The Sugar Kremlin, page 7
When the liquid clock in Sevastyanov’s office poured out 18:00, he stood up from the desk, stretched, and yawned:
“O-a-a-a-a . . . Generally speaking, Vitya, you must needs have a look around Moscow. That’s the first thing. And you must needs look for the intestines. That’s the second thing.”
“Clear as clear can be.” Shmulevich nodded as he stood up. “And I must needs look among the bibliophiles.”
“Look among the bibliophiles. That’s right!” Sevastyanov repeated didactically. “Alright, enough for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
They shook hands and Shmulevich left.
Sevastyanov lulled his smart machine, shook out the overflowing ashtray into the trash, took his black overcoat, blue scarf, and winter-uniform shapka out from his locker, put them on, fastened his mobilov to his belt, then left the office.
It was dank, dark, and slushy on Lubyanka Square. The first wet snow was falling.
“October 22 . . . it’s much too early for snow . . . ” Sevastyanov thought as he walked over to his car. He put his palm to the door and it squeaked, then opened. He reached into his left pocket for his gloves and, instead of them, found a lump of paper. He pulled it out, unfolded it. And smiled: in blue scratch paper lay a small, two-headed sugar eagle, broken off of the tower of a Sugar Kremlin by Sevastyanov’s daughter after she’d received it during Christmas on Red Square. According to family tradition, Sevastyanov’s daughter always broke the two-headed eagles, or “lil’ eagles” as she called them, off of the towers of the Kremlin and gave them to her dad. There were seven of them in all. This last one had been lying in wait in the left pocket of the captain’s overcoat since winter. Sevastyanov thought of the whitish-pink bows in his daughter’s short pigtails, her sharpish little bird’s nose, and her lively black eyes. He laid the eagle onto his tongue, took thick leather gloves out of his right pocket, got into his car, started the engine, rolled out of the parking lot, and unhurriedly drove through the evening streets of Moscow.
‘Yeah . . . winter is here . . . ’ he thought, sucking at the eagle.
“What would you care to listen to, Nikolai Ilyich?” the car asked.
“Something old that’s to my liking . . . ” Sevastyanov answered distractedly.
The car thought for three seconds, then a band began to play suavely and, suddenly, a pleasant masculine baritone, well-known to him since his childhood, began to sing:
While the country soundly sleeps,
they don’t sleep,
they don’t sleep,
they don’t sleep,
oh, those middle-rank Chekists.
All across the country, they fight
their invisible war—
for honest labor, for world shelter,
for the memory of fathers and grandfathers,
for the quiet of our native fields,
for daughters and for mothers.
And every hour, they go off into battle
to fight for me and you . . .
This was a famous song, a throwback to a distant 2008, when Kolya Sevastyanov, having successfully graduated from PS120 in Moscow, entered the Economics Department of Moscow State University, rode the subway and jitneys, had dreads during his first year, then shaved his head to the skin, wore enormous pants, made love with Sonya at her parents’ dacha in Krekshino, read Elizarov and Beigbeder, listened to Marc Ribot and Gogol Bordello, smoked weed and drank Arsenalnoe beer, watched Vyrypaev and Almodovar, played volleyball and Mortal Kombat, and went to V-2 with Olesya once a month.
Back then, he was living with his mom on Vernadsky Prospect, his parents had separated and his mom worked as an accountant at Shatura, a furniture store, his father, having married someone the same age as Kolya, paid him and his mother 1,500 dollars a month, his mother would put one-dollar bills in the corners of their two-bedroom apartment “to get the money flowing,” his grandma sent cured muksun and nelma from Tyumen, his rich-ass friend Alik Muhammedov gave him a dope Kopa bike for his birthday, Sonya had a successful abortion, Kolya had a Marantz stereo, someone very beautifully and rakishly wrote “Never fuck you again!” in English in the entrance to his building, there was a clumsy black inscription on the garages beneath his windows that read “Oligarchs in the Kremlin!”, Kolya’s little sister got the flu, was lying in bed with a high fever, was delirious, and heard a song—“remember the golden words, my son / bread is the key to everything, bread is the key”—and became terribly afraid, was weeping and saying that everyone’s bread was filled with keys now, people and things and books and televisions and cats and pillows—everything was filled with keys, everyone’s heads were filled keys, and when they opened their terrible mouths, keys spilled forth . . .
