Silence hung over the room.

Mamut took the cigar from his mouth without having smoked it and shifted his massive head forwards, as if he were about to collapse onto the table, then began to laugh heartily, his plump belly convulsing. Rumyantsev seemed to draw his head down into his collar, then waved his hands, as if he were being attacked by invisible bees, squealed, and let forth a shrill giggle. Lev Ilyich hiccupped, put his hands over his face, as if he were preparing to tear it off of his skull, and started to laugh nervously, his boney shoulders jerking. Father Andrei slapped his palms on the table and laughed a healthy, Russian laugh. Arina sprayed laughter into the palm of her hand and shook silently, as if she were vomiting convulsively. Rumyantseva shrieked, like a girl in the fields. Sablina shook her head and laughed wearily. Sablin leaned back in his chair and roared with delight.

The dining room resounded with laughter for two minutes.

“I can’t . . . ha-ha-ha . . . I’m dying . . . dying . . . oh . . .” Father Andrei wiped the tears from his face. “You deserve to be sentenced to hard labor, Seryozha . . .”

“What for . . . ha-ha . . . for his wit?” Mamut calmed down with some difficulty.

“For torturing us with this laughter . . . oh

. . . he-he-he . . .” Rumyantsev wriggled around in his chair.

“Sergei Arkadeyevich would be a wonderful . . . oh my . . . Grand Inquisitor,” Rumyantseva sighed, now very red.

“An executioner you mean!” Lev Ilyich shook his head.

“Forgive me, Arinushka.” Sablin put the plate back in front of her.

“How am I supposed to eat that now?” she asked sincerely.

The guests were, once again, overwhelmed by a fit of laughter. They laughed until they cried, until they had cramps in their sides. Mamut hit his forehead against the table and roared into his shirt collar. Rumyantsev slid down onto the floor. His wife squealed, shoving her fist into her mouth. Lev Ilyich wept uncontrollably. The priest laughed simply and healthily, like a peasant. Sablin grunted, snorted, wheezed, and banged his feet against the floor. Arina giggled delicately, as if she were beading a necklace.

“That’s enough! Enough! Enough!” Sablin wiped the tears from his face. “Finita!”

They began to come back to their senses.

“Naturally, it’s good to laugh. It empties the mind . . .” Mamut sighed heavily.

“You could get your intestines in a twist laughing like that,” Rumyantsev took a drink of wine.

“No one’s ever died of laughter,” the priest stroked his short beard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let us continue,” Sablin rubbed his hands together. “While Nastya is still warm. My darling Sashenka, could you give me . . .” he squinted thoughtfully. “Some giblets!”

“I’d like some of the neck!”

“I’d like some shoulder, Sashenka, my dove.”

“Some hip for me! Hip and only hip!”

“Can I have some . . . from the well-done bit there . . .”

“Some hand, Alexandra Vladimirovna, if you please.”

Soon, everyone was chewing quietly, washing the meat down with wine.

“Even so . . . human meat has quite a strange taste . . . wouldn’t you say?” muttered Rumyantsev. “What do you think, Dmitri Andreyevich?”

“Meat’s a strange food overall,” Mamut chewed weightily.

“Why is that?” asked Sablin.

“Because it’s made from a living thing. Is it worth killing a living thing only in order to eat it?”

“You find this to be sad?”

“Of course it’s sad. Last week in Putyatino, we were on our way to the Adamovichs. But, right when we left the station, a hub broke. We managed to drag ourselves to a saddle-maker nearby. While he was making us a new wheel, I sat in the shade of a willow tree. While I was sitting there, a pig wandered over. Just an ordinary sow. It stood there looking at me. It looked at me in such an expressive way. A living being. A whole universe. But, for the saddler, it was merely one hundred or so pounds of meat. And I thought: what a ridiculous game this is—to devour living beings! To end a life and destroy its harmony only to further the process of digesting food. And we all know how that process ends.”

“You’re talking like Tolstoy,” Rumyantseva grinned.

“I have no disagreements with Count Tolstoy over the issue of vegetarianism. If eating meat means accepting evil, we must stop it!”

“What does it mean to end a life?” Sablin peppered Nastya’s liver. “Is it not possible to end an apple’s life? Or to kill a stalk of rye?”

“The stalk feels nothing. But the pig squeals. Which means it suffers. And suffering is the destruction of the world’s harmony.”

“Maybe the apple also hurts when it crunches,” Lev Ilyich said quietly. “Perhaps it cries out in pain, writhes, moans. . . . Perhaps we just don’t hear it.”

“Yes!” Arina suddenly spoke up, pulling one of Nastya’s pubic hairs out of her mouth. “Last summer, we cut down a grove of trees and poor, dead Mommy would always shut the window. I would ask, ‘What’s wrong, Mommy?’ And she would answer, ‘The trees are crying!’”

They ate for a little while in silence.

“The hips really turned out well,” Rumyantsev shook his head. “As juicy as . . . I don’t know what . . . the juice just sprays out . . .”

“A Russian oven is a remarkable thing,” Sablin sliced into the kidney. “Would it turn out so well in a normal oven? Or on an open grill?”

“It’s possible to cook pork on an open grill,” Mamut suggested weightily. “It’s only lean meat that dries out.”

“True, it’s possible.”

“But, how do Circassians cook their shish kebabs?” Rumyantseva raised his empty glass.

“Shish kebabs are raven food, my darling. Right here we have one hundred pounds of meat,” he nodded at the serving dish with Nastya on it.

“I love shish kebabs,” Lev Ilyich sighed.

“Can someone pour me some wine?” Rumyantseva touched her glass to her nose.

“Hey, halfwit, wake up!” Sablin shouted at Pavlushka.

The lackey rushed over to pour the wine.

