Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

It had been so much simpler with the handkerchiefs! At his very first ball, Rumata extracted an elegant lace handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed his lips with it. At the next ball, dashing guardsmen were already wiping their sweaty faces with pieces of embroidered and mono-grammed cloth of various sizes and colors. And in a month, there was a spate of dandies sporting entire bedsheets draped over an arm, the tails of which dragged elegantly across the floor.

Rumata pulled on his green pants and a white cambric shirt with a faded collar. “Is anybody waiting?” he asked.

“The barber is waiting,” the boy replied. “And there are also two dons sitting in the living room, Don Tameo and Don Sera. They ordered wine and are playing dice. They are waiting to have breakfast with my master.”

“Go call the barber. And tell the noble dons that I’ll be there soon. And don’t be rude, speak courteously…”

Breakfast wasn’t too filling and would leave room for a quick lunch. They were served roasted meat, strongly seasoned with spices, and dog ears marinated in vinegar. They drank sparkling Irukanian wine, thick brown Estorian wine, and white Soanian wine. Dexterously carving a leg of lamb with two daggers, Don Tameo complained about the insolence of the lower classes. “I intend to submit a memorandum to His Majesty himself,” he declared. “The gentry demands that the peasants and the craftsmen rabble be forbidden to show their faces in public spaces and the streets. Let them use the courtyards and back alleys. And in those instances where the appearance of a peasant in the street is unavoidable—for example, during the delivery of bread, meat, and wine into a noble house—let them apply for a special permit from the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown.”

“What a brain!” Don Sera said delightedly, spraying spittle and meat juice. “And yesterday at court…” And he told the latest story: Don Reba’s flame, the lady-in-waiting Ocana, had carelessly stepped on the king’s injured foot. His Majesty became furious and, turning toward Don Reba, ordered him to punish the offender. To which Don Reba, without batting an eyelash, replied, “It will be done, Your Majesty. This very night!” “I laughed so hard,” said Don Sera, shaking his head, “that two hooks flew off my waistcoat.”

Protoplasm, thought Rumata. Nothing but a gluttonous, breeding protoplasm. “Yes, noble dons,” he said. “Don Reba is the cleverest of men.”

“Oh my, yes!” said Don Sera. “What a man! What a brain!”

“An eminent personality,” Don Tameo said significantly, with a great show of feeling.

“It’s strange to even think now,” Rumata continued with a friendly smile, “what people said about him only a year ago. Do you remember, Don Tameo, how you wittily mocked his crooked legs?”

Don Tameo choked and drained a glass of Irukanian wine in one gulp. “I don’t recall,” he mumbled. “I’m no comedian…”

“You did, you did,” Don Sera said, shaking his head reproachfully.

“That’s right!” Rumata exclaimed. “You were present for this conversation, Don Sera! I remember, Don Tameo’s witticisms made you laugh so hard that some piece of your clothing snapped off.”

Don Sera turned purple and started stammering elaborate excuses, lying the whole time. The now glum Don Tameo applied himself to the strong Estorian wine. And since, in his own words, he had “started in the morning the day before yesterday and hadn’t yet been able to stop,” when they left the house, he had to be supported from both sides.

The day was bright and sunny. Common folk thronged in the streets and alleys searching for things to gawk at, boys shrieked and whistled as they flung mud, pretty towns-women in bonnets peered out of the windows, and bustling servant girls looked at them bashfully with moist eyes. The general mood gradually started to improve. Don Sera very adroitly knocked down some peasant, and he almost died laughing as he watched the man flounder in a puddle. Don Tameo suddenly discovered that he had put his sword slings on backward, shouted “Stop!” and started spinning in place, trying to rotate inside the slings. Something flew off Don Sera’s waistcoat again.

Rumata caught a passing servant girl by her little pink ear and asked her to help Don Tameo put himself in order. A crowd of gawkers immediately gathered around the noble dons, giving the servant girl advice from which she turned completely crimson, while Don Sera’s waistcoat kept raining clasps, buttons, and buckles. When they finally moved on, Don Tameo began composing an addendum to his memorandum for all to hear, in which he indicated the need for the “noninclusion of pretty persons of the female persuasion to the category of peasants and commoners.”

This was when their way was blocked by a cart full of clay pots. Don Sera drew both swords and declared that going around some stinking pots was beneath the noble dons’ dignity, and that he would make his way through the cart. But as he was taking aim, trying to gauge where the wall of the house ended and the pots began, Rumata grabbed one of the wheels of the cart and turned it around, clearing the way. The gawkers, who had been watching the goings-on with delight, shouted a triple hurray for Rumata. The noble dons were about to move on, but a fat, gray-haired shopkeeper leaned out of a third-floor window and started to expound about the misdeeds of the courtiers, which “our eagle Don Reba will soon put an end to.” They had to stay and pass him the entire load of pots through his window. Rumata threw two gold coins with the profile of Pitz the Sixth into the last pot and handed it to the stunned owner of the cart.

“How much did you give him?” Don Tameo asked when they moved on.

“Not much,” Rumata replied offhandedly. “Two gold pieces.”

“By Holy Míca’s back!” exclaimed Don Tameo. “You are rich! Would you like me to sell you my Hamaharian stallion?”

“I’d rather win it in a game of dice,” Rumata said.

“You’re right!” Don Sera said and stopped. “Why don’t we play a game of dice?”

“Right here?” Rumata asked.

“Well, why not?” asked Don Sera. “I see no reason three noble dons shouldn’t play a game of dice wherever they like!”

At this point, Don Tameo suddenly fell down. Don Sera tripped over his feet and also fell down. “I completely forgot,” Don Sera said. “It’s time for us to report for guard duty.”

Rumata got them up and guided them, holding them by the elbows. He stopped by the gigantic, gloomy house of Don Satarina. “Why don’t we visit the aged don?” he asked.

“I see absolutely no reason why three noble dons shouldn’t visit the aged Don Satarina,” said Don Sera.

Don Tameo opened his eyes. “As servants of the king,” he proclaimed, “we must do our utmost to look to the future. D-Don Satarina is a relic of the past. Onward, noble dons! I must be at my post.”

“Onward,” Rumata agreed.

Don Tameo dropped his head on his chest and didn’t lift it up again. Don Sera, using his fingers to count, was reciting his amorous conquests. In this way, they got to the palace. In the guardroom, Rumata put Don Tameo down on a bench with relief, and Don Sera sat down at the table, carelessly pushed away a stack of orders signed by the king, and declared that it was finally time to drink some cold Irukanian wine. “Let the owner roll up a barrel,” he ordered, “and let those girls come over here”—he indicated the guards who were playing cards at the other table. The commander of the guard, a lieutenant of the company, came by. He spent a long time looking closely at Don Tameo and examining Don Sera; and when Don Sera asked him “Why have all the flowers withered in the mysterious garden of love?” decided that he probably shouldn’t send them to their posts. Let them lie about for now.