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The
Brownstone Journal >>
Issues >> Vol.
IX Spring 2000
A Life for the Czar By Viktor Pelevin
Julia Gutin (CAS XX) is a senior studying
Hispanic and European Comparative literature and working at
Partisan Review. She would like to thank Professor Hallie White
and Professor Rosanna Warren for encouragement and support in
this project.
Victor Pelevin is one of Russia’s most well-known
authors of today. His unusual style and his themes evoke both
laughter and disturbing reflections. This story is the sixth
chapter of Pelevin’s novel The Life of Insects.
It was hard to sat how many days Marina spent extending the
burrow and digging out the second cell. A day can only exist
where the sun rises and sets, but Marina lived and worked in
complete darkness. At first she moved around by touch, but after
a while she realized that she was able to see pretty well in
the dark. She realized it unexpectedly, when a wide bed made
of hay, covered by the curtain stolen at the resort, stood ready
in the middle of the main cell. Marina thought that there should
definitely be a basket with flowers by the bed, just like in
the film, and then noticed the trophy plywood box in the corner.
She looked around and realized she could see the rest, too:
the bed, the storage space in the floor where she had placed
the groceries she found at the market and her own appendages;
all of this was colorless, a little blurry, but discernible
enough.
“It must be,” Marina thought, “that I was able to see in the
dark the whole time. It's just that I wasn't paying attention.”
She put the box near the bed, shoved a handful of straw inside,
and gave it the shape of a bouquet as best she could. Standing
back, she looked around with pleasure at the resulting interior,
then approached the bed and dove under the curtain.
Something was missing. After a few minutes of vexation Marina
realized what the problem was. Pulling over the purse that lay
on the floor toward herself, she took out the sleek black sunglasses
and stuck them on her nose. Now the only thing left was to wait
for the phone call. There was no telephone in Marina’s burrow,
but this did not bother her too much–she knew that in one way
on another the phone call would follow, because back then, on
that long-ago sun-shining morning by the boardwalk, life gave
her its honest pledge.
It was warm and comfortable under the curtain, but a little
boring. At first Marina thought about all kinds of things, and
then she fell into a stupor.
She was awakened by a noise coming from behind the wall. Marina
was sure it came directly from behind the wall--she had already
gotten used to sounds that reached her from above (voices, footsteps,
and the roar of the engine of the car driving out of the garage),
and automatically filtered them out so that they did not disturb
her sleep at all. But this sound was different--somebody was
definitely digging behind the wall. Marina even heard the clunking
of the shovel against the rocks which had given her so much
trouble in the past. The noise behind the wall would sometimes
fade, but then would return, maybe even louder than before,
and Marina would calm down. Sometimes a song would drift in
from behind the wall, but Marina could not pick out the words.
It was clear only that the singer was a man and the melody seemed
to be “Moscow Nights,” but il was impossible to say for sure.
Gradually an assurance crystallized inside Marina that the passage
being dug beyond the wall was directed specifically towards
her, and she even guessed who it might be, but, out of prudence,
was afraid to think about it until the very end. Jumping off
the bed, she would run up and cling to the wall, pressing her
ear against it. Then she would rush back and hide under the
curtain. Whenever the noise abated, Marina was in turmoil.
“Suppose,” she would think, “he will miss and dig out the passage
not to me, but to that filthy bitch?”
She kept remembering the female frown the marketplace, and her
fists would furiously grasp the hay.
“And the filthy bitch,” Marina would think further, “will go
and say that she is I. And he will believe her... He is so silly...”
Such baseness total her breath away, and she imagined what she
would do to the bitch if she were to encounter her somewhere.
A long time passed: finally, the wall behind which somebody
was digging began lo shake a little, and earth tumbled from
it onto the floor. Marina looked around her cell for one last
time–everything seemed to be in order–and bolted under the curtain.
On the other side, someone was banging at the wall with something
heavy, and Marina did not even have time to adjust the glasses
on her nose before the wall collapsed.
A boot emerged from the hole. It shifted, poked at the ground
several times to widen the entrance, and disappeared; then a
heavyset face pushed through the hole. Marina recognized it
instantly. It was him, or almost him, except he had red hair
instead of black, and instead of a suede coat, he was wearing
a snow-covered army overcoat with the lapels of a major. Carefully,
so as not to smudge himself with dirt, hc forced his way through
the opening, and Marina noticed a heavy black accordion case
hanging on his chest.
“Good day to you,” the enamor said, took off his accordion,
closed the safety latch and lowered it to the floor. “Bored?”
Everything inside Marina everything contracted, but she found
the strength to elegantly raise her sunglasses and glance at
the major with cold interest.
“Have we met?” she asked.
“We will,” said the major, approaching the bed. His strong hands
grabbed the edge of the curtain that hung over the pile of hay...
“You cannot imagine, Nikolai, what animals live around here,”
Marina said, pressing herself to the cold and furry little heap
that lay beside her. “Like, for instance, I went to the market
the other day to get groceries. And they almost killed me. I
barely made it home alive. Nikolai, are you asleep?”