“Alexandra Vladimirovna has eaten almost nothing at all, sir,” Arina reported.

“Is it not delicious?” Rumyantsev spread out his greasy hands.

“No, no. It’s very delicious,” Sablina sighed. “It’s just that I’m . . . I’m just exhausted.”

“You’ve barely had anything to drink,” Mamut observed. “That’s why the meat’s getting stuck in your throat.”

“You must drink, Sashenka,” Sablin brought a full glass to her exhausted red lips.

“Drink, drink with us!” Rumyantsev blinked excitedly.

“Don’t just pretend—drink!” Rumyantseva smiled, her face now pink.

Sablin grabbed his wife’s neck with his left hand and slowly, but resolutely, poured the wine into her mouth.

“Oy . . . Seryozha . . .” she sputtered.

Everyone applauded.

“And now, some food to go with the wine!” demanded Mamut.

“Have some fatty meat from the rump, Alexandra Vladimirovna,” Lev Ilyich winked.

“I know what you need!” Sablin jumped up, grabbed the knife, and plunged it into Nastya’s stomach with all his strength. “Nothing goes with wine like intes-tine!”

Cutting into a piece of intestine with his knife, he then stabbed it with his fork and put it onto his wife’s plate.

“Tripe is the most sup-er-flu-ous meat, hence the most vital! Eat, my angel! You’ll feel better right away!”

“Correct! Entirely correct!” Mamut shook his fork. “I only eat partridge with offal.”

“I’m not sure . . . is it better than white meat?” Sablina stared at the grayish-white guts, which were dripping with greenish-brown juice.

“Eat quickly, I’m begging you!” Sablin grabbed her by the nape of her neck. “Then you’ll thank each and every one of us.”

“Listen to him, Sashenka!”

“Eat it now, Alexandra Vladimirovna! This is an order from on high!”

“You must not shirk your duty to eat!”

Sablin speared a piece of offal with his fork and brought it to his wife’s mouth.

“You don’t have to feed me, Seryozhenka,” she smiled, taking the fork from him and tasting the meat.

“Well, what do you think?” Sablin looked at her scornfully.

“Delicious,” she continued to chew.

“My darling wife.” He took her left hand and kissed it. “It’s not simply delicious. It’s divine.”

“I agree,” Father Andrei nodded. “To eat one’s daughter is divine. It’s a shame that I have no daughter.”

“Don’t feel bad, brother,” Sablin cut himself a piece of hip. “You have so many spiritual offspring.”

“But I don’t have the right to cook them, Seryozha.”

“I have the right, though!” Mamut pinched his daughter’s cheek as she chewed. “You won’t have to wait much longer, my little fidget.”

“When shall it be?” asked Father Andrei.

“On the sixteenth of October.”

“Not for a while, then.”

“These two months will fly by.”

“Are you getting yourself ready, Arisha?” asked Rumyantseva, glancing at one of Nastya’s now amputated fingers.

“I’m tired of waiting,” Arina pushed away her empty plate. “All of my friends have already been cooked and I’m still here. Tanya Boksheyeva, Adele Nashyekina, and now Nastenka too.”

“Be patient, my little peach. We’ll eat you soon enough.”

“I’m sure that you’ll be very delicious, Arina Dmitriyevna!” winked Lev Ilyich.

“Of course, she’ll need some fattening up!” laughed Mamut, pulling her ear.

“We’ll bake her like a teacup pig,” Sablin smiled. “In October with a spot of vodka, a spot of rowanberry vodka—oh how crispy our Arinushka will be . . . ooh-ooh-ooh!”

“Won’t you be nervous?” Rumyantsev was gnawing on a knuckle.

“Well . . .” she rolled her eyes thoughtfully and shrugged her plump shoulders. “A little. It will be very strange!”

“There’s no doubt about that!”

“On the other hand, a lot of people get cooked. I just . . . can’t imagine what it will be like to lie in the oven.”

“It’s hard to picture, huh?”

“Mhmm!” Arina giggled. “It must be so painful!”

“Very painful,” Father Andrei nodded his head seriously.

“Horribly painful,” Mamut stroked her crimson cheek. “So painful that you go insane just before you die.”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged again. “Sometimes I light a candle and put my finger in the flame to test myself. I screw up my eyes and make a decision—I will hold it there until the count of ten. But then I begin to count—one, two, three—and I can’t stand it anymore! It’s so painful! And in the oven? How will I stand it in there?”

“In the oven,” laughed Mamut, peppering another piece, “It won’t just be your finger in the flame. Your whole body will be completely naked. And not over a two-kopeck candle either, but on top of red-hot coals. The heat will be fierce—hellish.”

Arina thought for a minute, scraping her nails against the tablecloth.

“Alexandra Vladimirovna, did Nastya scream very loudly?”

“Very loudly,” Sablina was eating slowly and beautifully.

“She struggled until the end,” Sablin lit a cigarette.

Arina put her arms around her shoulders, as if she were cold.

“Tanechka Boksheyeva fainted when they tied her to the shovel. She came to in the oven and cried out, ‘Wake me up, Mommy!’”

“She thought she was dreaming?” Rumyantsev stared into the girl’s eyes, smiling.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, it wasn’t a dream,” Sablin began to busy himself with the meat on the serving dish. “Ladies and gentlemen, your final orders! Immediately! One cannot eat a cold roast!”

“It would be my pleasure,” Father Andrei held out his plate. “One must eat good food and a lot of it.”

“At the right time and in the right place,” Mamut also held out his plate.

“And in good company!” Rumyantseva followed their example.

Sablin cut into Nastya’s still-warm body.

“Durch Leiden Freude.”

“Are you being serious?” Mamut lit his extinguished cigar once again.

“Certainly.”

“How fascinating! Explain yourself, please.”

