disgusting, stinking oil. He has oil in his mouth and nose; he coughs, coughs horribly. What vile vegetable oil! It stinks. There’s so much of it. It’s easy to choke on it. It laps thickly around his body. His grandmother used to pour this oil on sour cabbage. There’s so much of it! The smell is overpowering. Only a slight breeze keeps him from suffocating. The smell makes him dizzy. Here and there, large snowflakes fall into the oil and disappear. They fall and disappear. Fall and disappear. How lucky they are. They aren’t tied down to anything. They don’t owe anyone anything. And now the reader shouts the last word in a loud, triumphant voice. The crowd roars. It roars and people raise their fists. It roars so loud that the roar reverberates in the cauldron and causes faint ripples to form next to the cast-iron edges. Now someone climbs onto the platform. An adolescent boy holding a torch. He’s wearing a suede jacket with copper buttons, red pants, and red shoes with turned-up toes. His face is beautiful, the face of an angel. Long chestnut hair falls to his shoulders. The adolescent wears a red beret with an eagle feather on his head. He lifts the torch high. The crowd cheers. He lowers the torch to the cauldron and leans forward. Only his beret is visible. The eagle feather trembles. There’s a soft crackling sound that grows stronger. It seems to be tarred brushwood catching fire. The crackling gets louder. Dark smoke seeps out from under the cauldron. The adolescent leaves the platform. His beret and feather can be glimpsed in the crowd. The crowd roars and hoots. He makes one more desperate attempt to pull free, exerting himself so hard that he passes gas. The bubbles float up slowly around him. But the ropes don’t give. He jerks, swallowing oil, coughing and gasping for air. The oil splashes around him. Stinking, viscous oil. But the cauldron is unmovable. It won’t budge. He screams so loud that the echo of his voice reverberates against the cathedral and returns to him thrice. The crowd listens to him scream. Then it roars and laughs. He begins to cry and mutter that he is innocent. He tells the crowd about himself. He tells them his name. The name of his mother and his father. He talks about a terrible mistake. He has never hurt people. He talks about the physician’s noble profession. He names all the patients he has saved. He calls on God as his witness. The crowd listens and laughs. He talks about Christ, about love, about the Gospels. And suddenly he can feel with his heels that the bottom of the cauldron is warm. He yelps in terror. Once again he faints for a moment. And again the oil, the stinking oil, brings him to his senses. He regains consciousness because he’s swallowing oil. He’s choking on oil. He vomits oil into the oil. The crowd laughs. He wants to tell them about his innocence, but he can’t. He’s gasping. He’s coughing. He coughs so hard it sounds like shouting. The bottom of the cauldron is heating up. But the ring is still cool. It’s thick and sticks out from the bottom. He holds on to the ring with his fingers. He clears his throat. Gathers his thoughts. Calms himself. Then he appeals to the crowd. He gives a speech. He talks about belief. He tells the crowd that he’s not afraid of dying. Because he is a believer. He tells his life story. He’s not ashamed of his life. He tried to live a worthy life. He tried to do good and to help people. There were mistakes, of course. He recalls a girl whom he made a woman, and who had an abortion. And he later found out that she could no longer have children. He remembers how, when he was a student and was at a party one evening in the dormitory, he got soused and threw a bottle out the window and hit a passerby on the head. He tells them about the time he didn’t go to see a patient and the patient died. He lied a great deal in his lifetime. He gossiped and said spiteful things about friends and colleagues. He said nasty things about the woman he lived with. He sometimes begrudged giving his parents money. He didn’t really want to have children. He wanted to live unencumbered, to enjoy life. It was largely because of this that he and his wife separated. He now repents his bad deeds. He spoke badly of the authorities. He wanted Russia to go to hell. He laughed at Russian people. He made fun of His Majesty. But he was never a criminal, he was a law-abiding citizen. He always paid his taxes on time. The bottom of the cauldron was getting hot. With tremendous effort, he balanced his feet on the ring. It was just a little warm. He held his own feet on the ring with his hands. He said that the worst thing in the world was when an innocent person was executed. That kind of death was worse than murder. Because murder is committed by a criminal. But even a criminal who commits murder affords the victim a chance to save himself. The victim might run away, grab the knife from the murderer’s hands, or call for help. The murderer might miss or stumble. Or simply wound the victim. But when a person is executed, he has no chance of being saved. This is the terrible, merciless truth of the death penalty. He was always and still is an opponent of the death penalty. What is happening now on the main