Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk (39 page)

The giants fall from what was a rather low height had a monumental grace to it, like the toppling of the Vendôme column (Polina Andreevna had once seen a painting showing the Communards of Paris felling Bonaparte's pillar). Brother Jonah collapsed flat onto his back, and the back of his head struck the very same irregular stone that he had only recently intended to use as a weapon of murder. The impact was accompanied by a terrifying crunch: the giant lay there with his mighty arms flung out wide and did not move again.

“Thank you, Lord,” Lisitsyna whispered fervently. “That is just.”

But instantly she felt ashamed of her bloodthirsty fervor. She walked over to the man lying on the ground and raised his limp eyelid to see if he was still alive.

“He's alive,” she exclaimed with a sigh of relief. “How could anyone have a skull that thick!”

“Damn him. I wish he were dead,” said the hero.

He surveyed the lady dressed in muddy underwear with a leisurely glance. Polina Andreevna blushed and covered her shameful bruise with her hand.

“Ah, the widow-bride,” said the handsome fellow, recognizing her nonetheless. “I knew we would meet again, and here we are.” He moved her hands aside and whistled. “What delicate skin you have! You have only just fallen, and already there is a bruise.”

He ran his finger cautiously (or perhaps even tenderly?) over her blue skin. Mrs. Lisitsyna did not move away. She did not tell him that the bruise was not fresh and had been made the day before.

The amazing young blond gentleman looked straight into her eyes and attempted to extend his lips into a jolly smile, in which he was not entirely successful, because there were scarlet drops of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“You are brave—I like women like that.”

“Turn around,” Polina Andreevna said quietly, transferring her gaze from his face to his badly scratched shoulder. “There, your back is all scraped raw. It's bleeding. It needs to be washed and bandaged.”

He laughed at that, paying no attention to his split lip. The gaps between his white teeth were also red with blood. “A fine nurse you are. You should take a look at yourself.” He stood up, put one arm around the lady's shoulders and the other under her knees, then swept her up in his arms and carried her into the house. Polina Andreevna tried to resist, but after all her nervous and physical ordeals she had absolutely no strength left, and pressing herself against the warm, firm chest of this resolute man of action gave her a calm, comforting feeling. Only a minute earlier, everything had been bad, absolutely terrible, but now everything felt good and right—that was more or less the feeling that came over Mrs. Lisitsyna. She did not have to think about anything else or worry about anything. There was someone there who knew what had to be done and was prepared to make all the decisions.

“Thank you,” she whispered, remembering that she had not yet thanked her rescuer. “You saved me from certain death. It's a genuine miracle.”

“Yes, it is a miracle,” replied the handsome blond, setting her down carefully on a trestle bed covered with a bearskin. “You were lucky, my lady. I only took up residence here a week ago. The lighthouse has not been inhabited for a long time. That is why it is so neglected, so please do not be too critical.”

He gestured around the room, which to Polina Andreevna, in her present blissful condition, seemed quite romantic. In the only window the missing half of the glass had been replaced by a rolled-up sheepskin cloak, but the other half revealed a superb view of the lake with the bluish profile of Outskirts Island in the distance. The only furniture in the room was a rickety table covered with a magnificent velvet tablecloth, a soft Turkish armchair with a heap of cushions lying on it, and the aforementioned trestle bed. A few logs surviving from the previous day's fire were crackling in the soot-blackened hearth. The only decoration on the bare stone walls was a brightly colored oriental carpet, with a gun, a dagger, and a long, fancy chibouk hanging on it.

“Do you really live here all alone? Why?” the rescued woman asked, not entirely politely. “Ah, I'm sorry, we have not been introduced. I am Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna, from Moscow.”

“Nikolai Vsevolodovich,” her host replied with a bow, without mentioning his surname. “I find living here quite splendid. And as for the reason … there are no people here—just the wind and the waves. But we can talk later.” He poured hot water from a samovar into a basin and picked up a clean handkerchief from the table. “First we shall deal with your injuries. Be so good as to raise your chemise.”

