Special Assignments (15 page)

The drunk waved one hand in the air and for the first time Momos noticed the unnatural way his fingers stuck out without bending.

Momos poured the poor fellow more drink and patted him on the shoulder. 'This Eropkin's a really ugly brute,' he said slowly, recalling the benefactor's bloated features. He really disliked people like that. If he hadn't been leaving Moscow, he could have taught the swine a little lesson. 'So tell me: do his taverns and dosshouses bring in a lot of money?'

'Reckon it at something like thirty thousand a month,' answered Egor Tishkin, angrily brushing away his tears.

'Oh, come on. You're exaggerating there, brother.'

The bathhouse attendant sat up suddenly: 'I ought to know! I tell you, his house was like my own home. Every day God sends, that Kuzma of his goes off to the Hard Labour and the Siberia, and the Transit Camp, and the other drinking establishments Eropkin owns. He collects up to five thousand in a day. On Saturdays they bring it to him from the dosshouses. There's four hundred families living in the Birdcage alone. And what about the pickings from the street girls? And the loot, the stolen goods? Samson Kharitonovich puts all the money in a simple sack and keeps it under his bed. That's his way. He once arrived in Moscow as a country bumpkin with that sack, and he thinks he came by his wealth because of it. In other words, he's just like an old woman - believes in all sorts of nonsense. On the first day of every month he gets his earnings out from under the bed and drives them to the bank. Driving along in a carriage and four with his dirty sack, as pleased as Punch. That's his most important day. The money's secret, from illegal dealings, so on the last day he has trained bookkeepers sitting there drawing up false documents for the whole bundle. Sometimes he takes thirty thousand to the bank, sometimes more - it depends how many days there are in the month.'

'He keeps that sort of money at home, and no one's robbed him?' Momos asked in amazement, becoming more and more interested in what he heard.

'Just you try robbing him. There's a brick wall round the house, dogs running around in the yard, the menservants - and then there's that Kuzma. That whip of Kuzma's is worse than any devolver: he'll slice a mouse running past in half for a bet. None of the "businessmen" ever bother Eropkin. They'd only come off worse. There was one time - five years ago it was -when one hothead tried it. They found him later in the knacker's yard. Kuzma had torn all his skin off in strips with his whip. Neat as a whistle. And no one said a word; everyone kept mum. You can be sure Eropkin has the police in his pocket. The amount of money he has, there's no counting it. Only his wealth won't do him any good, the tyrant - he'll die of stone fever. He's got kidney stones, and with Tishkin gone there's no one to cure him. You don't think the doctors know how to dissolve a stone, do you? Samson Kharitonovich's people came to see me. "Come on, Egorushka," they said, "he forgives you. He'll give you money too - just come back and treat him." I didn't go. Maybe he forgives me, but he'll never have my forgiveness!'

'So tell me: does he often hand out alms to the beggars?' asked Momos, feeling the blood beginning to course recklessly through his veins.

Mimi glanced into the tavern, looking bored, and he gave her a sign: Don't interfere, this is business.

Tishkin propped his sullen head on his hand and his unsteady elbow slithered across the dirty tablecloth. 'Often. From tomorrow, when the Lenten Fast begins, he'll be coming to Our Lady of Smolensk every day. The bastard has an office here, on Pliushchikha Street. He'll get out of his sleigh along the way, hand out a rouble in kopecks and then ride on to rake in the thousands.'

'I tell you what, Egor Tishkin,' said Momos: 'I feel sorry for you. You come along with me. I'll get you a place to sleep for the night and give you a bit of money for a drink. You can tell me about your bitter life in a bit more detail. So you say he's highly superstitious, this Eropkin?'

It's just downright unfair, Momos thought as he led the stumbling martyr to the door. What sort of bad luck is this at the very last moment! It was February the shortest little month of all! Only twenty-eight days! There'd be thirty thousand less in the sack than in January or in March. But at least it was already the twenty-third. Not too long to wait until the end of the month, but still enough time to prepare properly. Only he'd have to get the luggage from the train.

There was an immense operation taking shape: he could wipe out all his Moscow fiascos in a single stroke.

