“Were the Cossacks really that mean?”
“What else would they be? Those rusalki were just taking up space, doing nothing. They scared off the livestock, destroyed orchards, and even started harassing good Christian people in disgusting ways.”
“How did they… harass them?”
“You’re too young to know about that.”
“Tell me, Grandma. Just skip over the details.”
“Well, let’s say, for example, that the rusalka was a male. He’d go out and stand in the street, right in front of our girls. And he’d start strutting around, making crazy faces. He would think that he was decked out in his finest clothes, with striped trousers, a Circassian coat with an ammunition belt, a fur hat, a saber in a scabbard, and that he was mounted on a fine horse to boot—but he’s just a stoned rusalka! Had too much fish paste. And what the girls see is a naked man out there in the road, and his shame is poking right out at them, saints alive! The girls take off running, and he chases after them, just like that, without a stitch on! And now the Cossacks come out of their huts, the girls’ fathers, brothers, and fiancés, that is, and of course they hack the shameless infidel to death.”
“Wow!”
“And if the rusalka was a female, then she’d go up to the Cossacks when they were hauling in their nets or were busy with some other gainful employment, and start striking poses! It would be obvious that she’d licked some paste—she’d look into the water and see her reflection: an elegant princess, pure as the driven snow, all in silks and pearls, her face veiled like an innocent bride’s. But in fact, she has no more shame than the so-called horseman—she’s naked and dirty. The Cossack men, at least the ones who were weak of faith, licked their chops. So the Cossack women kept a close watch on them. They would slap the men in the back of the head, and would flog the she-devil with pokers and drive her out into the Terek, into the middle, where it’s deep, and drown her.”
“That’s so cruel!”
“No it’s not, vnuchek. That’s life. And that’s how come there aren’t any rusalki anymore.”
“Grandma, your stories are amazing! There’s nothing like them in any books! Especially the ones about the rusalki. They’re more like the abominable snowman! So why do you call them rusalki?”
“What do you mean, why? All they could do was bleat and grunt. Khy-khy, zy-zy, ry-ry. Khy-zyry… Kha-zary… they just babbled. Didn’t even know their own name. We had to call them something. Every creature needs a name…”
CONCLUSION
On one of those nights when I couldn’t get to sleep, there was a knock on my door; the doorbell was broken. I opened up immediately, without asking who was there. I knew. Who else would come knocking at this time of night?
“Well, let’s get comfortable, shall we, Mack?”
“My name is Maximus. Only one person ever had the right to call me Mack. But she left. Like all the others.”
Maximus came in and sat down on the edge of my folded-out sofa bed.
“Want her back? I can do that. Or should I make it so she never left?”
I sat down on the swivel chair in front of my desk, the one with the computer I was using to enter my text.
“No, everything is as it should be. I’m meant to be alone.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want you to answer a few questions. They’ve been piling up. How did you find me?”
He smirked and silently showed me my own business card. There was only one word on it: “Creator.”
“I feel that things must be coming to a close. You’ve posed too many riddles. Burdened me with all of your own doubts. Now you need to give me some answers.”
“Go ahead, ask.”
“May I smoke?”
“No. You quit. So, what’s your second question?”
Not paying any attention, he got out a cigarette, lit it using his silver lighter, and inhaled deeply.
“I’ll begin with the easiest thing. White and black Khazars, Slavs and Rus, elves and other fairy-tale bullshit… who cares what they’re called, in the end: Do the elite truly differ in any essential way from ordinary people? Are they different in terms of race, blood, who the hell knows what else, or are they just the same thugs as you or I, just thugs who’ve simply managed to grab fortune by the tail?”
“Yes and no. It’s an illusory distinction, really. Every elite, in order to preserve its place at the top, is faced with two opposing tasks: first, to prove that they’re the same as everybody else, and then to prove that they’re different. They need to assure the subjugated population that they are of the same flesh and blood, that they identify with them and are concerned about their welfare. But they also have to justify why they, and not some other poor random bastards, occupy their privileged place in society. This is why you see so many contradictory things about them in print… the sources just record what was said at any given time when the elite, reacting to whatever situation was at hand, happened to emphasize one argument over another.”
“All right then. Here’s a different kind of question: Does God love me?”
“The Lord doesn’t feel love or hatred for anybody, though it might seem that way sometimes.”
“Somehow I knew that that was exactly what you were going to say.”
“What do you mean, you knew?”
“That you wouldn’t give an answer.”
“It’s basically from the Vedanta Sutra. There are a lot of commentaries on the subject.”
“I see that you’re working on one yourself.”
“Vedanta means ‘the end of knowledge.’ The end of all knowledge. All subsequent books are merely commentaries upon the Vedanta Sutra.”
“Let’s come back down to earth. To our sinful, fallen world. All the material goods that we use these days are cultivated, produced, and assembled in ‘third world’ countries. But all the ideas and dreams continue to be produced in the ‘first world.’ The only country remaining in the ‘second world’ is Russia. And Russia doesn’t do anything. Just eats and sleeps. Eats other people’s food and dreams other people’s dreams. How long can this go on? Until all the oil and gas is used up? And then what? I’m concerned, I guess, about Russia’s fate.”
“Oh, the fate of Russia’s not the most important thing, believe me! What’s more important is to make sure that your liver doesn’t start acting up and that your teeth don’t rot.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s not funny at all. People lose their sense of humor when they have a toothache. Personally, I’d rather deal with a debilitating level of anxiety about the fate of Russia than an average level of anxiety about pulpitis or periodontal disease. Not to mention something like indigestion. That kind of thing can really ruin your life.”
“Don’t pretend to be a doctor. You’re only a creator.”
“Touché. But since we’ve started in on the notion of creation, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that Russia doesn’t exist at all. What, in your opinion, is this Russia you’re so worried about? This empty wasteland, pustyr?”