7
That morning Lake Ilmen was quiet and calm; only rarely did a slight ripple ruffle the smooth surface. Mariya removed her veil and shook her head. Her golden hair flew into the blue sky in sparkling waves.

Ah, Ilya, my lord. A brave horseman, a handsome horseman. One glance from him and I stop breathing. I don’t see or hear anything around—only his gentle breath by my ear. A flame. The fire of love. Can that really be against God’s will? Perhaps his will exists in this very love? Let people say it’s a sin, let me burn at the stake, be hacked to death by a sword—I will not leave my lord.

Mariya took off her shoes and walked barefoot into the lake. The cold water of the early summer morning splashed playfully against her ankles. Oh, how I want to throw off all my clothes and swim like a Rusalka. I am free, free. I’m a daughter of the free city of Novgorod.

Mariya didn’t notice that the feeble-minded servant hidden in the shadows of the church fence was watching her with rapt attention. She didn’t notice that his eyes were full of sadness, anger, and jealousy.

———

A summer night in Moscow. It was still light as Ilya wandered by himself through the city streets. The soles of his boots had worn through—he looked like one of the homeless. Night, continuous night. There’s only endless night for me now.

After receiving the news from Madame Miller that she had seen a “night fairy” who looked like Aurora, Ilya began to search for Aurora every evening. “Ilya, find Aurora. Save the poor girl, Ilyusha. If you do, you’ll save yourself as well.”

A man who’s old enough to want to replay a life that’s gone wrong is attracted to young women, chasing after the illusion that everything will shine with bright colors again. Aurora, laughing like a child by the fountain at the park in Madrid; Aurora in bed, her pale body and golden hair… Those scenes endlessly came to mind and tormented him. Maybe that was the last hope I had in life—my renaissance. Ilya suppressed a painful smile.

He’d been everywhere. In hotel bars, city squares, and busy streets—in all the places that prostitutes frequent. On streets teeming with nighttime pleasure seekers, or in dark alleys he might have run into Yevgeny or Parasha, or friends, or acquaintances, but Ilya didn’t notice anyone or anything. In the enormous city of Moscow he was all alone.

On that night a tired Ilya was on his way back home. Massive buildings lined both sides of the street. They exhibited both the coldness of stone and an insolence that violated a person’s soul. They had the aura of the Soviet Union, bureaucracy, and totalitarianism. Civilization perishes over and over again. First in Petersburg after the October Revolution and now in Moscow. Every time a civilization dies there are feuds, followed by the birth of an oppressive “state.”

Ilya’s old Zhiguli, which no one wanted to buy, was driving around Moscow. At night the flow of cars had diminished noticeably. Moscow seemed gradually to be coming to a standstill. Lost in his thoughts, Ilya mistakenly drove into the Kitaigorod passage. The Rossiya hotel rose in the dusk like a ruin of Soviet times. To its left the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry of Defense buildings lined up in formation. Ugh! What a strange combination.

A woman standing on the sidewalk, exposing a black-lace stockinged leg, stared at Ilya. Long golden hair cascaded down her back.

What a fool, would her clients really be caught driving around in a beat-up Zhiguli?

Ilya had already passed the girl when he suddenly slammed on the brakes. Wait. Is that Aurora? Or am I imagining things?

Ilya awkwardly backed up the car. With a cold smile the woman slowly walked over to him.

The bed squeaked, they moaned, but Aurora’s eyes were empty and her body was cold. Aurora, my Aurora, what happened to you? Overcome with sorrow, Ilya’s heart cried out as he bitterly embraced her. Oh, I’m not the same any more. Nowadays I am the one who clings to women.

As soon as it was over, as if nothing had happened, she sat on the bed, casually smoking a cigarette and leisurely exhaling a stream of smoke. “Listen,” she said, “my name’s Masha, Mariya. This Aurora—who is she? Your old lover? So if I’m so much like her, maybe we should do it again? How about fifty dollars for everything?”

“M-money? What are you talking about? Have you really forgotten me? Ilya, I’m Ilya! Listen, Aurora!”

Ilya gave her his last money. He was stunned as he watched Aurora, now a stranger to her past, vanish into the dark night without even one look back at him.

Fantastic lights decked the entrance to the hall. Today there would be a birthday party for Olga Makoshina. Now a famous politician, Olga rented a large room in the Praga restaurant and for the first time she invited a large number of guests. She had no alternative—now we’re in the age of ads and PR. Do you want to be famous in your country? Don’t spare any money.

The guests arrived one by one and, as if they were old friends, they all kissed Olga on the cheek—TV stars, journalists, lobbyists, heads of news services, “new Russian” businessmen, parliamentary deputies, bureaucrats from the city and state administrations, as well as big shots from the old KGB. The KGB? Why were they here? You had to keep up friendly relations with them. For a rainy day.

In the old times you would just invite relatives and close friends to celebrate your birthday. But now for reasons of business people put on ostentatious banquets. The guests crowded around tables with food and drink, found people they know, and started up conversations. Eventually the conversations spread throughout the hall. After congratulatory speeches were made in honor of Olga and she gave her thanks in reply, the band began to play. One couple after another started to dance and the circle of dancers kept growing. Men competed with each other for a chance to dance with Olga.

A crazy ball in nighttime Moscow. Over there, smiling triumphantly, the frail but eminent host of a political TV program was dancing with a middle-aged beauty, who, judging by her expression, had accepted his invitation only out of politeness. And here a former high-ranking KGB officer gaily danced the jitterbug with a TV star. No authority existed in this country now, everything was permitted, and there was a complete lack of discipline. Politicians, entrepreneurs, journalists, lobbyists, and officials from the “power ministries”—the security services and military… During the day they got into fights, sorted things out, made trouble, and argued furiously with one another. But life is life and one had to live according to the principle, “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.” The new ruling class that had surfaced like soapsuds on the water of chaos was dancing up a storm.

