Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk

by Boris Akunin

When she was already quite close to the boundary of the monastery itself, the ever-curious Lisitsyna saw that something unusual was going on in an open meadow that obviously served the locals as a favorite spot for walks, and she immediately turned in that direction.

  At first she saw a crowd of people clustering together at the very edge of the cliff, by an old crooked alder tree, then she heard a child crying and some other piercing, plaintive sounds that she could not quite identify. Polina Andreevna, who was familiar from her experience as a teacher with all the subtle variations of children's crying, suddenly felt alarmed, because the note of unfeigned grief in the lament was quite unmistakable.

  It took the young lady no more than half a minute to grasp what was going on.

  In all honesty, it was a perfectly commonplace story, even somewhat comical. A little girl playing with a kitten had allowed it to climb up the tree. Clinging to the rough bark with its claws, the fluffy little beast had climbed too far and too high, and now it could not get down again. The danger of the situation was that the alder tree hung out over the sheer cliff, and the kitten was stuck on the longest and thinnest branch, with the waves splashing and foaming far below it.

  It was clear straightaway that the poor creature could not be saved, and that was a shame, for he was quite charming: short white fur like swan's down and round blue eyes, with a satin ribbon lovingly tied around his neck.

  Lisitsyna felt even sorrier for his owner, a girl of six or seven. She was very pretty too: dressed in a clean little sarafan, a bright-colored head scarf with locks of light-colored hair peeping out from under it, and little birch-bark sandals that looked as if they were made for a doll.

  “Kuzya, Kuzenka!” the little child sobbed. “Come down—you'll fall!”

  Come down, indeed! The kitten was clinging to the very end of the branch with its last ounces of strength. The wind was swaying its little white body, first to the right, then to the left, and it was quite clear that soon it would shake the poor thing off altogether.

  Polina Andreevna observed the sad scene with her hands pressed to her heart. She recalled an occasion not so long before when she had found herself in the same position as this little kitten and had only been saved by the benign Providence of God. Remembering that terrible night, she crossed herself and whispered a prayer—not in gratitude for her own miraculous deliverance then, but for this poor doomed little creature: “Lord God, let the little kitten live a little longer! What is such a small thing to Thee?”

  She realized, of course, that it would take a miracle to save the kitten, and it was not really appropriate for Providence to squander its miracles on an instance such as this. It would be somehow lacking in sublimity— absurd, in fact.

  The crowd was not standing there in silence, of course—some were comforting the little girl; others were discussing how to save the foolish little beast.

  One said, “You need to climb up, prop your foot against the branch, and scoop him up with a butterfly net”—although it was quite clear that there was nowhere in the park where you could possibly lay your hands on a butterfly net. Someone else was thinking aloud to himself: “You could lie on the branch and try to reach him, only you'd be sure to fall off. It's all very well to go risking your life for something important, but for a little animal like that…” And he was right, absolutely right.

  Polina Andreevna was about to walk on, in order not to see the little ball of white fur go hurtling downward with a squeal and hear the little girl's terrible scream (they could at least take her away), but just then a new character joined the small crowd, someone who looked so interesting that the soi-disant Moscow lady decided not to leave just yet.

  The tall, lean gentleman in a foppish snow white overcoat and equally white linen cap elbowed his way unceremoniously through the crowd toward the alder tree. Beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt, this determined individual belonged to the infamous category of “handsome devils” to which, as we know, men are assigned not because of the classical regularity of their features (although the gentleman was really rather good-looking, in the golden-haired and blue-eyed Slavic style), but because of their general air of calm self-assurance and fascinating audacity. These two qualities, which unfailingly impress almost all women, were inscribed so distinctly in the face and manners of this elegant gentleman that all the fine ladies and common women, married women and young spinsters who happened to be in the crowd immediately began to pay him special attention.

  In this Mrs. Lisitsyna was no exception, thinking to herself, Well now, what interesting characters you do find in Ararat! Could this one really be here on pilgrimage too?

