He was interrupted by a shrill, piglike squeal and glanced at the lilac curtains, displeased. There was a fight behind the curtains. They could hear dull blows, shrieks of “Let me go! Let me go!” and other hoarse voices, swearing, and exclamations in a strange dialect. Then a curtain snapped off and fell on the floor. Some man burst into the office, collapsing onto all fours—he was bald, with a bloodied chin and wildly bulging eyes. Huge paws reached out from behind the curtain, grabbed the man’s legs, and pulled him back. Rumata recognized him as Budach. He was shrieking wildly: “You lied to me! You lied to me! It was poison! Why?”
He was dragged into the darkness. A man in black quickly picked up and hung the curtain. Silence fell, then a disgusting noise came from behind the curtains—someone was retching. Rumata understood.
“Where’s Budach?” he asked sharply.
“As you can see, some misfortune seems to have befallen him,” Don Reba answered, but it was evident that he was caught off guard.
“Don’t even try it,” said Rumata. “Where’s Budach?”
“Oh, Don Rumata,” Don Reba said, shaking his head. He had already recovered. “What do you want Budach for? What is he, related to you? You’ve never even seen him.”
“Listen, Reba!” Rumata said furiously. “I’m not kidding around! If anything happens to Budach, you’ll die like a dog. I’ll crush you.”
“You won’t have enough time,” Don Reba said quickly. He was very pale.
“You’re a fool, Reba. You’re an experienced schemer, but you don’t understand a thing. Never in your life have you played a game as dangerous as this one. And you don’t even know it.”
Don Reba cowered behind the desk, his eyes glowing like embers. Rumata felt that he had also never been this close to death. They were laying their cards on the table. Soon they would know who was to be the master in this game. Rumata tensed his muscles, getting ready to leap.
No weapon, neither spear nor arrow, kills instantly— you could clearly read this thought on Don Reba’s face. The hemorrhoidal old man wanted to live. “Now, don’t be like that,” he whined. “We were just sitting around, talking … Your Budach’s alive, don’t worry, alive and well. He was still going to treat me. No need to overreact.”
“Where’s Budach?”
“In the Merry Tower.”
“I need him.”
“I need him, too, Don Rumata.”
“Listen, Reba,” Rumata said. “Don’t make me angry. And stop pretending. You’re afraid of me. And rightly so. Budach belongs to me, understand? To me!”
They had now both stood up. Reba was terrible. He had turned blue, his lips were twitching convulsively, he was mumbling and sputtering. “Whippersnapper!” he hissed. “I’m not afraid of anyone. I’m the one who could crush you like a bug!”
He suddenly turned around and pulled back a tapestry hanging behind his back. There was a wide window behind it.
“Look!”
Rumata went to the window. It faced the square in front of the palace. Dawn was approaching. The smoke from the fires rose into the gray sky. The square was littered with corpses. And a motionless black rectangle stood at its center. Rumata looked closer. These were horsemen, standing in an improbably precise formation—in long black cloaks, black hoods hiding their eyes, with black triangular shields on their left hands and long pikes in their right hands.
“I present to you!” Don Reba said in a clanging voice. His whole body was shaking. “The humble men of our Lord, the cavalry of the Holy Order. They landed tonight at the Port of Arkanar to suppress the barbaric rebellion of the night tramps of Waga the Wheel, in league with some swollen-headed shopkeepers! The rebellion has been suppressed. The Holy Order now has control of the city and country, which will henceforth be known as the Arkanarian Region of the Order.”
Rumata involuntarily scratched his head. I’ll be damned, he thought. So that’s who the unhappy shopkeepers were paving the way for. Quite the provocation! Don Reba was grinning triumphantly.
“We have not met yet,” he continued in the same clanging voice. “Let me introduce to you the Holy Order’s governor for the Arkanarian Region, bishop and battle master, the servant of God, Reba!”
