Samson sprays my head with Wild Apple, bows silently, and leaves—his barber’s work is done. Then Fedka appears. His mug is still furrowed, but he’s had time to change his shirt, brush his teeth, and wash his hands. He’s ready for my robing. I place my palm on the lock of my wardrobe. The lock beeps, its red light blinks, and the oak door slides to the side. Each morning I see my eighteen caftans. The very sight of them is invigorating. Today is a regular workday. Therefore, working clothes.
“Business,” I tell Fedka.
He takes a robe out of the wardrobe and begins to dress me: first, a white undergarment embroidered with crosses, a red shirt with collar buttons on the side, a brocade jacket with weasel trim, embroidered with gold and silver thread, velvet pants, red boots of Moroccan leather fashioned with wrought copper soles. Over my brocade jacket, Fedka places a black, floor-length, wadded cotton caftan made of rough broadcloth.
Glancing at myself in the mirror, I close the wardrobe.
In the hall the clock reads: 08:03. There’s time. Already awaited by my domestic entourage: Nanny with an icon of St. George the Dragonslayer, Fedka with my hat and girdle. I put on the black velvet hat with sable trim, and allow myself to be girdled with a wide leather belt. On the left side of the strap is a dagger in a scabbard, on the right a Rebroff in a wooden holster. Nanny makes the sign of the cross over me, muttering at the same time:
“Andryushenka, may our Most Holy Mother of God, Saint Nikola, and all the Optina Elders protect you!”
Her pointed chin trembles, her blue eyes tear with tenderness. I cross myself and kiss the icon of St. George. Nanny tucks the prayer “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High” in my pocket—it was embroidered by the nuns of Novodevichy Monastery in gold on a black ribbon. I never leave for work without this prayer.
“Grant victory over our foes…” Fedka mumbles as he crosses himself.
Anastasia peeks out of the back maid’s room: a red and white sarafan, blond braid falling over the right shoulder, and emerald eyes. But the glow of her crimson cheeks betrays her: she’s worried. She lowers her eyes, bows ardently, her high breasts trembling, and hides behind the oak doorpost. Instantly I feel my heart surge at the sight of the girlish bow: the night before last, the night was flung open by a sultry darkness, was revived by a sweet moan in the ears, a warm girlish body pressed closed, she whispered passionately, like blood flew through the veins.
But—work comes first.
And today we’re up to our ears in work. And then there’s this Albanian ambassador…
I go into the outer vestibule. The servants have all lined up—the farmyard workers, the cook, the chef, the yardman, the game warden, the guards, the housekeeper:
“The best of health to you, Andrei Danilovich!”
They bow to the waist. I nod at them as I pass. The floor-boards creak. They open the forged iron door. I go out into the courtyard. The day has turned out sunny, nippy with frost. Some snow fell overnight—on the fir trees, on the fence, on the guard tower. Ah, how I love the snow! It covers the earth’s shame. And the soul is purer for it.
Squinting in the sun, I look around the courtyard: the granary, the hay barn, the stables—everything’s orderly, solid, and well built. A shaggy dog strains at its chain, the borzois yelp in the kennel behind the house, the rooster crows in the shed. The courtyard has been swept clean, the snowdrifts are as neat as tall Easter cakes. My Mercedov stands at the gates—crimson like my shirt, stocky, and clean. Its clear glass shines. And right next to it the groom Timokha stands with a dog’s head in hand; he waits, and bows:
“Andrei Danilovich, your approval!”
He shows me the dog’s head of the day: a shaggy wolfhound, eyes rolled back, tongue touched with hoarfrost, strong yellow teeth. It will do.
“Carry on!”
Timokha fastens the head of the dog deftly to the hood of the Mercedov, the oprichnina broom to the trunk of the car. I place my palm on the Mercedov’s lock; the transparent roof floats upward. I settle into the reclining black leather seat. I buckle the belt. Turn on the motor. The plank gates open in front of me. Out I drive, flying along the narrow straight road flanked by an old, snow-covered spruce forest. In the rearview mirror I see my homestead receding. A good house, with a heart and soul. I’ve been living in it for only seven months, yet it feels as though I was born and grew up there. The property used to belong to a comrade moneychanger at the Treasury: Gorokhov, Stepan Ignatievich. When he fell into disgrace during the Great Treasury Purge and exposed himself, we took him in hand. During that hot summer a good number of Treasury heads rolled. Bobrov and five of his henchmen were paraded through Moscow in an iron cage, then flogged with the rod and beheaded on Lobnoe Mesto in Red Square. Half of the Treasury was exiled from Moscow beyond the Urals. There was a lot of work…It was back then that Gorokhov, as was befitting, was dragged with his mug in the dung; banknotes were stuffed in his mouth, it was sewn shut, a candle was shoved up his ass, and he was hung on the gates of the estate. We were told not to touch the family. Then the property was transferred to me. His Majesty is just. And thank God.
The road bears right.
I drive out onto the Rublyov highway. It’s a good road, two stories, ten lanes. I maneuver into the left one, the red lane. This is our lane. The government’s. As long as I live and serve the state, I will drive in it.
Cars yield, envying the oprichnik’s red Mercedov with its dog’s head. I cut through the air of the Moscow region with a whistle, flooring the pedal. The duty policeman looks respectfully to the side.
I give a command:
“Radio Rus.”
The soft voice of a young woman speaks up:
“The best of health to you, Andrei Danilovich. What is your listening pleasure?”
I already know the news. When you’ve got a hangover the soul desires a good song:
“Sing me the one about the steppe and the eagle.”
“It will be done.”
The psaltery players start off smoothly, little bells tinkle, a larger silver bell chimes:
“Oy, the steppe is broad and wide,
Our Russian steppe is free, hey!
Wide and broad, our mother fair
She reaches out to me, hey!
O Russian steppe, you’re wide,
Your span is far and free, hey!
O Mother fair, your lovely hand
Reaches far across the land.
O Russian eagle, it’s not you I see,
Rising o’er the steppe so free,
’Tis but a Cossack of the Don
Out to have his fun, hey!”
The Kremlin Red Banner Choir is singing. The choir sings powerfully, beautifully. The song resounds, and I can feel tears welling up. The Mercedov races toward our Whitestone Kremlin; villages and estates flash by. The sun shines on snow-covered spruce trees. The soul revives, is purified, and desires the lofty…
“O Eagle, do not fly so low!
So low unto the ground,
O Cossack, do not wander close,
So close unto the shore’s sweet sound!”
I’d like to drive into Moscow listening to that song, but I’m interrupted. Posokha calls. His sleek kisser appears in a rainbow frame.
“Oh, go to…” I mutter, turning off the song.
“Komiaga!”
“What do you want?”
“Work and Word, We Live to Serve!”
“Well?”
“There’s been a bit of a hitch with the nobleman.”