Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

“Did you set up a meeting with the clerk?”

“Of course. The white discussion is in a quarter of an hour.”

“The physicians?”

“All there.”

“Let’s go!”

Potrokha drives deftly through the airport gates onto the highway, and steps on the gas. We race not to Orenburg—famous for its fine, intricate shawls and its narrow-eyed Russian-Chinese beauties—but in the opposite direction. Along the way Potrokha explains the situation to me in greater detail. It’s been a long time since I worked with customs, a long time. Many new things have appeared in the meantime. Much that we couldn’t have dreamed about back then. Transparent illegals have cropped up, for instance. There’s this unexplained “export of empty spaces.” Subtropical air is in demand in Siberia these days—they run air in volumes . From some kind of celestial devices with compressed desires . Go figure! Thank God today’s business is simpler.

In a quarter of an hour Potrokha reaches the Road. It must be three years since I’ve been here. And each time I see it—it takes my breath away. The Road! It’s an amazing thing. It runs from Guangzhou across China, then winds its way across Kazakhstan, enters through the gates in our Southern Wall, and then traverses the breadth of Mother Russia to Brest. From there—straight to Paris. The Guangzhou–Paris Road. Since the manufacturing of all necessary goods flowed over to Great China bit by bit, they built this Road to connect China to Europe. It’s got ten lanes, and four tracks underground for high-speed trains. Heavy trailers crawl along the road with their goods 24/7, and the silvery trains whistle. It’s a real feast for the eyes.

We drive closer.

The Road is surrounded by three layers of security, protecting it from saboteurs and lamebrained cyberpunks. We drive into a roadside stop. It’s gorgeous, large, glass, built specially for long-distance drivers. You’ve got a winter garden with palms, a bathhouse with a pool, Chinese cookshops, Russian taverns, workout gyms, a hotel, a movie theater, a bordello with skilled whores, and even ice-skating rinks.

But Potrokha and I head for the meeting site. Everyone’s sitting and waiting: the clerk from the Customs Department, the junior clerk from the same place, who’s been greased by us, two guys from the Insurance Chamber, the commander of the Highway Department, and two Chinese representatives. Potrokha and I sit down and begin the discussion. A Chinese xiao jie , tea girl, comes in, brews white tea, a real tonic for the body, and pours some for everyone with a smile. The customs clerk digs in his heels and refuses to budge.

“The train is clean, the Kazakhs have no objections, the contract is point-to-point, everything’s in order.”

It’s obvious that the whole train has greased the clerk, all twelve trailers, and all the way to Brest. Our goal is to detain the Chinese long enough that their highway insurance runs out, and then our insurance will kick in. And our insurance is 3 percent. Every last dog on the Road knows it. On this 3 percent the oprichnina treasury stays quite plump. And not only the oprichnina’s. There’s enough for all upright people; they’ll all get something. This 3 percent covers a lot of legitimate expenses. And our expenses, as servants of His Majesty, are countless. Does the customs clerk, stuffed with yuan, really care?

The highway commander is ours . He starts pumping :

“Two of the trailers have counterfeit Chinese inspection stickers. We need an expert report.”

The Chinese break in:

“The inspection is in order, here are the findings.”

Shining characters of confirmation appear in the air. I learned conversational Chinese, of course; who could get along without it now? But the characters are just one big swamp for me. Potrokha, on the other hand, is nimble with Chinese; he dug up the findings on replacing the second turbine, and he illuminates it with a little thumbelinochka.

“Where’s the quality certificate? The manufacturer’s address? The lot number?”

“Shantou, Red Wealth factory, 380-6754069.”

Hmm…The turbine’s “local.” The inspection sticker won’t do it. Work on the Road is complicated now. Before, the trailers would simply be wrecked: the tires slashed, or windows all bashed in, or you’d slip something into the driver’s noodles while he was eating. Nowadays they’re on the lookout for these things. Yes, well, no matter. We have our own ways, tried and true. The tea is served by a greased xiao jie .

“Gentlemen, I consider this discussion to be concluded,” says the clerk, and then he clutches his chest.

There’s a big fuss and bustle: What happened?

“A heart attack!”

Now, how do you like that? And the xiao jie doesn’t even blush. She bows and carries her tea tray out with her. The physicians appear and take the clerk away. He’s moaning, and pale. We reassure him:

“You’ll get better, Savely Tikhonovich!”

Of course he’ll get better. The Chinese stand up—business is done. Not so quick. Now it’s our turn: the last statement is directed to the greased junior clerk:

“Look here, the travel documents appear to have been backdated.”

“What are you talking about? It’s not possible! Let me see, let me see…” The junior clerk stares walleyed at the travel documents, aims the thumbelinochka at them. “You’re right! The blue imprint is smudged! Oh dear, highway robbers! They deceived our trusting Savely Tikhonovich! They took him in! Crooks! Zui xing! 2” This is a new turn of events. One of the Chinese mutters:

“No way! The travel document was notarized by both border committees.”

“If a representative of the Russian customs has noticed a discrepancy, bilateral expertise is required,” I answer. “In this dispute I represent our side, as an oprichnik with authority.”

The Chinese are in a panic: gobs of time will be lost on this and their Chinese insurance will expire. And drawing up new travel permits, well, it’s not like throwing together a fish-bone pie. You’ve got to get a health inspection, technical inspection, and border check done all over again, not to mention getting a visa from the Antimonopoly Chamber. So it all boils down to:

“Take out insurance, gentlemen.”

The Chinese are wailing. Threats. Who, just who are you threatening, sha bi 3? Complain to whomever you like. The commander of the Highway Department sniffs at the Chinese:

“Russian insurance is the best defense against cyberpunks.”

The Chinese grit their teeth:

“Where’s the seal?”

So why the hell did I fly here, you wonder? Here’s the seal: I place my left palm on the square of frosted glass, leaving an Official Seal on it. And no more questions. Potrokha and I wink at each other: the 3 percent is ours! The Chinese walk out, all bent out of shape. The junior clerk leaves; he’s done his greasy work. Only Potrokha and I remain.

“Thanks, Komiaga.” Potrokha squeezes my wrist.

“Work and Word!, Potrokha.”

We finish the tea and walk outside. It’s colder here than in Moscow. We oprichniks have an old feud with customs, and there’s no end in sight. It’s all because customs is run by His Majesty’s brother Alexander Nikolaevich, and will be run by him for a long time to come. And dear Alexander Nikolaevich can’t stomach our Batya. Something happened between them, something that even His Majesty cannot reconcile. And nothing can be done about it—there was, is, and will be a war…

“We should rest a bit.” Potrokha scratches his overgilded forelock and pushes his sable hat back on the nape of his neck. “Let’s go to the bathhouse. They’ve got a good masseur. And there are two hunanochki . 4”