Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

“So that’s the way the cookie crumbles and the chips fly,” Batya sums up. “And now—to the baths!”

Batya is the first to enter. Naked, like Adam, we follow him. Batya’s bathhouse is rich: the ceilings are vaulted and abutted by columns; the floor is marble mosaic; the pool is large; the lounge chairs comfortable. The aroma of bread is already coming from the steam room—Batya likes to use kvass for his steam.

He immediately commands:

“Right wing !”

Batya is commander in chief in his bathhouse. We rush to the steam room. Ivan is already waiting there in his felt cap and gloves, with two bunches of twigs—birch and oak. The carousel begins: we lie down on the sweating shelves, deaf Ivan starts the kvass steam, grunts, and chants an unusually loud jokey jingle as he begins to lash the oprichniks with the birch brooms.

I lie there, my eyes closed. I wait my turn, breathing in the steam. Then the waiting is over: whisk, whisk, whisk—on my back, my ass, my legs. Ivan is so experienced in bath whipping it’s unbelievable—he doesn’t stop until you’re steam-cleaned. But at Batya’s you shouldn’t steam too long, for other pleasures lie in store. Even in the steam room my heart grows cold in anticipation.

Ivan steams away, chanting:

“Hark, hark,

Grind beans and bark

Yurop to gas

With oprichnik ass.

“Ass bone white,

Works day and night,

Smear it with lard,

Show Yurop what’s hard!”

Ivan’s little ditty is old, and he’s not too young himself: there’s no one in Europe to show a Russian ass to anyway. No decent people remain beyond the Western Wall, only Arab cyberpunks crawling over the ruins. Europe or an ass, it’s all the same to them.

Oak branches rustle on the nape of my neck, and birch branches tickle my heels.

“Ready!”

I climb off the shelf and fall into Zufar’s strong hands: now it’s his turn. He grabs me like a sack of potatoes, hoists me over his back, and lugs me out of the steam room. Taking a running start, he chucks me into the pool. Oh, I feel good! Everything is top-notch at Batya’s—the steam is hot and the water ice-cold. It goes straight to the bone. I swim, and wake up. But Zufar doesn’t give you a breather—he pulls me up, tosses me onto the futon, jumps on my back, and starts walking on me. My vertebrae crack. His Tatar feet walk along a Russian spine. They walk skillfully—they do no harm, won’t destroy, won’t bruise…His Majesty knows how to join all the peoples of the Russian land under his mighty wing: the Tatars and Mordovians, Bashkir, Jews, Chechens, Ingush, Cheremis, the Evenki and Yakuts, the Marii, Karelians, Buriats, Urdmurts, the simple-hearted Chukchi, and many, many others.

Zufar pours water over me and gives me to Cao. And now I’m reclining in the washroom, looking at the painted ceiling, and the Chinese Cao is washing me. His soft, quick fingers slip over my body, rub fragrant foam into my hair, pour aromatic oils on my stomach; he runs his fingers through my toes, and massages my calves. No one can wash you like a Chinese. They know how to handle the human body. On the ceiling there’s a scene of a heavenly garden; birds and beasts, heeding the voice of God. Man isn’t in this garden yet—he hasn’t been created. It’s lovely to look at the garden of paradise when you’re being washed. Something long-ago forgotten awakens in your soul, something drawn out by the lard of time…

Cao splashes cool water on me from the lime flower washtub, and helps me to stand. You feel heartened and ready after a Chinese bath. I walk into the main hall. Gradually, everyone joins, passing through the Russian-Tatar-Chinese conveyor. Clean, rosy bodies plop down on the lounge beds, swigging nonalcoholic drinks, chatting. Uzh, Shelet, and Samosya have already been through the steam room; Mokry just got wet; Vosk collapsed on the lounge with a grunt; and Yerokha is oohing and aahing in gratitude. Chapyzh and Buben down the kvass greedily, coming to their senses. Great is the brotherhood of the bathhouse. Everyone is equal here—the right and the left, the old and the young. Gilded forelocks have gotten wet and tousled. Tongues have loosened:

“Samosya, so where d’ya hit that colonel anyway?”

“I smashed his side at the turn from Ostozhenka. That Streltsy idiot chickened out, wouldn’t get out of the car. Then their people came with a square , a hand , the duty policeman folded , I didn’t pass for a good guy, and I didn’t want to butt heads with a cudgel…”

“Brothers, listen, a new joint opened on Maroseika Street—called Kissel Shores. Pretty expensive: twelve kinds of kissel , vodka made from lime-tree buds, hare in noodles, girls singing…”

“For Shrovetide His Majesty is giving presents to athletes: a hydrogen Mercedov apiece; gorodki players get a fat-tailed motorcycle, the women archers a viviparous fur coat…”

“In short, the SOBs locked themselves in, and Batya forbade us to use fireworks—the house wasn’t in disgrace. Couldn’t use gas or lasers either. So we did things the old way—in the lower quarter: this and that, the enemies are upstairs. We asked them statesmanlike, officially, they came out with suitcases and icons, we singed them, began to smoke the upstairs ones out. We thought they’d open up, but they jumped out the window. The elder landed on the fence—the spike went straight through his liver—the younger broke his leg but survived, and then he gave evidence…”

“Avdotia Petrovna personally broke the toilets with her humongous ass, I swear…”

“Yerokha, hey, Yerokha…”

“Whaddya want?”

“Where’s my pie?”

“You knucklehead! Pick up your balls, they’re rolling around on the floor!”

“Buben, is it true that gray profits in the Trade Department are being closed down through the tax collectors?”

“Unh-uh. Only bonuses go through the tax collectors, but the gray are still covered by the junior clerks.”

“There’s enemies for you! No poker made could ever pick them out…”

“Wait until the fall, Brother Okhlop. We’ll pick them all out.”

“Autumn, autumn, they’re burning shiiiiips…young man, where did you get your tattoo?”

“In Nebuchadnezzar.”

“That’s nice. Especially down below, with the dragons…”

“Come on, Brother Mokry, let me have a swig of kvass.”

“Swig as much as you want, for the love of Christ, Brother Potyka.”

“They keep on about bribes, bribes, bribes…what the hell do I need to dig up bribes for?”

“See-saw, saw-see, Brother Yerokha doesn’t like me…”

“I’ll crack your forehead open, you troublemaker!”

“Did you hear why His Majesty closed the Third Western Pipeline? Those shithead Europeans didn’t give the court any Château Lafite again; just half a car, and they can’t even get that together!”

As always, Batya is the last into the steam room. The bathhouse attendants hold his wide body up and bring him to us. They hand over our kinsman:

“Batya, we hope you enjoyed your bath!”

“We hope it went all the way to the bone!”

“To your health!”

“Into the backbone.”

“Into the marrow!”

Batya’s body gives off heat.

“Oof, Holy Mother of God…give me some kvass!”

Silver cups are held out to our beloved Batya.

“Drink, Brother Batya!”

Batya scans us with bleary eyes, making his choice:

“Vosk!”

Vosk holds the cup for Batya. Of course, today the left wing is in favor. Rightly so. They earned it.

Batya drains the cup of honey kvass, takes a breath, and belches. He looks us over. We freeze. Batya bides his time, winks at us. And utters the long-awaited “Cluck, cluck cluck!”