Sevastyanov was driving slowly in a stream of cars, recollecting as he sucked at the two-headed eagle. The singer sang his song in a pleasant, calm, and courageous voice. Sevastyanov could remember this singer as well—he had a smooth, fleshy face, as if it were made of rubber, and wore a black wig. But he’d forgotten his name a long time ago. Perhaps it was also this singer who, in his time, long ago, had also sung about bread being the key to everything.
“Bread is the key to everything . . . ” Sevastyanov pronounced and smiled.
And the whole country is grateful,
oh, to those middle-rank Chekists.
The song ended.
The sugared eagle on Sevastyanov’s tongue cracked pleasantly and broke into three pieces.
1. Russian Secret Order.
A DREAM
ON THE NINTH OF February, two thousand and twenty-eight years after the Birth of Christ, the Sovereigness fell asleep at 6:17 am (Moscow time) in the pink bedchamber of her Kremlin manor house. And had a dream:
Naked, but also wearing shoes with very thin high heels, she walks into the Kremlin through the Spassky Gates. It is a warm, sunny day, a hot day even. The Kremlin is perfectly illuminated. It shines with such whiteness in the sun that the Sovereigness is blinded. But this intense radiance is extremely pleasant: It invigorates her and fills her body with joy. The Sovereigness feels very good. In the Kremlin, everything is so, so white. Not just the walls and the buildings, but the familiar cobblestones beneath her feet are also white, sparkling and shimmering in the sun. The cobblestones squeak beneath the Sovereigness’s heels, and she continues to walk, feeling herself grow younger with every step she takes, her body filling up with strength and health. She feels her breasts sway with every step, tightening up, becoming more elastic and youthful. She touches her bosom, feeling how her nipples harden wonderfully with each new step. Each step gives her more and more pleasure. The feeling of youth’s return fills her body with inexpressible delight. The Sovereigness finds it very pleasant to walk, walk, walk through the empty, white Kremlin, drenched as it is with hot sunlight. She understands that the Kremlin is entirely empty. There’s no one here: no sentries, no archers, no Kremlin regiment in the barracks, no boyars, no bursars, no functionaries of any rank, no attendants of bedchambers, no stewards, no groomsmen, no stable keepers, no houndsmen, no executioners, no watchmen, no janitors, no porters, no doormen, no servants, no jesters, no spongers, no henchmen, no priests, no monks, no sextons, no deacons, no lectors, no lectors’ assistants, and not even the usual beggars on the blinding parvis of the cathedral square. The Sovereigness walks through the Kremlin, surveying its contours and touching herself. Her heart beats joyfully . . . deafeningly . . . It feels so good that she moans with joy at every step. Her moans become louder and louder and the Sovereigness begins to emit sharp, enthusiastic sounds. Echoing off of the dazzlingly white Kremlin walls, her cries return to her in the form of a bizarre echo. She screams and squeals even more violently. And suddenly discovers an unexpected new possibility within herself, a wondrous gift that has just awoken in her body: her rejuvenated, tightened throat can sing. Oh and how it can sing! Not simply, like everyone else sings, but mightily, high and clean, ably reaching any note. The Sovereigness tries out her rejuvenated throat, forcing it to make the most bizarre of sounds. Her throat obeys her utterly. Her voice rings through the Kremlin. The strength and purity of her own voice shocks her. She weeps with joy, but quickly comes to her senses, filled with pride and awareness of her own greatness. Before this, she didn’t like singing and nor could she, because of which she doesn’t know all of the words to any song or Russian poem set to music. She’d loved it when others sang, though—especially young, handsome men in military uniforms. Treading along the white paving stones, the Sovereigness recalls fragments of songs, operatic arias, and poems set to music, then sings them at the top of her lungs, shaking the walls of the Kremlin with the power and purity of her voice. A fragment of one song gets stuck in her throat for a long time and she begins to sing it continuously, trying on different styles as she does:
Don’t leave, stay with me,
’Tis so cozy and bright here,
With kisses I’ll cover thee,
Thy lips, brow, and ears.
