Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (51 page)

The world was suddenly no longer abandoned and deserted. Every so often they encountered identical white wagons coming toward them, pulled by sturdy shaggy-legged Percheron horses. The eloquent emblem on their tarpaulin covers was a picture of the Acropolis and the letters “S&G Ltd.” Pelagia racked her brains, trying to think what it could mean, and she guessed: “Sodom and Gomorrah Limited”—that was what it was. She even shuddered at such an unfortunate name.

Shortly after midday they reached the Arab settlement of Bet-Kebir. During her travels, Pelagia had seen more than enough of the local villages, as like one another as two drops of water: windowless little wattle-and-daub houses barely taller than the height of a man; walls and roofs always plastered with cakes of dried camel dung, which was used as fuel; narrow, dirty streets; a crowd of naked children that always came rushing out to any passersby shouting “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!;” and a stench that made you want to hold your nose.

And suddenly here were new little white houses with verandas, paved streets, freshly planted bushes! No beggars, ragamuffins, or lepers. And to Pelagia, exhausted by her journey, the inn into which Salakh turned to ask directions for the road ahead seemed like a palace.

She washed under a genuine shower, drank strong tea, brushed her hair, changed her underclothes. Meanwhile, Salakh was conducting important negotiations with the owner. He had to drink seven or eight cups of coffee before finding out everything Pelagia wanted to know.

It turned out that the newly built city of Usdum (that was how Sodom was pronounced in Arabic) was not far from Bet-Kebir, only ten miles away, but women were forbidden to enter it. The Luti were good people, they paid generously for work and goods, but they had their own rules.

“Who are the Luti?” Polina Andreevna asked.

“The Luti are the people of Lut. The same Lut who left Usdum, and the city was consumed by fire.”

Ah, the people of Lot
, Pelagia realized—that is, the pederasts.

Salakh explained that the workers from Bet-Kebir entered Usdum with a special pass, and women could not go beyond a guardpost that was three miles from the town. There was only one road, squeezed between the lake and the long mountain of Jebel-Usdum. There were Turkish soldiers at the guardpost; their officer was called Said-bey The Turks guarded the road very well—they didn’t even sleep at night, which was quite amazing for Turkish soldiers. And they didn’t take baksheesh, which was twice as amazing. And all because the Luti paid them very well. Previously Said-bey and his soldiers had sheltered in tents in the middle of the desert. They used to catch smugglers and had a very, very hard life, but now the Luti had asked the respected
yuzbashi
to move his post to the road and the Turks had started living very, very well.

This information was not reassuring. Pelagia began feeling nervous. “But is it not possible to get around the guardpost through the desert, from the other side of the mountain?”

Salakh went to drink more coffee with the owner. “No, impossible,” he said when he came back. “In day soldiers will see from mountain, they have tower there. And at night can’t travel through desert: pits, rocks—break leg, break neck.”

“Tell the owner I will give twenty francs to anyone who gets me past the guardpost.”

Her faithful helper set out for more negotiations. Four cups of coffee later he came back with a mysteriously satisfied air. “Possible. Jebel-Usdum mountain has holes. In spring, stream flows, finds hole. Water flow for thousands of years, make cave. Owner knows how to get through mountain, but twenty francs not enough. Cave is frightening, djinns of fire live there.”

Salakh interpreted her grimace in his own way. He thought for a moment and scratched the back of his head.

“Yes, fifty francs very much. Give me twenty-five, I take you without cave.”

“But how?”

“My business,” the Palestinian replied with a cunning air.

And so now they were riding along beside the low mountain crest that was probably the only one of its kind: a mountain located below sea level. Up ahead they could see a large canvas tent and a boom across the road—the Turkish guardpost.

Polina Andreevna glanced around. Trailing along behind them was a large wagon with the emblem “S&G Ltd.” on its side, loaded with crumbly black soil.

“Where are you going to hide me?” the nun asked the mysteriously silent Salakh for the hundredth time.

“Nowhere. Turn this way.” He took a small lacquered box out of his traveling bag.

“What’s that?”

“Present, bought for Marusya. Paid three francs, you give back.”

Pelagia saw white makeup, lipstick, powder, and something else that was sticky and black, all in little cells.

“Don’t turn head,” said Salakh, holding her chin with one hand. He dipped in a finger and rapidly daubed something across Polina Andreevna’s cheeks, then smoothed it out. He ran the little brush over her eyebrows and eyelashes. Then he colored her lips.

“What’s all this for?” the bemused nun babbled.

She took out a little mirror and was horrified. The face looking out at her was gaudily daubed with color. Bright beetroot cheeks, immense eyebrows like wings, outlined eyes, a vulgarly luscious mouth.

“You’re out of your mind! Turn back!” Pelagia shouted, but the hantur was already approaching the boom.

“Keep quiet and smile. All the time smile and do this.” Salakh moved his eyebrows up and down and rolled his eyes back up and back. “Smile wide, very wide, show all your teeth.”

It was too late to rebel. Pelagia spread her lips as wide as she possibly could.

Two soldiers in faded blue uniforms came up to them, with an officer who had a sword—none other than Said-bei himself. He jabbed one finger angrily at Pelagia and swore. And he didn’t even glance at the wagon carrying soil—it calmly drove straight through as the boom swayed upward.

Polina made out the word
kadyn—
she thought that meant “woman” in Turkish. Well, now the officer would turn them back, of course, and that would be the end of her journey.

Salakh was not alarmed by the invective; he said something and laughed. Said-bey gave Pelagia a curious look and asked a question. There was a clear note of doubt in his voice.

Suddenly the Palestinian grabbed the hem of his passenger’s skirt and pulled it up. In her fear, Pelagia smiled so broadly that her ears started wiggling. The soldiers chortled, and the officer also burst into laughter. He waved his hand: All right, go on through.

