Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel

by Boris Akunin

  Fatima nodded. She poured coffee for herself and Marusya and they both sat down on the edge of the dais.

  The appeals in English could still be heard from inside the house.

  Marusya shook her head. “Anka’s not going to come out. She writes that book of hers ’round about now.”

  “What’s that?” Pelagia asked, blinking. “What book?”

  “About woman’s life. That’s what she got married for. Said, I’ll live with an Arab husband for a year or so, then I’ll write a book like there’s never been before. And the title of the book is ‘life-in-arabian-harem-seen-from-inside,’” said Marusya, pronouncing the English phrase without stumbling once. “That’s in American, but in our language it’s ‘a tale of Arab men.’ She says everyone in America will buy a book like that, she’ll earn a million. Anka’s an educated women, terribly clever. Almost like Fatimka. Afterward, she says, I’ll go to China and marry a Chinaman. I’ll write another book, ‘a tale of Chinese men.’ Women have a right to know how our sister lives in different places.”

  Intrigued, Polina Andreevna exclaimed: “But how can she go? She’s married!”

  “Very simple. Around here, nothing could be easier than that. Salasha just has to say ‘You are no longer my wife’ three times, and that’s it—go wherever you like.”

  “But what if he won’t say it?”

  “He will, what choice has he got? He’ll say it thirty-three times, never mind three! A woman can always drive a man crazy if she wants. And with three women it’s even easier.” Marusya translated for Fatima, who nodded again.

  The nun found it so unusual and absorbing to be sitting there with the other two, drinking strong, flavorful coffee and talking about woman’s concerns, that for a while she even forgot about her postponed business.

  “But how do you all get along with just one man?”

  “Really well. It was hard for Fatima with him on her own: keep up the house and keep an eye on the children. And then she invited me to be a wife—we met at the bazaar. She could see I was a strong, hardworking woman, and honest.”

  “And Salakh agreed?”

  Marusya laughed and relayed the question to her female comrade, who also tittered. She replied (and Marusya translated into Russian): “Who asked him?”

  Polina Andreevna found all this terribly interesting.

  “And what does your American do?”

  “Anka? Teaches the children and stands in for us in bed, especially during the hot season. She’s young and skinny, doesn’t feel the heat. And it’s good for her book, too. When she finishes writing it and goes away, we’ll get someone to take her place, another pretty, young one. We’ve already made our minds up it has to be one of the local Jewish girls. They’re full of go.”

  “But does Islam allow men to marry Jewish women?”

  Marusya was amazed.

  “What, did you think I’d swapped my faith for theirs? Oh, no, I’ll die in the same faith I was born in. Salasha didn’t try to force me. Islam’s a good faith, it’s kind. For them, Christian and Jewish women are ‘people of the Book—of the Bible, that is. There’s no shame in marrying them. It’s the cursed pagans you can’t marry, and who’s ever seen any of them around here?”

  At this point Fatima said something for the first time without waiting for a translation from Marusya.

  “She asks, why do you want to get to Megiddo so bad?”

  “There’s a man I really need to find, but Salakh doesn’t want to go. Not even for fifty rubles.”

  The fat woman with a mustache looked closely at the guest, as if she were trying to size her up. “Do you love him very much?”

  The unexpected question left Pelagia confused and unsure how to explain. The easiest thing was to tell a lie. “Yes,” she said, and blushed furiously. It was shameful for a nun to tell an untruth. But Fatima interpreted the blush in her own way.

  “She says: If you turned red, it means your love really is strong.”

  The wives spoke to each other in Arabic for a while. Then the senior wife patted Polina Andreevna on the cheek and said something brief.

  “He’ll go,” Marusya translated. “And you give the fifty rubles to Fatimka here.”

  A hitch

  THE LENGTHY JOURNEY over sea waves, mountains, and valleys had put Yakov Mikhailovich in a philosophical mood. In his profession you didn’t often get the chance to travel so peacefully and unhurriedly across the face of Mother Earth. The section across water had been especially gratifying. There had been no point in tailing the mark—where could she go once she was on the ship? On the contrary, he had had to keep away from her, not get under her feet too much. During the voyage, Yakov Mikhailovich had even filled out a bit from the rich food and healthful naps on the deck. However, the newly acquired layer of fat had soon melted away—just you try covering fifty miles on your own two feet.