Singing these words, she walks and walks through the white Kremlin, becoming younger and more joyful, she sees great Russian artifacts—the Tsar Bell and the Tsar Cannon—she walks past the Tsar Bell, touching its shining white surface, the Tsar Bell resounds, harmonizing with her song, and the Sovereigness’s voice hums and rings inside of the Tsar Bell. She walks further along and notices that even the bluish Kremlin fir trees have become blindingly white, she walks over to them, touches the solid, sparklingly white surface of a fir tree’s trimmed paw, then walks over to the Tsar Cannon, sings, sings, and sings, and the enormous maw of the Tsar Cannon responds to her, rings out, and roars forth loud as loud can be. She places her rejuvenated hands onto the white Tsar Cannon and suddenly realizes with great clarity that everything in the Kremlin—the walls, the cathedrals, the Sovereign’s manors, the cobblestones, the fir trees, and the Tsar Cannon—is made from especially, from unbelievably pure pressed cocaine. It is precisely this unusual, this, as it were, celestial cocaine that has rejuvenated her body. She licks the Tsar Cannon, sensing all of the charming might of this substance, and her heart feels as if it might beat right out of her ribcage. The Sovereigness begins to tremble with arousal, arousal that is rising like a wave. Her slender young legs tremble, her elastic breasts sway, and her breath expands her chest to the point of breaking. She licks and licks the cannon, her legs writhe, her tongue goes sweetly numb, tears flow forth from her eyes, her hands touch her own body, youthfully and enchantedly touch her body, she touches her body with delight, all of its twists, turns, all of its protrusions and elongations, she strokes her warm, silky skin, cherishing its every indentation, then she squeezes her breasts and becomes even more intoxicated. She wants to cum so badly, clinging as she is to this divine substance, but the protrusions of the Tsar Cannon are stiff and uncomfortable. She notices a pyramid of white cannonballs nearby, three balls on the bottom and one on top, enormous balls that the Tsar Cannon used to fire long, long ago. Trembling with impatience, she climbs onto this pyramid, sits down on the topmost ball, squeezes her legs around it, pressing her delightful shaved groin to the sparkling white ball, cool to the touch, grabs onto this enormous ball with her hands, presses herself to it tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter—then she cums.
The Sovereigness woke up.
Opened her tear-filled eyes. A handmaiden was standing next to her bed.
“What?” the Sovereigness asked hoarsely, lifting up her head, then, with a heavy sigh, tumbling back onto the pillows.
The handmaiden silently wiped the Sovereigness’s eyes with a handkerchief.
“Och . . . my God . . . ” the Sovereigness pronounced, breathing heavily. “Get it off of me.”
The handmaiden pulled the downy duvet off of her. The Sovereign lay there in a semitranslucent pink nightgown, the same color as the room. The Italian greyhound that had been sleeping at her feet got up, yawned, shook itself, wagged its thick tail, and, stretching out, walked across the bed toward its mistress’s face. The Sovereigness still lay there breathing heavily. Her large breasts swayed in time with her breath. The greyhound walked up to her face and began to lick at her nose and lips.
“Go away . . . ” the Sovereigness gave the dog a shove.
The greyhound leapt off of the bed and ran through the open door leading into the bathroom. The Sovereigness turned over, still breathing heavily, and tried to sit up, so the handmaiden grabbed hold of her chubby white arm, helping her and placing pink silk pillows behind her back.
The Sovereigness sat up and leaned back against the mound of pillows. She spread her full white legs, lifted up the lace-embroidered hem of her nightgown, ran her hand along her smoothly shaved groin, and brought it up to her face. Her palm was wet. The Sovereigness showed her hand to the handmaiden:
“There.”
The handmaiden mournfully shook her fair, neatly combed head of hair, took hold of the Sovereigness’s hand, and began to delicately wipe off her palm with a handkerchief.
“And it’s all because this is already the third night I’m sleeping alone.”
The handmaiden shook her head sympathetically.
“O-o-o-och!” The Sovereigness sighed loudly and looked up at the mural on the ceiling.
In that mural, chubby Cupids were fighting for someone’s flaming heart in the clouds.
The Italian greyhound ran back into the bedroom, jumped up onto the bed, and began to lap at its mistress. The Sovereigness embraced it, pressing it to her swaying chest:
“Get me some cognac.”