“What… what did you tell him?” Pelagia asked timidly when the post had been left behind them.

“That you boy dressed up as woman. The Luti bought you in Yaffo. The
yuzbashi
not believe me at first. I say, ‘You not believe—look between his legs,’ and try lift up your skirt. Said-bey won’t look between boy’s legs, or soldiers think their
yuzbashi
is Luti too.”

“But what if he
had
looked?” asked Pelagia, pale-faced.

Salakh shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “Then that bad. But he not look, we get through guard, you owe me twenty-five francs more.”

Since the day of their departure from Jerusalem, Polina Andreevna’s debt to her driver, guide, and benefactor had increased to an astronomical size. The money paid to Fatima had only been the beginning. To this sum Salakh had added a charge for the terror he had suffered during the Circassian adventure, then the cost of the journey to the Dead Sea, and then separately for the journey from Bet-Kebir to Usdum. And there had been other, smaller sums exacted along the way. Pelagia herself no longer knew what the total was, and she was beginning to fear that she would never be able to pay off this extortioner.

Suddenly she realized that he was looking at her with a rather strange, even agitated expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in surprise.

“You clever and brave,” Salakh said with feeling. “First I think how ugly you are. But that because your hair red and you thin. But can get used to red hair, and you not be thin if you sit home, sleep a lot, eat well. And if put on powder and lipstick, you almost beautiful. You know what?” His voice trembled and his eyes gleamed damply. “Come to me as fourth wife. Then you can not pay debt.”

He’s proposing to me!
Pelagia realized, and, to her own surprise, she felt flattered.

“Thank you,” she replied. “It is nice to hear you say that. But I cannot become your wife. In the first place, I have a Bridegroom. And in the second place, what would Fatima say?”

The second argument seemed to produce a stronger effect than the first. And in addition, during the process of explaining, Polina Andreevna took out a flask of water and started washing the makeup off her face, and no doubt her beauty was dimmed as a result.

Salakh sighed and cracked the whip, and the hantur rolled on.

THE MOUNTAIN CAME to a sudden end in an outcrop with a sheer, almost vertical face, and the town appeared from around the bend without any warning.

It lay in a small hollow, surrounded on three sides by hills, and it was inexpressibly beautiful, as if it had been transported here from ancient Hellas. Polina Andreevna could not believe her eyes as she looked at the pediments decorated with statues, the elegant colonnades, the marble fountains, the red-tiled roofs. Encircled by blossoming gardens, the town seemed to be swaying in the steamy air.

A mirage! A mirage in the desert!
the delighted traveler thought. They drove up to a green alley, where there were heaps of rich black soil. The wagon they had seen recently was already standing there but had not been unloaded yet. The driver had disappeared, probably gone to seek instructions. Several Arabs were digging holes for trees, watering flower beds, cutting the grass.

“This is a genuine Elysium,” Pelagia whispered, breathing in the scent of the flowers.

She jumped down onto the ground and stood behind some rosebushes to avoid attracting attention. She simply could not get enough of this magical vision.

Then, when the initial ecstasy passed, she asked, “But how shall I get into the town?”

Salakh shrugged. “I don’t know. I only promised to get you past the guard.”

Irodiada’s dance

SHE GLIDED ACROSS the marble floor, trying to grasp the fading melody.

Pram-pam-pam, pram-pam-pam
, twirl twice, spinning out the gauze peignoir in a weightless cloud, bob down into a curtsy, and then go soaring up, with her arms like a swan’s wings.

She used to dance to a gramophone, but now she didn’t need mechanical music anymore. Divine melodies that Paganini himself could not have rendered were born within her. They were short-lived, not destined for repetition, and that made them especially beautiful.

But today there was something hindering the music, killing it, preventing its magical power from developing.

Para-para-ram-pa-pam, para-para-ram-pa-pam
. No, that wasn’t right!

In this blessed oasis, sheltered from the crude outside world, Irodiada had discovered two sources of daily delight, two new talents that she had not even suspected in herself.

The first was dancing—not for her family, not for guests, and definitely not for an audience, but exclusively for herself.

To transform herself into harmony and graceful movement. To feel her body, formerly so rebellious, rusty, and creaky, become lighter than a feather, more resilient than a snake. Who would ever have believed that after the age of forty, when it would seem there was nothing more to be expected from one’s flesh apart from betrayals and disappointments, she would only just begin to realize what a perfect organism her body was?

It was absolutely quiet in the house. Lyovushka and Salomeia were cuddling in the bedroom; they would get up as evening drew on, when the heat abated. Antinosha was swimming in the pool—a whole team of bargemen couldn’t drag him out of the water.

Every day after lunch, left to her own devices, Irodiada danced in front of the mirror, in total silence. An electric fan drove waves of scented air through the atrium. The dancer performed
pas
of indescribable elegance, the drops of sweat trickling down her face drying instantly.

Half an hour of absolute happiness, then take a delightful cold shower, drink a glass of resinous wine with snow, throw on a silk robe—and off to a rendezvous with her second delight, the gardens.

But today she simply couldn’t immerse herself completely in the movement: in addition to the music with which her head ought to be filled, there was another vague, alarming thought, wagging its mouselike tail.

It will die, its light will fade
, Irodiada suddenly heard a lisping voice say, and she stopped.

Ah, so that was it.

Yesterday’s conversation.

THE ABSURD MAN in a robe of sackcloth with a belt of blue string had been brought into the town by Zbishek and Rafek, two mischievous scamps from Warsaw. They had been racing chariots along the edge of the sea and picked up the tramp on the highway, because his appearance had made them laugh. When they discovered that the traveler had just arrived from Russia, they had come to show him to their Russian friends.