Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

“No poet… Sometimes I wonder, who am I? And what am I afraid of? I don’t know.”

“Look at your plate and keep eating. I’ll tell you who you are. You’re a brilliant storyteller, the founder of a new literary movement—the most fruitful one there is.” Gur’s cheeks slowly started to glow. “In a hundred years, and maybe even earlier, dozens of storytellers will follow in your footsteps.”

“God help them!” Gur blurted out.

“Now I’ll tell you what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Of the nighttime?”

“Of the nighttime too. At night we’re at the mercy of spirits. But most of all I’m afraid of the dark, because in the dark everyone becomes equally gray.”

“Very well put, Father Gur. By the way, is it still possible to find your book?”

“I don’t know… And I don’t want to know.”

“Just in case, you should know: one copy is in the metropole, in the library of the emperor. Another is kept in the Museum of Curiosities in Soan. The third is with me.”

Gur spooned some jelly onto his plate with a trembling hand. “I… don’t know…” He looked at Rumata mournfully with his huge sunken eyes. “I’d like to read it… reread it…”

“I’ll be happy to lend it to you.”

“And then?”

“And then you’ll give it back.”

“And then you’ll be given back!” Gur said sharply. Rumata shook his head. “Don Reba really scared you, Father Gur.”

“Scared me… Have you ever had to burn your own children? What do you know about fear, noble don!”

“I bow my head before what you’ve had to go through, Father Gur. But I wholeheartedly blame you for giving up.”

Gur the Storyteller suddenly started to whisper so softly that Rumata could barely hear him over the chomping and the drone of voices. “And what is it all for? What is the truth? Prince Haar really did love the beautiful copper-skinned Yaivnivora. They had kids… I know their grandchildren. She really was poisoned… But I was told that it’s a lie. I was told that truth is what currently benefits the king. Everything else is a lie and a crime. I had written lies all my life… And only now do I write the truth.”

He suddenly stood up and loudly recited in a sing-song voice:

The king stopped chewing and stared at him vacantly. The guests pulled their heads into their shoulders. Only Don Reba smiled and gave a few silent claps. The king spit the bones onto the tablecloth and said, “Infinity? That’s right. That’s true, it’s in retreat… I commend you. You may eat.”

The chomping and conversations resumed.

Gur sat down. “It’s so sweet and easy to tell the truth to the king’s face,” he croaked.

Rumata was silent. Then he said, “I’ll give you a copy of your book, Father Gur. But under one condition. You will immediately start writing the next one.”

“No,” Gur said. “It’s too late. Let Kiun write. I’ve been poisoned. And anyway, I’m not interested in any of it anymore. I only want one thing now—to learn to drink. And I can’t. It hurts my stomach.”

Another defeat, thought Rumata. I’m too late.

“Listen, Reba,” the king said suddenly. “Where’s the healer? You promised me the healer after dinner.”

“He’s here, Your Majesty,” said Don Reba. “Do you order me to summon him?”

“Do I order you to? Of course! If your knee hurt like this, you’d squeal like a pig! Get him here this instant!”

Rumata leaned back in his chair and got ready to watch. Don Reba raised a hand above his head and snapped his fingers. The door opened, and a hunched old man wearing a long robe adorned with images of silver spiders, stars, and snakes entered the hall, constantly bowing. He was holding a flat, oblong bag under his arm. Rumata was puzzled: this wasn’t at all how he had imagined Budach. The sage and humanist, the author of the comprehensive Treatise on Poisons, couldn’t have such faded, darting eyes, such fearfully trembling lips, such a pathetic, ingratiating smile. But then he remembered Gur the Storyteller. The inquiry into the suspected Irukanian spy probably involved a literary conversation in Don Reba’s office. Oh, to take Reba by the ear, he thought longingly. To drag him into the dungeon. To tell the torturers, “Here’s an Irukanian spy, disguised as our glorious minister; the king has ordered us to extract the whereabouts of the real minister from him. Do what you do, and woe be upon you if he dies in less than a week.” He put a hand in front of his face lest it betray his thoughts. What a terrible thing hatred is…

“Well, well, come here, healer,” the king said. “You’re a weakling, brother. Now squat—squat, I tell you!”

The unfortunate Budach began to squat. His face contorted in horror.

“Again, again,” the king said nasally. “Once again! Again! Your knees don’t hurt—you healed your own knees. Now let’s see your teeth! Hmmmm, not bad. I should have such teeth. And the hands aren’t bad, nice and strong. Nice and healthy, though you’re a weakling… Well go on, my dear, treat me, don’t just stand there.”

“Y-Your Majesty… be so g-gracious as to show his leg… his leg…” Rumata heard the healer say. He looked up. The man was on his knees in front of the king and was carefully kneading his leg.

“Hey… hey!” the king said. “What are you doing? Don’t paw at me! If you’re going to treat me, then treat me!”

“I u-understand everything, Your Majesty,” the healer mumbled. He started hurriedly digging through his bag.

The guests stopped chewing. The minor aristocrats at the end of the table even stood up and craned their necks, burning with curiosity.

Budach took a number of stone bottles from his bag, opened them, and, sniffing them one by one, lined them up along the table. Then he took the king’s goblet and filled it halfway with wine. Making strange gestures over the goblet with both hands and whispering incantations, he quickly emptied all the bottles into the wine. The distinct smell of ammonia spread through the hall. The king pursed his lips, looked into the goblet, and, screwing up his nose, looked at Don Reba. The minister smiled sympathetically. The courtiers held their breath.

What is he doing? thought Rumata with surprise. The old man has gout! What is that concoction? His treatise clearly states, massage a three-day infusion of white snake venom into the swollen joints. Maybe this is the salve?

“What’s this, salve?” the king asked, nervously nodding at the goblet.

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” said Budach. He had already recovered a little. “This is taken orally.”

“Orally?” The king pouted and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want anything orally. Massage it in.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Budach said meekly. “But I must take the liberty to warn you that massaging it in will be of no use.”

“For some reason, everyone else massages,” the king said peevishly, “and you absolutely have to pour this stuff into me.”

“Your Majesty,” said Budach, proudly standing up, “this medicine is known to me alone! I used it to cure the uncle of the Duke of Irukan. As for the massagers, they certainly didn’t cure you, Your Majesty.”

The king looked at Don Reba. Don Reba again smiled sympathetically.

“You rascal,” the king said to the healer in an unpleasant voice. “A bumpkin. A lousy weakling.” He picked up the goblet. “I have half a mind to give you a good crack on the teeth with this goblet.” He looked into the goblet. “And if I throw up?”