Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (44 page)

“Polina, I just can’t understand why you want to be a nun. I could understand if you were some kind of ugly freak, but you’re really beautiful, honestly you are. I suppose it’s all because of an unhappy love, right? Well, even so, even if it is, it’s still not worth it. Why lock yourself away in a convent, in a tiny little world, when the big world is so interesting? I could have stayed in Borisovo until I got old and never discovered who I really am. I used to think I was a coward, but you’ve no idea just how brave I turned out to be! Perhaps you think Magellan didn’t take me to the Arab village because I’m a woman? Nothing of the sort! There won’t be any shooting there, or else I would definitely have gone with them. What he said to me was: Malyutka, you’re the most sensible helper I have, the only one I can ask to do this. He does that sometimes—calls me Malish or Malyutka instead of Malke. Get it all back safe and sound, he said, and make sure those two blockheads, Coliseum and Shlomo, don’t water my horse straightaway, but walk it a bit first. And lay out the seeds to dry—they’re damp from the night dew.”

Pelagia felt a little guilty about exploiting this nice girl’s openness, but at the first opportunity—when Malke started telling her about how isolated the commune was—she asked casually, “Do you ever see any strangers?”

“Rarely. The Rothschild Jews think we’re insane atheists. Relations with the Arabs are bad. And as for the Circassians—you’ve seen for yourself!”

“Well, what about wandering pilgrims? And I’ve been told Palestine is absolutely full of itinerant preachers,” the nun said, rather clumsily turning the conversation in the required direction.

Malke broke into loud laughter. “There was one prophet. He was funny. And from Russia, as it happens. You remember Manuila, who was killed on the steamer? Or, as it turned it, it wasn’t him who was killed, but someone else—I’ll tell you all about that later. As soon as he got to the Holy Land, this Manuila started calling himself Emmanuel, to make himself sound grander.” She laughed again.

If she was laughing, it meant that nothing bad had happened to him. Pelagia’s heart suddenly felt less heavy. “Is it a long time since he was here?”

The girl began counting, bending down her short fingers. “Seven, no, eight days ago. Ah, yes, that was the night Polkan was killed.” Her merry laughter was suddenly replaced by a sob, then she sniffed and smiled again. “He died for Erets Israel too, Polkan did.”

“For whom?”

“For the Jewish state. Polkan was a dog who attached himself to us in Jaffa. He was terribly clever and brave, like a regimental dog. He was wonderful at keeping watch at night, we didn’t need any sentries. We could just tie him to the outside of the gate and no one would come anywhere near. He was long-haired, black and yellow, a little bit lame in one leg, and on his side …”

“And what about this prophet?” Polina Andreevna interrupted. She was not interested in a portrait of the deceased Polkan. “Where did he come from?”

“He knocked at the gate in the evening. We’d already finished work and we were sitting there singing songs. We opened up and saw this bearded peasant, wearing birch-bark sandals, with a stick. He was just standing there fondling Polkan’s ear, and the dog was wagging his tail. He didn’t even bark once, I couldn’t believe it. I suppose the prophet must have converted him to his own faith,” Malke laughed. “‘Good evening, good people,’ he said, ‘you sing well. Are you Russian, then?’ And we asked him: Who are you? One of Manuila’s Foundlings? Because he was wearing a loose robe with a blue belt, the same as they all wear. He said, ‘I am Emmanuel himself. I’m walking about, looking. I’ve been in Judea, and Samaria, and now I’ve come to Galilee. Will you let me in for the night?’ Well, why wouldn’t we? We let him in. I asked him: What’s going on, you were killed on the steamer. Have you risen from the dead, then? And he answered, ‘It wasn’t me they killed, but one of my
shelukhin
.

Polina Andreevna started. “What was that?”

“In ancient Aramaic,
shelukhin
means ‘apostles.’ When there are many, it’s
shelukhin;
when there’s only one, it’s
sheluakh
. Magellan told us that—he knows everything about Jewish history.”

“
Sheluyak,”
thought Pelagia, suddenly remembering. The peasants at Stroganovka had said that was what Manuila called his friend. “And what did Emmanuel tell you about the killing?”