“Pain builds strength and knowledge. It heightens the senses. Clears the mind.”

“One’s own pain or the pain of others?”

“In my case, the pain of others.”

“Ah, there we have it!” Mamut grinned. “So you’re still an incorrigible Nietzschean, then?”

“Yes, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

Mamut blew smoke from his mouth disappointedly.

“Well, well! And I had hoped I was coming to dine with a hedonist like myself. Does this mean that you cooked Nastya, not out of love for life, but for ideological reasons?”

“I cooked my daughter out of love for her, Dmitri Andreyevich. You can consider me a hedonist in that sense.”

“What kind of hedonism is that?” Mamut grinned wryly. “It’s Tolstoyism pure and simple!”

“Lev Nikolayevich hasn’t yet cooked his daughters,” Lev Ilyich objected delicately.

“Yes, and it’s unlikely that he will,” Sablin cut off a piece of Nastya’s leg. “Tolstoy is a liberal Russian nobleman. Therefore, he is also an egotist. Nietzsche, on the other hand, is our new John the Baptist.”

“Total demagoguery,” Mamut sipped his wine. “Nietzsche put the wool over all of our eyes. The eyes of all radical thinkers and intellectuals. They can no longer see what exists simply and clearly. No, this is total delirium, a general state of lunacy, the second dimming of our minds! First there was Hegel, to whom my grandfather literally prayed, and now this mustached fool.”

“What is it about Nietzsche that bothers you so much?” as he spoke, Sablin was serving everyone bits of sliced meat.

“It’s not Nietzsche who bothers me, but his Russian followers. Their blindness bothers me. Nietzsche did not create anything fundamentally new in the world of philosophy.”

“Is that so?” Sablin handed him his plate with a piece of Nastya’s right breast.

“A dubious statement,” remarked Lev Ilyich.

“Nothing, no-thing that is fundamentally new! All Greek literature is Nietzschean! From Homer to Aristophanes! Amoralism, incest, the cult of strength, contempt for the common man, elitist hymns! Think of Horace! ‘I shun the profane crowd!’ And the Greek philosophers? Plato, Pythagoras, Antisthenes, Cinesias? Who among them did not call for man to overcome that which is human, all too human? Who among them loved the demos? Who among them called for mercy? Perhaps only Socrates.”

“But Nietzsche was the first philosopher to write about the Übermensch,” retorted Sablin.

“Nonsense! Schiller used that very word. Many others wrote about the idea of the Übermensch—Goethe, Byron, Chateaubriand, Schlegel! But even beyond Schlegel! In his little article, Raskolnikov sums up all of Nietzsche! Body and soul! What about Stavrogin and Versilov? Are they not Übermenschen? ‘Let the world fall to pieces so long as I still have my cup of tea!’”

“All great philosophers find a common feature, or better yet, a common denominator under all those who intuitively accumulated before them,” Father Andrei spoke up. “Nietzsche is no exception. He did not philosophize in a vacuum.”

“Nietzsche wasn’t looking for a common denominator! He puts forth no common feature!” Sablin shook his head violently. “He made a great leap forward! He was the first in the history of human thought to truly liberate man and show him the way!”

“What is the way, then?” asked Mamut.

“‘Man is something that shall be overcome!’ That is the way.”

“Every religion in the world says the same thing.”

“If we keep turning the other cheek, we won’t change anything.”

“So, we’ll change it by destroying the weak?” Mamut drummed his fingers against the table.

“How else would we change it?” Sablin looked around for the gravy boat and picked it up; thick red sauce flowed over the meat. “By freeing the world from the weak, from those not capable of living, we are helping a healthy youth to grow!”

“The world cannot be exclusively made up of strong, red-blooded people.” Having cautiously rested his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, Mamut cut off a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, and felt the crunch of the well-done skin. “There have already been attempts to create just this sort of ‘healthy’ society—think of Sparta. And how did that end? Every society that kicks the fallen when they’re down ends up falling itself.”

Sablin ate with enormous appetite, as if he’d just sat down for the first time.

“Sparta is not a good argument . . . m-m-m . . . Heraclitus and Aristocles didn’t have the experience of fighting against Christianity to help in the creation of a new morality. Because of that, their idea of the state was an entirely utopian one. . . . The world is a different place now . . . m-m-m . . . The world is waiting for a new messiah. And he is coming.”

“Allow me to ask you who he’ll be?”

“A man. A man who has overcome himself.”

“Total demagoguery . . .” Mamut waved his fork.

“The men are talking seriously again . . .” Rumyantseva sucked loudly on Nastya’s collarbone.

Father Andrei served himself some horseradish.

“I’ve read two books by Nietzsche. He’s talented, but on the whole, his philosophy is alien to me.”

“Why do you need philosophy, brother? You have faith,” Sablin mumbled with a mouth full of food.

“Don’t be silly,” Father Andrei gave him a serious look. “Every human being has a philosophy of living. Their own. Even an idiot has a philosophy by which he lives.”

“Which would be . . . idiotism?” Arina asked cautiously.

Sablin and Mamut started to laugh, but Father Andrei looked at Arina sternly.

“Yes. Idiotism. And my doctrine for living is this: live and let live.”

“That’s a very good doctrine,” Sablina pronounced quietly.

Everyone was suddenly quiet and ate for a little while without speaking.

“An angel of silence has passed over us,” Rumyantsev sighed.

“Not just one. A whole herd,” Arina held out her empty glass.

“Don’t give her any more,” Mamut said to Pavlushka, who was bending over to do just that.

“But, Daddy!”

“At your age, a person should be happy without liquor.”

“Live and let live,” said Sablin thoughtfully. “Well, Andrei Ivanych, that’s a commonsense philosophy. But . . .”