Of course, Polina Andreevna declined to raise her chemise, but she did allow her companion to wash her face, the grazes on her elbows, and even her ankles where the string had scraped the skin. Nikolai Vsevolodovich did not make a very skillful male nurse, but he was painstaking. As she watched him carefully remove her wet shoe from her foot, Mrs. Lisitsyna fluttered her eyelashes and felt no resentment when his finger pressed painfully against a bruised bone.

“I simply cannot tell you how grateful I am to you. Especially for the way you did not think twice about dashing to the rescue of a complete stranger.”

“Nonsense,” her host said dismissively as he washed a scratch on her ankle. “It's not even worth mentioning.” And it was clear that it was no pose—he really did not attach any importance to his own remarkable actions. He had simply acted in the way that was natural to him, just as he had that other time with the kitten. And that was the most captivating thing about him.

Polina Andreevna tried not to turn the disfigured side of her face toward the hero, and so she was obliged to squint sideways at him all the time.

Ah, how attractive she found him! If Nikolai Vsevolodovich had exploited the intimate nature of the situation in which they found themselves and permitted himself even a single playful glance, even a single immodest touch, Mrs. Lisitsyna would immediately have recalled her duty to vigilance, but her host's concern was purely fraternal, and so her heart missed the moment when it should have manned its defenses.

When Polina Andreevna realized that Nikolai Vsevolodovich's glance was no longer entirely what it ought to be, and took fright, it was already too late: her heart was beating a lot faster than it should have been, and the touch of the impromptu healer's fingers was spreading a dangerous languor through her body. This was the very moment to pray to the Lord to strengthen her spirit so that she could overcome temptation, but there was not a single icon in the room, not even the very smallest.

“Well now,” Nikolai Vsevolodovich said with a nod of satisfaction. “At least there will not be any inflammation. And now your turn.” He turned his naked back, covered with scratches, toward the recumbent lady. And then an even worse ordeal began. Sitting up on the trestle bed, Polina Andreevna wiped down her savior's white skin, barely managing to prevent herself from stroking it with her hand.

Especially difficult were the breaks in the conversation that arose from time to time. In years of monastic life she had forgotten that they were the most dangerous thing, those pauses when you could suddenly hear your own rapid breathing and feel the pounding in your temples.

Polina Andreevna was immediately embarrassed by her state of undress and glanced around for something to cover herself with, but she could not see anything.

“Are you cold?” Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked without turning around. “Why don't you put on the cloak—there isn't anything else anyway.”

Mrs. Lisitsyna walked across the cold floor to the window and wrapped herself in the heavy, smelly sheepskin. She began feeling a bit calmer, and the wind from the hole in the window was pleasantly cool on her flaming face.

In the distance, at the beginning of the Lenten Spit, she saw a group of monks waiting for something. Then the door of the Farewell Chapel opened and a man with no face came out, dressed in black with a pointed cowl covering his head. The monks bowed to him from the waist. He made the sign of the cross over them and walked toward the shoreline. It was only then that Polina Andreevna noticed the boat and the oarsman sitting in it. The black man sat in the stern with his back toward Canaan, and the bark began moving toward Outskirts Island, where two other men without faces, wearing hermit's cowls, were standing waiting at the water's edge.

“Brother Kleopa is taking the new hermit to the hermitage,” Lisit-syna said to Nikolai Vsevolodovich, who had come across to her. She was squinting, because her spectacles and their case had been left behind on the floor of the closed pavilion, together with her dress. “His name is Father Ilarii. He is in great haste to quit this earthly vale. A learned man who studied theology for many years and yet failed to understand the most important thing of all about God. What God wants from us is not death, but life …”

“A most timely remark,” Nikolai Vsevolodovich whispered in her ear, and then he suddenly took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He looked down at her and asked mockingly, “Now, whose widow are you, and whose bride?” Without waiting for an answer, he put his arms around her and kissed her on the lips.

