The night before the concert Ilya had a dream. He was back in his native Nanovka and Lake Belokamennoye; it was early in the morning. A thick white fog covered the lake’s surface.

What was it that just sailed out of the woolly fog? It looked like a boat with Orthodox monks inside. To the muffled ringing of church bells that came from the town submerged beneath the lake, men in black clothes were lowering something on ropes. Something black, suspicious, and heavy. Perhaps there were provisions for the town inside. No! It’s nuclear waste! They don’t know what to do with it and so they’re dumping it in the lake. “Stop! Stop it! This is a holy place. All the fish will disappear.”

Hearing Ilya shout, a man turned to face him. Savva Gnoyev. He glared at Ilya with colorless eyes and in a toneless voice mumbled, “Vanish, spirit! Or else we’ll bury your corpse on the bottom, too, and you’ll never rise to the surface. Aurora’s son is mine now.”

Ilya’s scream woke Lyuba and she gently comforted him.

“You’re too anxious. It’s not like you. Everything’s all right, my dear. Your concert will be fine.”
The next day Ilya left his apartment with the guitar on his back. Lyuba kissed him goodbye. “I’ll be there in a little while. Still, Ilyushenka, for some reason I’m worried now. There’s so much human spite around you—I can feel it. You’re always like this, my dear. Please be careful. Take care, my knight.”

“All right, all right, Lyuba. Everything’s fine. See you later.”

Adjusting his guitar, Ilya took a seat in the car that had come for him. So, here comes the concert. I don’t know if I’m a poet or a politician, but, as the saying goes, “in for a penny, in for a pound.”

He felt a rush of energy and strength move through his body, just like in his student years, and he recited to himself a stanza from the Song of Igor’s Campaign.

“Then Igor glanced at the bright sun and saw that it covered all his warriors with darkness. And Igor said to his retinue, ‘Brothers and Retinue! It is better to be slain than to be captured; so let us mount our swift horses, brothers, and have a look at the blue Don.”

So, here I go, come hell or high water.

An outdoor concert stage in Tushino. A seething sea of people—old and young, men and women. Young punks were darting about, trying to look innocent. In a far corner the Hell’s Wolves motorcyclists leaned against their bikes, which were lined up in a row. The excited Lyuba, Igor, Vera, and Parasha had been given seats of honor next to celebrities. Behind the stage Yuliya and her friends were tuning their instruments. Holding on to a cell phone, Roman tried to hurry the workers who were making last-minute preparations for the concert. Occasionally there were shouts from the crowd calling for the music to begin.

Olga came on to the stage. Her distinguished looks silenced everyone. People whispered. “That’s Olga Makoshina. Yes, she’s sexy, isn’t she? Ilya’s sister. No, actually she’s his cousin.”

“Dear guests!” Olga greeted the audience. “Welcome to this concert organized by the Party for a Prosperous Russia. Our party represents the young generation, the generation of Russia’s future. The Party for a Prosperous Russia is struggling to prevent a small gang of financial oligarchs from ruling the country in an arbitrary way. We’re fighting to give the young generation the chance to engage in business freely. All of our efforts in this struggle are directed toward two goals—a substantial reduction in taxes for business and the introduction of private ownership of land in urban areas.

The ranks of the party are growing. There are twenty thousand members today. We face new challenges. We must extend the party’s influence by nominating a candidate for president who is fresh, someone who is able to touch the soul of every citizen and who enjoys wide recognition. It’s time for renewal. In the interests of this cause, I, Olga Makoshina, have decided to give up my position as party leader and to work for the party in the capacity of its secretary general. The Party for a Prosperous Russia from now on will be called New People’s Party.

“Moreover, my friends, on behalf of our newly formed party, I propose to nominate for president… Igor Makoshin. I urge all those present to support my proposal.”

Olga hadn’t yet finished her speech, but the audience broke out into loud applause and cheers. “Ilya-a! Ilya-a!” Lyuba looked at the stage, her face blushing with embarrassment and pride. In the wings Yuliya gave her father a smile and made way for him.

Undaunted and, at the same time, a little flustered, Ilya walked out on the stage with his guitar. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and blue jeans. Several TV camera followed his movements. Ilya made an awkward bow and picked up the microphone.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen! I’m very happy to see so many people at our concert today. I hope you’ll all have a good time along with me and my daughter Yuliya. The Party for a Prosperous Russia…”

A loud round of applause interrupted him. “Enough speeches. We want songs.” Olga, still on stage, forced a smile, and Ilya seemed stunned. He relaxed his grip on the guitar and took a deep breath. His song flowed in a soft voice, and the audience grew silent.

When flames of passion die down,
Our rivers, hills, and lakes break into song.
I’ll run through the rye field and measure its size,
But the hills and lakes go on forever.

When flames of longing die down,
The melting snow of spring, the golden leaves of fall break into song.
Even in a time of trouble, just take a look at them
And their traces will heal your tired soul.

