Free Day of the Oprichnik by Vladimir Sorokin­ Page B

along with the bloodstream. A trickle of blood shoots out in a fine fountain from a tiny hole. I press on my vein, throw my head back on the soft headrest, and close my eyes. I feel the golden sterlet swimming inside me, feel how it moves up along my vein, like it does in spring, striving to reach the spawning grounds at the headwaters of Mother Volga. Up, up, and farther upward! The golden sterlet has a destination to reach—my brain. My brain waits immobile in exalted anticipation: the sterlet-enchantress will deposit her heavenly caviar in my gray matter. Swim, oh swim, little fish of gold, rush unimpeded, spray your golden caviar into my tired brain, and may those roe-berries hatch into Worlds Grand, Sublime, Stupendous. May my brain rise from its slumber.

 
    I count aloud with dry, chapped lips:
    One.
    Two.
    Three…
    Ah, how my eyes they opened wide,
    That’s right, my eyes, yellow eyelet eyes,
    Yellow eyelet eyes on my head, my crown,
    On my crown, on my head so mighty.
    And my crown—o this lovely head of mine,
    Sits atop a neck that’s long, it is, and strong,
    Strong and long it is, and serpentine,
    Clad in serpents’ scales it is,
    And sitting by this fabled head of mine,
    Are six heads fine, and they do writhe, they do,
    They twist and coil, and wink and blink
    Their golden eyelet yellow eyes, they do.
    They wink and bicker,
    They spit and sputter,
    Their jaws are red, so scarlet, so marvelous,
    Gums of pink and teeth so sharp,
    An acrid smoke pours from these jaws, it does,
    This smoke rolls out and fire flares,
    To bellowing and a mighty roar.
    And for every head there is a name that’s his,
    A name that’s sworn in brotherhood.
    The first head is nicknamed Batya,
    The next is called Komiaga,
    The third is nicknamed Shelet,
    The fourth goes by Samosya,
    The fifth is called Yerokha,
    The sixth is called Mokry,
    The seventh is simply Pravda.
    But all of us, seven-headed us,
    I call Gorynych the Terrible—
    The fire-breathing Dragon Ruinator.
    And all seven heads sit on a torso,
    A wide and broad, a stocky one.
    On a stocky trunk, on a weighty one,
    With a heavy tail, a sinuous one.
    And that torso so exemplary
    Is carried by legs, two thickset ones,
    Both stout and thickset mighty ones,
    With claws that stab the brittle earth, they do.
    On the sides of the thickset trunk you see
    Two webbed wings stretch and grow,
    Webbed are they and sinewy,
    Strong, and flapping forcefully.
    They sweep the air most gloriously,
    Tense and taut, they rise, they do.
    Wrench away from our mother earth,
    We rise right there, above our native land,
    Above the earth, the whole Russian land,
    And fly through the sky, the blue sky we do
    Fly easily, wherever we want to go.
    And the seventh head asks:
    “Where are we flying, where does our path lead?”
    And the sixth head asks:
    “What lands are in our plans today?”
    And the fifth head asks:
    “Must we fly far, through the sky today?”
    And the fourth head asks:
    “Where should we turn our valiant wings today?”
    And the third head asks:
    “Which winds will wag our tails today?”
    And the second head asks:
    “What lands do we set our sights upon?”
    Then the first head, the head of heads,
    The greatest of all, replies to them:
    “We’ll fly right across the sky, we will,
    Straight across the sky so blue,
    Straight west to a land far away we will,
    To a land far away, and wealthy, too,
    A land beyond the crash of the ocean blue,
    A far-flung land, yes, one that’s flourishing,
    Rich with gold and silver treasure nourishing.
    In that far-off country towers stand,
    Towers high and higher stand,
    Tall, pointy and sharp they are,
    Mercilessly buttressing the sky so blue,
    And in the towers brazen people live,
    Brazen and dishonest they live, they do,
    They live with no fear of God they do,
    These godless people,
    They wallow in filthy sin, they do.
    They wallow and enjoy themselves,
    Mocking all that’s sacred, all that’s holy, too,
    Mocking, jeering, and sneering