  After this, however, the new arrival began behaving in such a manner that the special attention he was already receiving became positively mesmeric (which, we might observe, is not an uncommon occurrence when “handsome devils” put in an appearance).

  Evaluating the situation at a single glance, the fine fellow unhesitatingly flung his cap down on the ground, where it was immediately followed by his fashionably tailored overcoat.

  The gentleman issued instructions to one of the idle onlookers, who looked like a factory hand: “Hey you, get up on that tree, quick march. And don't be afraid—you won't have to climb out onto the branch. When I shout ‘All right!’ shake it with all your might.”

  It was impossible not to obey someone like that. The factory hand threw his own greasy cap down at his feet, spat on his hands, and climbed up.

  The crowd held its breath: What was going to happen next?

  Next the handsome fellow dropped his frock coat, which was also white, onto the grass, took a short run, and jumped over the edge of the cliff into the bottomless abyss.

  Ah!

  Of course, “bottomless abyss” is a term that is normally employed to create an impressive effect, for everyone knows that, apart from the one unique and final Abyss, all other abysses, whether on land or underwater, come to an end at some point. This abyss was also by no means bottomless—perhaps about seventy feet deep. But even this distance could be quite enough for someone to injure himself badly against the surface of the lake and then drown—not to mention the icy chill emanating from that leaden water.

  In fact, whichever way you looked at it, it was an insane thing to do. Not heroic, but precisely insane—what reason was there here for demonstrating heroism?

  With the aforementioned exclamation of “Ah!” everybody clustered together at the edge of the sheer descent to see if the madman's blond head of hair would surface above the waves.

  It did! And it started bobbing about between the startled white crests like a little tennis ball.

  Then a hand emerged and waved. And a ringing voice, obligingly assisted by a following wind, shouted, “All right!”

  The apprentice shook the tree as hard as he could, and the kitten fell off with a pitiful squeal. He landed in the water a couple of yards away from the gentleman and a moment later was seized and held up in the air.

  The people watching shouted and shrieked, quite beside themselves with delight.

  The hero (a hero after all, and not a madman—that was clear from the reaction of the public) sculled through the water with his free hand until he reached the foot of the cliff, clambered out with some difficulty onto a wet boulder, and set off along the very edge of the tide toward a path that was carved into the rock face. People ran down from above to meet him, ready to take him by the arms, wipe him down, embrace him.

  A few minutes later the handsome fellow was at the top, greeted by general exultation. But he refused to let anyone hold him by the arms or wipe him down, let alone embrace him. He walked unaided, quite blue and shuddering from the cold, with a lock of hair sticking to his forehead. In this wet and far from elegant condition, he seemed even more handsome to Polina Andreevna than in his fashionable snow white attire. (And not only to her—that much was clear from the dreamy expressions on the women's faces.)

  The miraculous savior glanced around absentmindedly and
his gaze suddenly settled on the beautiful redheaded lady regarding him with a look less of admiration—like the other women—than of fright.

  He walked up to her, still clutching the soaking wet, skinny little kitten. Looking her straight in the eye, he asked, “Who are you?”

  “Lisitsyna,” Polina Andreevna replied in a low voice.

  The pupils of the hero's eyes were broad and black, and the irises around them were light blue, with a hint of azure.

  “A widow,” the woman added, without even knowing why, quailing under that gaze.

  “A widow?” the gentleman repeated slowly and smiled in a special sort of way: as if Polina Andreevna were laid out in front of him on a dish, decorated with parsley and celery.

  Lisitsyna took an involuntary step backward and said, “I have a Bridegroom.”

  “What are you, then, a widow or a bride?” the tempter laughed with a flash of white teeth. “Ah, what does it matter.” He turned away and walked on.

  Oh, how very handsome he was! Polina Andreevna felt for the little cross at her breast and clutched it tight in her fingers.

  But there was one thing that jarred: the hero flung the rescued kitten down at the happy little girl's feet without even looking at her or listening to her incoherent babble of gratitude.

  Throwing the coat that was obligingly held up for him across his shoulders (it was no longer as brilliantly white as before), he set his cap in the appropriate cocked position on one side of his head and walked away without looking around even once.

  A Dream About a Crocodile

  WHEN LISITSYNA ENTERED the bounds of the monastery proper, she had not yet completely recovered from her alarming encounter—her face was flushed and she was still blinking guiltily However, the stern, solemn appearance of the godly institution and the sheer abundance of monks and novices robed in black helped restore Polina Andreevna to an appropriate mood.

  After walking past the main church, the block of private cells, and the administration block, the pilgrim found herself in the inner section of the monastery, where there were two grand houses surrounded by beds of flowers—the father superior's residence and the hierarchical chambers; the former was where Vitalii, the father superior of New Ararat, had his quarters, and the latter was intended for the accommodation of his highly placed superiors, should they wish to honor the holy places of the islands with a visit. And it should be said that such superiors visited Canaan often, both churchmen (and members of the Holy Synod) and lay officials. Only the provincial prelate, who could surely have reached New Ararat more easily than visitors from Moscow or St. Petersburg, had not come visiting in many a long year. Not out of neglect, but quite the opposite—out of respect for the archimandrite s efficient management. His Grace was fond of saying that the negligent needed to be watched carefully, but there was no point in watching those who were efficient, and in accordance with this maxim he preferred to visit only the less well organized of the monasteries and deaneries under his jurisdiction.

  Father Vitalii's lay brother assistant asked the lady donor to wait in the reception room, where the walls were hung alternately with icons and the architectural plans of various structures. Lisitsyna bowed to the icons, examined the plans closely, pitied a stunted geranium that was struggling to grow on the windowsill, and then she was summoned to His Reverence.

  Father Vitalii greeted the pilgrim in friendly fashion, blessed her from his immense height, and even leaned down to the ginger locks peeping out from under the head scarf to mimic a kiss, but it was quite clear that the father superior had many other matters to deal with and he wanted to be rid of his lady visitor as soon as possible.

  “Is your donation for the monastery as a whole, or for some specific activity?” he asked, opening the accounts ledger and preparing to enter the widow's mite in it.

  “That is entirely at Your Reverence's discretion,” Polina Andreevna replied. “Might I be permitted to sit?”

  Vitalii sighed, realizing that he would not be able to avoid an edifying conversation—the widow Lisitsyna would consume a quarter of an hour of his time, if not more, for her donation.

  “Please, over here,” he said, indicating an uncomfortable chair acquired especially for such occasions, with ribs running across the seat and a back with protruding spikes—it was impossible for anyone to spend more than a quarter of an hour on that inquisitor's seat.

  Polina Andreevna sat down and gasped, but she did not say a word about the remarkable seat.

  She briefly praised the wonderful organization of New Ararat, the decorous propriety and sobriety of the population, the industrial innovations and magnificent buildings. The archimandrite heard her out benevolently, for when she wished Lisitsyna was very good at flattering people and gratifying their feelings. Then the visitor turned her attention to the essential business for the sake of which the five hundred rubles had been spent.

  “What great assistance Your Reverence must derive from Basilisk's Hermitage! A source of such grace, attracting so many pilgrims,” she said, rejoicing for the community of New Ararat. “There are few monasteries that possess such an invaluable treasure.”

  Vitalii grimaced, contorting the round face so ill-suited to his lanky figure. “I cannot agree with you, my daughter. Outskirts Island was a source of income to fathers superior who came before me, but, to be quite honest, it causes me nothing but bother. Pilgrims come to Ararat now less for Basilisk's sake than for repose—both spiritual and corporeal. We have a genuine paradise here, a true Garden of Eden! And even without the pilgrims, thank the Lord, we are doing well. The hermitage does nothing but spread vacillation and confusion among the brethren. Can you believe that there are times when I dream of the Synod issuing a decree closing down all the hermitages and prohibiting asceticism in order to avoid violations of hierarchy and good order?” The father superior stamped his heavy foot angrily, rousing a rumbling echo from the floor. “I can see that you are an intelligent woman with a modern cast of mind, so I am speaking to you frankly, without beating about the bush. What sanctity can there possibly be, when the abbot on Outskirts Island is an inveterate libertine! Eh, have you not heard?” Vitalii asked, observing the grimace on the face of his visitor (very possibly not occasioned by surprise, but by the discomfort of her chair). “The holy elder Israel, formerly a lustful sensualist, a genuine Lucifer of carnality! He has outlived all the other hermits and now, by your leave, he has been the abbot of the hermitage and the chief guardian of the Blue Lake's sanctity for an entire year. The Lord simply will not gather him to Himself. And though I may be the father superior, I have no authority over this appointment, for Outskirts Island is ruled by its own charter!”

  Polina Andreevna shook her head sadly in sympathy.

  “So do not talk to me of Basilisk's Hermitage,” His Reverence continued, still fuming. “Here in my monastery there is an absolute prohibition on the drinking of spirituous liquor, and for breaking it I exile the offender to Ukatai or put him in the punishment cell on bread and water, but the hermitage sets the brethren an example of drunken indulgence, and one that goes entirely unpunished, because there is nothing I can do about it.”

  “Do the holy elders drink wine?” Lisitsyna asked, fluttering the eyelashes over her brown eyes.

  “Oh, no, the elders don't drink. But Brother Kleopa, the boatman, does, the only one allowed to go across to Outskirts Island. He is immoderate in his drinking and behaves quite scandalously almost every evening. He sings raucously—and not always songs on spiritual subjects. But I can't dismiss him, since there is no one to take his place. All the others are afraid to go anywhere near the shore, let alone across to the island. There's no punishment that will make them go!”

  “But why is that?” the lady donor asked with an innocent air. “What is so frightening about it?”

  The archimandrite looked down quizzically at her. “You mean you haven't heard?”

  “About what, Holy Father?”

  He muttered reluctantly: �
�Oh, it's rubbish. If you haven't heard yet, you will. But I tell you that the hermitage is a hotbed of raving nonsense and superstition.” He didn't tell the visitor from Moscow anything about the Black Monk—we must assume he did not want to waste any time on that. “Are you comfortable sitting there, my daughter?” Vitalii inquired solicitously, glancing at the clock on the wall. “The monastery furniture is rough—it is not intended for pleasure, but the mortification of the flesh.”

  “Quite comfortable,” Polina Andreevna assured him, not demonstrating the slightest desire to take her leave.

  Then the father superior tried an outflanking maneuver: “It is almost time for lunch. Why don't you dine on our monastic cuisine with the father cellarer and father steward? I myself am not lunching today—I am very busy, but please do try it. Today is not a fast day, so they will be serving fresh-killed beef and the monastery sausages. Our beef is famous throughout Russia. You don't need a knife to eat it—you can just break pieces off with a fork, it's so soft and crumbly. And all because my cattle never move—they live in their stalls and have the lushest grass brought to them, and they're given kvass to drink, and their sides are kneaded. You really ought to try it—you won't regret it.”

  But not even the temptation of gluttony worked on this bothersome visitor. “I thought that they didn't eat meat in monasteries, even on days when it is allowed,” said Mrs. Lisitsyna, leaning back against her chair with obvious pleasure.

  “In mine they do, and I see no sin in that. Shortly after I was appointed I realized that a man who eats only Lenten fare will never make a good worker—he hasn't got the strength. I feed my monks nourishing food. Eating meat is not forbidden anywhere in the Holy Scriptures, merely rationally restricted. It is written, ‘When the Lord shall give you meat to eat … ’ and again, ‘And the Lord shall give you meat to eat, and you shall eat meat.’ ”

  “But don't you feel sorry to kill those poor cows and pigs?” Polina Andreevna asked reproachfully. “After all, they are also God's creatures—they bear the spark of life within them.”