you and your colleagues, Russian women have long since grown accustomed to blood. To amounts small and large.”
Whoa! Can’t catch her bare-handed!
“Perhaps, but…It seems to me that there are far more pleasant films for the female eye. And this one contains a lot of suffering.”
“Everyone has their preferences, Mr. Oprichnik. You recall the love song ‘It Matters Not Whether I Love or Suffer’…”
Somehow she’s way too haughty.
“Forgive me, I was just asking.”
“And I am just answering.” She turns away and again stares coldly at the screen.
She intrigues me. I take her picture on my mobilov, and give the signal for our security service to pinhole this lady. The answer comes immediately: Anastasia Petrovna Stein-Sotskaya, daughter of the Duma clerk Sotsky. Holy Mother of God! The very same clerk who worked on the pernicious plan to “Saw and Sell” with the Duma chairman. I wasn’t yet in the oprichnina during those strife-filled years. I was working quietly in customs with antiques and precious metals…I understand, yes, I understand why she’s looking at the film that way . Why, it’s her family history, for heaven’s sake! If memory serves, Sotsky was beheaded on Red Square shortly thereafter, along with nine other plotters…
On my bubble there are tigers in cages and Soviet cooks, but I look right through them. Right here, next to me, is a victim of the Russian state. What did they do with her? She didn’t even change her surname, she took a hyphenated one. Proud. I order a detailed biography: thirty-two years old, married to the textile merchant Boris Stein, spent six years in exile with her mother and younger brother, got a law degree, character core “Running Sister—18,” left-handed, broken collar bone, weak lungs, bad teeth, miscarried two times, the third gave birth to a boy, lives in Orenburg, enjoys archery, chess, playing guitar, and singing Russian love songs.
I turn off my tigers and try to doze.
But thoughts keep welling up: here’s this person sitting close by who holds a grudge for all time. Not only against us oprichniks, but against His Majesty. And nothing can be done about it. But she’s raising a son, and she and Stein probably have open house on Thursdays; the Orenburg intelligentsia probably gathers. They sing old songs, drink tea with cherry preserves, and then they have— conversations. And you don’t have to be the clairvoyant Praskovia to guess what and who they are talking about…
And after everything that’s happened, there are hundreds upon hundreds of these people. If you count their children, husbands, and wives—thousands upon thousands. Now that’s a substantial force, which needs to be taken into account . Now you need to think ahead, calculate your plays. And the fact that they’ve been kicked out of their well-feathered Moscow nests and stuffed into Orenburgs and Krasnoyarsks doesn’t help, it’s not a solution . In a word: His Majesty is merciful. And thank God…
I manage to drift off after all.
Even in my sleep I see something fleeting and slipping away. But not a white stallion—something small, crumbly, dreary…
I awake when they announce the landing. Out of the corner of my eye I glance at the bubble with the historical film: it’s the denouement, the interrogation in the Secret Department, the rack, red-hot pokers, and the face of the minister, distorted by anger:
“I hate…how I hate you!”
And the finale, the last scenes: His Majesty, still young, stands against a familiar landscape, bathed in the light of the rising sun, holding the first brick in his hands; he looks toward the west and utters those familiar, beloved words:
“The Great Russian Wall!”
We land.
Potrokha meets me at the airplane: he’s young, red-cheeked, snub-nosed, and has an overly gilded forelock. I get into his Mercedov and, as always, have the feeling that it’s my car. Déjà vu. All oprichniks have identical cars, whether in Moscow,
Whoa! Can’t catch her bare-handed!
“Perhaps, but…It seems to me that there are far more pleasant films for the female eye. And this one contains a lot of suffering.”
“Everyone has their preferences, Mr. Oprichnik. You recall the love song ‘It Matters Not Whether I Love or Suffer’…”
Somehow she’s way too haughty.
“Forgive me, I was just asking.”
“And I am just answering.” She turns away and again stares coldly at the screen.
She intrigues me. I take her picture on my mobilov, and give the signal for our security service to pinhole this lady. The answer comes immediately: Anastasia Petrovna Stein-Sotskaya, daughter of the Duma clerk Sotsky. Holy Mother of God! The very same clerk who worked on the pernicious plan to “Saw and Sell” with the Duma chairman. I wasn’t yet in the oprichnina during those strife-filled years. I was working quietly in customs with antiques and precious metals…I understand, yes, I understand why she’s looking at the film that way . Why, it’s her family history, for heaven’s sake! If memory serves, Sotsky was beheaded on Red Square shortly thereafter, along with nine other plotters…
On my bubble there are tigers in cages and Soviet cooks, but I look right through them. Right here, next to me, is a victim of the Russian state. What did they do with her? She didn’t even change her surname, she took a hyphenated one. Proud. I order a detailed biography: thirty-two years old, married to the textile merchant Boris Stein, spent six years in exile with her mother and younger brother, got a law degree, character core “Running Sister—18,” left-handed, broken collar bone, weak lungs, bad teeth, miscarried two times, the third gave birth to a boy, lives in Orenburg, enjoys archery, chess, playing guitar, and singing Russian love songs.
I turn off my tigers and try to doze.
But thoughts keep welling up: here’s this person sitting close by who holds a grudge for all time. Not only against us oprichniks, but against His Majesty. And nothing can be done about it. But she’s raising a son, and she and Stein probably have open house on Thursdays; the Orenburg intelligentsia probably gathers. They sing old songs, drink tea with cherry preserves, and then they have— conversations. And you don’t have to be the clairvoyant Praskovia to guess what and who they are talking about…
And after everything that’s happened, there are hundreds upon hundreds of these people. If you count their children, husbands, and wives—thousands upon thousands. Now that’s a substantial force, which needs to be taken into account . Now you need to think ahead, calculate your plays. And the fact that they’ve been kicked out of their well-feathered Moscow nests and stuffed into Orenburgs and Krasnoyarsks doesn’t help, it’s not a solution . In a word: His Majesty is merciful. And thank God…
I manage to drift off after all.
Even in my sleep I see something fleeting and slipping away. But not a white stallion—something small, crumbly, dreary…
I awake when they announce the landing. Out of the corner of my eye I glance at the bubble with the historical film: it’s the denouement, the interrogation in the Secret Department, the rack, red-hot pokers, and the face of the minister, distorted by anger:
“I hate…how I hate you!”
And the finale, the last scenes: His Majesty, still young, stands against a familiar landscape, bathed in the light of the rising sun, holding the first brick in his hands; he looks toward the west and utters those familiar, beloved words:
“The Great Russian Wall!”
We land.
Potrokha meets me at the airplane: he’s young, red-cheeked, snub-nosed, and has an overly gilded forelock. I get into his Mercedov and, as always, have the feeling that it’s my car. Déjà vu. All oprichniks have identical cars, whether in Moscow,
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