Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

We look at him silently, as though he were a ghost: previously we saw this man only when we were wearing tuxedos or gold-embroidered caftans.

“Health to you, oprichniks,” the count says in a flat voice.

“Health to you, Count,” we answer separately.

Batya, lying on his chaise, says nothing. The count’s mirthless eyes find him:

“Hello, Boris Borisovich.”

And…he bows to the waist.

Our jaws drop. Now that’s heavy. Count Urusov the mighty, all-powerful, unapproachable, bowing to the waist in front of our Batya. Makes you remember the ancient: sic transit gloria mundi .

Batya takes his time standing up.

“To your health, Count.”

He bows in reply, crosses his arms on his stomach, and looks at the count silently. Our Batya is a head taller than Urusov.

“So then, I decided to visit you,” the count says, breaking the silence. “I’m not intruding, am I?”

“We’re always happy to have guests,” says Batya. “There’s still some steam.”

“I’m not terribly keen on steam baths. I have a pressing matter to discuss with you, one that will brook no delay. Shall we retire to a more private setting?”

“I have no secrets from the oprichniks, Count,” Batya answers calmly, making a sign to the attendants. “Champagne?”

The glum count purses his lips, glances at us sideways with the eyes of a wolf. And he is a wolf—only exhausted, at bay. Cao brings them champagne. Batya takes a slender glass, gulps it down, puts it back on the tray, and grunts as he wipes his mustache. Urusov only puts his lips to the glass, as though it were hemlock.

“We’re listening, dear Andrei Vladimirovich!” Batya says in a loud voice. He lowers himself onto his chaise lounge again. “Lie down, don’t be shy.”

The count sits sideways on the chaise and locks his fingers together:

“Boris Borisovich, you’re aware of my situation?”

“I’m aware.”

“I fell from grace.”

Batya nods. “It happens.”

“To what extent, I don’t yet know. But I hope that sooner or later His Majesty will forgive me.”

Batya nods again. “His Majesty is merciful.”

“I have a proposition for you. My accounts are frozen by His Majesty’s decree, and my trade and manufacturing properties have been expropriated, but His Majesty left me my personal property.”

“Thank God.” Batya belches Chinese carbon dioxide.

The count looks at his well-groomed nails, touches his ring with the diamond hedgehog, and pauses. Then he speaks:

“I have an estate near Moscow, in the Pereyaslavsky district, and one near Voronezh, in Divnogor. And of course the house on Piatnitsky Street, you’ve been there…”

“I’ve been there.” Batya inhales.

“So this is the offer, Boris Borisovich. I give the house on Piatnitsky to the oprichnina.”

Silence. Batya says nothing. Urusov says nothing. Nor do we. Cao freezes with an uncorked bottle of Szechuan champagne in his hand. Urusov’s house on Piatnitsky…It’s shameful to even call it a house: it’s a palace! Columns of layered marble, a roof with sculpture and vases, openwork grills, gatekeepers with halberds, stone lions…I haven’t been inside, but it isn’t hard to imagine that it’s even more incredible inside. They say that the count’s drawing room floor is transparent, and that under it—there’s an aquarium with sharks. And all the sharks are striped like tigers. How inventive!

“The house on Piatnitsky.” Batya squints. “Why such a valuable gift?”

“It isn’t a gift. You and I are businesspeople. I give you the house, you give me a roof over my head, protection . When I’m back in good graces—I’ll add more. I won’t forget you.”

“It’s a serious proposition,” says Batya, squinting and casting his gaze over us. “We’ll have to discuss it. All right, who’s first?”

The sophisticated Vosk raises his hand.

“Why don’t we hear the young ones first.” Batya glances at the youngest. “All right?”

The ever alert Potyka raises his hand.

“If you’ll permit me, Batya!”

“Go on, Potyka, speak.”

“Forgive me, Batya, but it seems to me that there’s no benefit for us in protecting dead men. Because a dead man doesn’t care whether there’s a roof over his head or not. For that matter, it’s not a roof he needs, but a coffin.”

Silence hangs in the bathhouse. It’s silent as the grave. The count turns green. Batya smacks his lips:

“So you see, Count. Note that this is the voice of our young people. You can imagine what the elder oprichniks would have to say about your proposition?”

The count licks his bloodless lips:

“Listen, Boris. You and I aren’t children. What dead man? What coffin? So I fell under His Majesty’s hot hand, but it’s not forever! His Majesty knows how much I’ve done for Russia! A year will pass—and he’ll forgive me! And you’ll still have the profit!”

Batya frowns:

“You think he’ll forgive you?”

“I’m certain.”

“Oprichniks, what do you think: Will His Majesty forgive the count or not?”

“No-o-o-o,” we answer in unison.

Batya’s hands gesture in dismay.

“You see?”

“Listen!” the count jumps up. “Stop fooling around! I don’t have time for jokes! I’ve lost almost everything! But I swear to God—everything will be returned! Everything will be returned!”

Batya sighs and stands up, leaning on Ivan:

“You’re just like Job, Count. Everything will be returned…But nothing will be returned to you. And you know why? Because you placed your lust higher than the state.”

“Boris, don’t go too far!”

“I’m not taking anything too far.” Batya walks up to the count. “You think His Majesty is angry because you like to fornicate in fire? Because you’re shaming his daughter? No. That’s not why. You burned state property. Therefore, you took a step against the state. Against His Majesty.”

“Bobrinskaya’s house is her own property! What does His Majesty have to do with it?!”

“You blockhead, what he has to do with it is that we are all His Majesty’s children, and all of our property belongs to him! The whole country is his! You of all people should know that! Life hasn’t taught you anything, Andrei Vladimirovich. You were His Majesty’s son-in-law, but you became a rebel. And not just a rebel, but a son of a bitch. Rotten, dead meat.”

The count’s eyes flash with dark fury:

“What?! You cur, you…”

Batya puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. And as though by command, the young guys rush the count and grab him.

“Into the pool with him!” Batya orders.

The oprichniks tear the sheet off the count and throw him into the pool. The count comes up, sputtering:

“You’ll answer for this, you dogs, you’ll answer…”

All of a sudden knives appear in the youngsters’ hands. Now that’s new! It should be clear to you now, you dolt! Why didn’t I know? Curtains for the count? They gave the go-ahead?

The youngsters stand around the edge of the pool.

“Haaiiilll!” cries Batya.

“Hail, hail!” cry the youngsters.

“Hail, hail!” the rest of us take up the cry.

“Death to the enemies of Russia!” Batya exclaims.

“Death! Death! Death!” we continue the chant.

The count swims up to the edge of the pool, and grabs on to the marble. But on the other side, Komol strikes with a flourish: his knife flies like lightning, piercing the count’s stooped back up to its handle. The count lets out a furious wail. Okhlop waves his hand—and his knife flies, landing right next to the first. Yelka and Avila aim their knives—just as precisely, also at the back of the naked count. He screams with fury and indignation. How much anger that bastard has stored up. The knives of the remaining youngsters fly into him. And all of them hit their target. They know how to aim knives, those lads. We old-timers prefer to use our knives closer up.