to Malyuta Skuratov. Our forefather stands there in bronze, dusted with snow, short, stocky, stooping, with long arms; he gazes intently from under overhanging eyebrows. For centuries he has watched over Moscow with the Ever-Watchful Eye of the State; he watches us, the heirs of the oprichniks’ Great Work. He watches silently.

We drive up to the left gates; Batya honks. The gates open, and we enter the inner courtyard, park, and get out of our Mercedovs. We enter the Secret Department. Each time I walk under its gray marble arches, with their torches and stern crosses, my heart skips and then starts to beat differently. It’s an out-of-the-ordinary, special beat. The beat of the state’s Secret Work.

A dashing, fit lieutenant in a light blue uniform greets us and salutes. He accompanies us to the elevators, which carry us to the topmost floor, to the office of Terenty Bogdanovich Buturlin, the head of the Secret Department, a prince, and a close friend of His Majesty. We enter the office—first Batya, then the rest of us. Buturlin greets us. He and Batya shake hands; we bow to our waists. Buturlin’s expression is serious. He shows Batya to a chair, and sits down across from him. We stand behind Batya. The head of the Secret Department has a menacing face. Terenty Bogdanovich is no joker. He loves to monitor important, complex, critical state affairs, to uncover and undermine conspiracies, catch traitors and spies, smash subversive plots. He sits silently, looking at us, fingering his carved bone beads. Then he says one word:

“Pasquinade.”

Batya waits. We freeze and don’t even breathe. Buturlin looks at us searchingly, and adds:

“On His Majesty’s family.”

Batya turns in the leather armchair, frowns, and cracks his large knuckles. We stand absolutely still. Buturlin gives a command, and the blinds on the office windows are lowered. A kind of twilight fills the room. The head of the Secret Department gives another command. Words are pulled up from the Russian Network; they hang in the dim light. The letters are iridescent, burning in the dark:

by Well-Meaning Anonymous
WEREWOLF AT A FIRE

Firemen are looking,

The police are looking,

Even priests are looking

Through our capital city.

They’re seeking a Count,

Whom they haven’t yet found,

Nor ever have seen,

A Count round about age thirty-three.

Of medium height,

Pensive and glum,

He’s smartly attired,

In tails and cummerbund.

Cut in the signet ring

On his finger,

A hedgehog of diamond gleams and glims,

But not a whit more is known about him.

Nowadays,

Counts are oft

Pensive and glum,

Stylishly garbed,

In tails and cummerbund.

They adore the alluring

Dazzle of diamonds,

The
dolce vita

Is just waiting to find them.

Who is he?

Whencesoever?

What manner of beast

The count whom they seek

In our

Capital city?

What hath he done,

This chic aristocrat?

Here’s what Moscow’s salons

Say to that!

Once, a Rolls-Royce

Wound its way,

All round Moscow.

A Count most forlorn,

Who resembled an owl,

Rode in it alone.

Sullenly squinting, morosely he yawned,

While humming an air

from a Wagner song.

All of a sudden,

In a glass ’cross the lane,

The Count

Spied a Marquess,

Encircled by flame.

A swarm of idlers,

Crowded the pavement,

The ancestral mansion

Was fully ablaze.

Gloating, the loafers

Ogled fire and pitch,

After all, such abodes

Were just for the rich.

Out of the cozy Rolls-Royce

The Count raced.

Ne’er a moment he wasted,

He cut through the rabble,

Of miserable swine,

Making very good time,

Then up, up, up,

Up the drainpipe

He climbed.

The third floor,

The fourth,

The fifth…

Then the last one,

Engulfed by the fire.

Out came piteous cries,

Then moans growing fainter—

Flames were now licking

The balcony sides.

Pale and quite naked,

Framed by the window,

The Marquess fluttered

In fantastical plumes;

Then a flare of the fire,

’Midst the dove-colored fumes,

Did illumine her milky white breast

On the pyre.

His hands strong and lithe,

The Count drew himself up,

Then with all of his might,

Slammed his brow

’Gainst the glass.

It shattered; shards took flight,

And lo! This remarkable sight,

Was met with but silence below.

One blow, another—

The window frame shuddered;

He stubbornly

Smashed the sash,

And crawled through the window,

Ripping his frock coat.

The idlers below whispered:

“Idiot…Ass…”

Then, in the window,

He appeared, stood up straight,

And embraced the young Marquess—

To his dickey he pressed her;

Above them smoke swirled,

Black, gray, and brindled,

Tongues of red fire,

Flickered and kindled.

The Count moaned

As he lowered his lips

To the breasts,

That he gripped in his hands.

The mob smirked with malice,

Spectators took note,

As a monstrous phallus

Arose in the smoke!

Onlookers gazed,

From way down below,

They saw the Count shudder,

As he entered the Marquess,

They glimpsed the pair quake,

And pull back from the window,

And then she and the Count

Disappeared in the haze!

A cloud of dust whirled,

And mingled with ash,

The firemen’s cars sped

Hither and yon,

The rabble stepped back,

The police blew their whistles,

The firemen’s helmets

Shone in the sun.

In the blink of an eye,

Copper helmets spread out;

Ladders reached higher and higher.

Fearless and brave,

One after the other,

Those fellows in Teflon

Climbed up and straight on

Through smoke and the fire.

The flames were replaced

By poisonous fumes,

From the pump water gushed

In a powerful stream.

An elderly servant,

Ran up to the firemen,

“Brothers, please save my lady, my queen!”

“Sorry,” replied

The firemen affably,

“No lady was found

In this mansion!

We looked through and through,

We searched with great care;

Your beloved young Marquess

Was not anywhere!”

The old man sobbed,

And tore at his whiskers,

People gaped

At the balcony black.

Then out of the blue,

A dog’s abrupt yelp,

Turned to a

Mournful whimper for help.

The crowd looked back and gawked.

Speeding off, the Rolls-Royce

Had run over a dog.

As its windows whizzed by,

a dim profile was glimpsed,

And silently faded,

Eclipsed by the glint,

Of a diamond hedgehog!

The mob on the sidewalk

Stood still, transfixed.

People followed

The Rolls-Royce’s trail—

In the distance, the posh

Limousine drove off,

To the splatter of

Sputtering wheels.

Firemen are looking,

The Police are looking,

Even priests are looking

Through our capital city,

They’re seeking a Count

Whom they never have seen,

A particular Count

About age thirty-three.

And you, gentlemen of the Malachite Chamber,

This werewolf you haven’t chanced to encounter?

The last line fades. The subversive poem disappears, melts in the dark air. The blinds are raised. Buturlin sits silently. His brown eyes are focused on Batya, who glances at us. The target of this pasquinade is as clear as day. By our eyes Batya can tell that there isn’t any doubt: the gloomy count with the diamond hedgehog carved in his ring is none other than Count Andrei Vladimirovich Urusov, His Majesty’s son-in-law, professor of jurisprudence, an active member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, honorary chair of the Mind Department, chairman of the All-Russian Equine Society, chairman of the Association to Promote Air Flight, chairman of the Society of Russian Fisticuffs, comrade of the chairman of the Eastern Treasury, owner of the Southern Port, owner of the Izmailovsky and Donskoi markets, owner of the Moscow Association of Building Contractors, owner of the Moscow Brick Factory, co-owner of the Western Railroad. And the hint about the Malachite Chamber was also obvious: this new space, located under the Kremlin Concert Hall, was built for the rest and relaxation of the Inner Circle and their retinue. It’s new, therefore
fashionable
. For that matter, the construction of the Malachite Chamber elicited quite a few subversive questions. Yes, yes, there were opponents…