“He said his
sheluakh
wanted to protect him, and that was why he died, but there is no need to protect him, because the Lord does that. And he started telling us about a miracle that had happened to him that morning. The way he tells his lies, you just can’t help listening. With his wide blue eyes, like some innocent angel!” Malke laughed again as she remembered. “‘When they threw me out of Zikhron-Yaakov,’ he said … The Jews who live in Zikhron-Yaakov are prosperous, they get money from Baron Rothschild. They don’t plow the land themselves, they hire the Arab fellahs … Anyway, the rich Jews threw Emmanuel out, they wouldn’t listen to him. He set off on foot along a valley in the mountains, and he was attacked by bandits.” The girl began lisping like a child, evidently imitating Manuila. “A vewy angwy man, waving a sword. I haven’t learned to speak Bedouin yet, I couldn’t expwain to him that I didn’t have anything. When he saw that for himself, he got even angwier and wanted to cut off my head with his sword. Chop it wight off. And he would have, because his nervous system was compwetewy unbawanced …’”

Malke dissolved into laughter.

“He actually said that—‘his nervous system was unbalanced’?” Pelagia asked in astonishment.

“Yes, the way he speaks is absolutely wonderful, I can’t really imitate it properly. Well, after that it was all like a fairy tale. The moment the bandit raised his sword to kill him, suddenly,
taram-taram!—
there was a peal of heavenly thunder. And the villain dropped down dead, with blood pouring out of his head. And there was no one anywhere awound there—just the mountain this side, the mountain that side, and the path. Not a soul! I thanked the Lord, buwied the dead bandit, and went on.’ We laughed so much, we almost split our sides. But Emmanuel didn’t mind at all, he laughed with us.”

“And what about Magellan?” the nun asked. She almost asked if he had shown any hostility toward the prophet, but she stopped herself.

“Well, at first Magellan was very strict with him. He put him through a kind of interrogation. Why did you come here? On the steamer your people were hanging around us, now you’ve come in person! What do you want from us? And so on. But Emmanuel told him: It’s not surprising that you met my
shelukhin
on the boat. Many of them follow me to the Holy Land, although I told them a man’s Holy Land is where he was born. What do they want with Palestine? I’m a different case, there’s something I have to do here. But they don’t listen to me, he said. That is, they listen, but they don’t hear. And there’s nothing surprising about us meeting here like this. Palestine is a small place. If someone decides to walk around it… Oh, no,” Malke said with a smile, “what he said was ‘twavel awound it.’ If someone decides to travel around it, then he’ll get to everywhere, and very quickly too. And then Emmanuel started telling lies about his miracle and Magellan lost interest in him. He gave up and went to bed.”

“Then it wasn’t him,” Pelagia said aloud in her absentmindedness.

“Eh?”

“Oh, nothing. What else did the prophet tell you?”

“Well, it was then that all the fuss and bother started,” said Malke, turning serious. “Polkan started barking. We thought there must be a jackal. Then we heard the barking moving away, he must have broken his rope. We went running after him, shouting: ‘Polkan! Polkan!’ But he was lying there dead. About a hundred steps from the
han
. He’d been stabbed with a sword. It wasn’t jackals at all, it was the Arabs or those Circassians. The Bedouins had already gone away by then. We woke Magellan, and he said we had to go after them. But how could we catch up with them? Which way should we run, to the Arabs or the Circassians? Everyone was arguing and making a racket. Some shouted: There are too many of them, and not enough of us. They’ll kill us all, like Polkan! This is a bad place, we have to go away! Magellan told them that if you can’t stand up for yourself, any place in the world will be bad. And it went on and on …” The girl gestured dismissively, and then suddenly threw her hands up in the air. “Ah, yes, Emmanuel had just said something really odd. How could I forget! Nobody was taking any notice of him, they were all yelling and shouting, and he suddenly said: ‘You will defeat the Arabs and the Circassians. You are few, but you are strong. Only’ he said, ‘your victowy will be your defeat.’ How can a victory be a defeat, we asked him? But we couldn’t understand his answer. He said that a victory over another person is always a defeat. A genuine victory is when you overcome yourself. Well, our people wouldn’t listen to him after that, they started arguing again. But it turns out that he was right about victory!”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing. In the morning he drank some milk and went on his way.”

