“Yes, of course. I see now. I am sorry for having disturbed you...”
Shishmaryov is defeated. He is smitten, in fact – what a penny-pincher, and a Professor! He runs, cursing the science of archaeology and all its professors in general, and Professor Koldin in particular, and then cursing himself. In the office, an idea occurs to him: he will call the plant, and he will ask not for three, but for five new huntsmen positions! Pal-Petrovich, as he’s wont to do, will not give him all five – he’ll back off two and get his three. Of those, two will employ actual people and the budget for the third will pay for a sanitation crew to vacuum out the damn toilet, and whatever’s left he’ll use to pay the night-guard who’s been watching his bark warehouse for free (in exchange for a boar license), but still... Damn it all to hell! Shishmaryov picks up the yellow, Hungarian-made receiver he hates so much.
Pyotr Grigoriyevich watches the Chairman disappear inside his office, shakes his head, and rubs his hands together – it’s a habit. He takes off his glasses, stuffs them into his breast-pocket. He looks at his watch.
“Smoke break!” he calls out.
The students raise their heads from the trench like war-horses at the sound of the trumpet, and echo: “Smoke break!”
The mechanic transporter line stops; kids run to the shade, splash at the sinks.
“Nadenka,” the Professor turns to the girl still sitting behind her desk reading her book. “Nadenka, I am going to the museum for a meeting of the renovation committee. I won’t be back for dinner. If I don’t get a hundred and fifty rubles to fix that transporter line, we’ll have to carry the dirt out by hand next year.”
He touches the pocket containing his glasses, but does not pull them out; instead, he walks away towards the kremlin. The committee is waiting for him. The museum’s director has spent the morning staring at her budget, trying to find 1,264 rubles in cash somewhere between its lines. Last night, the roof above the Likhonin Chambers leaked, there’s been water damage to the icons kept there. She needs to find cash – no one will fix her roof in exchange for a piddly IOU.
High in the shade above the dig, Nadenka sits behind her desk, reading. The transporter line starts up again, rattles. The sun beats down on the dirt. Nadenka is reading a samizdat translation, a thick book in a red cloth cover. She reads: “The real difference between a mortal man and an angel does not lie in the fact that a man possesses a body and an angel is fleshless; the true distinction can only be revealed in the comparison between a mortal and an angelic soul. A mortal man’s soul is endlessly complex. It is an entire world constituted by different essences, while an angel is a singular essence and, in this sense, one-dimensional. Moreover, because of its multiplicity, its ability to contain mutually exclusive instincts, and because of its central gift – a share of the Divine which constitutes a mortal soul’s true strength and resilience, and makes a man human – because of these capacities of his mortal soul, a man has the ability to differentiate things, to tell the good from the evil. A man can ascend to great heights, but he can also fall from what seems like a secure, well-established path. None of this is possible for an angel. In his internal essence, an angel is forever unchanged.”
“Nadezhda! Are you ever coming out to work, or what?”
Nadenka stops reading, but does not look down, into the dig, to see who’s calling her; instead, she gazes upward, at the clear, distant August sky and mutters lines from a poem:
“Fear the open road in the middle of the day
Noontime is the hour when angels go to pray...”3
The noontime Stargorodian sun is hot, very hot. The barely noticeable breeze brings a distinct waft of the toilet. One of the kids forgot to close the door again.
Nadenka reads.
3. Lines from a poem by Mirra Lokhvitskaya, 1869-1905.
Blessed are...
“...let us commend ourselves, and one another, and all our life unto Christ our God.”
“To Thee, Our Lord,” the congregation responds. A moment later, a confirming, albeit discordant “Amen!” resounds through the church.
The deacon steps down from the ambo. From the choir, the reader, in a clear, measured voice, recounts the beatitudes from the Holy Scripture. The congregation – and it is sparse today – repeats The Savior’s words after the reader, whispering meekly, obediently:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven...”
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted...”
“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”
A man in a long gray raincoat slips into the refectory sideways, glancing about him, and takes a spot behind a column. His eyes search the congregation; he is looking for someone specific, but he is not seeing him or her. He crosses himself in time with the old ladies next to him.
The reader continues:
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.”
The man in the gray raincoat makes an inconspicuous motion to adjust the stub-barreled, small machine gun, so tiny it is almost toy-like, hanging on his chest beneath the coat. The man glances around him, but people are preoccupied with their own thoughts and no one pays him any attention. His eyes keep scanning the front row of old ladies, but the one he is looking for doesn’t seem to be there. This is bad news. Very bad news. The man is tense: what if she is late? What if she comes in now – it would be easy to spot him, she’ll recognize him. He presses his whole body into the column, becomes one with stone.
The reader’s cadences roll forth, peaceful and heart-felt:
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
Solemnly, slowly, the Royal Doors swing open, as if the Pearly Gates themselves allowed mortal souls to glimpse the Kingdom of Heaven, and the congregation beholds the magnificent altar, the seat of the divine glory and the supreme fountain of knowledge whence the Truth issues forth and the news of eternal life is brought.
The priest and the deacon approach the altar, lift the Holy Scripture from it, and carry it through a side door to the people.
Peacefully, with measured steps, they proceed to the center of the church. Both bow their heads. The priest looks at the floor; he is silent, focused. The deacon lifts his orarion, like a wing, at the gilded Royal Doors, and inquires loudly:
“Do you Bless, Master, the holy entrance?”
“Blessed is the entrance of Thy holy ones, always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages,” the priest responds.
And that’s when the man in the raincoat sees it – the familiar headscarf in the crowd, a glimpse of the woman’s face: his mother is gazing steadily at the Gospel, crossing herself. Yes, he is certain – it is she!
“Thank God,” he whispers.
She is here, and this means nothing stands between him and the pantry in his mother’s apartment. He adjusts the gun again – a motion that looks as if he’s shrugging his shoulders – and begins a slow retreat to the exit.
“Wisdom!” the deacon’s bass thunders, the last thing the man in the raincoat hears.
He has made certain: his mother is here, in church, and she will be praying for a long time. She will pray for him, too, among other things. Usually, he doesn’t care one way or the other, but today he wouldn’t turn down a bit of protection from the higher powers, even if he doesn’t believe they exist.