And:
“Haaaaaaaiiiilll!”
The arched ceiling shakes. And the pool—becomes a nine-point storm.
“Haaaaiiiilll!”
I roar into Nechai’s ear, and Buben screams into mine:
“Haaaaiiiilll!”
Lord, don’t let us die…
Indescribable. Because it’s so divine.
Reclining on the soft chaise lounges after oprichnik copulation is like the bliss of paradise. The light is on, buckets of champagne sit on the floor, forest air, Rachmaninov’s Second Concerto for piano and orchestra. Our Batya likes to listen to the Russian classics after copulation. We lie there weakly. The lights in our genitals go out. We drink silently, catch our breath.
Wisely, oh so wisely, Batya arranged everything with the caterpillar. Before it, everyone broke off in pairs, and the shadow of dangerous disorder lay across the oprichnina. Now there’s a limit to the pleasures of the steam. We work together, and take our pleasure together. And the tablets help. And wisest of all is that the young oprichniks are always stuck at the tail of the caterpillar. This is wise for two reasons: first of all, the young ones know their place in the oprichnik hierarchy; second, the seed moves from the tail of the caterpillar to the head, which symbolizes the eternal cycle of life and the renewal of our brotherhood. On the one hand, the young respect the old; on the other, they replenish them. That’s our foundation. And thank God.
It’s pleasant to sip Szechuan champagne, feeling how healthy oprichnik seed soaks into the walls of the large intestine. Health isn’t the least thing in our dangerous life. I take care of mine: I play skittles twice a week, then I swim, I drink maple juice with ground wild strawberries, I eat overgrown fern seeds, I breathe properly. Other oprichniks strengthen their bodies as well.
Batya is informed from above that Count Urusov has appeared. The bath attendants hand out sheets to everyone. Covering our extinguished private parts, we lie back on our chairs. The count enters from the bathhouse dressing room. He’s wrapped his sheet to look like a Roman toga. The count is a stocky man; he has white skin and thin legs, a large head and short neck. His face, as usual, is gloomy. But something new is imprinted on this well-known face.
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.