“But! Always but!” The priest smiled.

“Forgive me, but your philosophy is terribly moth-eaten. Just like all of our old morals. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, I would certainly have lived by your doctrine. But, today, ladies and gentlemen, we stand on the threshold of a new age. There are only six months until the beginning of the twentieth century. Six months! Until the beginning of a new era in the history of humanity! Therefore, I drink to the new morality of the coming century—a morality of overcoming!”

He stood up and drained his glass.

“And what kind of morality will it be?” Father Andrei looked at him. “One without God, I’d imagine?”

“Certainly not!” The knife squeaked as Sablin cut the meat. “God has always been and shall always be with us.”

“But doesn’t Nietzsche write about the death of God?”

“That isn’t meant to be understood literally. Every era has its own Christ. The old Hegelian Christ has died. In the coming century, we’ll need a young, strong, and resolute Savior, one who is able to overcome! One who is able to laugh while he walks over the abyss on a tightrope! Yes! He must laugh, not simply whine and make faces!”

“So, in the coming century, Jesus is to be a tightrope walker?”

“Yes! Yes! A tightrope walker! We shall pray to him with all our hearts, we shall overcome ourselves with him, and we shall follow him to a new life!”

“Follow him onto the tightrope?”

“Yes, my dear Dmitri Andreyevich, onto the tightrope! Onto the tightrope over the abyss!”

“That’s insane,” Father Andrei shook his head.

“It’s common sense!” Sablin slapped his hand against the table.

The dishes rang out.

Sablina shrugged her shoulders coolly.

“I’m so tired of these arguments, gentlemen. Can we stop talking about philosophy, Seryozha, at least for today?”

“Russian men fly to philosophy like bees to honey!” Rumyantseva declaimed.

Everyone laughed.

“Sing for us, Alexandra Vladimirovna!” Rumyantsev loudly demanded.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” agreed Mamut. “Sing! You must sing!”

“Sing, Sashenka!”

Sablina clasped her thin hands and rubbed them together.

“It’s true, I . . . today’s . . . such a day . . .”

“Sing, my darling,” Sablin wiped his lips. “Pavlushka! Bring in the guitar!”

The lackey ran out of the room.

“I’m learning how to play the guitar too!” said Arina. “When Mommy was alive, she used to say that some romantic songs were only good on the guitar. Because the piano is a harsh instrument.”

“God’s truth!” Rumyantsev smiled.

“Two guitars ring out, begin their plaintive howl . . .” Mamut stared gloomily at the table. “Sorry, where’s the mustard?”

“Je vous en prie!” Rumyantseva handed it to him.

Pavlushka brought in the seven-stringed guitar. Sablin moved a chair over to the rug. Alexandra Vladimirovna sat down, crossed her legs, picked up the guitar, and, without seeing if it was in tune, started to play and sing in a quiet, soulful voice.

Do you remember the eloquent look you gave
That revealed the depths of your love for me?
In the future, it would be a happy guarantee,
Every day, it would set my soul to rant and rave.

In that shining moment, I smiled back
And dared to sow the seeds of hope in you . . .
How much power I had over you, ‘tis true,
I remember everything, do you remember too?

Do you remember the moments of elation,
When the days flew by so fast for us?
When you hoped I would reveal my infatuation,
And your lips swore our love would never rust?

You listened to me, happy and admiring,
The fire of love was burning in your eyes.
You would do anything for me without tiring.
I remember everything, do you remember too?

Do you remember, when we were apart,
I waited for you, mute with memory and care?
The thought of you was always in my heart;
The thought of you in the distance when ‘twas only air.

Do you remember how timid I became,
When I gave you the ring from my finger?
How thrilled I was with your joy and acclaim?
I remember everything, do you remember too?

Do you remember that when night fell,
Your passion was transmuted into song?
Do you remember the stars as well?
Do you remember how I could do no wrong?

I’m weeping now, my breast is pining for the past,
But you are cold now and your heart is far away!
For you, the feeling of those days has passed,
I remember everything, do you remember too?

“Bravo!” cried Rumyantsev and everyone applauded.

“I have one joy in my life, one light that always shines . . .” Sablin kissed his wife’s hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let us drink to Anna Vladimirovna’s health!” Rumyantsev stood up.

“By all means!” Mamut turned to her as he stood up.

“To you, our darling Sasha!” Rumyantseva held out her glass.

“Thank you, everyone,” Sablina walked back to the table.

Her husband handed her a glass.

Lev Ilyich stood up with glass in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to say,” he began, “that Alexandra Vladimirovna is a remarkable individual. Even an inveterate misogynist, egotist, and hopeless skeptic like me could not resist the charms of Mistress Sablina. Six . . . no . . . almost seven years ago, I found myself here for the first time and . . .” he lowered his eyes, “instantaneously fell in love. I have loved Alexandra Vladimirovna for these seven years. I love her like no one else. And . . . I’m not ashamed to talk about this today. I love you, Alexandra Vladimirovna.”

He stood there, bowing his head toward his boney shoulders and rotating the narrow glass in his large thin hands.

Sablina walked over to him, stood up on tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Kiss him properly, Sashenka,” pronounced Sablin.

“You’ll allow it?” she looked closely at Lev Ilyich’s confused face.

“Of course.”

“Then hold this,” she gave her glass to her husband, put her arms around Lev Ilyich’s neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth, pressing her thin, pliable body against his.

Lev Ilyich opened his fingers. His glass slipped, fell onto the rug, but didn’t break. Lev Ilyich squeezed Sablina’s waist with his inordinately long arms and pressed his lips back against hers. They kissed for a long time, rocking back and forth and rustling their clothes.

“Don’t hold back, my angel,” Sablin stared at them with bloodshot eyes.