Nikolai did not answer and Marina turned over onto her back
to stare at the earthen ceiling. She was sleepy. Soon it began
to seem that the ceiling over her head had disappeared, and
the stars projected in its place. One of the little stars winked
and crawled along the ceiling. Remembering the board and its
faces of children with a sun-faded future. Marina made a wish.
“I myself am an army man,” Nikolai was saying, “a major. I
live and labor in the town of Magadan. But the most important
thing in my life is music. So if you like music, we can surely
develop spiritual closeness...”
Marina opened her eyes. Around her, as usual, there was darkness,
but she knew that it was already morning, the only morning that
could ever occur underground.
“You, Marina,” continued Nikolai, paying careful attention to
his boots that stood near the bed, “soon you will be so fat
that you won't be able to go out. In the evenings in Magadan
there a million different diversions, so tonight I suggest we
go to the opera.”
“All right,” said Marina, and her heart contracted with pleasure,
“but make it something original.”
Instead of answering, Nikolai gave her two small pieces of paper.
“Magadan Army Opera House of the October Revolution,'' read
Marina, and turned over the ticket to see an inscription, stamped
in blue: “A Life for the Czar.”
“But this is... in Magadan,” she said.
Nikolai motioned with his head toward the opening he had made,
and Marina thought she felt a cold draft.
Before evening, Nikolai climbed on top of Marina a few more
times; focusing on the sensations produced by a cold damp body
crawling around on top of her, she asked herself with puzzlement
– could this be it, could this be what they compose such beautiful
songs about in France? Sometimes Nikolai would stop and take
up telling stories about his job, his duties and comrades; soon
Marina already knew them all by name and rank. When Nikolai
got off her, he would immediately start doing chores around
the house. At first he expanded the storage space for food,
then busied himself with sealing off the exit that led to the
garages. Marina felt unwarranted melancholy.
“What did you do that for?” she asked from the bed.
“It's windy,” Nikolai said. “There's a draft.”
“But how are we going to climb out?”
Again Nikolai motioned with his head toward the hole from which
he had emerged a few hours ago. Before evening he managed to
give it the form of a square, and even wove a small straw rug
that he placed on the floor in front of it.
Finally Nikolai looked at his watch and said: “Time to go.”
Marina climbed out of bed and then remembered that she had absolutely
nothing to wear.
“Why don't you wrap yourself in the curtain,” advised Nikolai
when she explained her problem to him, “nowadays everybody walks
around like that.”
Marina followed his advice, and it didn't turn out half bad.
Nikolai pulled on his boots, put on his overcoat, hung the accordion
over his shoulder, and dove back inside the black hole in the
wall; Marina followed. Beyond the hole was a long crooked tunnel
that ended in a narrow shaft leading upward; weak bluish light
and occasional snowflakes fell down onto the earthen floor.
Nikolai got out and extended his hand to Marina. Holding her
curtain in place around her neck, Marina followed him.
They found themselves in a semi-dark courtyard that led to the
wide snow-covered boardwalk. The white plain of the frozen sea,
looking like a giant rink covered with snow, outstretched beyond
the parapet. The boardwalk was lit by a couple of street lamps;
pedestrians walked by–mostly officers armed with accordions;
some led their wives, wrapped in curtains, by the arm: as soon
as she saw them, Marina felt great relief. All the officers'
wives were barefoot like herself, and Marina calmed down completely.
She took Nikolai’s arm and walked down the streets admiring
the falling snow.
The theater turned out to be a majestic gray building with columns
that looked very much like the main building of the resort.
Marina remembered the southern night, the stars in the sky and
the roar of the sea, and shook her head – all of it seemed so
distant and unreal. But the theater really did look like the
building near which she had once dug out her burrow. Even the
sculpted sheaves that decollated its entrance were the same,
only now most of them were covered by a wide red banner with
a white inscription:
ANT IS TO ANT – BEETLE, CRICKET
AND DRAGONFLY
Inside the crowded theater, the atmosphere was festive, dignified,
and officious – full of the hellish sounds of the instruments
being tuned. Officers' wives gave Marina's curtain appraising
looks, and Marina realized with satisfaction that her curtain
was not any worse than anyone else's. True, she saw curtains
that were better–for example, the wife of one of the generals
wore a magenta velvet tapestry, with golden tassels, but on
the other hand, that wife was old and wrinkled. Nikolai introduced
Marina to a few of his friends–other red-haired majors– and
judging by the misty inviting looks they gave her, Marina understood
she made quite an impression.
An elderly general, with mandibles blunted by time, stopped
not far from Marina, and looked at her with an agreeable smile.
Marina thought that she must speak with him about art.
“Tell me,” she asked, “do you like French films?”
“No,” answered the general drily, in military fashion. “I don't
like French films. I like the art of director Serge Solovyov,
especially the part when they hit him over the head with a brick
and he falls of the chair to the floor.”
At this point Marina noticed that what she took to be an agreeable
smile was really the result of paralysis of the facial muscles,
and the general was looking at her not at all agreeably, but
rather a little bit fearfully.
