Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

“And what are the people there like?”

“Like me”.

“All of them?”

“Not all of them. Some are much better.”

“That’s definitely impossible.”

“That’s not only possible,” he replied, “it’s true!”

“Why is it so easy to believe you? My father doesn’t believe anyone. My brother says that all people are swine, the only difference is that some are filthy and others are not. But I don’t believe them, and you I always believe.”

“I love you.”

“Wait… Rumata. Take your circlet off. You said it’s a sin…”

Rumata laughed happily, pulled the circlet off, put it on the table, and covered it with a book. “It’s the eye of God,” he said. “Let it be closed.” He lifted her up in his arms. “It’s very sinful, but when I’m with you, I don’t need God. Right?”

“Right,” she said very softly.

By the time they sat down to eat, the roast meat was cold, and the wine, which had been taken out of the icebox, was warm. Uno came by and, treading softly as he had been taught by old Muga, walked along the wall lighting lamps, though it was still light out.

“This is your servant?” Kira asked.

“No, he’s a free boy. A fine boy, only very stingy.”

“Money doesn’t grow on trees,” Uno observed without turning around.

“So you still haven’t bought new sheets?” asked Rumata.

“What for?” the boy asked. “The old ones will do.”

“Listen, Uno,” Rumata said. “I can’t sleep an entire month on the same sheets.”

“Ha,” the boy said. “His Majesty does it for half a year without a murmur.”

“And the oil,” Rumata said, winking at Kira. “The oil in the lamps. What is it, free?”

Uno stopped. “But my master has a guest,” he finally said firmly.

“See how he is!” said Rumata.

“He’s nice,” Kira said seriously. “He loves you. Let’s take him with us.”

“We’ll see,” Rumata said.

The boy asked suspiciously, “Take me where? I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’ll go,” Kira said, “where all the people are like Don Rumata.”

The boy thought for a moment and said scornfully, “What, heaven for the highborn?” Then he snorted derisively and shuffled out of the study, dragging feet in battered shoes.

“A good boy,” she said. “Grumpy like a bear cub. He’s a nice friend.”

“All my friends are nice.”

“What about Baron Pampa?”

“How do you know about him?” Rumata asked in surprise.

“You never talk about anyone else. That’s all I ever hear about—Baron Pampa this and Baron Pampa that.”

“Baron Pampa is a very good friend.”

“How can a baron be a good friend?”

“I mean that he’s a very good man. Very kind and merry. And very much in love with his wife.”

“I’d like to meet him. Or are you ashamed of me?”

“No, I’m not ashamed. It’s just that he’s a good man, but he’s still a baron.”

“Oh…” she said.

Rumata pushed his plate away. “Do tell me why you were crying. And why you came here alone. Is this the time to be running around the streets alone?”

“I couldn’t manage at home. I’ll never go home. Can I be a servant here? For free.”

Rumata chuckled through the lump in his throat.

“Father copies confessions every day,” she continued with quiet desperation. “And the paper they are written on is all covered in blood. He gets them at the Merry Tower. Oh, why did you ever teach me to read? Every evening, every evening… copying transcripts of tortures—and drinking. So awful, so awful! ‘You know,’ he says, ‘Kira, our neighbor the calligrapher taught people to write. Who do you think he is? He revealed during torture that he’s a wizard and Irukanian spy. Who,’ he says, ‘am I supposed to believe now? I learned to write from him myself,’ he says. And my brother comes home from the patrol more drunk than beer itself, hands covered in dried blood. ‘We’ll kill them all,’ he says, ‘until the twelfth generation.’ He interrogates father about why he’s literate… Today, he and his buddies dragged some man into the house. They beat him up, splattered everything with blood. He even stopped screaming. I can’t live like this, I’d rather you kill me than go back!”

Rumata stood beside her, stroking her hair. She was staring fixedly into space with tearless, gleaming eyes. What could he say to her? He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the sofa, sat down beside her, and started telling her about the temples made of crystal, about the cheerful gardens that stretched for many miles without any mosquitoes, rot, or evil spirits, about enchanted tablecloths, about flying carpets, about the magical city of Leningrad, about his friends—proud, cheerful, and happy people, about the wondrous country over the seas and mountains with the strange name Earth… She listened quietly and attentively, clinging tighter to him when hobnailed boots— thump, thump, thump—stomped on the pavement beneath their windows.

She had an amazing quality—an utter and selfless belief in good. Tell such a tale to a serf—he’d grunt doubtfully, wipe off the snot with his sleeve, and keep going without saying a word, only looking back at the kind, sober, but—ah, what a pity!—crazy noble don. Start telling this to Don Tameo and Don Sera—they wouldn’t let you finish: one would fall asleep, and the other would burp and say, “That’s all reeeal noble, but how are their women?” And Don Reba would listen attentively until you were done, and having heard you out, would wink at his storm troopers, so they could bend the noble don’s elbows to his shoulder blades and find out where exactly the noble don heard such dangerous tales and who he’d had the time to tell them to.

When Kira calmed down and fell asleep, he kissed her peaceful sleeping face, covered her with a fur-trimmed winter coat, and tiptoed out, closing the unpleasantly squeaking door behind him. After walking through the dark house, he went down to the servants’ quarters and said, looking above the bowed heads, “I hired a housekeeper. Her name is Kira. She will stay upstairs, with me. The room behind the study should be thoroughly tidied by tomorrow. Listen to the housekeeper like you do to me.” He scanned around the room: any mocking grins? No one was grinning; everyone was listening with proper deference. “And if anyone talks outside the gates, I’ll rip their tongue out!”

After finishing the speech, he stood there for some time for emphasis, then turned around and went back up to his chambers. In the living room, which was hung with rusty weapons and cluttered with odd, bug-eaten furniture, he stood by the window and looked outside, leaning his forehead against the cold, dark glass. The bells chimed for the first night watch. In the windows across the way, people were lighting lamps and closing the shutters, in order not to attract evil men or evil spirits. It was quiet, except that at one point a drunk shouted in a terrible voice below—either someone was undressing him or he was trying to barge into the wrong door.

These evenings were the worst—tedious, lonely, cheerless. We thought that it’d be an endless battle, fierce and victorious. We thought that we’d always have clear ideas about good and evil, about our friends and foes. And on the whole we were right, except there was a lot we didn’t take into account. For example, we couldn’t have imagined these evenings, although we knew they’d exist…

There was a clatter of iron below—the doors were being bolted for the night. The cook was praying to Holy Míca to send her any husband at all, as long as he was independent and with a head on his shoulders. Old Muga was yawning, making circular motions with his thumb. In the kitchen, servants were finishing the evening’s beer and gossiping, while Uno, unfriendly eyes flashing, spoke like a grown-up: “Hold your tongues, tomcats.”