Sablina moaned. Her legs trembled. Lev Ilyich’s wiry fingers squeezed her buttocks.

“Right here, do it right here,” muttered Sablin. “Here, here . . .”

“No . . .” now pale, Sablina pulled her lips away with some difficulty. “Certainly not . . .”

“Here, here, I’m begging you, my angel!” Sablin, turning red, immediately got down onto his knees.

“No, not for anything in the world . . .”

“I’m begging you, Lev Ilyich! For the love of God, do it!”

Lev Ilyich embraced Sablina.

“There’s a child here, you’ve lost your mind!”

“On this earth, we are all children, Alexandra Vladimirovna,” Mamut smiled.

“I’m begging you, I’m begging you!” Sablin sobbed.

“Never in a million years . . .”

“How enchanting you are, Sashenka! How I envy you!” Rumyantseva raised herself up rapturously.

“I’m begging you, just begging you . . .” Sablin slid over to her on his knees.

“Agh, stop it!” Sablina tried to break out of the embrace, but Lev Ilyich held fast.

“There is no sin in sincere tenderness,” Father Andrei played with his beard.

Sablin put his arms around his wife’s knees and began to pull up her dress. Lev Ilyich squeezed her torso and pressed his lips to her neck. Her slim legs, uncovered by stockings, were exposed, then the lace of her undershirt. Sablin grabbed onto her white underpants and pulled them down.

“No-o-o-o!” Sablina cried out, throwing back her head.

Sablin turned to stone.

Pushing away Lev Ilyich’s face, she ran out of the dining room.

Sablin remained seated on the rug.

“Go after her,” he said to Lev Ilyich hoarsely.

Lev Ilyich stood there awkwardly, red-faced and with his clenched fists held apart.

“Go after her!” Sablin shouted so loudly that the chandelier’s crystal prisms trembled.

Lev Ilyich followed Sablin’s instructions, as though he’d been hypnotized.

Sablin pressed his palms to his face and exhaled heavily—with a shudder.

“Go easy on yourself, Sergei Arkadeyevich,” Mamut broke the silence.

Sablin took out a handkerchief and slowly wiped the sweat from his face.

“How beautiful she is,” Rumyantseva stood up, shaking her head. “How maniacally beautiful she is!”

“Let’s have some champagne,” Sablin said in a quiet voice, staring at the pattern on the rug.





Lev Ilyich walked up the stairs and pushed on the Sablins’ bedroom door. It turned out to be locked.

“Sasha,” he said hollowly.

“Let me be,” he heard from inside the room.

“Sasha.”

“For the love of God, go away!”

“Sasha.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Sasha.”

She opened the door. Lev Ilyich put his arms around her waist, lifted her up, and carried her over to the bed.

“Do you like to play the fool? You like indulging him, don’t you?” she mumbled. “To submit to this . . . this . . . can it really be that you enjoy all of this? All of this . . . this . . . base ambiguity? This vulgar, stupid theater?”

Dropping her onto the apricot-colored silk of the bedcover, Lev Ilyich ripped off her tight, coffee-colored dress.

“He indulges his peasant nature . . . he . . . he’s only three generations removed . . . no . . . two generations . . . he still blows his nose right down to the ground . . . but you, you! You’re an intelligent, honest, complex individual . . . you

. . . you understand all my ambiguity so well . . . agh, don’t tear it like that . . . all of my absurdity . . . my God . . . why has my life become like this?”

Having finished tearing off the dress, Lev Ilyich lifted up her lace undershirt and, on his knees now, began to unbutton his pants with trembling hands.

“If we . . . if we already know everything . . . if we’re ready for anything . . . if we know that we love each other . . . and . . . that there’s no other way . . . that . . . each of our stars shine for the other’s,” she mumbled, looking at the stucco crown molding of the ceiling, “if we met

. . . even if it was awful and awkward, even if it was even stupid . . . as is everything that happens so suddenly . . . then we must cherish this tiny spark . . . this weak ray . . . let us take care of it like something fragile and precious . . . we must try . . . aaah!”

Lev Ilyich’s long, brawny, and curved penis entered her.

Pavlushka opened the champagne clumsily. Foam spilled from the bottle onto the tray.

“Give it here, halfwit!” Sablin took the bottle. “And get outta here!”

The lackey doubled over, as if he’d received an invisible blow to the stomach, and left the room.

“Why do Russians so hate to serve?” asked Mamut.

“Pride,” answered Father Andrei.

“Boorishness is the greatest of Russian qualities,” sighed Rumyantsev.

“It’s our fault,” Rumyantseva tenderly stroked the tablecloth. “We must do a better job in educating our servants.”

“We must flog them, you mean? That’s no solution.” Sablin poured wine into everyone’s glasses scowlingly. “Sometimes it’s necessary, of course, but I don’t like doing it.”

“I’m also against flogging,” said Father Andrei. “The whip doesn’t educate; it embitters.”

“Flogging must be done in the proper way,” remarked Rumyantseva.

“Of course, of course!” Arina suddenly became excited. “When she was alive, I once saw something like that at Tanechka Boksheyeva’s house! She invited me over after school because she’d promised to lend me the new Charskaya, but when we arrived, it was chaos! The governess had broken a vase. Tanechka’s father was punishing the governess for everyone to see. He says: ‘It’s good you’ve come, ladies. You can be the spectators.’ I didn’t understand at first: the governess was howling, the cook was laying an oilcloth out on the table, and Tanya’s mother was holding a bottle of ammonia. And he says to the governess: ‘Well now, you little wretch, take off your clothes!’ She lifted up her skirt, lay down on her stomach on the oilcloth, and the cook immediately pinned her down. He ripped off her underpants, and I saw her whole behind was covered in scars! How he set into her with that belt—how violently! She was yelling, so the cook shoved a cloth into her mouth! Then he whipped her—again! Again! And again! Then Tanechnka nudged me and said, ‘Look at how she . . .’”