“And your husband,” added the general, moving off to the side
and looking askance at Nikolai, “is a good promising officer.”
“Glad to serve the Magadan Anthill!” answered Nikolai, stretched
at attention, and pinching Marina's leg so that she wouldn't
say anything else.
Marina expected him to yell at her, but he did not say anything.
The little bell rang, and everyone headed to the auditorium.
Nikolai and Marina's seats were not very good: the stage was
at a sharp angle, and anything that took place upstage was hard
to see; when the play began, Marina could not get the gist of
what was going on. Nikolai leaned toward her and in a whisper
began to explain that the large black ants attacked the anthill
of the reds, and one old ant, who promised to lead them to the
cell where the queen lay and the eggs were stored, instead led
them into the cave of the ant lion. Somebody in the back told
Nikolai to shush and he fell silent, but Marina had already
figured out what was going on.
For most of the first act, all she could do was listen, but
at least when the most important moment arrived and only the
old ant and the ant lion remained on stage, Marina was able
to see everything perfectly well. The ant lion was a ruddy man
with a shaved head who wore a 1920's army uniform and medals
on his chest. He sat on a chair, obviously bored, and slapped
the chair's leg with his gray fur hat, waiting for the old ant
to finish his aria. Finally the old ant fell silent and crawled
upstage. Then the ant lion got up and slowly walked after him.
The orchestra began to play, somber and frightening, and a gasp
of horror passed over the auditorium, but Marina could no longer
see anything. She looked at the heavy green stage curtain and
dreamt of how Nikolai would become a general and would procure
the same curtain for her.
When the play ended, Nikolai suggested that they go to the refreshment
stand to have champagne. Marina agreed happily--she remembered
that in the film the big-faced man and his women drank champagne
from tall narrow glasses all the time. And then it happened.
On the empty staircase covered with wide red carpet, Nikolai
tripped, lost his balance, and fell, hitting the back of his
head against the steps. He instantly lost consciousness and
began wiggling his legs, and a look of disgust appeared on his
face. Marina tried to help him up, but Nikolai was too heavy,
and Marina rushed down to call for help. Luckily, on the next
landing she bumped into two majors that Nikolai had introduced
to her as his friends before the show. They were smoking in
silence, waiting for their turn at the bar. Having listened
to Marina, they dropped their cigarettes and hurried after her.
Nikolai lay in the same position and wiggled his legs the same
way; except now his arms were also moving involuntarily. They
executed graceful movements to the sides, as if stretching and
squeezing an accordion, but what really frightened Marina was
that Nikolai was quietly singing “Moscow Nights.”
One of the majors crouched near Nikolai, took his wrist and
felt his pulse, while the other began to count off time on his
watch. After a minute they exchanged glances and the one feeling
the pulse (with his free hand Nikolai continued playing on his
invisible accordion) shook his head.
Both majors looked at Marina, and for the first time she noticed
the scary mandibles moving under their noses. Actually, both
Nikolai and she herself had the same ones, but she had never
paid any attention to them before. Marina’s eyes filled with
tears; through the muddy film she saw a large dark object offered
to her; she stuck out her hands and accepted the accordion in
its case. It was as if she were paralyzed. She watched, unconcerned,
as the first major lifted Nikolai's leg, and the second, working
quickly with his jaws, chewed it off at the groin along with
the khaki pant, the thin red stripe on the side of the pant
shaking to the beat of the movement of his jaws. While he was
chewing off the second leg, a few more majors appeared; they
put their champagne glasses on the floor, and the work moved
quickly. Nikolai stopped playing on the invisible accordion
only when one of the recently arrived men began to chew off
his head and, it seems, bit through the nerve. Another major
brought a pile of “Magadan Ant” newspapers and rolled up Nikolai’s
sawed off extremities inside them. After that, Marina's memory
went blank.
She came to her senses on the street, cold snowflakes stinging
her face. The theater was far behind; in one hand Marina held
the accordion case and in the other–two elongated and heavy
packages, compactly wrapped in several layers of newspaper.
Somehow she reached the place where the theater excursion had
begun a couple of hours earlier. She looked around and saw two
rusty garages standing at an angle to each other in the rear
of the snow-covered backyard. Between the garages, underneath
a thin layer of fresh snow, she discerned a round cavity and
the recent tracks. Marina shoved her hand inside the snow, took
off the cover -- the side of a cardboard box from unfiltered
cigarettes “North,” and descended into the burrow.
Inside, it was dark and quiet. Marina placed the packages into
the snow that had blown inside, and crawled to sleep. Only when
she climbed up onto the hay did she remember what had occurred
at the theater after they had almost finished carving up Nikolai.
Unable to watch, she had turned her face and saw on the staircase
covered with a rug, on the arm of a large red-haired lieutenant
in shiny boots, the ugly piece of trash from the marketplace
descending with a triumphant look, wrapped in a lemon-colored
tapestry with bunches of violet grapes. TBJ
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