Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

I pick up the last book and open it. It’s a long poem about His Majesty’s childhood. The poet Syrkov already wrote about His youth and adulthood a long time ago. An elegant publication: expensive calfskin binding, gold lettering, pink page edges, thick white paper, and a bookmark of blue silk. On the half-title there’s a lively portrait of the poet: a bit gloomy, gray-haired, stooped. He’s at the seashore, gazing out toward the horizon; the ocean waves crash and crash, crash and crash against the rock where he stands. He somehow resembles an eagle owl, and seems deeply immersed in himself.

“An extraordinary, spiritually uplifting poem, Sir Oprichnik,” says the peddler in a businesslike voice. “Such a vivid portrait of His Majesty, such lively language…”

I read:

How you ran, so alive and so cheerful,

How you played in the river and sand,

How you traveled to school, never tearful,

How you whispered, “my dear, native land,”

How you strove to be honest and steady,

How you learned about freedom from birds,

How your answers were swift, always ready,

How you tugged on the braids of the girls,

How athletic you grew, and how stubborn,

How you wanted to know all apace,

How you loved your sweet good-hearted mother,

How your father you walked to the gates,

How you ran with the dogs ’cross the valleys

How you studied the crops and the sod,

How in winter’s grim blizzards you rallied,

How by spring you maneuvered the yacht,

How you learned to fly huge helicopters,

How you crafted your own paper kite,

How you galloped on fleet-footed Topper,

How whole poems in Chinese you’d recite,

How you penned your calligraphy ably,

How at dawn you would shoot at the range,

How you copied the character “guo jia,” 1

How with Father you flew a small plane,

How your Motherland swiftly awakened,

How dear Russia in you did resound,

How by Nature your spirit was shapen,

How abruptly your own time came ’round.

Well, not bad. A bit overly emotional, as always with Syrkov, but on the other hand—quite vivid. The peddler is right. I’ll buy the book, read it, and then give it to Posokha, so he reads this poem instead of that obscene Secret Tales .

“How much?” I ask.

“For everyone else, three rubles, but for Sir Oprichnik, two and a half.”

Not cheap. But then it would be a sin to scrimp on His Majesty’s life story. I hand over the money. The peddler accepts it with a bow. Sticking the book in my pocket, I get into the Mercedov.

And step on the gas.

“ Putting out stars is harder than mixing honey and water,” our Batya likes to say. And it’s true. Nonetheless, it’s an important affair, an affair of state. But skill is needed, a special approach. In a word, it’s an “intelligent” affair. And intelligent hands are needed. You have to invent or fabricate something every time. It’s nothing like burning down Zemsky mansions.

Therefore, I head back for the center of town again. I drive along crowded Yakimanka, again in the red lane. I drive onto the Great Stone Bridge. The sun has peeked out from behind the winter clouds, illuminating the Kremlin. And it is shining. How marvelous that for the last twelve years its walls have been painted white. And instead of those demonic pentacles on the Kremlin towers the state’s two-headed eagles shine gold.

The Kremlin is glorious in clear weather! It glows. The Palace of the Russian Government blinds the eyes, it takes your breath away. The Kremlin walls and towers sparkle like white lumps of sugar, the cupolas reflect the sun tinsel gold, the Ladder of Paradise bell tower of Ioann Lestvichnik rises in the air like an arrow. Blue-tinted firs surround it like stern guards, and Russia’s flag flies proud and free. Here, just over the crenellated, blindingly white, stone walls, is the heart of the Russian land, the throne of our state, the core and hub of Mother Russia. There’s nothing shameful in laying down your life for the sugary white Kremlin and its towers, the majestic eagles, the flag, the relics of Russia’s rulers reposing in the Cathedral of the Archangel, Riurik’s sword, the crown of Monomakh, the Tsar-Pushka cannon, the Tsar-Kolokol bell tower, the pavestones of Red Square, for Uspensky Cathedral or the Kremlin towers. And there’s no shame in laying down a second life—for His Majesty.

Tears well up in my eyes…

I turn on to Vozdvizhenka Street. My mobilov pesters me with three cracks of the whip: it’s the captain of the Good Fellows, reporting that they’ve got everything ready for the extinguishing . But he wants to clarify details, elucidate, sort out, brainstorm, go over things. He’s not sure of himself, that’s obvious. That’s why I’m coming to see you, you dimwit! Young Count Ukhov from the Inner Circle runs this show, and the order answers directly to His Majesty. Their full name is the Fellowship of Russian Good Fellows for Good. They’re young blades, zealous, upright, but they need supervision, because their leadership went awry from the very beginning—no luck with brainy types, no matter what you do! Each year His Majesty changes their captain, but not much changes. It’s baffling…In the Oprichnina we nicknamed these ruffians “Good-for-Noughts.” Not all they do turns out for the good, oh no, not by a long shot…But that’s all right, we’ll help. We’ll lend a hand, not for the first time.

I drive up to their richly decorated headquarters. They don’t have much in the way of brains, but they’ve got money coming out of their asses. Suddenly—there’s a red call on my mobilov. Something important. It’s Batya:

“Komiaga, where are you?”

“Heading for the Good-for-Noughts, Batya.”

“The devil take them. I want you off to Orenburg—fast. Our guys have locked horns with customs.”

“That’s the left wing ’s problem, Batya, I’m a former in that business.”

“Chapyzh is burying his mother, Seryi and Vosk are in a meeting with Count Savelev in the Kremlin, and Samosya, the idiot, ran into one of the Streltsy on Ostozhenka Street.”

So that’s it.

“What about Baldokhai?”

“On a business trip, in Amsterdam. Come on, Komiaga, get over there while they still haven’t bamboozled us. You worked in customs, you know the ins and outs. It’s a serious haul , around a hundred thousand. If it falls through, we’ll never forgive ourselves. As it is, those customs guys have gotten too cheeky lately. Go sort it out!”

“Work and Word!, Batya.”

Hmm. Orenburg. That means—the Road. There’s no joking with the Road. It’s worth drawing blood for it. I call the Good-for-Noughts and reschedule for the evening:

“I’ll be there by the time the wailing starts!”

I turn on to the boulevard, then over the Great Stone Bridge again and into the Kaluzhskaya-2 Underground Highway. It’s a good road, wide and smooth. I accelerate to 260 versts per hour, and eighteen minutes later I’m at Vnukovo Airport. I park my Mercedov in the government parking lot and enter the terminal. A young woman steps forward to greet me in the blue uniform of Aeroflot: with aiguillettes, silver embroidery, Hessian boots, and white leather gloves. She invites me into the security corridor. I place my right hand against the glass square. My whole life appears in the pine-scented air: date of birth, rank, home address, status, chart of habits, physical-mental characteristics, birthmarks, illnesses, psychosomatics, my character core, preferences, prejudices, size of my limbs and organs. The girl gazes at my mind and body, distinguishing, comparing. “Full and complete transparency,” as His Majesty says. And thank God: we’re in our own homeland, nothing to be shy about.