“Enough,” Mamut interrupted her.

“Flogging is simply barbaric,” Rumyantseva raised the hissing glass to her nose and closed her eyes. “Lizkhen has been working for us for four years. It’s almost like she’s a part of the family. On her very first day, Viktor and I brought her into the bedroom and locked the door. We got undressed, lay down onto the bed, and made love. She was watching the whole time. Then I pinned her head between my legs and lifted up her skirt and Viktor gave her a little smack with a riding crop. Hard enough that the poor darling pissed herself! I put goose fat onto her derrière, took her by the hand, and said, ‘So, Lizkhen, did you see everything?’ ‘Yes, Madame.’ ‘Did you understand everything?’ ‘Yes, Madame.’ Then I say, ‘You didn’t understand anything.’ We dressed her in my ball gown, took her into the dining room, sat her down at the table, and fed her lunch. Viktor cut the food, and I put it into her mouth with a golden spoon—into her little, little, little mouth. We made her drink a bottle of Madeira. She’s sitting there like a drunk doll, giggling, ‘I understood everything, Madame.’ ‘Is that so?’ I say. So, we lock her in the wardrobe. We kept her there for three days and three nights. For the first two nights she howled, but on the third, she became silent. I let her out and looked her in the eye. ‘Now, my darling, you’ve understood everything.’ None of my vases have been broken since.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Mamut rubbed at the bridge of his broad nose.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a toast,” Father Andrei stood up, his cassock rustling decisively. “I propose we drink to my friend Sergei Arkadeyevich Sablin.”

“It’s about time,” Rumyantseva smirked.

Sablin looked gloomily at the priest.

“Our Russia is as big as the biggest of swamps,” Father Andrei began. “We live like we’re standing on stilts, guessing where next to step and where we can rest our weight. It’s not because the Russian race is so terrible, but because the metaphysics of our country have always been like this. It’s a savage and uninhabitable place. It’s terribly drafty. And the people are no angels. The decaying and the rotten are a dime a dozen. A hand draws you forward, speaks of honor, swears to holy friendship, but you squeeze the hand a little harder and maggots come pouring out. Therefore, what I appreciate more than anything else in people is strength of spirit. Sergei Arkadeyevich and I were childhood friends, classmates, and revelers-in-arms at university. But we’re more than that now. We are brothers in spirit. Brothers in strength of spirit. We each hold to our inviolable principles—we each have our own stronghold in this regard. If I’d sacrificed my principles, I’d be carrying an icon of the Panagia and serving at the Kazan Cathedral by now. If he’d gone against his principles, he’d have been wearing a dean’s cloak for a long time already. But we didn’t retreat. Because of that, we are neither rotten nor decayed. We are the solid oak stilts of the Russian state, on which a new, healthy Russia will learn to walk. To you, my only friend!”

Sablin walked over to him. They kissed each other on the cheeks.

“Beautifully put!” Rumyantsev reached out to clink glasses.

“I didn’t know that you were at university together,” Mamut clinked glasses with them.

“How interesting!” Arina took a drink of her champagne. “Did you both study philosophy?”

“We are both materialists of the soul!” Father Andrei answered, and all the men laughed.

“For how long did you study together?” asked Rumyantseva.

“Since we were at gymnasium,” Sablin answered, adjusting his sleeves and decisively picking up Nastya’s tibia.

“You both studied at a gymnasium like me?” Arina asked. “Imagine that!”

“How about this . . .” Father Andrei made a menacing, pleading face and began to speak in a falsetto. “Sablin and Klyopin, how did you end up so far away in Kamchatka again? Come sit in the front row immediately!”

“Ahh! Six Foot Gravestone!” laughed Sablin. “Six Foot Gravestone!”

“Who’s that?” Arina’s eyes flashed with interest.

“Our mathematician friend, Kozma Trofimych Ryazhsky,” Father Andrei answered, cutting his meat.

“Six Foot Gravestone! Six Foot Gravestone!” Sablin laughed with a bone in his hand.

“Why was that his nickname?” asked Rumyantseva.

“He had a constant refrain about the study of mathematics: any idiot should be able to . . . a-ha-ha-ha! No . . . a-ha-ha-ha!” Father Andrei suddenly began to laugh hysterically.

“Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!” Sablin also began to laugh. “Six . . . ha-ha! Six . . . ha-ha! Six Foot

. . . a-ha-ha-haaaa!”

“He . . . a-ha-ha! He . . . once he measured an angle with a protractor, do you remember? . . . A-ha! . . . Bondarenko’s angle of idiocy . . . and he . . . a-ha-ha! Haaaa!”

Sablin laughed and shook so much, it was as if he’d been put into a galvanic bath. The bone fell from his hands, he leaned back in his chair very violently, the chair wobbled and flipped over, and Sablin fell down onto his back. Father Andrei kept laughing, clutching his crimson face with his hands.

Sablina walked into the dining room wearing a fresh long dress made of dark-blue silk. Lev Ilyich followed her in.

Sablin was still writhing around on the rug laughing.

“What happened?” asked Alexandra Vladimirovna, stopping next to him.

“Gymnasium. Memories,” Mamut said as he chewed.

“One of their little rhymes?” She walked over and sat down in her chair.

“What rhymes?” asked Rumyantsev.

“Rhymes! Ha-ha-ha! Oh my God, the rhymes!” Sablin sat up on the rug. “Oy, I’m dying . . . I wrote a little poem about my friend Andrei Klyopin when he was in his second year . . . ha-ha-ha . . . oy . . . I’ll try to calm down . . . and recite it . . .”

