Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

How could we give them gas like that?

In a thrice they’d suffocate.”

One border guard opens the valve while the two others rush to the end of the pipe, put it to their rear ends, and fart. With a menacing howl the good fellows’ farts pass through the pipe, flow through the wall, and…screams and wailing are heard in the West. The final chord sounds, and the three valiant fellows jump onto the pipe, raising their automatics in victory. Curtain.

The high-placed audience stirs. They’re looking at Prince Sobakin. He twists his mustache, thinking. He speaks:

“Well now, what opinions do we have, gentlemen?”

The head of the Culture Chamber speaks:

“I see an obvious element of obscenity. Although the piece is topical and executed with vim and vigor.”

The observer from the Secret Department:

“First of all, I don’t like the enemy scout being killed rather than captured alive. Second, why only three border guards? I know for a fact that outposts have a dozen. So there should be twelve guards. Then the fart itself would be more powerful…”

I:

“I agree in regard to the composition of the border guard. And this is a much-needed number, a topical number. But there is an element of obscenity. And His Majesty, as we all know, champions chastity and cleanliness on stage.”

Prince Sobakin says nothing, but nods. Then he speaks:

“Tell me, gentlemen, does hydrogen sulfide, which our valiant warriors fart—does it burn?”

The observer nods. “It burns.”

“Well, if it burns,” the prince continues, twisting his mustached, “then what does Europe have to fear from our farts?”

Now that’s a member of the Inner Circle for you! He sees right to the bottom of things! You can heat European cities with Russian farts! Everyone grows thoughtful. I blame my brain: I didn’t catch on to an obvious thing! But then, my education was in the humanities…

The director pales and coughs nervously.

The observer scratches his beard. “Hmm. Yes…there’s a little discrepancy…”

“A blunder in the script!” The culture head lifts a fat finger in forewarning. “Who’s the author?”

In the darkness of the hall a lean man in glasses and a belted peasant shirt appears.

“My good man, how did you slip up like this? The story of our gas is as old as the world!” the culture head asks him.

“I’m at fault. I’ll fix it.”

“Fix it, fix it, my dear,” yawns the prince.

“Just remember that dress rehearsal is the day after tomorrow!” the observer says sternly.

“We’ll make it in time, of course.”

“One more thing,” the prince adds. “On the subject of moles: the ray gun causes his intestines to fall out. It’s a bit too much.”

“What, your Highness?”

“Intestines. Naturalism is out of place here. Fewer gizzards, my man.”

“At your command. We’ll fix everything.”

“And what about the obscenity?” I ask.

The prince glances at me sideways:

“It isn’t obscenity, Sir Oprichnik, but healthy army humor, which helps our Streltsy bear the severe conditions on the far borders of our Motherland.”

Laconic. Can’t argue. The prince is smart. And judging by his cold, sideways look—he doesn’t like us oprichniks. Well, that’s understandable: we step on the Inner Circle’s toes, we breathe down their necks.

“What else is there?” the prince asks, taking out a nail file.

“The aria of Ivan Susanin.”

Don’t have to watch that one. I rise, bow, and head toward the exit. Suddenly in the darkness someone grabs me by the hand:

“Sir, Sir Oprichnik, I beg of you!”

A woman.

“Who are you?” I pull my hand away.

“I beg of you, hear me out!” she says in a hot, fitful whisper. “I’m the wife of the arrested scribe Koretsky.”

“Get away, you Zemstvo spawn.”

“I beg you, I beg of you!” She falls on her knees and grabs my legs.

“Away with you.” I kick her in the chest with my boot.

She lies on the floor. Then, from behind me—another pair of hot female hands, and more whispering:

“Andrei Danilovich, we beg you, beg you!”

I grab my dagger from its scabbard:

“Away, you whores!”

Thin hands recoil in the darkness:

“Andrei Danilovich, I am not a whore. I am Uliana Sergeevna Kozlova.”

Ah! The prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Theatre. His Majesty’s favorite, the best Odile and Giselle of all…I didn’t recognize her in the dark. I look closer. Yes—it’s her. And the Zemstvo bitch lies prone. I remove my dagger:

“Madame, how may I be of service?”

Kozlova comes closer. Her face, like the faces of all ballerinas, is far more ordinary than on stage. And she’s not in the least tall.

“Andrei Danilovich,” she whispers, glancing at the dim stage, where Susanin, with his stick and sheepskin coat, sings his aria slowly, “I beseech you to intercede, I implore you in the name of all the saints, I beg you with my heart! Klavdia Lvovna is the godmother of my children, she’s my closest, most beloved friend, she’s an honest, pure, God-fearing woman, together we built a school for orphans, an orphanage, a neat, spacious school, where orphans study. I beg of you, we beg of you…the day after tomorrow Klavdia Lvovna will be sent to the settlement, there’s only a day left, I beseech you as a Christian, as a man, as a theatergoer, as a cultured person, we will be in your eternal debt, we will pray for you and for your family, Andrei Danilovich—”

“I don’t have a family,” I interrupt.

She looks at me silently with large, moist eyes. Susanin sings “My time has come!” and crosses himself. The Zemstvo widow lies on the floor. I ask:

“Why are you, a favorite of His Majesty’s family, asking me?”

“His Majesty is terribly angry at the former chairman and all of his assistants. He doesn’t want to hear anything about clemency. But the clerk Koretsky personally wrote that very letter to the French. His Majesty doesn’t want to hear a word about the Koretskys.”

“All the more…What can I do?”

“Andrei Danilovich, the oprichnina is capable of miracles.”

“Madame, the oprichnina creates the Work and Word! of the state.”

“You are one of the leaders of that mighty order.”

“Madame, the oprichnina is not an order, but a brotherhood.”

“Andrei Danilovich! I beseech you! Take pity on an unfortunate woman. In your masculine wars we are the ones who suffer most. And life on earth depends on us.”

Her voice trembles. The Zemstvo woman’s sobs are barely audible behind her. The culture head glances sideways in our direction. What can you do, people ask us to intercede almost every day. But Koretsky and that whole gang of the Public Chambers chairman—they are double-dealers! Better not to even look their way.

“Tell her to leave,” I say.

“Klavdia Lvovna, dear heart…” The ballerina leans over her.

Koretskaya disappears in the dark, sobbing.

“Let’s go outside.” I head toward the door with the illuminated word “Exit.”

Kozlova hurries after me. Silently, we leave the building through the service entrance.

On the square I go to my Mercedov. Kozlova follows me. In daylight the best Giselle in Russia is even more frail and plain. She hides her thin little face in a luxurious arctic fox collar with a short throat wrap. The prima ballerina wears a long, narrow skirt of black silk; under it, pointed black boots with patches of snakeskin peek out. The prima has beautiful eyes—large, gray, anxious.

“If it’s uncomfortable for you, we can speak in my car.” She nods in the direction of a lilac-colored Cadillac.

“Better in mine.” I show my palm to the Mercedov and it obediently opens its glass top.