Hard to Be a God

by Arkady Strugatsky

  She tried to get away, but he held her tight. “What can we do?” he asked. “This time they were a little late. But they are now watching us and protecting us again. Why don’t you believe me today? You’ve always believed me before. You’ve seen it yourself: I came back barely alive, and look at me now!”

  “I don’t want to look,” she said, hiding her face. “I don’t want to cry again.”

  “There! Just a few scratches! It’s nothing. The worst is over. At least for you and me. But there are very good, wonderful people for whom this horror hasn’t ended yet. And I have to save them.”

  Kira took a deep breath, kissed Rumata’s neck, and gently freed herself. “Come back tonight,” she said. “Please come back?”

  “Of course!” he said fervently. “I’ll come back earlier, probably not alone. Expect me for dinner.”

  She stepped aside, sat down in a chair, and putting her hands in her lap, watched him get dressed. Rumata, mumbling Russian words, pulled on the pants with the little bells (Muga immediately crouched down in front of him and started to fasten the numerous buckles and buttons), put the now-blessed chain mail over a clean undershirt, and finally said in despair, “Little one, please understand, I have to go— what can I do? I have no choice!”

  Kira suddenly said pensively, “Sometimes I can’t understand why you don’t hit me.”

  Rumata froze in the middle of buttoning up a shirt with a frilly ruff. “What do you mean, why I don’t hit you?” he asked, bewildered. “How could I hit you?”

  “You’re not just a good, kind man,” she continued, not listening. “You’re also a very strange man. You’re like an archangel. When you’re with me, I become brave. Right now I’m brave. Someday, I’ll definitely have to ask you about one thing. Will you—not right now, but later, when it’s all done—tell me about yourself?”

  Rumata was silent for a long time. Muga handed him an orange waistcoat with striped red bows. Rumata pulled it on with disgust and tightened his belt. “Yes,” he finally said. “Someday I’ll tell you everything, little one.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said seriously. “And now go, and pay no attention to me.”

  Rumata came close to her, kissed her lips with his swollen lips, then took an iron bracelet off his arm and gave it to her. “Put it on your left arm,” he said. “No one else should come to the house today, but if they do—show them this.”

  She was watching him go, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking, I don’t know if you’re the devil or the son of God or a man from the fabulous countries overseas, but if you don’t come back, I’ll die. And because she was silent, he was infinitely grateful to her, because leaving was incredibly difficult—like diving headfirst from a sunny emerald shore into a rancid pool.

  Chapter 8

  Rumata took the back roads to the office of the Bishop of Arkanar. He crept through the residents’ small yards, getting tangled in old clothes hung out to dry; climbed through holes in fences, leaving splendid bows and bits of precious Soanian lace on rusty nails; and hastily crawled between potato patches. But he still couldn’t evade the watchful eye of the black army. When he climbed out into the narrow, crooked alley that led to the dump, he bumped into two gloomy, tipsy monks.

  Rumata tried to go around them—the monks drew their swords and blocked the way. Rumata grabbed the hilts of his swords—the monks gave a three-fingered whistle, calling for help. Rumata started to retreat toward the hole he had just climbed out of, but a nimble little man with an insignificant face suddenly jumped out toward him into the alley. Jostling Rumata with his shoulder, he ran up to the monks and said something to them, after which the monks picked their cassocks up over their long, purple-clad legs and trotted away, disappearing behind the houses. The little man shuffled after them without turning around.

  Got it, thought Rumata. A spy-bodyguard. And he isn’t even bothering to hide much. The Bishop of Arkanar is being prudent. I wonder what he’s most worried about—what I’ll do, or what they’ll do to me? Following the spy with his eyes, he headed toward the dump. The dump led to the back of the offices of the former Ministry of the Defense of the Crown and was, he hoped, not patrolled.

  The alley was empty, but he could already hear shutters softly creaking, an infant crying, and people whispering cautiously. A gaunt, thin face, black from baked-in soot, warily poked out from behind a half-rotted fence. Fearful, hollow eyes stared at Rumata.

  “I beg your pardon, noble don, and beg your pardon again. Won’t the noble don tell me what’s happening in the city? I’m the blacksmith Kikus, nicknamed Limpy, and I need to go to the smithy, but I’m scared.”