The following day, the first day of the Week of the Adoration of the Cross, Smolenskaya Square was unrecognisable, as if the sorcerer Chernomor had shot by above the square in the night and with a single pass of his broad hands swept all the sinners, drunks, singers and shouters off the face of the earth, whisked away the spiced-tea men, piemen and pancake men, carried off the bright-coloured pennants, the paper garlands and the balloons, leaving behind only the empty fairground booths, only the black crows on the snow gleaming wetly in the sun, only the beggars on the porch of the Church of Our Lady of Smolensk.

Matins had been sung in the church while it was still dark, and the long, dignified fast, intended to last seven weeks, had begun. The church elder had already walked through the fasting congregation three times, collecting offerings, and three times carried a dish heavy with copper and silver into the sanctuary, when the most important parishioner of all, His Excellency Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin, arrived. He was in an especially mellow mood today: his broad, flabby face was cleanly washed, his sparse hair was combed in a neat parting and his long sideburns were slicked with oil.

Samson Kharitonovich positioned himself directly opposite the Holy Doors of the sanctuary and spent about a quarter of an hour bowing down to the ground and crossing himself with broad gestures. The priest came out with a candle, waved the censer at Eropkin and muttered: 'Lord, Master of my life, purify me, a sinner ...' And then up walked the elder with an empty dish. The praying man got up from his knees, parted the fabric flaps of his coat and put three hundred-rouble notes in the elder's dish - that was Samson Eropkin's established custom on the Monday of the Cross.

The generous man came out on to the square, where the poor beggars were already waiting, holding out their hands, bleating, jostling each other. But Kuzma simply swayed his whip slightly and the jostling immediately stopped. The paupers lined up in two ranks, like soldiers on parade. A solid mass of coarse grey cloth and tatters, except that on the left side near the middle there was something white.

Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin screwed up his puffy little eyes and saw a fine-looking boy standing among the beggars. The boy had large, bright-blue eyes. He had fine features and his face was clean. His golden hair was cut pudding-basin style (oh, what an outcry there'd been: Mimi had at first absolutely refused to have her lovely locks trimmed so short). The miraculous youth was dressed in nothing but a snow-white shirt - but he didn't seem to feel the cold at all (why, of course not: under the shirt there was a fine sweater of the best-quality angora, and Mimi's delicate bust was tightly wrapped in warm flannel). He had velveteen trousers, and bast sandals, and his light-coloured foot wrappings were unstained.

As he gave out his kopecks, Eropkin glanced now and then at the unusual beggar, and when he got close to the boy, he held out not one coin, but two, and told him: 'Here you are, pray for me.'

The golden-haired youth did not take the money. He raised his clear eyes to the sky and declared in a ringing voice: 'You give too little, servant of God. The dues you offer Our Lady of Sorrow are too small.' He looked Eropkin straight in the eye and the venerable believer was strangely disturbed by that stern, unblinking glance. 'I see your sinful soul. There is a bloody stain on your heart, and filthy decay within you. It must be pu-urged, it must be pu-urged,' the holy fool sang. 'Or else the stench and decay will devour you. Does your belly pain you, Samson? Does your kidney torment you with agony? That's from the filth; it must be pu-urged.'

Eropkin stopped dead in his tracks. And with good reason! His kidneys really were in a terrible state, and he had a large wine-coloured birthmark on the left side of his chest. The information was accurate, all right; it had come from Egor Tishkin.

'Who are you?' His Excellency gasped in fright.

The boy did not answer. He raised his blue eyes to the sky again and began moving his lips gently.

'He's a holy fool, benefactor,' eager voices told Eropkin from both sides. 'It's his first day here, father. Nobody knows where he came from. He talks in riddles. His name's Paisii. Not long since he had a falling fit, and foam came out of his mouth, but it smelt like heaven. He's one of God's own.'

'Then here's a rouble for you, if you're one of God's own. Pray for the forgiveness of my grievous sins.'

Eropkin took a paper rouble out of his wallet, but again the holy fool did not accept it. He said in a quiet voice: 'Do not give it to me. I don't need it: the Mother of God will feed me. Give it to him.' And he pointed to an old beggar known to the whole market, the legless Zoska. 'Your lackey offended him yesterday. Give it to the cripple, and I'll pray to the Mother of God for you.'

Zoska rolled up eagerly on his little trolley and held out his huge, knotty hand. Eropkin squeamishly thrust the rouble into it.

