Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

Let us assume that you’re alive and in Arkanar. It’s possible, of course, that you’ve been captured by barbarian raiders who’ve come down from the North Red Ridge. In that case, Don Condor is planning to get in touch with our friend Shushtuletidovodus, who specializes in the history of primitive cultures and is currently serving as a shaman-epileptic under a chief with a forty-five-syllable name. But if you really are in Arkanar, then, first of all, you might have been captured by the night bandits of Waga the Wheel. And not even captured, but taken along, because their main prey would have been your companion, the bankrupt noble don. Either way, they wouldn’t kill you; Waga the Wheel is too greedy for that.

You might have also fallen into the clutches of some idiot baron, without any malicious intent on his part, just out of boredom and a hypertrophied sense of hospitality. He might have wanted to feast with a noble companion, so he stationed his militia along the road and dragged your companion into the castle. And you’ll be sitting in stinky servants’ quarters until the dons drink themselves into a stupor and part ways. In this case, you are also in no danger.

But there are also the remnants of the recently defeated peasant army of Don Ksi and Perta the Spine holed up somewhere in Rotland, who are surreptitiously being fed by our eagle Don Reba himself, in case of the entirely possible complications with the barons. These men know no mercy—but it’s better not to even think about that. There’s also Don Satarina, an extremely blue-blooded imperial aristocrat, 102 years old and completely senile. He has a blood feud with the Dukes of Irukan, and from time to time gets excited into activity and begins to capture everything crossing the border from Irukan. He’s very dangerous, because when he issues orders during attacks of cholecystitis, the cemetery guards can’t drag the corpses out of his dungeons fast enough.

And finally, the main possibility. Not the main possibility because it’s the most dangerous, but because it’s the likeliest. Don Reba’s gray patrols. The storm troopers on the main roads. You might have fallen into their hands by accident, in which case we have to rely on the judgment and cool head of your companion. But what if Don Reba is actually interested in you? Don Reba can have such surprising interests… His spies may have reported that you’ll be passing through Arkanar, and a detachment under the command of a diligent gray officer—a noble bastard from the inferior gentry—may have been sent to meet you, and now you’re imprisoned in a stone cell underneath the Merry Tower.

Rumata gave the cord another impatient tug. The bedroom door opened with a hideous squeak, and in came a page, skinny and gloomy. His name was Uno, and his fate could have served as the subject of a ballad. He bowed at the threshold, shuffling feet in battered shoes, approached the bed, and put a tray containing letters, coffee, and a wad of chewing bark—for cleaning and strengthening the teeth—on the table.

Rumata looked at him crossly. “Tell me, please, are you ever going to oil the hinges?”

The boy stayed quiet, staring at the floor.

Rumata kicked off his blanket, sat up, and reached for the tray. “Have you bathed today?” he asked.

The boy shifted from one foot to the other and, without answering, walked around the room gathering the scattered clothes.

“Didn’t I just ask you whether you’ve bathed today?” Rumata asked, opening his first letter.

“Water won’t wash my sins away,” the boy grumbled. “What am I, a noble, to be bathing?”

“What have I told you about germs?” said Rumata.

The boy put the green pants on the back of the chair and made a circular motion with his thumb to ward off the devil. “I prayed three times last night,” he said. “What else can I do?”

“You goose,” Rumata said, and started reading the letter.

The letter was from Doña Ocana, a lady-in-waiting and the new favorite of Don Reba. She proposed that Rumata visit her tonight, “pining tenderly.” The postscript explained in plain language just what she expected from this meeting. Rumata couldn’t help it—he blushed. He furtively glanced at the boy, muttering, “Well, really…” This had to be considered. To go would be repugnant; not to go would be foolish—Doña Ocana knew a lot. He drank his coffee in one gulp and put the chewing bark into his mouth.

The next envelope was made of thick paper and the sealing wax was smudged: it was clear that the letter had been opened. It was from Don Ripat, a resolute social climber, the lieutenant of a gray company of haberdashers. He inquired about Rumata’s health, expressed confidence in the victory of the gray cause, and begged permission to defer paying a debt, citing exceptional circumstances. “All right, all right…” mumbled Rumata. He put the letter away, picked the envelope up again, and examined it with interest. Yes, they had gotten more subtle. Noticeably more subtle.

The third letter challenged him to a sword fight over Doña Pifa but agreed to withdraw the challenge if Don Rumata would be so good as to furnish proof that he, the noble Don Rumata, did not and had never had a relationship with Doña Pifa. This was a form letter; the body of the text had been written by a calligrapher, and the names and dates were crookedly filled in and rife with spelling errors.

Rumata flung the letter away and scratched his mosquito-bitten left arm. “All right, let’s wash up,” he ordered.

The boy disappeared through the door and came back shortly, walking backward and dragging a wooden tub full of water along the floor. Then he rushed out the door once again and brought back an empty tub and a pitcher.

Rumata jumped to the floor, pulled his tattered, elaborately hand-embroidered nightshirt over his head, and drew the swords hanging by the head of the bed from their scabbards with a clatter. The boy cautiously hid behind the chair. After practicing thrusts and parries for about ten minutes, Rumata threw his swords at the wall, bent over the empty tub, and gave the order: “Pour!” Not having soap was bad, but Rumata was used to it. The boy poured pitcher after pitcher on his back, neck, and head and complained, “Everyone else does things properly, only we have nonsense like this. Who’s ever heard of using two vessels to bathe? The master’s stuck some kind of pot in the outhouse… Every single day a clean towel. Hasn’t even prayed yet, and master’s already hopping around naked with swords…”

Rubbing himself down with the towel, Rumata said didactically, “I’m at court, not some lousy baron. A courtier should be clean and sweet-smelling.”

“As if His Majesty has nothing better to do than smell people,” the boy objected. “Everyone knows that His Majesty is praying day and night for us sinners. And Don Reba never bathes at all. I heard it myself—His Lordship’s footman said so.”

“All right, quit grumbling,” Rumata said, pulling on his nylon undershirt.

The boy looked at this undershirt with disapproval. The garment had long been the subject of rumors among the servants of Arkanar. But Rumata couldn’t do anything about this because of his natural human squeamishness. As he was pulling on his underpants, the boy turned his head away and moved his lips as if warding off the devil.

It really would be good to bring underwear into style, thought Rumata. However, the only natural way to do so would involve the ladies, and in this respect Rumata happened to be unforgivably picky for an operative. An empty-headed ladies’ man, who knew the ways of the capital and who had been sent to the provinces because of a duel for love, should have had at least twenty mistresses. Rumata made heroic efforts to maintain his reputation. Half of his agents, instead of doing their work, spread despicable rumors about him, calculated to excite the envy and admiration of the Arkanarian youth in the Guard. Dozens of frustrated ladies, at whose houses Rumata lingered on purpose, reading poetry late into the night (the third watch, a fraternal kiss on the cheek, and a leap from the balcony into the arms of his acquaintance, the commander of the watch), eagerly vied with each other in telling stories about the true metropolitan style of the ladies’ man from the capital. Rumata managed to support himself only through the vanity of these silly and disgustingly debauched women, but the underwear conundrum remained unsolved.