  Once on shore, Yakov Mikhailovich had felt it imperative to transform his appearance. On the steamship he had been an unremarkable gentleman in a panama hat and a two-piece linen suit, and now he became an even less remarkable peasant pilgrim. There were any number of those dragging themselves along the road to the most blessed city of Jerusalem. The mark was traveling in a horse-drawn vehicle, but a really lousy one, so there had been no need for him to trot along like a little goat.

  In Jerusalem, Yakov Mikhailovich had thought it more appropriate to transform himself into a Jew. This species was present here in an unprecedented variety of forms, and, what was more, they all shunned one another, and each of them spoke their own language. On several occasions the false Lithuanian had been approached by other individuals in loose coats and hats who had started talking to him about something or other, but Yakov Mikhailovich had only moaned and grunted in reply—after all, Jews could be deaf-mutes, too. The Lithuanians had clucked their tongues compassionately and left the poor fellow in peace.

  And everything had been going absolutely fine, until the hitch happened. Yakov Mikhailovich had been following the mark along a narrow alleyway. He was keeping his distance, not sticking too close, but not letting her out of his sight either, not relying just on the clacking of her heels. And suddenly a supernatural event, a real piece of magic—there was nothing else you could call it.

  He had looked around for just a split second, to see if anyone was following him. Suddenly there was a splash of liquid up ahead. When he looked back, water was pouring from a window on the second floor of a house, and the nun seemed to have vanished into thin air. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. She was there just a moment ago, but now—abracadabra, and there was nothing but a soapy puddle on the surface of the alley. Could his little Snow Maiden really have melted? Or had she noticed she was being followed and taken off as fast as her legs would carry her?

  He rushed forward, but after a hundred steps he reached a dead end. And it was only on the way back that he discovered a narrow little opening on the right that Ginger must have slipped into. But it was too late—he wouldn’t catch her now.

  He dashed around the alleyways for a little while, getting soaked in sweat. Anyone without his strength of character would certainly have fallen into despair, but Yakov Mikhailovich, as we have already said, believed fervently in the power of the human intellect. There are no insoluble problems, only incompetent problem solvers.

  He stopped in a patch of shade and used his head. Come on now, come on now. What does the intellect have to say in a situation like this? Go to the Russian conventuary, to the women’s hotel? Wait for the frisky lady there? But why was she carrying a traveling bag? And if she wasn’t intending to go back to the hotel, what then?

  He used his brain a bit more, then nodded to himself and said “Clever lad.” And he turned back, toward the Jewish quarter.

  THE ROUND-SHOULDERED little Yid was still at the same spot where Ginger had called to him. He was leaning back against the wall, sniffing. Then he squatted down, picked up his stick, and started drawing squiggles on the gr
ound. He was so absorbed that he didn’t even notice Yakov Mikhailovich walk up to him. The “Lithuanian” waited for the street to empty and touched the boy on the shoulder.

  The black eyes that gazed at Yakov Mikhailovich reflected the pink glow of the sunset, but he could see fear in them, too. The little rascal started gabbling away in the Jewish patter and shaking his head—as if he was making excuses for something.

  “You come along with me, my little friend,” Yakov Mikhailovich told him, gently squeezing one skinny shoulder and jerking the little Jew to his feet.

  “I didn’t do anything,” the little squirt babbled in Russian. “All I did was give her some water …”

  “Come on, come on,” the “Lithuanian” repeated peaceably, leading the boy along. “This way, into this little gap. We’re going to have a cozy little chat, and no one’s going to interrupt us. What did she ask you about, that ginger-headed one?”

  The little Yid looked into Yakov Mikhailovich’s calm eyes, and he must have seen something special in them, for he gulped convulsively and his lips started trembling.

