“Andrei!”
About fifteen seconds pass, and to the right of His Majesty’s face a small picture of Count Urusov appears in a violet frame. By the count’s grave, haggard look it is clear that he has read the poem—more than once.
“Good day, Father.” The count bows his large, big-eared head, which sits on a short neck; his brow is narrow and he has large facial features; his chestnut hair is thin.
“Hello, hello, son-in-law.” The gray-blue eyes look at him with absolute calm. “Read this poem about yourself?”
“I’ve read it, Father.”
“Not badly written, don’t you think? And here my academicians go on and on about how we don’t have any good poets!”
Count Urusov keeps quiet, pursing his thin lips. His mouth, like a frog’s, is extremely wide.
“Tell us, Andrei, is it true?”
The count says nothing, casts his eyes down, inhales, sniffs, and exhales carefully:
“It’s true, Your Majesty.”
Now His Majesty himself grows thoughtful, and frowns. We all stand there, waiting.
“So you mean to say that you actually like to fornicate at fires?” asks His Majesty.
The count nods his grave head:
“It’s true, Your Majesty.”
“Hmmm. That’s how it is, hey?…Rumors had reached me before this, but I didn’t believe them. I thought that envious people were slandering you. But you…Hmm, so that’s what you are.”
“Your Majesty, I can explain everything—”
“When did this start?”
“Your Majesty, I swear to you in the name of all the saints, I swear on my mother’s grave—”
“Don’t swear,” His Majesty says suddenly, and in such a voice that all of us feel our hair stand up.
It isn’t a shout, and he isn’t grinding his teeth, but it has the effect of red-hot tongs. His Majesty’s fury is terrifying. And even more terrifying because our sire never raises his voice.
Count Urusov is no coward—he’s a statesman, a wheeler-dealer, a millionaire of millionaires, an inveterate hunter who goes after bears with nothing but a spear out of principle—but even he pales before this voice, like some second-year high school student called to the principal’s office.
“Tell me, when did you first indulge in this vice?”
The count licks his dry, froglike lips.
“Your Majesty, it…it was completely by accident…even really, you know…as though I were being forced. Although, of course, I’m guilty…only I…I…it’s my sin, mine, forgive me.”
“Explain everything in order.”
“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, I won’t hide anything at all. Once, when I was seventeen years old, I was walking along Ordynka Street and I saw a house on fire, and there was a woman crying out. The firemen hadn’t gotten there yet. People gave me a boost up, I climbed in the window to help her. She threw herself on my chest…Your Majesty, I don’t know what overcame me…I must have blanked out…and, well, the woman, wasn’t exactly a beauty to put it mildly, medium height…well, and…I…you see…”
“And?”
“Well, I had her, Your Majesty. They were barely able to pull us out of the flames later on. After that, I wasn’t myself anymore. I kept thinking and thinking about the incident…A month later I was in St. Petrograd—I was walking along Liteiny—and there was an apartment burning on the third floor. That time my legs just led me there—I broke down the door—I don’t know where I got the strength. And inside there was a mother with her child. She was pressing him to her breast, and screaming out the window. Well, I took her from behind…And then six months later in Samara the treasury burned down, and my deceased father and I had come for the market, and then…”
“That’s enough. Whose house burned the last time?”
“Princess Bobrinskaya’s.”
“Why does this rhymester call a Russian princess a ‘marquess’?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty…Probably out of hatred for Russia.”
“All right. Now tell me honestly…did you set that house on fire deliberately?”
The count freezes as though he’s just been bitten by a snake. He lowers his lynxlike eyes. And says nothing.
“I’m asking you—did you set that house on fire?”
The count heaves a painful sigh:
“I cannot lie to you, Your Majesty. I set it on fire.”
His Majesty is silent for a moment. Then he says:
“It is not for to me to judge your vice—each of us will answer to God for these things. But I cannot forgive arson. Get out of here!”
Urusov’s face disappears. The four of us remain alone with His Majesty. His brow is creased with sadness.
“Hmmm…well.” His Majesty sighs. “And I entrusted my daughter to a swine like that.”
We remain silent.
“So that’s it, Prince,” His Majesty continues. “It’s a family affair. I’ll deal with him myself.”
“As you command, Your Majesty. And what about the pasquinader?”
“Act according to the law. On second thought…don’t. It could arouse unhealthy curiosity. Simply tell him not to write anything like that again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you all for your service.”
“We serve the Fatherland!” we say as we bow.
His Majesty’s image disappears. We look at one another in relief. Buturlin paces the office, shaking his head:
“That cad, Urusov…shame on him!”
“Thank God that we don’t have to deal with that mess,” says Batya, smoothing his beard. “But who is the author?”
“We’ll find out right now,” says Buturlin. He walks over to his desk and sits in his work chair. His voice commands:
“Writers—come here!”
Immediately the faces of 128 writers appear in the air of the office. They are all framed in stern brown and arranged in a neat square. Three enlarged faces float over the rest: the gray-haired chairman of the Writers’ Chamber, Pavel Olegov, with a continually suffering expression on his puffy face, and two even grayer, gloomier, anxious deputies, Anany Memzer and Pavlo Basinya. By the doleful expression on all three mugs, I realize that a difficult conversation awaits them.
“We’ll leave, Terenty Bogdanovich,” Batya says, reaching out to shake hands with the prince. “Writers are your bailiwick.”
“All the best, Boris Borisovich.” Buturlin shakes Batya’s hand.
We bow to the prince and follow Batya out. We walk along the hallway to an elevator, accompanied by the same dashing officer.
“Listen, Komiaga, how come Olegov is always such a sour puss? What is it—toothache?” Batya asks me.
“His soul aches, Batya. For Russia.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Batya nods. “And what’s he written? You know I’m not one for books.”
“The Russian Tile Oven in the Twenty-first Century. A weighty piece. I didn’t get all the way through it…”
“The Russian oven…that’s wonderful…” Batya sighs thoughtfully. “Especially when you bake liver pies…Where are you off to now?”
“To the Kremlin Concert Hall.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. “See you sort that one out. Those clowns are up to something new…”
I nod in reply. “We’ll sort it out, Batya.”
The Kremlin Concert Hall has always delighted me. It thrilled me when I first visited it with my deceased parents twenty-six years ago, to see Swan Lake; when I ate blini with red caviar during the intermission; when I called my friend Pashka on Papa’s mobilov from the buffet; when I peed in the spacious toilet; when I watched the mysterious ballerinas in snow white tutus; and even now, when my temples are sprinkled with their first gray.
A magnificent hall! Everything in it is grand, it has all the amenities for state holidays, everything is perfect. Only one thing is wrong—not all the events produced on this mighty stage are appropriate. Subversiveness seeps through even here. Well, that’s why we exist, to keep order and exterminate rebellion.