For some reason at that moment Polina Andreevna remembered a terrible scene she had seen a long time before, when she was still a child. Little Polinka was on her way to visit the neighboring estate with her parents. They were hurtling along like the wind over the snow-covered ice on the river Moscow, with the sleigh carrying the presents ahead of them (it was Christmastime). Suddenly there was a dry cracking sound, a black fissure appeared in the smooth white surface, and an irresistible force pulled the whole front team down into it—first the sleigh and the driver, then the snorting horse, flailing with its front hooves.

And now once again Polina Andreevna heard that same sudden crack, etched forever into her memory. And once again she saw something dark, terrible, and implacable moving closer from beneath the pure white surface, spreading wider and wider.

She trembled, pressed her hands against the seducer's chest, and implored him: “Nikolai Vsevolodovich, my dear, have pity … Do not torment me so! I must not do this. It is quite impossible!”

It was said so sincerely, with such childish artlessness, that the sweet-lipped seducer released her from his embrace, took a step backward, and bowed facetiously.

“I respect your devotion to your bridegroom and will not encroach on it again.”

And then Polina Andreevna kissed him, not on the lips, but on the cheek. She sobbed: “Thank you, thank you … for … for being merciful.”

Nikolai Vsevolodovich sighed regretfully. “Yes, it is a great sacrifice on my part—for you, my lady, are extremely seductive, especially with that bruise of yours.” He smiled on seeing the lady hastily turn her face sideways and squint to look at him. “However, in gratitude for my heroic restraint, at least tell me who this fortunate man is. To whom do you remain so implacably faithful, despite the isolation of this place, the feeling of genuine gratitude that you have already mentioned, and— begging your pardon—your experience, for you are not a virgin, are you?”

Despite his light tone, she could tell that the handsome blonds self-esteem had been wounded. Therefore—and also because at that moment she did not wish to lie—Polina Andreevna confessed.

“My bridegroom is He.”

When Nikolai Vsevolodovich raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, she explained: “Jesus. You have seen me in secular dress, but I am a nun and His bride.” She was prepared for anything except what happened next.

The handsome man's face, which had so far remained derisively calm, suddenly contorted: his eyes blazed, his eyelashes began to flutter, and pink blotches appeared on his cheeks. “A nun?” he exclaimed. “A bride of Christ?” A scarlet tongue flickered agitatedly across his upper lip. The strangely transformed Nikolai Vsevolodovich gave an ominous laugh and moved closer to her. “I would have yielded you to anyone at all. But not to Him! Well now, we shall see! I would be able to protect my bride, but will He?”

And he threw himself on the startled lady without the slightest trace of tenderness, with nothing but crude, violent passion. He tore open her chemise and began showering kisses on her neck, shoulders, and breasts. The treacherous sheepskin cloak instantly slid to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Lisitsyna cried out in horror, throwing her head back. “This is villainous!”

“I adore villainy!” he purred, stroking her back and her sides. “It is my trade!” He laughed again. “Allow me to introduce myself: the Satan of New Ararat! I was sent here to stir up the waters of this quiet millpond and release all the demons lurking in its depths!”

Nikolai Vsevolodovich was greatly amused by his own joke. He burst into a peal of spasmodic, maniacal laughter, and Polina Andreevna shuddered, struck by a new realization.

What, after all, was this entire business with the resurrected “Basilisk,” if not a monstrous, blasphemous deception for impressionable idiots? A woman was not capable of such playacting for the sake of strangers unknown to her. A woman always needed someone more specific, not a chance audience or mere chance victims. But in all this she could sense genuine impersonal male cruelty, the impulse of perverted male ambition. And what adroit cunning and ingenuity had been required to arrange the spectacle of the apparitions and the walking on water! No, the “Empress of Canaan” and her slow-witted slave had had nothing to do with it.

“So it was all you?” Polina Andreevna gasped. “You … ! What a terrible, pitiless joke! What great evil you have worked, how many people you have destroyed! And all for nothing, out of sheer boredom? You truly are Satan!”