“What is so funny?” asked Sablina.

“Don’t ask, for the love of God, and he . . . he-he-he . . . we’ll die . . . enough! Enough! Enough! The poem!”

“Please don’t read that filth in front of me.” Sablina picked up her glass and Lev Ilyich filled it with champagne.

“But, darling, these are my people!”

“Don’t read it in front of me.”

“The beginning, just the beginning:

I have a friend named Andrei,
His nickname is Klyopa.
His kindness, I cannot downplay,
with such a fine cock, I say opa!

“Stop!” Sablina hit the table. “There’s a child here!”

“Who do you mean?” Arina smiled archly.

Once he came over to me
and said, my friend, please listen!
I’ve just bathed in poop and pee
and fear my soul’s been un-christened.

No! Your soul is certainly pure!
I cried out to him in shock
Pure as a girl’s . . .

“. . . cunt, for sure / Or perhaps as the end of my cock,” Arina pronounced, looking at Sablin out of the corner of her eye.

“Where did you learn that?” Sablin stared at her.

“Father Andrei taught me.”

“When was that?” Sablin looked over at the priest.

“That’s none of your concern, Sergei Arkadych,” Mamut mumbled angrily, smearing his meat with horseradish.

Everyone laughed and Arina continued talking.

“I like the end of your poem most of all:

Now the moral of the story is that,
Klyopa now has only one head.
The one from his dick cut off in a spat,
After which he bled and bled.

“Such filth . . .” Sablina took a drink. “Such low filth, such tiresome vulgarity.”

“Yes!” with a good-natured smile on his incredibly drunk face, Sablin set his chair back upright and sat down. “How long ago that was. . . . Do you remember how much Schopenhauer we read?”

“With the redhead?” Father Andrei drank his champagne in a state of utter delight.

“We took three months reading that book aloud! That was when I finally understood what philosophy truly is!”

“And what exactly is it?” asked Rumyantseva.

“The love of knowledge,” Mamut explained.

Suddenly, Father Andrei stood up, walked over to Mamut, and froze, squeezing his nervous hands together.

“Dmitri Andreyevich, I . . . would like to ask you for your daughter’s hand.”

Everyone went quiet. Mamut froze with an unchewed piece of meat still in his mouth. Arina turned pale.

Mamut swallowed spasmodically and coughed.

“And . . . how is it . . . that this . . .”

“I’m asking you very seriously. Very.”

Mamut turned his watery eyes to his daughter.

“Well . . .”

“No,” she shook her head.

“Well . . . then . . .”

“I’m begging you, Dmitri Andreyevich!” Father Andrei got down onto his knees delicately.

“No, no, no!” Arina shook her head.

“But . . . if you . . . and why not?” Mamut frowned.

“I’m begging you! I’m begging you!”

“Well . . . speaking openly . . . I’m . . . not against it . . .”

“No-o-o-o-o!” Arina screeched, jumping up and overturning her chair.

But the Rumyantsevs grabbed onto her as fast as two greyhounds.

“No-o-o-o-o!” she tried to run over to the door, her dress tearing in the process.

Lev Ilyich and Father Andrei grabbed onto her, then pulled her down to the carpet.

“Behave . . . behave yourself . . . um . . .” Mamut began to fuss.

“Arinushka . . .” Sablina stood up.

“Pavlushka! Pavlushka!” Sablin cried out.

“No-o-o-o!” Arina screamed.

“A towel! A towel!” Rumyantsev hissed.

Pavlushka ran in.

“Go as fast as you can over to the shelf, there on the furthest part of the right side . . .” Sablin muttered to him, holding Arina’s feet. “Actually, never mind, you fool. I’ll do it myself . . .”

Sablin ran off and the lackey followed him.

“Arina, just . . . calm down . . . pull yourself together . . .” Mamut sank down heavily onto the rug. “At your age . . .”

“Please, Papa, have mercy! Have mercy, Papa! Have mercy, Papa!” Arina said very, very quickly as she was pressed against the rug.

“Nobody has ever died from this,” Rumyantseva held onto her head.

“Arina, I’m asking for your hand,” Father Andrei stroked her cheek.

“Have mercy, Papa! Have mercy, Papa!”

Sablin ran in with a hand saw. Pavlushka, carrying a thick piece of wood, was trying and failing to keep up with him. Seeing the handsaw out of the corner of her eye, Arina began to thrash and scream so much that everyone had to hold her down.

“Shut her mouth somehow!” Sablin demanded, kneeling down and rolling up the right sleeve of his jacket.

Mamut shoved a handkerchief into his daughter’s mouth and pinched it shut with two plump fingers. Arina’s arm was bared to the shoulder, two belts and a wet towel were tightened around her forearm. Lev Ilyich tied her hand to the board. Sablin measured out the arm with his yellow, tobacco-stained fingernail.

“Praise the Lord . . .”

Quick jerks of the saw, the dull crack of ruined bones, splashes of ruby-colored blood onto the carpet, Arina’s legs held fast by four hands as they jerked about.

Sablin worked quickly. His wife placed deep bowls under the stump.

“Pavlushka,” Sablin handed him the saw. “Go tell Mitya to prepare the droshky. Hurry!”

The lackey ran off.

“Mitya will take you to our doctor. He’ll dress the wound.”

“Is it far?” Mamut took the handkerchief out of his now unconscious daughter’s mouth.

“It’s thirty minutes from here. Sashenka! Get the icon!”

Sablina went out and immediately came back with an Icon of the Savior.

Father Andrei crossed himself and knelt down. With an asthmatic bow, Mamut gave him his daughter’s hand. Father Andrei accepted it, pressed it to his chest, and kissed the icon.

“God be with you,” Mamut bowed once again.

Father Andrei stood up and left the room, holding the hand in his hands.