You know, I could have guessed, thought Rumata. Wherever grayness triumphs, black robes come to power. Oh, historians, stick a tail in all of you … But he put his hands behind his back and rocked from toe to heel. “Right now I’m tired,” he said disdainfully. “I want to sleep. I want to take a hot bath and wash off the blood and saliva of your thugs. Tomorrow … actually, today … let’s say an hour after sunrise, I’ll come back to your office. By this time, the order for Budach’s release should be ready.”
“There are twenty thousand of them!” Don Reba shouted, pointing at the window.
Rumata winced. “A little quieter, please,” he said. “And remember, Reba, I know very well that you’re no bishop. You’re just a filthy traitor and an incompetent petty schemer.” Don Reba licked his lips, his eyes glazed over. Rumata continued. “I have no mercy. Any vile thing you do to me or my friends will cost you your head. Bear in mind, I hate you. I am willing to put up with you, but you will have to learn how to get out of my way in time. Do you understand me?”
Don Reba said hurriedly, with a pleading smile, “I want only one thing. I want you to be on my side, Don Rumata. I can’t kill you. I don’t know why, but I can’t.”
“You’re afraid,” said Rumata.
“I’m afraid,” Don Reba agreed. “Maybe you’re the devil. Maybe you’re the son of God. Who knows? Or maybe you’re a man from the powerful countries overseas—they say those do exist. I don’t even try to gaze into the abyss that brought you forth. My head spins and I fall into heresy. But I can kill you too. Any time. Right now. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Do you understand that?”
“I’m not interested in that,” Rumata said.
“Then what? What are you interested in?”
“I’m not interested in anything in particular,” Rumata said. “I’m having a good time. I’m neither the devil nor God, I’m Rumata of Estor, a merry noble gentleman, burdened with various whims and prejudices, and accustomed to freedom in every way. Can you remember that?”
Don Reba had already regained his composure. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and smiled pleasantly. “I value your determination,” he said. “After all, you also aspire to certain ideals. And I respect these ideals, even though I don’t understand them. I’m very glad that we’ve had this talk. It’s possible that some day, you will describe your views to me, and it’s entirely possible that you will force me to reconsider my own. People are prone to making mistakes. Perhaps I’m wrong and the goals I aspire to are not the ones worthy of the diligent and selfless work I’ve been doing. I’m an open-minded man, and I can easily imagine that one day I will work with you side by side.”
“We’ll see,” Rumata said, then walked toward the door. What a slug! he thought. Some colleague. Side by side …
The city had been stricken by intolerable terror. The reddish morning sun shone down grimly on the empty streets, smoldering ruins, torn-off shutters, and broken-down doors. Shards of glass glittered in the dust, crimson from the dawn. Hordes of uncountable crows had descended on the city as if on an empty field. Groups of two and three horsemen in black hung around the squares and intersections—slowly turning their whole bodies in the saddle, peering through the slits in the hoods pulled low over their eyes. Charred bodies were hanging from hastily erected posts over extinguished coals. It was as if there was no one left alive in the city—only the shrieking crows and the businesslike murderers in black.
Half the time, Rumata was walking with his eyes closed. He was suffocating, his battered body aching painfully. Are they people or are they not? Is there anything human about them? Some get slaughtered in the streets, while others sit at home and meekly wait their turn. And everyone is thinking, Let it be anyone but me. The cold-blooded brutality of those who slaughter, and the
cold-blooded meekness of those who are slaughtered. The cold-bloodedness, that’s the worst thing. Ten people stand around, transfixed with horror, and meekly wait, while another one comes by, picks his victim, and cold-bloodedly slaughters him. These people’s souls are full of rot, and each hour of meek waiting contaminates them even more. This very moment, these silent houses are invisibly breeding rascals, informers, and murderers, thousands of people who will remain stricken by fear their whole lives, and who will mercilessly teach fear to their children and the children of their children. A little longer and I’ll go insane and become just like them; a little longer and I’ll no longer have any idea what I’m doing here. I need to rest, get away from all this, calm down …
At the end of the Year of Water—such and such a year by the new calendar—the centrifugal processes in the ancient empire became relevant. Taking advantage of this, the Holy Order, essentially representing the interests of the most reactionary groups of feudal society, who desired to stop the disintegration by any means necessary … And do you know how the burning corpses on the posts smell? And have you ever seen a naked woman with her stomach ripped open lying in the dust of the street? And have you seen a city in which all the men are silent, and only the crows scream? You, the still unborn boys and girls in front of the educational stereovisor in the schools of the Arkanarian Communist Republic?
