Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

Freedom for Russia! whines about “persecuted will,” the Old Believers’ “Posolon” grumbles about corruption in the top hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church; Russian Paris reads a book by Iosif Bak, Hysterical Gesticulation as a Way to Survive in Contemporary Russia ; Russian Rome plays some kind of shrill monkeylike jazz; Russian Berlin broadcasts an ideological duel between two irreconcilable bastard-mongrel emigrants; the Voice of America has a program called “Russian Expletives in Exile” with an obscene retelling of the immortal work Crime and Punishment :

“The un-fucking-believable blow of the butt-fucking axe hit the goddamn temple of the triply gang-banged old bag, facilitated piss-perfectly by her cunt-sucking short height. She cried out cumly and suddenly collapsed on the jism-covered shit-paneled floor, although that rotten pussy-hole of a hag had time to raise both of her ass-licking hands to her fuckin’ bare-ass pimped-up head.”

An abomination. What else can be said?

Our liberals are dripping with anger and grinding their teeth after His Majesty’s famous Decree 37, which criminalized obscene language in public and private, and made obligatory public corporal punishment the sentence. Most surprising of all is that our people immediately accepted Decree 37 with understanding. There were some show trials, some drawing and quartering on the main squares of Russian cities, the whistle of the cattle whip on Sennaya Square, and cries on the Manezh. And in a trice the people stopped using the filthy words that foreigners forced on them in bygone days. Only the intelligentsia has trouble coming to terms with it, and keeps on belching forth foul fumes in kitchens, bedrooms, latrines, elevators, storerooms, back streets, and cars, refusing to part with this putrid polyp on the body of the Russian language, which has poisoned more than one generation of our compatriots. And the loathsome West plays up to our underground foul-mouths.

The Russian Riviera dares—in a brazen, impudent tone—to criticize His Majesty’s order to close the Third Western Pipeline for twenty-four hours. How much anger those European gentlemen have accumulated! For decades they have sucked our gas without thinking of the hardship it brought to our hardworking people. What astonishing news they report! Oh dear, it’s cold in Nice again ! Gentlemen, you’ll have to get used to eating cold foie gras at least a couple of times a week. Bon appétit! China turned out to be smarter than you…

A knock and ring. That same clerk from the Ambassadorial Department:

“Andrei Danilovich, Korostylev here. The reception for the Albanian ambassador has been postponed until tomorrow at two o’clock.”

“Got it.” I turn off the clerk’s owly mug.

Thank God, because today we’re up to our ears in work. At state receptions for foreign accreditation, the oprichniks now stand next to the ambassadorials. Previously we alone carried the silver vessel holding the water. And a dozen ambassadorials stood in attendance in a half-circle. After August 17 His Majesty decided to bring them closer in. Now we hold the vessel jointly with the ambassadorials: Batya and Zhuravlev hold the cup; I, or someone from the right wing , holds the towel; the embassy clerk supports the elbow; and the rest stand on the rug or bow. As soon as His Majesty greets the new ambassador with a handshake and takes the credentials, we immediately begin the ritual washing of His Majesty’s hands. Of course, it’s a pity that the ambassadorials have been promoted after the mishaps of August. But—that is His Majesty’s will…

Kozlova finally comes out.

By her eyes I can sense that she has it. I immediately feel a rush of blood, and my heart quickens.

“Andrei Danilovich.” Through the window she hands me a plastic bag from a Chinese takeaway. “The money will be ready before six o’clock. I’ll call.”

I nod. Trying to restrain myself, I toss the bag casually onto the empty seat and close the window. Kozlova leaves. I drive off, turning onto Tverskaya Street. Near the Moscow Municipal Duma I park in the red lot for government cars. I stick my hand in the bag. My fingers touch the cool, smooth sphere. My fingers embrace it gently as I close my eyes: an aquarium ! It’s been a long time, oh so very long since my fingers have held the sublime globe. Almost four days. How terrible…

My hands sweaty from excitement, I take the globe out of the bag and place it in my left palm: there they are! Gold ones!

The ball is transparent, manufactured from the finest materials. It’s filled with a clear, nourishing solution. In that solution swim seven tiny (only five millimeters each) gold sterlets. I look at them, bringing the ball close to my face. Teeny, tiny microscopic little fish! Divine, charming creatures. People of great intelligence created you for our pleasure. In ancient times, nimble golden fish like you, magical fish, brought happiness to Ivan Simpletons in the form of carved towers, tsars’ daughters, and self-kindling Russian tile ovens. But the happiness that you bring, divine little ones, cannot be compared to any towers or self-kindling tile ovens, nor to women’s caresses…

I look the globe over. Even without a magnifying glass I can see—Giselle did not deceive us! Seven gold sterlets in my hand. I take out the glass and gaze more intently: superb, obviously made in China, not in wretched America and definitely not in Holland. They frisk about in their native element, shining in the miserly Moscow winter sun. How glorious!

I call Batya. I show him the globe.

“Atta boy, Komiaga.” Batya winks at me and in a sign of approval flicks his bell earring.

“Where to, Batya?”

“The Donskoi.”

“I’m off!” I speed out of the parking lot.

On the way to the Donskoi Baths I try to figure out how to plan my work for the rest of the day and evening, how to get everything done. But my thoughts are muddled, I can’t concentrate—the golden sterlets are right here, splashing in the sphere! Gritting my teeth, I force myself to think about state affairs. It seems I can manage everything—extinguish the star , and fly to see the soothsayer.

Donskoi Street is jam-packed. I turn on the State Snarl. A corps of cars quakes from the invisible sound, yields the road to me, pulling over. Great and powerful is the State Snarl. It clears the road like a bulldozer. I fly, I rush as to a fire. But the gold sterlet is more powerful than a fire! More powerful than an earthquake.

I whiz along to the yellow building of the Donskoi Baths. Outside, rising to the roof, is a figure of a bathhouse attendant with a broad, thick blond beard and two bunches of birch twigs in his muscular hand. The giant attendant thrashes his twigs and winks a mischievous blue eye every half-minute.

Holding the sphere tight in a deep pocket of my jacket, under my caftan, I enter. The doormen bow to their waist. Our room has already been reserved by Batya. I let them take my black caftan, and I continue down a vaulted corridor. My copper-soled boots clatter on the stone floor. Next to the door that leads to our room stands another attendant—strapping, tattooed Koliakha. He’s an old acquaintance, who always watches out for the oprichniks’ peace-of-mind time. A stranger could never get past broad-shouldered Koliakha.

“Greetings, Koliakha!” I say to him.

“To your health, Andrei Danilovich.” He bows.

“Anyone else yet?”

“You are the first.”

That’s good. I’ll choose the best place for myself.

Koliakha lets me into the room. It isn’t very wide and has low ceilings. But it’s cozy, familiar, lived in. In the middle is a round font, to the right is the steam room. It stands empty for want of use. For we now have special steam, ingenious steam. You couldn’t find birch branches for it anywhere in the world…