“Leave now! Now!” Sablin hurried them along.

Lev Ilyich picked up Arina and carried her out of the room. Mamut began to follow him out of the room.

“Have one for the road,” Sablin grabbed Mamut by the coattails. “It always takes a minute to get the horses ready.”

Having lustily opened the bottle of champagne, he filled the glasses.

“It even splashed onto my forehead!” smiling, Rumyantseva showed them a bloodstain on her tiny lace handkerchief.

“You have a strong daughter, Dmitri Alexeyevich,” Rumyantsev raised his glass. “Such healthy, such . . . powerful legs . . .”

“My deceased wife also . . . this . . . was . . .” Mamut muttered, staring at the blood-soaked carpet.

Sablin handed him a glass.

“To the glorious Mamut family!”

They clinked their glasses together and drank.

“Even so . . . you seriously overestimate Nietzsche!” Mamut proclaimed with unexpected anger.

Sablin yawned nervously and shrugged.

“And you underestimate him.”

“Nietzsche is the idol of all equivocators.”

“Nonsense. Nietzsche is the great revivifier of mankind.”

“He’s a salesman of dubious truths . . .”

“Dmitri Andreyevich!” Sablin rubbed his head impatiently. “I respect and value you as a member of the Russian intelligentsia, but I have no interest in your opinions on philosophy. That’s enough!”

“Well, God be with you . . .” Mamut walked over to the door heavily and disappointedly.

“Don’t forget to invite us to Arina’s birthday!” Rumyantseva reminded him.

“To be sure . . .” he mumbled and disappeared behind the door.

The clock struck midnight.

“Ay-yai-yai . . .” Rumyantsev stretched out. “Mother of God!”

“Where shall we sleep?” Rumyantseva hugged Sablin from behind.

“In the usual place.” He kissed her hand.

“We still haven’t had dessert.” Sablina rubbed her temples. “My head’s pounding from all of that screaming . . .”

Rumyantseva rubbed herself against Sablin.

“We don’t need dessert.”

“But we have . . . a lovely cake . . .” mumbled Sablin, lighting a cigarette.

Rumyantseva’s tight posterior, encased in pecan-colored silk, wiggled as she made rhythmic movements against Sablin with her supple body.

“Ah . . . Sashenka . . . you can’t imagine how sweet it is to be with your husband . . . how enchantingly nice it is . . .”

Sablina walked over and poured Rumyantseva’s half-finished champagne down the latter’s bodice.

“Ay!” Rumyantseva yelped, not looking up from Sablin’s back and continuing the same rhythmic motion.

“Mamut is such a clumsy fool,” Sablin said with conviction.

“But his daughter’s cute,” Rumyantsev yawned.

“Yes . . .” Sablin looked off fixedly at one point in space. “Very . . .”

Sablina put the empty glass down onto the edge of the table and walked off slowly. In the dimly lit corridor, she heard voices from the front porch: Lev Ilyich and Mamut were putting Arina into the britzka. Sablina stopped, listened, turned around, and walked back through the kitchen. Savely had fallen asleep at the table with his head in his hands. Ready to be served, the cake was covered in unlit candles. She walked past the cook, opened the door, and walked down the dark staircase and out into the courtyard.

It was a bright, warm night, a thin slice of moon in the sky, stardust, and untidy rows of lindens.

Sablina walked through the alley of trees, then stopped and breathed in the warm, humid air.

In the distance, she heard the britzka riding off.

Sablina left the alley, began to walk along the fence, opened the gate, and slipped into the Old Garden. Apple and plum trees surrounded her shapely figure, which looked as if it had been carved from a noble bone. She kept walking, her dress rustling against the ground. She touched the wet branches as she went.

She stopped. Let forth a groan. Shook her head. Laughed wearily.

She bent over, lifted up her dress, lowered her underpants, and squatted down.

The stuttering sound of digestive gasses being expelled from the body sounded out through the orchard.

“Goodness, what a glutton I am . . .” she moaned.

The inaudible fall of warm feces to the ground, its faint smell growing stronger, its succulent squelch.

Sablina stood up and put her underpants back on. Straightened her dress. Walked away. Grabbed onto a plum branch. Sighed. Stood on her tiptoes. Turned around and walked home.





The night was over.

A grayish-pink sky, dewy pollen on the still leaves, a silent flash of light behind the forest: as the magpie dozed on the temple’s gilded cross, a yellow pin of light pierced its eye.

The magpie opened its eyes wider: the sun sparkled on their surface. Having shaken its wings, the magpie then spread them as if to fly, opened its beak, and froze. The feathers on its neck stood on end. Clicking its beak, it glanced over at the cupola, started forward on its black, clawed feet, pushed off of the faceted beam of the cross, and floated down:

cemetery,

meadow,

garden.

Cold greenery flowed through one of the magpie’s glowing eyes. Suddenly, a warm spot flashed forth: the magpie dove down and came to rest on the back of the garden bench.

Feces was lying on the grass. The magpie looked at them, fluttered through the air, came to rest once again next to the feces, and hobbled over to them. A black pearl shined forth on the buttery, chocolatey, leathery surface of the pile of feces. The magpie moved even closer: the feces were looking at the magpie with a single black eye. Opening its beak, it squinted, bent over, took one hop, dug out the pearl, and, holding it in the tip of its beak, flew off.

Having zoomed over the garden, the magpie flew past the hill, fluttered past the willow, and, hurriedly flapping its black-and-white wings, began to fly along the shore of the lake.

An entire reflected world swam through the pearl: black sky, black clouds, black lake, black boats, black pines, black juniper, black bank of sand, black bridges, black willows, black hill, black church, black path, black meadow, black alley of trees, black manor, black man and black woman, both opening the black window into the black dining room.