He bumped into something hard and sharp with his chest. A black-robed horseman was in front of him. A long spear with a broad, carefully serrated blade was resting against Rumata’s torso. The horseman was silently looking at him from the dark recesses of his hood. The only thing visible under the hood was a thin-lipped mouth with a small chin. I have to do something, thought Rumata. But what? Knock him off his horse? No. The horseman started slowly drawing back the spear to strike. Oh, yes! Rumata listlessly raised his left hand and pulled back his sleeve, showing the iron bracelet he was given when he left the palace. The horseman looked closer, raised his spear, and rode past. “In the name of the Lord,” he said in a muffled voice with a strange accent.
“In His name,” Rumata muttered and kept going, walking past another horseman, who was trying to use his spear to reach an expertly carved wooden figure of a merry imp sticking out below the eaves of the roof. A horror-stricken fat face flickered behind the partially torn off shutter on the second floor—this must have been one of the shopkeepers who only three days ago were rapturously shouting “Hurray for Don Reba” over their beer and listening to the thump, thump, thump of the hobnailed boots on the pavement with delight. Oh, the grayness, the grayness … Rumata turned away.
And how are things at home? he suddenly wondered. He quickened his pace, almost running the entire last block. The house was still standing. Two monks were sitting on the front steps; they had thrown their hoods back and were showing their carelessly shaved heads to the sun. They stood up when they saw him. “In the name of the Lord,” they said in unison.
“In His name,” responded Rumata. “What is your business here?”
The monks bowed, crossing their arms on their stomachs. “You’re here, so we’re leaving,” one of them said. They walked down the steps and slowly plodded away, hunching and stuffing their hands into their sleeves. Rumata followed them with his eyes and remembered the thousands of times he had seen these meek figures in long black robes in the streets. Only before, they didn’t have the scabbards of extremely heavy swords dragging behind them in the dust. We messed up, oh, how we messed up! he thought. It had been quite the sport for the noble dons—sidling up to a monk who was plodding alone, and telling each other naughty stories over his head. And I, the idiot, would pretend to be drunk and trail behind them, roaring with laughter, and was so happy that the empire was at least not prone to religious fanaticism. But what could we have done? Yes, what could we have done?
“Who’s there?” a quavering voice asked.
“Open up, Muga, it’s me,” Rumata said softly.
The bars rattled, the door cracked open, and Rumata squeezed into the entrance hall. Everything here was as usual, and Rumata gave a sigh of relief. Old, gray-haired Muga, nodding his head, reached for Rumata’s helmet and swords with his usual deference.
“How’s Kira?” Rumata asked.
“Kira’s upstairs,” said Muga. “She fine.”
“Excellent,” Rumata said, stepping out of his sword slings. “And where’s Uno? Why isn’t he greeting me?”
Muga took the sword. “Uno was killed,” he said calmly. “He lies in the servants’ quarters.”
Rumata closed his eyes. “Uno was killed …” he repeated. “Who killed him?”
Without waiting for an answer, he went into the servants’ quarters. Uno was lying on the table, a sheet covering him up to his waist; his arms were folded across his chest, his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was twisted in a grimace. Downcast servants were standing around the table and listening to a monk mumbling in the corner. The cook was sobbing. Rumata, not taking his eyes off the boy’s face, started unbuttoning the collar of his waistcoat with clumsy fingers.
“Bastards,” he said. “Everyone is such a bastard!”
He tottered, came closer to the table, looked into the dead eyes, lifted the sheet, and immediately put it back down.
