Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I was late due to other affairs, and didn’t get there in time. I wasn’t able to forestall events.”

“It happens,” she says, biting off a piece of toast with caviar and washing it down with wine. “Eat.”

Thank God. There are better things to do in my position than just to keep quiet. I grab some snakeroot, put it in my mouth, follow it with a piece of rye bread. Her Highness chews, sipping wine. And then she suddenly laughs nervously, puts down her glass, and stops chewing. I stop, too.

She eyes me intently:

“Tell me, Komiaga, why do they hate me so much?”

I inhale deeply. And exhale. What can I say? And there she is, looking straight through me.

“So I love young guardsmen. So what? What difference does it make?”

Her black eyes fill with tears. She wipes them away with a handkerchief.

I pluck up my courage:

“Your Highness, it’s just a handful of malicious dissenters.”

She looks at me like a tigress at a mouse. I regret opening my mouth.

“It’s not a handful of dissenters, you idiot. It’s our barbaric people!”

I understand. The Russian people aren’t easy to work with. But God hasn’t given us any other people. I keep quiet. But Her Highness, forgetting about food, presses the end of her closed fan to her lips:

“They’re envious because they’re slaves. They know how to pretend. But they don’t really love us, the powerful. And they never will. If they had the chance—they’d cut us to pieces.”

I gather my courage again:

“Your Highness, please don’t worry—we’ll throttle that Artamosha. We’ll squash him like a louse.”

“Oh, what does Artamosha have to do with it!” She whacks her fan on the table and stands up abruptly.

I jump up immediately.

“Sit!” She waves at me.

I sit. The greyhound barks at me. Her Highness paces the dining room, her dress rustling menacingly.

“Artamosha! As if he were the problem…”

She walks back and forth, mumbling something to herself. She stops and tosses the fan on the table.

“Artamosha! It’s the nobles’ wives, they’re jealous of me, they set the holy fools against me, and they in turn stir up the people. This subversive wind blows from the nobles’ wives through the fools and to the people. Nikola Volokolamsky, Andriukha Zagoriansky, Afonya Ostankinsky—what kinds of things are they saying about me, huh? Well?!”

“Your Highness, these stinking curs make the rounds of the churches and spread disgusting rumors…But His Majesty has forbidden us to touch them…otherwise long ago we would have…”

“I’m asking you—what are they saying?!”

“Well…they say that at night you rub a Chinese ointment on your body, after which you turn into a dog…”

“And I run around with hounds! Is that it?”

“That’s it, Your Highness.”

“So what does Artamosha have to do with it? He’s just singing rumors! Artamosha!”

She walks around, muttering angrily. Her eyes glitter. She takes her glass and drinks. She sighs:

“Hmmm…you ruined my appetite. All right, get out of here…”

I stand, bow, and walk backward, step by step.

“Wait…” She stops and thinks. “What was it you said Praskovia wanted?”

“Baltic herring, fern seeds, and books.”

“Books. Well then, come with me. Otherwise I might forget…”

Her Highness quits the dining room, throwing open the doors in front of her. I try to keep up behind her. We enter the library. Her Highness’s librarian jumps up and bows, a moss-covered man in glasses:

“What do you desire, Your Highness?”

“Let’s go, Teryosha.”

The librarian minces along after her. Her Highness goes over to the shelves. There are a lot of them. And there’s a ton of books. I know that our mama likes to read from paper. And not just Pernicious Pugs . She’s well read.

She stops. Looks at the shelves:

“This will burn well and for a long time.”

She makes a sign to the librarian. He takes the collected works of Anton Chekhov off the shelves.

“Send these to Praskovia,” Her Highness tells the librarian.

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods, shifting the books.

“That’s it!” Our mama turns and walks right out of the library.

I hurry after her. She sweeps into her quarters. The golden doors open wide, the tambourines sound, the unseen balalaika strums, and valiant voices sing.

“Go on and hit me, me-oh-mine,

A big fat stick upon my spine!

A stick that’s excellent and fine.

My spine is quilted well, and lined!”

Her Highness is met by a pack of her hangers-on. They howl, squeal joyfully, and bow. There are a lot of them. All kinds: jesters, nuns well read in scripture, wandering minstrels, storytellers, playful souls , and dumpling makers crippled by science, witch doctors, masseurs, spinsters, and gingerbread men who run on electricity. “Best of the morning to you, Mamo!” all these hangers-on howl in unison.

“Good morning, my lovelies!” Her Highness smiles.

Two old jesters run up to her—Pavlusha the Hedgehog and Duga the Devil grab her by the hands, pull her along, kissing her fingers. As always, round-faced Pavlusha mutters, “Pow-yer, pow-yer, pow-yer!”

Hairy Duga grunts along:

“Eur-gasia, Eur-gasia, Eur-gasia!”

The rest begin to dance in a circle around Her Highness. I can see right off—her face grows kinder, her eyebrows calmer, her eyes no longer flash.

“How are my darlings doing here without me?”

There’s wailing and whimpering in reply.

“No good, Mamo! No goooood!”

The hangers-on fall to their knees in front of Mama.

I step backward toward the exit. She notices:

“Komiaga!”

I freeze. She beckons to her chamberlain, takes a gold piece out of her purse, and tosses it to me:

“For your efforts.”

I catch it, bow, and leave.

Evening. It’s snowing. I am driving my Mercedov through Moscow. I hold the wheel and squeeze the gold piece in my fist. It burns my palm like burning charcoal. It’s not pay, it’s a gift . Not much money, only ten rubles, but it’s dearer to me than a thousand…

Her Highness always creates a storm of feelings in my soul. Hard to describe. Like two tsunamis colliding: one wave is hatred, the other is love. I hate our mama because she shames His Majesty, undermines the people’s belief in their sovereign. I love her for her character, for her strength and integrity, for her unyielding obstinacy. And for…her white, tender, incomparable, boundless, ample breast, which occasionally I manage to glimpse out of the corner of my eye, thank God. Those unexpected evening viewings are unlike anything else. A sidelong peep at Her Highness’s breast…is rapture, gentlemen! One thing’s a pity, though: Her Highness prefers guardsmen to oprichniks. And it’s unlikely her preference will change. Well, let God be her judge.

I look at the clock: 21:42.

Today is Monday; the oprichnik repast begins at 21:00. I’m late. But it’s no big deal. Our communal evening meal is at Batya’s residence on Mondays and Thursdays only. That’s on Yakimanka Street, in the merchant Igumnov’s house, the very same house where French ambassadors nested for nearly a century. The house has been occupied by the oprichnina since the famous events of summer 2021, when His Majesty publicly tore up the French ambassador’s credentials and sent the envoy packing, having unearthed his plot to foment rebellion. No more skinny-legged Frenchmen walk there: it’s our dear Batya who paces the floors in his Moroccan leather boots. Each Monday and Thursday he has dinner for all of us. The house is whimsical, it reminds you of old-time Russia as though it had deliberately been built for Batya. It was waiting until our dear Batya moved in, and it waited long enough. Thank God.