'May the Most Holy Virgin bless you,' the boy declared in a ringing voice, stretching out his slim hand towards Eropkin. And then a miracle happened that was remembered for a long time afterwards in Moscow.

From out of nowhere a huge raven flew up and landed on the holy fool's shoulder. The beggars in the crowd gasped out loud. But when they noticed that the black bird had a gold ring on its leg, everything went quiet.

Eropkin stood there, numb with fright, his thick lips trembling, his eyes starting out of his head. He tried to raise his hand to cross himself, but he couldn't do it.

Tears began flowing from the holy fool's eyes. 'I pity you, Samson,' he said, taking the ring off the bird's leg and holding it out to Eropkin. 'Take it, it's yours. The Holy Virgin does not accept your rouble; she is paying you back. And she sent a raven because your soul is black.'

The man of God turned and walked quietly away.

'Stop!' Samson Kharitonovich shouted, gazing at the glittering ring in confusion and dismay. 'You, you wait! Kuzma! Put him in the sleigh! We'll take him with us!'

The black-bearded hulk overtook the boy and took hold of his shoulder.

'Let's go to my house, do you hear? What's your name? ... Paisii!' Eropkin called to him. 'Live with me for a while, warm yourself

'I cannot live in a palace of stone,' the boy replied sternly, looking back. 'It blinds the soul. But you, Samson, do this. Tomorrow, when matins has been sung, come to Iverskaya Street. I shall be there. Bring a pouch of gold coins, and be sure it's full. I wish to entreat the Virgin for you again.'

Everybody watched as the holy fool walked away, with the black raven pecking at his shoulder and cawing hoarsely.

(The raven's name was Balthazar. He was a trained bird, bought at the famous Bird Market. The clever creature had quickly mastered a simple trick: Mimi stuffed millet into the shoulder seam of her shirt, Momos released Balthazar and he flew to the white shirt - at first from five paces, then from fifteen, and then from thirty.)

He came, the bloodsucker. Just as he'd been told to. And he brought the pouch too. Not actually a pouch, but a big, heavy leather purse. Kuzma was carrying it for his master.

During the night, as was only to be expected, the charitable general had been tormented by doubts. No doubt he had tried the Holy Virgin's ring with his teeth, and even tested it with acid. Have no doubts, Your Bloodsuckerness, it's an excellent ring, fine old work.

The holy fool Paisii was standing slightly to one side of the chapel - standing there calmly, with a cup for offerings hanging round his neck. When people put in enough money, he went and gave it away to the cripples. There was a crowd of people standing round the boy, at a respectful distance, eager for a miracle. After the previous day's occurrence the rumour had spread round the churches and the porches of a miraculous sign, a raven with a gold ring in its beak (the story had changed in the telling and retelling).

Today it was overcast and colder, but the holy fool was still only wearing a white shirt, except that his throat was wrapped in a piece of cloth. He did not glance at Eropkin or greet him when he approached.

From his position, of course, Momos could not hear what the bloodsucker said to him, but he assumed it was something sceptical. Mimi's task was to lead Eropkin away from all the places crowded with people. There had been enough publicity; it was no longer needed now.

Then the man of God turned to go, gestured for the paunchy general to follow and set off straight across the square, on a path directly towards Momos. Eropkin hesitated for a moment and set off after the holy fool. The curious onlookers were about to swarm after them, but the black-bearded janissary cracked his whip a couple of times and the idlers fell back.

'No, not this one; he has no sanctity in him,' Momos heard Mimi's crystal-clear voice say as she stopped for a moment beside a crippled soldier.

Beside a twisted hunchback the holy fool said: And not this one, his soul's asleep.'

But when he reached Momos, who had taken up a position slightly apart from the other female beggars, the boy stopped, crossed himself and bowed down to his feet. He told Eropkin: 'Give the pouch to this unfortunate woman. Her husband has passed on, and the little children are asking for food. Give it to her. The Holy Virgin pities such people.'

Momos began screeching in a piercing falsetto from under the woman's headscarf that was pulled almost right down to his nose: 'What's this "give"? What's this "give"? Whose boy are you, eh? How do you know about me?'

'Who are you?' asked Eropkin, leaning down to the widow.