“Yes, it’s too late,” he said. “Too late … It’s hopeless. Oh, those bastards! Who killed him? The monks?”
He turned toward the monk, yanked him up and bent over his face.
“Who killed him?” he demanded. “Was it you? Tell me!”
“It wasn’t the monks,” Muga said quietly behind his back. “It was the gray soldiers.”
Rumata spent a while longer peering into the monk’s thin face, into his slowly expanding pupils. “In the name of the Lord …” wheezed the monk. Rumata let him go, sat down on the bench at Uno’s feet, and started to cry. He cried, covering his face with his hands, and listened to Muga’s quavering, indifferent voice. Muga was telling him how after the second night watch, someone knocked on the door in the name of the king, and Uno shouted not to let them in, but then they did have to let them in, because the grays were threatening to burn down the house. They burst into the hall, beat up the servants and tied them up, and then started climbing the stairs. Uno, who was standing by the entrance to his chambers, started firing his crossbows. He had two crossbows, and he managed to fire twice, but he missed once. The gray soldiers threw their knives, and Uno fell. They dragged him downstairs and started trampling him with their feet and beating him with their axes, but then the black monks entered the house. They hacked the two gray soldiers to death and disarmed the rest, put nooses around their necks, and dragged them out onto the street.
Muga’s voice fell silent, but Rumata kept sitting there for a long time, resting his elbows on the table at Uno’s feet. Then he rose heavily, wiped off the tears stuck in his two-day stubble with his sleeve, kissed the boy’s icy forehead, and, barely able to move his legs, plodded upstairs.
He was half-dead from shock and exhaustion. After somehow managing to clamber up the stairs, he walked through the living room, made his way to the bed, and with a moan, collapsed facedown into the pillows. Kira came running. Rumata was so worn out that he didn’t even help her undress him. She pulled off his boots, then, crying over his swollen face, tore off his tattered coat and metalstrom shirt, then cried some more over his battered body. Only now did he feel that all his bones hurt, like after high-gravity training. Kira was rubbing him down with a vinegar-soaked sponge and he, without opening his eyes, hissed through closed lips and muttered, “And I could have killed him … I was right next to him … Could have squashed him with two fingers … Is this life, Kira? Let’s leave this place … This Experiment is on me, not on them.” He didn’t even notice that he spoke Russian. Kira kept looking at him fearfully, with eyes that were glassy from tears, and only silently kissed his cheeks. Then she covered him with threadbare sheets—Uno never did manage to buy new ones—and ran downstairs to make him some mul
led wine. He crawled out of bed and, groaning from the all-consuming pain, shuffled barefoot into his study, opened a secret drawer in his desk, rummaged in the first-aid kit, and took a few sporamin pills. When Kira came back with a steaming teapot on a heavy silver tray, he was lying on his back and listening to the pain receding, the noise quieting down in his head, and his body filling with renewed strength and vigor. After finishing the teapot, he felt completely well, called Muga, and ordered him to prepare his clothes.
“Don’t go, Rumata,” Kira said. “Don’t go. Stay home.”
“I have to, little one.”
“I’m scared. Please stay. They’ll kill you.”
“Now, now. Why in the world would they kill me? They are all afraid of me.”
She began to weep again. She was weeping quietly, timidly, as if she was afraid he’d be angry. Rumata sat her down on his knees and started stroking her hair.
“The worst is over,” he said. “And when this is all done, we’ll leave this place.”
She quieted down, clinging to him. Muga, nodding his head, stood nearby, looking indifferent, holding the master’s pants with little gold bells at the ready.
“But first, there’s a lot to do here,” continued Rumata. “There were many killed last night. I need to find out who survived and who was killed. And I need to help save the ones they are planning to kill.”
“And who will help you?”
“Happy is the man who thinks of others. Besides, you and I are being helped by powerful men.”
“I can’t think of others,” she said. “You came back barely alive. I can tell you were beaten. And they killed Uno outright. What were your powerful men doing? Why didn’t they stop the killing? I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you.”
Hard to Be a God Page 16
