Sorokin, Vladimir - Day of the Oprichnik

Slammed his brow

’Gainst the glass.

It shattered; shards took flight,

And lo! This remarkable sight,

Was met with but silence below.

One blow, another—

The window frame shuddered;

He stubbornly

Smashed the sash,

And crawled through the window,

Ripping his frock coat.

The idlers below whispered:

“Idiot…Ass…”

Then, in the window,

He appeared, stood up straight,

And embraced the young Marquess—

To his dickey he pressed her;

Above them smoke swirled,

Black, gray, and brindled,

Tongues of red fire,

Flickered and kindled.

The Count moaned

As he lowered his lips

To the breasts,

That he gripped in his hands.

The mob smirked with malice,

Spectators took note,

As a monstrous phallus

Arose in the smoke!

Onlookers gazed,

From way down below,

They saw the Count shudder,

As he entered the Marquess,

They glimpsed the pair quake,

And pull back from the window,

And then she and the Count

Disappeared in the haze!

A cloud of dust whirled,

And mingled with ash,

The firemen’s cars sped

Hither and yon,

The rabble stepped back,

The police blew their whistles,

The firemen’s helmets

Shone in the sun.

In the blink of an eye,

Copper helmets spread out;

Ladders reached higher and higher.

Fearless and brave,

One after the other,

Those fellows in Teflon

Climbed up and straight on

Through smoke and the fire.

The flames were replaced

By poisonous fumes,

From the pump water gushed

In a powerful stream.

An elderly servant,

Ran up to the firemen,

“Brothers, please save my lady, my queen!”

“Sorry,” replied

The firemen affably,

“No lady was found

In this mansion!

We looked through and through,

We searched with great care;

Your beloved young Marquess

Was not anywhere!”

The old man sobbed,

And tore at his whiskers,

People gaped

At the balcony black.

Then out of the blue,

A dog’s abrupt yelp,

Turned to a

Mournful whimper for help.

The crowd looked back and gawked.

Speeding off, the Rolls-Royce

Had run over a dog.

As its windows whizzed by,

a dim profile was glimpsed,

And silently faded,

Eclipsed by the glint,

Of a diamond hedgehog!

The mob on the sidewalk

Stood still, transfixed.

People followed

The Rolls-Royce’s trail—

In the distance, the posh

Limousine drove off,

To the splatter of

Sputtering wheels.

Firemen are looking,

The Police are looking,

Even priests are looking

Through our capital city,

They’re seeking a Count

Whom they never have seen,

A particular Count

About age thirty-three.

And you, gentlemen of the Malachite Chamber,

This werewolf you haven’t chanced to encounter?

The last line fades. The subversive poem disappears, melts in the dark air. The blinds are raised. Buturlin sits silently. His brown eyes are focused on Batya, who glances at us. The target of this pasquinade is as clear as day. By our eyes Batya can tell that there isn’t any doubt: the gloomy count with the diamond hedgehog carved in his ring is none other than Count Andrei Vladimirovich Urusov, His Majesty’s son-in-law, professor of jurisprudence, an active member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, honorary chair of the Mind Department, chairman of the All-Russian Equine Society, chairman of the Association to Promote Air Flight, chairman of the Society of Russian Fisticuffs, comrade of the chairman of the Eastern Treasury, owner of the Southern Port, owner of the Izmailovsky and Donskoi markets, owner of the Moscow Association of Building Contractors, owner of the Moscow Brick Factory, co-owner of the Western Railroad. And the hint about the Malachite Chamber was also obvious: this new space, located under the Kremlin Concert Hall, was built for the rest and relaxation of the Inner Circle and their retinue. It’s new, therefore fashionable . For that matter, the construction of the Malachite Chamber elicited quite a few subversive questions. Yes, yes, there were opponents…

“Is that clear, oprichniks?” Buturlin asks.

“Clear as a bell, Prince,” Batya answers.

“There’s just one little problem: find the author of the pasquinade.”

Batya nods. “We’ll track that worm down, he won’t get away.”

And, thoughtfully pulling on his short beard, he asks: “Does His Majesty know?”

“He knows,” sounds a majestic voice, and we all bow low, touching the parquet with our right hands.

The sovereign face appears in the air of the office. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the iridescent gold frame around the beloved, narrow face with dark blond beard and thin mustache. We straighten up. His Majesty looks at us with his expressive, sincere intent and penetrating blue-gray eyes. His look is inimitable. You’d never confuse him with anyone else. And I am ready without hesitation to give my life for this look.

“I read it, I read it,” says His Majesty. “It’s artfully written.”

“Your Majesty, we’ll find the pasquinader, I assure you,” says Buturlin.

“I don’t doubt it. Although I have to admit that’s not what concerns me, Terenty Bogdanovich.”

“What concerns you, Your Majesty?”

“My dear, I’m concerned about whether or not everything written in the poem…is true.”

“What specifically, Your Majesty?”

“All of it.”

Buturlin grows thoughtful.

“Your Majesty, I find that difficult to answer immediately. Permit me to take a look at the report of the Fire Department council.”

“Come now, you don’t need any fire reports, Prince.” His Majesty’s transparent eyes look straight through Buturlin. “You need witnesses to the event.”

“Who do you have in mind, Your Majesty?”

“The hero of the poem.”

Buturlin looks at Batya, who is gritting his teeth.

“Your Majesty, we do not have the right to question members of your family,” says Batya.

“And I’m not forcing you to interrogate anyone. I simply want to know—is it all true?”

Silence again fills the office. The shining image of His Majesty glitters with gold and rainbow colors.

Our sire grins. “Why so quiet now? It won’t work without me?”

“Without you, Your Majesty, nothing works,” says Buturlin, bowing his head so low that his bald spot shows.

“All right then, we’ll do it your way.” His Majesty sighs. In a loud voice he calls:

“Andrei!”

About fifteen seconds pass, and to the right of His Majesty’s face a small picture of Count Urusov appears in a violet frame. By the count’s grave, haggard look it is clear that he has read the poem—more than once.

“Good day, Father.” The count bows his large, big-eared head, which sits on a short neck; his brow is narrow and he has large facial features; his chestnut hair is thin.

“Hello, hello, son-in-law.” The gray-blue eyes look at him with absolute calm. “Read this poem about yourself?”

“I’ve read it, Father.”

“Not badly written, don’t you think? And here my academicians go on and on about how we don’t have any good poets!”

Count Urusov keeps quiet, pursing his thin lips. His mouth, like a frog’s, is extremely wide.

“Tell us, Andrei, is it true?”

The count says nothing, casts his eyes down, inhales, sniffs, and exhales carefully:

“It’s true, Your Majesty.”

Now His Majesty himself grows thoughtful, and frowns. We all stand there, waiting.