square of this town is even more terrible than the death penalty. Because the death penalty is being carried out against an innocent man. If they have all gathered here to carry out the death penalty against him, an innocent man, then they are committing a grave sin. And this sin will cast eternal shame on their town, and on their children and grandchildren. He feels the oil heating up at the bottom, and warm streams of it rising, displacing the cooler oil. The warm oil is crowding out the cold oil. And the cold oil moves downward. In order to heat up on the bottom, become warm oil, and rise to the top. He talks about the children standing here and sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. The children are watching his execution. They will grow up and find out that he was innocent. They will be ashamed of their parents. They will be ashamed of their town. Such a marvelous, beautiful town. It wasn’t made for executions but for joyous, prosperous lives. His heels slip off the ring and touch the bottom of the cauldron. The bottom is hot. He quickly pushes his heels off the bottom and grabs the ring and rope with the soles of his feet, and holds on to the rope. He talks about faith. Faith should make people kinder. People should love their brethren. Two millennia have passed since Christ’s death, and people still haven’t learned to love one another. They haven’t truly grasped their kinship. Haven’t stopped hating one another, deceiving, and thieving. People haven’t stopped killing each other. Why can’t people stop killing each other? If it’s possible in one family, in one village, in one town, then isn’t it possible in one country at the very least? The ring is heating up. His soles are feeling the heat. He jerks them away, but they immediately sink to the bottom. The bottom is even hotter. His feet recoil. But they can’t just hang in the oil. They have to lean on something. His buttocks sink to the bottom and are burned. He puts his fingers under his buttocks and heels. Balances his fingers on the hot bottom of the cauldron. Then on the ring. The smoke from the fire billows around the cauldron and gets in his eyes. He closes his eyes and shouts that they are all criminals. That their town will be judged by an international tribunal. That they are committing a crime against humanity. That the international tribunal will sentence them all to jail. That an atom bomb will be dropped on their town. The crowd laughs and hoots. The oil is heating up. Hot streams float upward. They lick his spine like tongues of smooth flame. They lick his chest. There’s no protection from them. They get hotter and hotter. The ring is already hot. He gathers air into his lungs. And screams with all his might. He curses the town. He curses the people on the square. He curses their parents and their children. He curses their grandchildren. He curses their country. He begins to sob. He belches forth all the curses he knows. He shouts obscenities, sobbing and spitting. The oil splashes around his head. He can’t balance on the ring any longer. It’s hot. Very hot. And the bottom of the cauldron is now horrendously hot. He can’t even touch it. He pushes off the ring and floats in the oil. Pushes and floats. Pushes and floats. Plashes and floats. Plashes and splashes. He’s dancing in the oil. Oil dancing! He begins to howl. Oil dancing! He howls, no longer addressing the crowd, but the roofs of the buildings around the square. Oil dancing! They’re old tiled roofs. Dance! People live under them. Dance! Whole families. Splash! Women are making breakfast under those roofs. Plash! Children lean against their mothers. Splash! And sleep in their little beds. Children sleep, sleep, sleep. In their little beds. Little pillows, little embroidered pillows. Mothers embroider flowers on the pillows. Children sleep on the pillows. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And don’t awaken. Sleep for days and days. You can sleep. For days and days. And not awaken. No one executes anyone for this. If you don’t wake up. If you keep on sleeping. He shouts and begs to be awakened. He believes the children. He believes the pigeons on the tiled roofs. He loves pigeons. The pigeons can forgive him. Pigeons forgive everyone. Pigeons don’t kill people. Will I die? Pigeons love people. I will die? Pigeons will save him. I’ll die? He’ll turn into a pigeon. I’ll die? And away he’ll fly. I’ll die! The crowd begins to sing and sway. I’ll die! What’s that? I’ll-a-die! A folk song? I’ll-a-die! A song of this people? I’ll-a-die! Of this wonderful people. Isle-a-die! Of this accursed people. Isle-a-die! This evil people. Isle-a-die! The people sing. Isledie! The people sing and sway. Isled! They desire his sublime death. Isled! But he’ll turn into a dove and away he’ll fly. Isled! No, it’s the choir from Nabucco. Isled! They are singing. Isled and away! Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate! Isled! And sway. Isled! They’re singing. Isled! Swaying. Isled. Singing Isled! Swaying. Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Iled! Iled! Iled! Iled! Iled! Iled! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l-! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l!