  “Don’t go,” Rumata advised. “The monks aren’t kidding around. There’s no more king. The man in charge now is Don Reba, the Bishop of the Holy Order. So sit tight.”

  The blacksmith hastily nodded after each word, and his eyes filled with anguish and despair. “The Order, huh,” he muttered. “Oh, cholera … Beg your pardon, noble don. So it’s now the Order. Are they grays or what?”

  “Nah,” Rumata said, eyeing him with curiosity. “The grays might be finished. These are monks.”

  “Oh, wow!” said the blacksmith. “So they got the grays too. That’s some Order! The grays are finished—that’s good, of course. But what about us, noble don, what does Your Lordship think? Will we adapt, eh? Under the Order, eh?”

  “Why not?” said Rumata. “The Order needs to eat and drink too. You’ll adapt.”

  The blacksmith perked up. “That’s what I figure—we’ll adapt. The way I figure it, the most important thing’s not to bother anyone, then no one will bother you, eh?”

  Rumata shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “The ones who don’t bother anyone get slaughtered first.”

  “That’s true,” the blacksmith sighed. “But what can you do? All alone in the world, with eight brats clutching my pants. Oh, Holy Mother, I hope they at least slaughtered my master! He was a gray officer. What does Your Lordship think? Could they have slaughtered him, noble don? I owed him five gold pieces.”

  “I don’t know,” Rumata said. “They might have slaughtered him. Here’s something else for you to ponder, blacksmith. You’re all alone in the world, but there are ten thousand of you in the city.”

  “So?” said the blacksmith.

  “Think about it,” Rumata said irritably, and kept walking.

  The hell he’ll think of anything. It’s too early for him to think. And it seems so simple: ten thousand hammerers like that, in a rage, could crush anyone to a pulp. Except rage is what they don’t have yet. Only fear. Everyone for himself, only God for all.

  The elder bushes at the end of the block suddenly rustled, and Don Tameo crawled into the alley. Seeing Rumata, he cried out in joy, jumped up, and, tottering wildly, moved in his direction, reaching his mud-smeared hands toward him. “My noble don!” he cried. “I’m so glad! I see you’re also going to the office?”

  “Of course, my noble don,” Rumata answered, skillfully avoiding the embrace.

  “May I join you, noble don?”

  “I’d be honored, noble don.”

  They bowed to each other. It was clear that Don Tameo had started yesterday and hadn’t yet been able to stop. He extracted a finely made glass flask from a pair of extremely wide yellow pants. “Would you like some, noble don?” he offered courteously.

  “Thank you,” Rumata said.

  “It’s rum!” declared Don Tameo. “Real rum from the metropole. I paid a gold piece for it.”

  They went down to the dump and, holding their noses, began to walk between piles of garbage, corpses of dogs, and reeking puddles swarming with white worms. The continuous hum of myriad emerald flies was in the air.

  “How strange,” Don Tameo said, closing the flask, “I’ve never been here before.”

  Rumata didn’t say anything.

  “Don Reba has always amazed me,” said Don Tameo. “I was convinced that he would eventually overthrow ou
r worthless monarch, pave new roads, and open shining prospects for us.” With that, his foot slipped into a yellow-green puddle, splattering him heavily, and he grabbed Rumata in order not to fall down. “Yes!” he continued when they reached solid ground. “We, the young aristocracy, will always stand behind Don Reba! The desired relaxation has finally come. Judge for yourself, Don Rumata. I’ve been walking the alleys and kitchen gardens for an hour but I haven’t met a single gray. We’ve swept the gray scum off the face of the earth, and how sweet and easy it is to breathe in the reborn Arkanar. Instead of the coarse shopkeepers, those insolent boors, and the peasants, the streets are full of the servants of God. I’ve seen it myself: some noblemen are now openly strolling in front of their houses. They no longer need to fear that some imbecile in a dung-covered apron will splatter them with his filthy cart. And we now no longer have to fight our way through yesterday’s butchers and haberdashers. Blessed by the great Holy Order, for which I have always had the utmost respect and, I will not conceal, heartfelt affection, we will arrive at a state of unprecedented prosperity—in which not a single peasant will dare raise his eyes at a nobleman without a permit signed by the district inspector of the Order. I’m bringing a memorandum about this right now.”

