Read Day of the Oprichnik for Free Online

has watched over Moscow with the Ever-Watchful Eye of the State; he watches us, the heirs of the oprichniks’ Great Work. He watches silently.
    We drive up to the left gates; Batya honks. The gates open, and we enter the inner courtyard, park, and get out of our Mercedovs. We enter the Secret Department. Each time I walk under its gray marble arches, with their torches and stern crosses, my heart skips and then starts to beat differently. It’s an out-of-the-ordinary, special beat. The beat of the state’s Secret Work.
    A dashing, fit lieutenant in a light blue uniform greets us and salutes. He accompanies us to the elevators, which carry us to the topmost floor, to the office of Terenty Bogdanovich Buturlin, the head of the Secret Department, a prince, and a close friend of His Majesty. We enter the office—first Batya, then the rest of us. Buturlin greets us. He and Batya shake hands; we bow to our waists. Buturlin’s expression is serious. He shows Batya to a chair, and sits down across from him. We stand behind Batya. The head of the Secret Department has a menacing face. Terenty Bogdanovich is no joker. He loves to monitor important, complex, critical state affairs, to uncover and undermine conspiracies, catch traitors and spies, smash subversive plots. He sits silently, looking at us, fingering his carved bone beads. Then he says one word:
    “Pasquinade.”
    Batya waits. We freeze and don’t even breathe. Buturlin looks at us searchingly, and adds:
    “On His Majesty’s family.”
    Batya turns in the leather armchair, frowns, and cracks his large knuckles. We stand absolutely still. Buturlin gives a command, and the blinds on the office windows are lowered. A kind of twilight fills the room. The head of the Secret Department gives another command. Words are pulled up from the Russian Network; they hang in the dim light. The letters are iridescent, burning in the dark:
    by Well-Meaning Anonymous
WEREWOLF AT A FIRE
    Firemen are looking,
    The police are looking,
    Even priests are looking
    Through our capital city.
    They’re seeking a Count,
    Whom they haven’t yet found,
    Nor ever have seen,
    A Count round about age thirty-three.
    Of medium height,
    Pensive and glum,
    He’s smartly attired,
    In tails and cummerbund.
    Cut in the signet ring
    On his finger,
    A hedgehog of diamond gleams and glims,
    But not a whit more is known about him.
    Nowadays,
    Counts are oft
    Pensive and glum,
    Stylishly garbed,
    In tails and cummerbund.
    They adore the alluring
    Dazzle of diamonds,
    The dolce vita
    Is just waiting to find them.
    Who is he?
    Whencesoever?
    What manner of beast
    The count whom they seek
    In our
    Capital city?
    What hath he done,
    This chic aristocrat?
    Here’s what Moscow’s salons
    Say to that!
    Once, a Rolls-Royce
    Wound its way,
    All round Moscow.
    A Count most forlorn,
    Who resembled an owl,
    Rode in it alone.
    Sullenly squinting, morosely he yawned,
    While humming an air
    from a Wagner song.
    All of a sudden,
    In a glass ’cross the lane,
    The Count
    Spied a Marquess,
    Encircled by flame.
    A swarm of idlers,
    Crowded the pavement,
    The ancestral mansion
    Was fully ablaze.
    Gloating, the loafers
    Ogled fire and pitch,
    After all, such abodes
    Were just for the rich.
    Out of the cozy Rolls-Royce
    The Count raced.
    Ne’er a moment he wasted,
    He cut through the rabble,
    Of miserable swine,
    Making very good time,
    Then up, up, up,
    Up the drainpipe
    He climbed.
    The third floor,
    The fourth,
    The fifth…
    Then the last one,
    Engulfed by the fire.
    Out came piteous cries,
    Then moans growing fainter—
    Flames were now licking
    The balcony sides.
    Pale and quite naked,
    Framed by the window,
    The Marquess fluttered
    In fantastical plumes;
    Then a flare of the fire,
    ’Midst the dove-colored fumes,
    Did illumine her milky white breast
    On the pyre.
    His hands strong and lithe,
    The Count drew himself up,
    Then with all of his might,
    Slammed his brow
    ’Gainst the glass.
    It shattered; shards took