“And he didn’t say where he was going?”

“Yes, he did, he’s very talkative. Rokhele was pouring his milk and he said: ‘First I’ll go to Capernaum, then somewhere else, and then I’ll have to go to the Valley of Siddim and take a look at the Avarim Mountains—they say they’ve built a new Sodom there, and I’d like to see it.”

“Sodom!” Polina Andreevna exclaimed. “Where are these Avarim Mountains?”

“Beyond the Dead Sea.”

“Sodom! Sodom!” the nun repeated in an agitated voice. That was where the family of pederasts on the river steamer had been going! But what did Glass-Eye have to do with them? It wasn’t clear. But there must be something to it!

Eight whole days had gone by, but if Emmanuel was planning to visit Capernaum first, she might have enough time. He was a strong walker, though …

“What’s that you’re muttering about, Polya?”

Polina Andreevna took out her guidebook, removed the map, and unfolded it.

“Show me where the Valley of Siddim is. How can I get there?”

“Why do you want to go there?” the girl asked in surprise, but she took the nun’s red pencil and marked a line on the map. “This way, to the River Jordan. Then down as far as the Dead Sea and south along the shoreline, all the way. You see this little circle, the village of Bet-Kebir? Sodom is somewhere beyond that. But honestly, Polya, why do you want to go there? Straight from the convent to Sodom!” Malke burst into laughter. “Rus, whither do you hasten? She answers not!”

Pelagia carefully folded the map and put it back in the book.

“Are you really going to go there?” Malke asked, her eyes wide in horror and curiosity. “You really are very daring! I can just imagine what goes on there! Write me a letter afterward, will you? With lots of detail!”

She nudged Pelagia with her elbow and started giggling. The nudge knocked the guidebook into the bottom of the cart. The nun picked up the precious volume and put it away safely in her pocket.

Meanwhile the cart came out on the top of a hill from which there was a broad view across the valley and the surrounding mountains. “You can see our
han
there, in the distance,” said Malke, half standing to point. “Now we’ll go down here and along the little river. We’ll be there in about forty minutes. You can have a rest and get washed.”

“No, thank you,” said Polina Andreevna, jumping down onto the ground and waiting for the hantur. “It’s time I was going. Tell me, which way should I go to reach the Jordan?”

Malke sighed—she obviously felt sorry to say good-bye.

“Go along that little track. It’s bumpy and overgrown with grass, but it will lead you straight to a fork in the road. To get to the Jordan, go right. But what about the bandits? You told me you were afraid to go without any protection.”

“Never mind,” Pelagia answered absentmindedly. “God is merciful.”

God does exist!

THERE WAS ONLY one road from Jerusalem to the Isreel Valley, so Yakov Mikhailovich had managed to catch up with the mark on the very first day. He fell in behind and strode along, breathing the mountain air.

The sun in the Holy Land was so fierce that he was burned as black as an Arab. And that was very convenient, because he had dressed himself up as an Arab for his travels. It was the most comfortable mode of dress for the climate here: the long shirt of thin material allowed the wind to blow through, and the scarf (it was called a
kufia)
protected the back of your head against the burning rays of the sun.

Whenever Yakov Mikhailovich met someone on the road and they spoke to him in Arabic, he respectfully touched the palm of his hand to his forehead, then to his chest, and walked on. You could make what you liked of that: perhaps the man did not wish to talk to you, or perhaps he had taken a vow not to engage in idle chatter with anyone.

He had a stroke of bad luck on the third day, when Ginger turned left onto a road that ran between the valley and the mountains.

Yakov Mikhailovich saw the Circassians capture the hantur, but he did not interfere. They were serious people, with carbines, and all he had was a six-shooter, a popgun. It was good for the city, where there were corners and walls everywhere, but out in the open it was a pretty useless object. And anyway, he couldn’t afford to give himself away.