  “What a horrible stench,” Rumata said with feeling.

  “Yes, it’s awful,” Don Tameo agreed, closing the flask. “But how easy it is to breathe in the reborn Arkanar! And the price of wine has fallen by half.”

  By the end of their walk, Don Tameo had drained the flask to the very bottom and hurled it away, and had become extraordinarily excited. He fell twice, the second time refusing to clean himself off, declaring that he was sinful and unclean by nature and wished to present himself in that state. He kept reciting his memorandum at the top of his lungs: “How forcefully put!” he exclaimed. “Take this passage, for example, noble dons: ‘Lest the reeking peasants …’ Hmm? What a thought!” When they got to the courtyard behind the office, he collapsed onto the first monk he saw and, bursting into tears, started begging for absolution. The half-suffocated monk fought back fiercely, tried to whistle for help, but Don Tameo clutched his cassock and they both tumbled into a garbage heap. Rumata left them behind, and for a long time, as he was going away, kept hearing the plaintive intermittent whistling and exclamations: “‘Lest the reeking peasants’! Bleeessings! With all my heart! I felt affection, affection, you get it, peasant face?”

  A detachment of monks on foot, armed with fearsome-looking knotted clubs, was standing in the square by the entrance, in the shadow of the Merry Tower. The corpses had been removed. The morning wind was swirling yellow columns of dust around the square. Crows were screaming and quarreling beneath the wide conical roof of the tower—there, as always, the bodies of the hanged swung upside down from the exposed beams. The tower had been built about two hundred years ago by an ancestor of the late king for military purposes. It had been built on top of a solid three-story foundation, which was once used to store reserves of food in case of a siege. The tower was later turned into a prison. But then an earthquake had collapsed all the interior walls, and the prison had to be moved to the basement. In her time, some Arkanarian queen had complained to her king that the wails of the tortured resounding through the neighborhood interfered with her amusements. Her august husband ordered a military band to play in the tower from morning to night. That was how the tower had gotten its current name. It had long been an empty stone shell—the investigation chambers had long been relocated to the newly excavated, very lowest floors of the foundation—and it had been a long time since a band had played there, but the residents still called it Merry.

  The square near the Merry Tower was usually deserted. But today the place was bustling with activity. People were being led, pulled, and dragged along the ground toward the tower—storm troopers in torn gray uniforms, lice-ridden vagabonds in rags, half-dressed city residents covered in goose bumps from fear, hysterically screaming girls, and whole gangs of sullenly staring tramps from the night army. And at the same time, corpses were being removed from the tower, hauled out with hooks through some hidden passageways, stacked onto carts, and driven out of the city. The tail of an extremely long line of noblemen and wealthy citizens, which extended out of the open doors of the ministry office, watched this appalling commotion in fear and confusion.

  They allowed everyone into the office, even bringing some people in under escort. Rumata pushed his way in. It was as stuffy here as at the dump. An official with a yellow-gray face and a big goose feather stuck behind his protruding ear was sitting at a wide table surrounded by lists. The next applicant, the noble Don Keu, gave his name, arrogantly fluffing his mustache.

  “Take off your hat,” the official said in a colorless voice, without looking up from his papers.

  “The privilege of the family of Keu is to wear a hat in the presence of the king himself,” Don Keu proclaimed proudly.

  “No one has any privileges before the Order,” the official said in the same colorless voice.

  Don Keu huffed, turning livid, but took the hat off.

  The official ran a long yellow nail along the list. “Don Keu … Don Keu …” he muttered, “Don Keu … Royal Street, Building Twelve?”

  “Yes,” Don Keu said in an irritated bass voice.

  “Number four hundred eighty-five, Brother Tibak.”

  The heavyset Brother Tibak, who was sitting at the adjacent table, crimson from the stuffy air, searched through the papers, wiped the sweat off his bald head, stood up, and read out monotonously, “Number four hundred eighty-five, Don Keu. Royal, Twelve, for the defamation of the name of His Grace the Bishop of Arkanar Don Reba, which took place at the palace ball the year before last, shall receive three dozen lashes on his bared buttocks, and shall kiss His Grace’s boot.”