When flames of desire die down
The images of loved ones lost forever break into song.
During a time of trials there’s no firmer support
Than my gentle wife’s endless love.

The song sounding over Tushino field silenced the public. But as soon as Ilya stopped singing, quiet applause quickly turned into a stormy ovation, and people shouted for more. “Go, Ilya! We want something livelier!” Now that his nervousness had gone, Ilya strummed the guitar and started singing in a strong voice.

Lord, save and deliver us!
The age of business has begun.
It’s no life—it’s not like paradise!
Everything around us has a price!
And no matter what you pay, they’ll ask for more!

The bankers in the capital
Keep right on cleaning up,
Speculating on foreign currency.
They’ve left us in the lurch.

What’s the way out, brothers? I don’t know!

Lord, save and deliver us!
Ideology kept us in chains,
And just when we managed to cast them off,
Other dogmas came to take their place:
The market, competition, and gains.

And our poets and writers,
Always a light to us,
Only dream of money now!
Where is goodness and beauty?
There’s a hollow in our souls.

What’s the way out, brothers? I don’t know!

Lord, save and deliver us!
We dreamt of returning to the past,
But on the way we meet careerists,
Monarchists and chauvinists…
Have we lost our Russian land?

We’ve been given Kupalo,
Instead of thundering Perun—
What a bitter joke is that!
No one pays us any respect,
They dupe us whenever they can…

What’s the way out, brothers, I don't know!

What if they all leave us alone?
Let us live of our own free will?
That would be the way out!

The intensity of the emotion Ilya released in his song cast a spell over the spectators. Everyone was going crazy—the hooligans, the guards, the students. “These are our songs. The cry of our souls.” The sound of whistles flew over the field. And the Hell’s Wolves enthusiastically pressed the horns on their motorcycles. Lyuba couldn’t take her eyes off Ilya and she was crying from joy.

Ilya remembered Apollon’s words. Yes, a poet! Sorry, Olya, but I’m not going to be the leader of the party. Sorry, there’s no way I’ll become a politician. Once you get mixed up in that you have to lie to yourself and take part in all sorts of dirty deals. Look at the crowd gathered here. They’re all slaves. They don’t have anything whatsoever of their own. They’re not even free to do anything on their own. The wealthy and the officials control everything. So who would want to work here? And who can rightfully say, “Come on, everybody let’s work, let’s build, let’s sow.” For the rest of my life I’ll play my guitar and sing my songs to them. Songs about freedom and humanity.

Ilya took the microphone in one hand and raised the other in order to quiet the audience. He spoke in a soft voice.

“Thank you, thank you. Today is the best of all days for me. Here in your midst I understand. I understand what kind of person I am, what it means to be a Russian, and, finally, where Russia is heading. Thanks to all of you. Thank you for this wonderful gift. As a sign of my gratitude permit me to sing you one more song.

The stirred-up audience began to make noise. Ilya took out a handkerchief, wiped the sweat off his face, thought for a moment, and then improvised a song.

Whoever thinks money will bring freedom,
Money will deprive of freedom.
“Mercedeses,” “Cadillacs,” “Sonys”—
You can’t resist their appeal!
They bind you hand and foot,
Surround you with an iron wall—
And from that time on you’ll no longer know
Simple human joys!

Whoever thinks the market will bring wealth,
The market will deprive of wealth.
“Chanel,” “Cardin,” “Shiseido”—
You can’t resist their appeal!
Money, stocks, and transactions
Are utterly drab routines.
And from that time on you’ll no longer see
Your real friends at your side!

Whoever thinks revolution will bring freedom,
The revolution will deprive of freedom.
Rich men, bureaucrats, and mafia—
You can’t resist their power!
Oh, how you really want to give
All this up as a hopeless cause,
To become free and independent,
To be free from it all!

The audience was in a frenzy. There was a burst of applause. There were whistles and loud shouts. “You said it, Ilya. Encore!”

And then Ilya’s face suddenly became distorted. He grabbed the microphone and fell down on the stage, still holding on to it. Dark blood flowed from his chest. Everyone nearby rushed to help. Lyuba screamed and ran to her husband’s side. The audience was in a panic.

“What happened? What’s the matter?”

“A heart attack!”

“No, someone tried to kill him! With a rifle! Be careful!”

A bright light appeared in Ilya’s slowly fading consciousness. Almost dissolving into blueness, a blinding white seagull made sad circles in an azure sky. “Ilya, Ilya, I am leaving your child.”

Numerous streams hidden below the surface of Moscow overflowed and their swelling waves swallowed the bell tower of Ivan the Great and the cupola of Novodevichy Convent. And above the waves rose a green field, a dense forest, and a clear brook with spring water. Now there were birch trees and a cemetery overgrown with weeds. Lyuba, merging with the image of Aurora, smiled sadly. “You are my land, my father and my mother. I am leaving your child.”

“Hey, hey! Ilya Muromets, Ilya Muromets on his horse.”

The voice over the rye field sounded loud at first and then grew increasingly soft until at last it dissolved into the blue expanse of the sky.