  It was good that the boy was so quick on the uptake. To make quite sure no time was wasted, the man poked him with his finger under the collarbone, where the nerve point is, at the same time covering the lad’s mouth with his other hand, so there wouldn’t be any unnecessary shouting.

  There was no shout, nothing but silence. The boy’s pupils dilated—that was from the pain. In his line of work, Yakov Mikhailovich had repeatedly observed this remarkable phenomenon, and only recently he had read in a certain scientific journal that it was a physiological reaction caused by intense stimulation of the visual nerve.

  “So, what was she asking you about?” Yakov Mikhailovich repeated, after waiting for the pupils to contract a little bit. He took his hand away from the boy’s mouth, but not very far, just a few inches. And he held up the finger that he had jabbed into the painful spot, as a reminder.

  “About the Russian prophet,” the little Jew said quickly “About Emmanuel … he’s in the Holy Land now.”

  The man smiled and gave him a pat of approval on the forehead. The boy squeezed his eyes shut in terror. “I believe you’re telling me the truth. And where did she go to, do you know?”

  Yakov Mikhailovich’s own heart skipped a beat. If the boy didn’t know, what then?

  “I don’t know, mister,” the little Jew said, which upset Yakov Mikhailovich, but when the boy saw how dark this terrible man’s face had turned, he added hastily: “She said something about the Isreel Valley, she asked how she could get there. And about Megiddo too.”

  The “mister” breathed a sigh of relief. “And there was nothing else said?”

  “N-no, n-nothing …”

  It looked as if he really had milked the boy dry. Yakov Mikhailovich started pondering.

  “Word of honor, mister, I’ve told you everything …”

  “Quiet, my little friend, don’t interrupt. I’m just wondering if I can let you live,” the man muttered, scratching his temple.

  And then the little Jew just blurted it out—so solemnly, it was clear he really meant it: “You can’t kill me, you mustn’t. I’ve still got to save mankind!”

  That settled it. If he was one of those saviors of mankind, then he was bound to blab, Yakov Mikhailovich realized. We know all about them and their Jewish telegraph.

  He smiled reassuringly at the lad, stroked the lumpy back of his head with one hand, took hold of the narrow chin with the other, and jerked it powerfully to one side. There was a faint squeal in the little scalawag’s narrow, birdlike chest, and when Yakov Mikhailovich took his hands away, the boy slid silently down the wall. The head swollen with learning slumped onto one shoulder, and the savior of mankind joined his people.

  Well done, Berdichevsky

  MATVEI BENTSIONOVICH LOOKED the sergeant of the Kiev section straight in the eye, stared at the wet lips puckered up ready to kiss him, and hissed contemptuously through his teeth, borrowing a useful term from the captain: “The kiss of Judas. Recognized me, have you, Yid-lover?”

  Savchuk gaped in amazement, while Kolya pulled his lips back in and the lower one dropped along with his jaw.

  The important thing now was to continue the onslaught, pile on the pressure. “Fine apostles you have!” exclaimed Berdichevsky rounding on the factory owner. “I saw this specimen in the Bristol! A nest of Yids—the place is piled high with them. And him crawling around in front of them on his hands and knees. They treat him with disdain, and he says ‘sir’ to all of them. When I see Russians trampling their own pride underfoot, it makes me see red!”

  The captain hastily interceded for Kolya: “He does that on purpose! It’s what we instructed him to do! All the important people stay at the Bristol. Nikolai is our eyes and ears.”

  “He bows down to the floor at their feet for a lousy ten-kopeck piece,” the public prosecutor cried, refusing to hear a word. “Perhaps he’s the Yids’ eyes and ears here?” Matvei Bentsionovich’s wrath was magnificent. The saliva sprayed from his mouth, and his arms flailed about so furiously that the porter backed away, tripped over a chair, and fell flat on the floor. The others ran to help the fallen man up.

  “I assure you, Mr. Dichevsky, you are mistaken, he is our man!” said the captain, trying to coax Berdichevsky around. “Tried and tested many times over! He has even taken part in secret operations.”

  Eventually the state counselor allowed himself to be calmed down, but not right away, oh, no.