The handmaiden quickly filled a glass sitting on a carved table from a crystal decanter, brought it over along with a golden dish with pineapple that had already been sliced and sprinkled over with powdered sugar. The Sovereigness drank the liquor in a single gulp, put a piece of pineapple into her mouth, then set to chewing, smacking her full lips as she did. The handmaiden stood there with the tray, looking at her mistress with restrained adoration.
“Give me . . . ” The Sovereigness put the empty glass back onto the tray.
“Olives?” the handmaiden asked.
“No, no . . . the . . . ” The handmaiden took another piece of pineapple and rummaged through the bedroom with her moist black eyes.
“Dost thou desire tobacco to sniff?”
“No, no. I mean . . . the . . . !”
“The mobilov?”
“Yes. Dial up Komyaga for me.”
The handmaiden took the golden mobilov in the shape of a fish with large emerald eyes from the tray and dialed. The mobilov emitted an iridescent chime. The fish let forth a hologram from its mouth: Komyaga’s sleek, preoccupied face in the cabin of his Merstallion. His hands on the wheel, Komyaga bowed his head with its curled, gilded forelock:
“Good day, oh Sovereigness.”
“Where’re you?” the Sovereigness asked, chewing the pineapple.
“I’ve only just flown in from Tyumen, oh Sovereigness. I’m driving along the Kiev Tract.”
“Fly here. Like a good little fly.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The hologram disappeared.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” Burping, the Sovereigness looked at her handmaiden.
“’Tis time, oh Sovereigness.” she replied with quiet delight.
“It’s time! It’s time!” The Sovereigness turned around, shedding the greyhound from her chest.
The handmaiden presented her arm, the Sovereigness leaned onto it and stood up. Shook the thick black rings of hair scattered across her shoulders. Stretched out her plump body, moaned, grimaced, then grabbed at her waist. Stepped over to the curtained window, touched the pink curtains with a single finger. The curtains parted obediently.
Through the window, the Sovereigness saw the square with its bluish fir trees covered in snow, the Cathedral of the Archangel, part of the cathedral square with its beggars and pigeons, archers in red overcoats with luminous blue halberds, sentries with maces, begging monks with iron bags for food offerings, and the holy fool Savoska with a cudgel. A little ways off, around the white corner of the Cathedral of the Assumption, she could see the black cast iron of the Tsar Cannon. Next to it, against a background of white snow, were the black cannonballs. The Sovereigness remembered the smooth white chill of the cannonball and stroked her warm belly with her palm.
“It’s time,” she pronounced almost inaudibly, then clicked her fingernail against the window’s bulletproof glass.
CHOW TIME
A LOUD, HARSHLY IRIDESCENT signal, irritating in its blind mercilessness and repulsive to the human ear, came forth from the round gray loudspeaker that had been heated up by the midday sun and frightened away the dragonflies that had landed on it and were already mating, then spread through the hot July air of Eastern Siberia, awakening the eternal silence of hills and sky, drowning out the monotonous sounds of working masons, the creak of pulleys, the mumbling of the brigadier, the humming of midges kept out of the working area by an ultrasonic perimeter, sailed toward hills sparsely covered with coniferous trees, bounced off of them, then immediately returned, only to bounce off of a second surface—that of the Wall being erected, a smooth white stripe crawling through the hills and disappearing behind them into the uneven blue horizon.
“Ptooey, ye damned Kikimora . . . why don’t ye just . . . ” San Sanych wiped off his damp forehead, tried to spit in the direction of the column with the piercing speaker atop it, but there turned out to be no spit in his dry mouth.
He pulled a narrow plastic bottle of water out of the knee pocket of his boilersuit, pushed the soft cork of self-generating rubber out of the bottle, and greedily put it to his dry lips. The warm water gurgled into his throat, his Adam’s apple covered over in gray bristles twitching in a way that seemed almost painful.
“Break time, oh Orthodox brothers!” The strapping, stooped, and narrow-shouldered Savoska put his trowel into a plastic tub of mortar, straightened up with a moan, rubbed at his lower back, then stretched out on the scaffolding. “Ain’t that nice!”
