I take a look to see what the others are watching: the Chinese—River Factories, that makes sense; but the lady…oh-ho, now that’s interesting—The Great Russian Wall. I would never have said by her looks that she’d like that sort of film. The Great Russian Wall…It was made about ten years ago by our great director Fyodor Baldev, nicknamed “Fyodor-the-Bare-Who-Ate-the-Bear.” The most important movie in the history of Russia’s Revival. The film is about the plot hatched by the Ambassadorial Department and the Duma, the construction of the Western Wall, and His Majesty’s battle; about the first oprichniks, heroic Valuya and Zveroga, who perished at the dacha of the traitorous minister. The whole affair went down in Russian history as the plan to “Saw and Sell.” What a hullabaloo that film caused, how many arguments, how many questions and answers! How many cars and faces were bashed in because of it! The actor who played His Majesty entered a monastery afterward. I haven’t watched it for a very, very long time. But I remember it by heart. For the oprichniks it’s a kind of textbook.
I can see the face of the minister of foreign affairs on the blue bubble, and his accomplice, the chairman of the Duma. They’re composing the terrible agreement on the division of Russia at the minister’s dacha.
CHAIRMAN OF THE DUMA: So, we take power. But what do we do with Russia, Sergei Ivanovich?
MINISTER: Saw it up and sell it.
CHAIRMAN: To whom?
MINISTER: We sell the east to the Japanese; Siberia goes to the Chinese; the Krasnodarsk region—to the Ukies; Altai—to the Kazakhs; Pskov Oblast—to the Estonians; Novgorod Oblast—to the Belorussians. But we’ll leave the center for ourselves. Everything is ready, Boris Petrovich. We’ve not only hand picked all our people, they’re already in place.
(A significant pause. A candle burns.)
Tomorrow! What do you say?
CHAIRMAN (looking around): It’s a bit scary, Sergei Ivanovich…
MINISTER (breathing hot and heavy, embracing the Duma chairman): Don’t be afraid, don’t be scared! Together we’ll control Moscow! Eh? Moscow?
(He squints lustfully.)
Think about it, my dear fellow! We’ll have all of Moscow right here!
(He shows his pudgy palm.)
Come now, will you sign?
Then there’s a close-up: the eyes of the Duma chairman. First they look back and forth, intimidated, frightened, like a wolf brought to bay. Then anger awakens in them, intensifying to a furious rage. Menacing music grows louder, a disturbing, slanted shadow falls, the night wind billows the curtains and blows out the candle; a dog begins to bark. In the dark the chairman clenches his fists, at first shaking with fear, then with anger and hatred for the Russian state.
CHAIRMAN (clenching his teeth): I’ll sign it all!
He’s a good director, Fedya Baldev. It was no accident that right after this film came out His Majesty appointed him head of the Cinema Chamber. But this lady…she looks like a noble. And for the nobility this film is like a stab in the heart. The lady looks at the film on the bubble as though she weren’t seeing anything. Her face is cold, indifferent. It’s not very pretty, but clearly pedigreed. You can tell she didn’t grow up in some Novoslobodsk orphanage.
I can’t help myself:
“Excuse me, madame, do you like that film?”
She turns her well-groomed face toward me:
“Quite, Mr. Oprichnik.”
Not a muscle in her face twitches. Totally calm, like a snake.
“Is this an official inquiry?”
“Not at all. It’s just that there’s a great deal of blood in this film.”
“You think that Russian women are afraid of blood?”
“All women are afraid of blood. And Russian…”
“Mr. Oprichnik, thanks to 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: