by Boris Akunin
Other events that are worthy of mention here had included the appearance in a certain liberally inclined Moscow newspaper of an article about the incredible happenings at New Ararat and the negative rumors concerning Outskirts Island. One of the pilgrims must have reported everything. For the first time ever, the rosary beads carved by the hermits had been left unsold in the monastery shop. Father Vitalii had ordered a special sale to be held, reducing the price first to nine rubles and ninety-nine kopecks, and then to four rubles and ninety-nine kopecks. At that point some of the beads had been bought, but not all. It was a bad sign. In the town, people were already saying openly that the hermitage had become unwholesome and unclean, that it should be closed for the time being and no one should be allowed to visit Outskirts Island for a year—to see if Saint Basilisk's fury would abate.
The monastery's patron, however, seemed to have quieted down already: he was no longer walking on water or frightening people in the town—but possibly that was only because the nights had become cloudy and dark.
As for Mrs. Lisitsyna, during this period of calm she spent almost all of her time deep in thought and took very little action. In the morning she studied her battered face in the mirror for a long time, noting the changing coloration of the bruising. Apart from that, there was nothing to distinguish any particular day from all the others. In her own mind she even named them after the color of her face.
Well, the first of these quiet days, the one following the night when Polina Andreevna was first almost drowned and then almost dishonored, did not count—one might almost say that it had never even happened. After a bath, a massage, and an injection to relax her nerves, the long-suffering Mrs. Lisitsyna had slept for almost twenty-four hours and only returned to the guesthouse the following morning, refreshed and invigorated.
On looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror, she had noted that the mark on her face was no longer crimson and blue, but merely blue. And so that was the name she gave that day.
On the afternoon of the “blue” day Polina Andreevna had changed into her novice's garments in the pavilion (they and her other things had lain undisturbed on the floor ever since the evening of two days previous), all the while glancing around warily at the dark silhouettes of the automatic dispensers.
From there the short, skinny little monk set off for the Lenten Spit to wait for the boatman.
Brother Kleopa appeared on time, at precisely three o'clock, and was delighted to see Pelagius there—less for the novice's own sake than for the baksheesh he anticipated. He asked briskly, “Well, are you sailing today or not? My hand still hurts.” And he winked.
After receiving a ruble, he told Pelagius how he had taken the holy elder Ilarii across to Outskirts Island the day before and the two hermits had greeted their new brother: one had kissed him—that must mean he had pressed his own cowl against the other man's—and the abbot had declared in a loud voice: “Thine are the most glorious heavens of Theog-nost.”
“Why ‘Theognost’?” Pelagius asked in surprise. “When the holy father is called Ilarii?”
“I didn't understand that myself at first—I thought Israel had become completely infirm and was confusing the names. That was what his fellow hermits were called, Theognost and David. But when I told the father steward what the abbot had said, he gave me a real scolding for being disrespectful and explained what the words meant. The first six words—‘Thine are the most glorious heavens’—are canonical, the promise of the Kingdom of Heaven from the psalm of Efamov. That is how the head of the hermitage is always supposed to greet the new hermit. And the last two words are free, for the monastery's information. The father steward said the holy elder was letting us know which of the brethren had ascended to Heaven. Not David, in other words, but Theognost.”
Pelagius thought for a little while.
“Father, you've been the boatman for a long time. So I suppose you must have taken the last hermit to the island as well?”
“At Easter, the holy elder David. And before that, at Assumption last year, the holy elder Theognost. And before that the holy elder Am-filokhii, before him Gerontii… or was that Agapit? No, Gerontii. I've taken a lot of our intercessors across—you can't remember everyone.”
“So I suppose the abbot greeted the new holy elder like that every time, telling you who had died. You simply forgot.”
“I didn't forget anything!” Brother Kleopa said angrily. “I remember ‘Thine are the most glorious heavens’—that was there all right. But he never mentioned anyone's name after that. It was only afterward, from all kinds of indirect clues, that we found out which of the hermits had surrendered his soul to God. And as far as we, the living, are concerned, they're already dead—they've had their funeral and been seen off at the Farewell Chapel. Israel had no need to say it. I think he can sense his own end is near and his heart's softened.”
They set off for the island: Kleopa on one oar, Pelagius on the other.
The holy elder Israel came out to meet them, handed over the rosary beads that had been carved since the previous day, and said, “And then Davids heart did tremble is obscure.”
Pelagius thought the abbot seemed to pronounce the final words more slowly and loudly, looking not at Kleopa, but at his young assistant—but then how could you see, through those holes?
As soon as they set off on their way back, the novice asked quietly, “What was that he said? I can't make any sense of it.”
And then Davids heart did tremble’—that's about the holy elder David. He must be having problems with his heart again. Ever since David was put in the hermitage, the abbot has often taken phrases from the first book of Kings, where there's a lot written about King David. The name's the same, and that can save an extra word. And what was that last bit? ‘Is obscure’? Well, the father steward can guess that; he's got a good head on his shoulders.”
That was all for the “blue” day. Its other events were far too insignificant even to mention.
THE NEXT DAY was “green.” Not entirely green, that is; not the color of a green leaf, but more like a sea wave—the dense blue coloration of the bruise had begun to fade, becoming paler and acquiring a greenish tinge.
At three o'clock Pelagius handed Brother Kleopa two fifty-kopeck pieces and they set off in the boat.
The boatman gave the abbot some medicine for the holy elder David. Israel took it and waited for something else. Then he heaved a deep sigh and said something that was extremely strange, looking straight at the young redheaded monk: “Let him who has ears hear cuckoo loose.”
“What was that?” Pelagius asked when the holy elder had hobbled away.
Kleopa shrugged. “I managed to make out ‘Let him who has ears hear’—that's from the Apocalypse, though I don't understand why he said it; and I couldn't make out what it was he added on at the end. Something about a cuckoo. See, I was right about Israel; the father steward was wrong to tell me I'm an ignoramus. It's the holy elder who's touched.” He twirled a finger beside his temple: “Cuckoo, cuckoo.”
Pelagius's raised eyebrows suggested that the young monk thought differently, but he did not argue; all he said was, “Let's go again tomorrow, all right?”
“You'll keep sailing just as long as your uncle's rubles last.”
THEN CAME THE“yellow” day, when the green bruise began turning yellowish.
On that day the holy elder declared, “Thus the leach creates a mixture nonfat sit.”
“Yet more senseless twittering,” Brother Kleopa remarked. “He'll start talking nothing but the language of the birds of heaven soon. I'm not going to bother remembering that nonsense—I'll invent something for the father steward.”
“Wait, Father,” Pelagius put in. “That part about the leach—I think it's from the book of Jesus, son of Sirakhov. A leach is a doctor, and ‘mixture’ means medicine; it's a scientific term. But what ‘nonfat sit’ means, I don't understand.” He repeated it several times—“nonfat sit, nonfat sit”—then fell silen
t and made no more conversation with the boatman after that. When they parted he said, “Until tomorrow then.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY Polina Andreevna's face was almost entirely respectable again, with only a slight hint of a pale straw color. And the day itself was the same color—gentle sunshine with a fine mist.
Pelagius was so impatient to reach Outskirts Island as soon as possible that he kept moving his oar too fast and rowing harder than necessary, making the prow of the boat swing around. Eventually he received a clip on the ear from Brother Kleopa for his muddleheaded zeal and moderated his ardor somewhat.
The abbot was waiting on the shore. Pelagius had been right about the mixture, of course—the holy elder took the bottle and nodded. Then he said the following to the novice:
“Mourn not, for he is well, mona koom.”
The young monk nodded, as if he had been expecting to hear these very words.
“Well, the Lord be praised; it seems the sick man's a bit better,” Brother Kleopa said on their way back. “But that was a strange name he called David—‘Mona Koom.’ The holy elder's getting odd, all right.
What about tomorrow—are you coming?” the boatman asked the boy, who was strangely silent now.
But the boy did not hear him.
So that was the straw-colored day, and then came the final day, when everything drew to a conclusion.
So many different things happened on that final day, God grant that we do not grow confused and omit anything.
The Final Day: Morning
LET US MAKE a proper start, beginning with the morning.
Between eight and nine, when it was still not really light, there was a long-drawn-out hoot from the lake—the steamship St. Basilisk had arrived from Sineozersk with its newly hired captain. By this time Mrs. Lisitsyna had already drunk her coffee and was sitting in front of the mirror, contemplating her entirely clear face with great satisfaction, turning it this way and that, unable to get enough of the joyous sight. Although she heard the steamship's whistle, she did not attach any importance to it.
But she should have.
A period of about an hour had passed since that doleful, lingering signal; Polina Andreevna had already breakfasted and dressed and was preparing to go out to visit Berdichevsky, when there was a knock at the door of her room. It was the archimandrite Vitalii's lay brother assistant.
“His Reverence the father superior requests you to come to him,” the monk said with a bow, adding in a tone that was polite but brooked no denial, “Immediately. The carriage is waiting.”
He replied evasively to the surprised pilgrims questions. In fact, you could say his answers were not really answers at all—nothing but words of a single syllable. However, from the messenger's manner Lisitsyna assumed that something out of the ordinary must have happened at the monastery.
But if he did not wish to tell her, so be it.
She hesitated for a moment over whether to take the traveling bag with her, but decided to leave it behind. To go to a monastery with a lethal weapon smacked of sacrilege. In order to protect the revolver from prying eyes, she wrapped it in a pair of lacy drawers and put it right at the bottom of the bag, under everything else. But whether that would help or not, God only knew.
They reached the monastery quickly, in only ten minutes.
When Polina Andreevna got out of the carriage and glanced around the courtyard of the monastery, she was certain that something had happened.
The monks were not walking sedately, waddling like ducks as they did at any normal time, but running. Some were sweeping the pavement, which was already clean in any case; others were carrying feather mattresses and pillows; but the most surprising sight of all was the singers of the archimandrite's choir, holding up their cassocks as they trudged into the cathedral church, led by the pompous, pot-bellied precentor.
What strange wonders were these?
The lady's guide led her, not into the archimandrite's residence, but the hierarchical chambers, which were intended for highly important guests and usually stood empty. Polina Andreevna felt a sudden premonition stir in her heart but immediately suppressed it as impossible and certain to lead to disappointment.
But her premonition had not deceived her after all!
As Lisitsyna entered the refectory, the sun was shining in through the windows behind the backs of people sitting at a long table covered with a white cloth, and straight into her eyes, so that she could only distinguish the outlines of several men sitting in dignified immobility. As she bowed respectfully from the doorway she heard Father Vitalii's voice.
“There she is, Bishop, the person whom you wished to see.”
Polina Andreevna quickly took her spectacles out of her case, screwed up her eyes, and gasped. Sitting there in the place of honor, surrounded by the senior members of the monastery, was Mitrofanii—alive and well, although he looked a little drawn and pale.
The bishop looked the “Moscow noblewoman” over from head to toe with a glance that boded nothing good, and chewed on his lips. He did not bless her or even nod. “Let her dine with us, and I'll talk to her later.” He turned back to the father superior to continue his interrupted conversation.
Lisitsyna sat on the very edge of her chair, overwhelmed by her joy and also, of course, her fear. She noticed that there were more gray hairs in His Grace's beard than there had been, that his cheeks were hollow and his fingers had become thin and were trembling slightly, which had never happened before. She sighed.
The bishop's eyebrows rose and fell sternly. It was clear that he was angry, but just how angry she could not tell by looking at him. Polina Andreevna gazed imploringly at her spiritual father, but was not rewarded with any attention. She concluded that he was very angry indeed.
She sighed again, but less bitterly than the first time, and began listening to what the bishop and the archimandrite were talking about. It was an abstract conversation, about the community of the blessed.
“In my actions, Your Grace, I proceed out of the conviction that a monk should be like a dead man among the living. Ceaseless labor for the good of the community and prayer—that is his life, and nothing else is needed,” Vitalii said, evidently responding to some question or, perhaps, reproach. “That is why I am stern with the brethren and do not allow them any liberty. When they took monastic vows, they abandoned their own will to the greater glory of God.”
“But I cannot agree with Your Reverence,” Mitrofanii replied with animation. “In my opinion, a monk should be more alive than any layman, because he lives the genuine life, that is, the spiritual life. And you must treat those in your care with respect, for each of them possesses an exalted soul. But here they are put in a dungeon, tormented with hunger, and even, so they say, beaten around the face.” At this point the bishop cast a rapid glance at the burly monk who was sitting on the archimandrite's right—Polina Andreevna knew that he was the fearsome Father Triadii, the monastery's cellarer. “I cannot turn a blind eye to such laying on of hands.”
“Monks are like children,” the father superior protested. “For they are detached from the usual earthly cares: suspicious, inquisitive, intemperate in their speech. Many have been saving their souls in monasteries since they were children, and so they have remained children in their souls. They cannot be managed without strict paternal discipline.”
His Grace replied in a restrained tone: “Then do not accept into the order of monks those who have not yet experienced life and come to know themselves. There are, after all, other paths to salvation open to a man apart from serving God as a monk. Indeed, there are countless such paths. A simpleton might well believe that the monastic life is the most direct route to the Lord, but in God's world a straight line is not always the shortest route between two points. Let me appeal urgently once again to Your Reverence: do not become infatuated with excessive strictness. The church of Christ must inspire love, not fear. But as things are, observing the way our clerics manage things, one feels like repeating Gogol
's famous words: ‘It makes me sad that there is no kindness in goodness.’
Father Vitalii listened to this admonition with his head inclined stubbornly.
“I will answer Your Grace not with the words of a lay author, but the saying of the most devout holy elder, Zosima Verkhovsky: ‘If we are not with the saints, then we shall be with the devils; for there is no third place for us.’ The Lord winnows mankind, deciding who shall be saved and who shall be doomed. The choice is stern and terrible, so how can we manage without sternness?”
Polina Andreevna knew that the bishop held the deceased holy father Zosima Verkhovsky of Optinsk in special esteem, and the archimandrite's objection had hit the target.
Mitrofanii said nothing. The other monks looked at him, waiting. Suddenly Mrs. Lisitsyna began feeling awkward: she was the only one there in lay costume, the only bright spot among all the black cassocks. Like a blue tit or a canary that had accidentally flown into a flock of ravens.
No, Polina Andreevna told herself. I am the same breed. And they are not ravens at all—they are talking about important things, concerned for the good of mankind.
What would Mitrofanii say to the father superior?
“Catholicism accepts the existence of purgatory, because there are not many people who are entirely good or entirely bad,” the bishop said slowly. “Of course, purgatory has to be understood in a spiritual sense— as a place for cleaning away the dirt that has adhered to the soul. But our Orthodox faith does not acknowledge purgatory. I pondered the reason for such intransigence for a long time until I found an answer. It comes not from sternness, but from greater compassion. For after all, there are no absolutely black, unwashable sinners; in every villain, even the most inveterate, there is still a spark of life glowing. And our Orthodox hell, unlike that of Catholicism, does not deprive anyone, even Judas himself, of hope. It is my opinion that the torments of our hell are not intended for all eternity. The Orthodox hell is also purgatory, because the time every sinful soul will spend there is fixed. It cannot be that God, in His mercy, would punish a soul for all eternity, with no forgiveness. What then is the point of the torments, if not to purge?”