  And then came the counterattack from the insulted Kolya. He began shouting in a voice trembling with resentment and jabbing his finger at Matvei Bentsionovich: “His hair wasn’t like that, black it was!”

  The public prosecutor retorted contemptuously, “You fool! Have you never heard of hair dye?”

  “You really are a fool, Kolya,” said the giant hairdresser, rushing to Berdichevsky’s aid. “Come around to my place, and I’ll turn you into a kike in two ticks.”

  “But why did you color your hair to look like a Jew?” Savchuk asked with a frown.

  In reply, Berdichevsky gestured with his eyes, as if to say: Let’s step aside for a moment.

  He whispered in the captain’s ear: “Tomorrow I’m going to dye my hair again. I have a plan. I’m going to pretend to be a Jew. I’ll infiltrate their inner circle, get a feel for what they’re like and the best way to handle them. I hope you can give me the information I need. Who’s the leading Sanhedrin, now that Shefarevich has gone?”

  “You must be insane!” said the factory owner, throwing his arms up in the air. “How could you possibly pass for a Jew, with your appearance? They’ll spot an outsider straightaway. Then it’ll be just as it was with that girl—head downward in deep water.”

  “You can only die once, and beneath that slab of stone—you know yourself…” Berdichevsky said, with modest courage and without the slightest trace of posturing. “Come on, Savchuk, tell me everything you know.”

  Infernal Zizi

  FIRST THING ON Friday morning the state counselor went to Great Berdichevsky Street to see the head of the provincial prison committee, and there he made a few inquiries. After lunch he carried out raid number two—but not on the Goel-Israel yeshiva (of which, as it happened, nothing remained except the building). A more interesting target had come to light.

  The weather was excellent, almost summerlike, and Matvei Bentsionovich decided to go for a stroll, especially since he felt the need to gather his thoughts.

  How different Zhitomir was from the public prosecutor’s beloved Zavolzhsk! Heaven and hell, Berdichevsky repeated to himself as he looked around. This place was undoubtedly hell, despite the sticky young leaves, the fresh breeze, and the blue sky. In fact, the magnificence of the natural setting only rendered the abhorrent wretchedness of the town all the more offensive to the eye. How strikingly different the world of man was from that of God!

  God had granted the people of Zhitomir the aforementioned high sky, and th
e singing of the birds, and the marvelous view of the Teterev River from Castle Hill. As their contribution, people had added to God’s gift these gray streets with crooked houses, this pavement fouled with ordure and gobs of spittle, and their own malevolent faces.

  Everywhere in Zavolzhsk there was a sense of sound quality and unpretentious solidity, but the dominant theme here was grinding poverty and a certain fragility, as if the little houses were on the point of crumbling into dust, sending their inhabitants scattering in all directions like scalded cockroaches. And he could also sense a peculiar tension in the atmosphere, as if the entire town were about to be tossed up into the air and transformed into a site of carnage.

  What kind of glances, what kind of faces were these, Berdichevsky wondered, shaking his head and feeling homesick for the people of Zavolzhsk. The population of Zhitomir was quite remarkably diverse. In addition to Jews, Russians, and Ukrainians, you could also meet Poles and Germans, Czechs and schismatics, and each of these groups dressed in its own way and stuck to its own manners—they regarded outsiders with disdain and had no desire at all to mingle with them.

  Perhaps this heterogeneity was the problem? No, Matvei Bentsionovich told himself. There were all sorts of people in Zavolzhsk, too—Tartars and Bashkirs and Zityaks and Votyaks and Mordvinians, and those Poles yet again. Some were Orthodox Christians, some were Old Believers, some were Moslems, some were Catholics, and some were even pagans. But it was all right, they got along together, they weren’t at one another’s throats all the time.

  Berdichevsky suddenly had a disgustingly anti-Semitic thought, the very thing for a baptized Jew to think: Perhaps the Jews were to blame for everything after all? It was an individualistic religion, every Jew existed face to face with God, all on his own, you might say. If there were a lot of them, or if they were the majority, as in Zhitomir, the concentration of energy was too intense, it set the atmosphere sparking.