  Brother Tibak sat down.

  “Down that corridor,” said the official in a colorless voice, “the lashes on the right, the boot on the left. Next.”

  To Rumata’s complete astonishment, Don Keu did not protest. He had apparently already seen a lot in line. He just grunted, adjusted his mustache with dignity, and departed for the corridor. The next in line, the giant Don Pifa, quivering with fat, had already taken off his hat.

  “Don Pifa … Don Pifa …” the official droned, running a finger along the list. “Milkmen Street, Building Two.”

  Don Pifa made a guttural noise.

  “Number five hundred and four, Brother Tibak.”

  Brother Tibak again wiped his head and stood up. “Number five hundred and four, Don Pifa, Milkmen, Two, not known to be guilty of anything toward His Grace—consequently clean.”

  “Don Pifa,” the official said, “take your symbol of purification.” He bent down, pulled an iron bracelet from a chest next to the chair, and handed it to noble Pifa. “Wear it on your left arm, produce it as soon as a soldier from the Order demands it. Next.”

  Don Pifa made a guttural noise and walked away, examining the bracelet. The official was already droning the next name. Rumata took a look at the line. There were many familiar faces here. A few were dressed in their customary rich fashion, others were clearly attempting to appear poor, but all were thoroughly smeared with mud. Somewhere from the middle of the line, loud enough for everyone to hear, Don Sera declared for the third time in five minutes, “I see no reason why even a noble don shouldn’t receive a couple lashes in the name of His Grace!”

  Rumata waited until the next person was directed down the corridor (it was a well-known fishmonger, who had been given five lashes but no kiss for unenthusiastic ways of thinking), pushed his way through to the table, and brusquely put a hand on the papers lying in front of the official. “Pardon me,” he said. “I need the order for the release of Doctor Budach. I’m Don Rumata.”

  The official didn’t raise his head.

  “Don Rumata … Don Rumata …” he muttered and, shoving Rumata’s hand away, ran his nail along the list.

  “What are you do
ing, you old inkwell?” said Rumata. “I need the order for the release!”

  “Don Rumata … Don Rumata …” Apparently this automaton was impossible to stop. “Boilermakers Street, Building Eight. Number sixteen, Brother Tibak.”

  Rumata felt everyone behind his back hold their breath. And he had to admit he also felt a bit uneasy. The sweaty, crimson Brother Tibak stood up: “Number sixteen, Don Rumata, Boilermakers, Eight, for special services to the Order has earned the particular gratitude of His Grace and will kindly receive an order for the release of Doctor Budach, with whom he will do whatever he pleases—see sheet six seventeen eleven.”

  The official immediately pulled this sheet from underneath the lists and handed it to Rumata. “Through the yellow door, up to the second floor, room six, down the hall, go right then left,” he said. “Next.”

  Rumata scanned the sheet. It wasn’t the order for Budach’s release. It was the justification for his receiving a pass into the fifth, special department of the office, where he was supposed to receive instructions to take to the secretariat of secret affairs.

  “What did you give me, blockhead?” asked Rumata. “Where’s the order?”

  “Through the yellow door, up to the second floor, room six, down the hall, go right then left,” the official repeated.

  “I’m asking, where’s the order?” Rumata barked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Next!”

  Rumata heard heavy breathing by his ear, and something soft and hot pressed up against his back. He moved away. Don Pifa squeezed up to the table again. “It doesn’t fit,” he squeaked.

  The official looked dully at him. “Name? Rank?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t fit,” Don Pifa said again, tugging on the bracelet, which barely fit over three fat fingers.

  “It doesn’t fit … It doesn’t fit …” the official mumbled and suddenly jerked a thick book lying on the table to his right toward him. The book had an evil look—the binding was black and greasy. Don Pifa looked at it dumbfounded for a couple of seconds, then suddenly recoiled and, without saying a word, rushed toward the door. The people in line shouted, “Hurry up, get a move on!” Rumata also walked away from the table. What a quagmire, he thought. I’ll show you … The official started droning into space: “If the indicated symbol of purification does not fit onto the left wrist of the purified or if the purified has no left wrist as such …” Rumata walked around the table, stuck both hands into the chest with the bracelets, grabbed as many as he could and walked off.