There was a terrible emptiness inside Olga, however. The higher you rise in society, the more boring and empty your life becomes due to the fact that the people around you, the ones you have to see and deal with, are totally insincere. Yes, it was simply an illusion. Oh, if only Ilyusha had come. I invited him but he declined. He said there’s nothing for him to do in places like this now. What a shame. With his songs and his gift for persuasion he would have fired up everyone here.

Her business partner, Alliluyev, approached Olga and asked her to dance again. Firmly holding on to her slender body with his thick fingers, he whispered, “Olya, you’ve really gone to extremes. How much did all of this cost? So you’re going to squander everything I earn on a political party?”

“What are you talking about, Lyova? These days public relations determines everything. If you don’t spend money, no one will come to you. You understand that very well. What’s more, you didn’t start up in business by yourself. You should remember that very well.”

“Well, that may be true, but only in the very beginning.”

“That’s ridiculous! Without me the party… Oh, so you only needed my name, my reputation? From the very beginning that was all, nothing more!”

As Alliluyev’s fat fingers crept up and down her back, Olga became more and more irritated. Badly shaken, she moved away from him and began to dance on her own. The banquet came to a head. Forgetting about everything in the world, in despair Olga kept dancing until midnight.

That night Alliluyev, still in a state of excitement from dancing with the TV stars, hurried to get his insufferable mistress Sveta into the bedroom. A blonde with a thin neck, slim waist, and large breasts, Sveta was devout beyond her years.

“Next year we must go to church on Easter together. Tonight a religious procession is circling around the church three times.”

“What? A procession goes around the church three times? Well, Sveta, my head has already made a hundred circles from all the vodka I drank,” he laughed.

“Lyova, tough guys like you really ought to be punished. Even on a religious holiday you only have one thing in mind—guzzling vodka.”

Sveta stood up, placed candles around a small mirror, turned off the light in the room, and modestly sat down in front of the mirror. “My famous man, my future husband, show your face in the mirror.”

In the semi-dark light Alliluyev’s face appeared in the mirror. “What are you doing? Stop your little jokes!”

Alliluyev embraced Sveta, lifted her up, threw her back on the bed, and then… came wild laughter, murmurs, frequent deep breaths.

When they were finished, Sveta turned to Alliluyev, who was now puffing on a cigarette, and casually said, “Tell me the truth. Do you think of me as a human being? It’s always just this. And right after you immediately hush up and fall asleep. Couldn’t you just talk to me for a little while, huh? Listen, what does London look like?”

“Shut up! Everything there is disgusting!”

“You’re lying. You went there again with Lida.”

“Shut up, I said. You have only one thing on your mind. The West has law and order in everything. They have a mature society, they’re drowning in prosperity, and every blessed day is the same. Men there only sleep with their wives and in the same bed. But here in Russia, you see, life is interesting every day. There aren’t any pious frauds here. That’s the way it’s always been in Russia.”

“You’re just lying,” Sveta whispered and immediately began to snore.

———

Ilya had taken to hard drinking again. His grandmother Agafya had warned him, though not very harshly, against smoking and drinking, and some of her words still haunted him. “Each of us must learn to judge what is good and what is evil. Then we can live before God without shame.” The guiltier Ilya felt, the more he dulled his thoughts with vodka, as if trying to punish himself by ruining his life. The keepsake of his mother—the icon—had long lain neglected in a dresser. He wandered aimlessly by himself on city streets with tangled hair and empty, drunken eyes. Ilya desperately needed contact with another human being. He missed the touch of women’s skin. Who it was didn’t matter. He had sex with prostitutes in all sorts of places—taxicabs, a dark alley…

One night he wandered in the crowded square in front of Kazan Station, looking for a one-night stand. A train had just arrived. Shabbily dressed people were coming out of the station carrying suitcases made of cardboard or large suitcases wrapped in cloth. They headed for the subway or bus stations. In the midst of the crowd a young woman holding a small suitcase was looking around in confusion. She seemed to be searching for something. Ilya was touched by her naïve but alert eyes, eyes full of curiosity. Ah, this is it.

“Hey, Miss, is something wrong?”

The young girl turned to Ilya and without the slightest fear, as if she were talking to an old friend, said, “Oh, no, I’ve just arrived here, Sir. I ran away from home. Do you happen to know a place here where I can stay cheaply? Somewhere nearby?”

Dark hair, brown eyes, buxom with a tiny waist. Oksana. Ilya liked this good-natured girl right away. She was easy to get along with.

The attraction was mutual. They spent nights in Ilya’s apartment fooling around playfully for hours on musty sheets, and in the afternoons they set out to beg on the street. Ilya played the guitar and sang. At his side, her eyes still swollen from the night, Oksana danced in her bare feet with relish.

The sun rises, the sun sets,
It’s dark in my prison cell.
Day and night my window
Is watched by a sentinel.
Guard if you like,
I won’t run away,
I want to be free,
But I can’t break my chains.
O chains, my chains,
Watchmen of iron,
I can’t break you, I can’t smash you,
Without a knife of steel.
Black raven, black raven,
Circling above,
You won’t get your catch,
For I’m still alive.

A large crowd gathered around Ilya and Oksana. A strange couple, but they were interesting. There was something charming about them.

“Listen, that guy’s song isn’t bad at all. A lot like Vysotsky, isn’t it?”