Hard to Be a God Page 14

  If they were all identical, there would be reason to throw up your hands and lose hope. But they were still people, the bearers of the spark of reason. And here and there in their midst, the fires of the incredibly distant and inevitable future would kindle and blaze up. They would kindle despite it all. Despite all their seeming unworthiness. Despite the oppression. Despite the fact that they were being trampled with boots. Despite the fact that no one in the world needed them, and that everyone in the world was against them. Despite the fact that at best, they could expect contemptuous, puzzled pity.

  They didn’t know that the future was on their side, that the future was impossible without them. They didn’t know that in a world belonging to the terrible ghosts of the past, they were the only manifestation of the future—that they were an enzyme, a vitamin in society’s organism. If you destroy this vitamin, society will rot, and social scurvy will begin: the muscles will go weak, the eyes will lose their sharpness, the teeth will fall out. No country can develop without science—it will be destroyed by its neighbors. Without arts and general culture, the country loses its capacity for self-criticism, begins to encourage faulty tendencies, starts to constantly spawn hypocrites and scum, develops consumerism and conceit in its citizens, and eventually again becomes a victim of its more sensible neighbors. Persecute bookworms all you like, prohibit science, and destroy art, but sooner or later you’ll be forced to think better of it, and with much gnashing of teeth open the way for everything that is so hated by the power-hungry dullards and blockheads.

  And no matter how much the gray people in power despise knowledge, they can’t do anything about historical objectivity; they can slow it down, but they can’t stop it. Despising and fearing knowledge, they will nonetheless inevitably decide to promote it in order to survive. Sooner or later they will be forced to allow universities and scientific societies, to create research centers, observatories, and laboratories, and thus to create a cadre of people of thought and knowledge: people who are completely beyond their control, people with a completely different psychology and with completely different needs. And these people cannot exist and certainly cannot function in the former atmosphere of low self-interest, banal preoccupations, dull self-satisfaction, and purely carnal needs. They need a new atmosphere—an atmosphere of comprehensive and inclusive learning, permeated with creative tension; they need writers, artists, composers—and the gray people in power are forced to make this concession too. The obstinate ones will be swept aside by their more cunning opponents in the struggle for power, but those who make this concession are, inevitably and paradoxically, digging their own graves against their will. For fatal to the ignorant egoists and fanatics is the growth of a full range of culture in the people— from research in the natural sciences to the ability to marvel at great music. And then comes the associated process of the broad intellectualization of society: an era in which grayness fights its last battles with a brutality that takes humanity back to the middle ages, loses these battles, and forever disappears as an actual force.

  Rumata kept looking at the city, motionless in the dark. Somewhere out there, in a stinking garret, curled up on a pathetic bed, the crippled Father Tarra was burning with fever, and Brother Nanin sat by his side at a wobbly table, drunk, cheerful, and angry—finishing his Treatise on Rumors, using hackneyed phrases with relish to disguise a vicious mockery of gray life. Somewhere out there, Gur the Storyteller was blindly wandering through empty luxurious apartments, realizing with horror that despite everything, some mysterious pressure caused vivid worlds full of remarkable people and extraordinary feelings to burst into his consciousness out of the depths of his torn, trampled soul. And somewhere out there, God knows how, Doctor Budach was whiling away the night—broken down, brought to his knees, tormented but alive. My brothers, thought Rumata. I’m yours, I’m the flesh of your flesh! He suddenly felt with tremendous force that he was no god, shielding the fireflies of reason with his hands, but instead a brother helping a brother, a son saving a father.

  I’ll kill Don Reba, he thought. What for? He’s killing my brothers. He knows not what he does. He’s killing the future. It’s not his fault—he’s a product of his time. So he doesn’t know it’s his fault? But does it matter whether he knows it? I know it’s his fault. And what will you do with Father Zupic? Father Zupic would give a lot for Don Reba to be killed …

  You’re silent? There are a lot of people you’d need to kill, aren’t there? I don’t know, maybe there’d be a lot. One after the other. Everyone who raises a hand against the future. That’s been done already. They used poison, they threw pipe bombs. And nothing changed. No, things did change. That’s how the strategy for the revolution was created. You don’t need to create a strategy for the revolution. You just want to kill. Yes, I do. And are you capable of it?

  Yesterday, I killed Doña Ocana. I already knew that I was killing her when I walked toward her with a feather behind my ear. And the only thing I regret is killing her in vain. So they’ve almost taught me. But that’s bad. That’s dangerous. Remember Sergei Kozhin? And George Lenny? And Sabine Kruger? Rumata passed a hand over his damp forehead. You keep thinking, thinking, thinking like this—and eventually you invent gunpowder …

  He jumped up and opened the window. The groups of lights were now in motion, dispersing, lining up, then moving forward, appearing and disappearing between the invisible houses. Some kind of noise sounded above the city—a distant many-voiced howl. Two fires broke out and illuminated the neighboring rooftops. Something blazed up at the port. Things were developing. In a few hours he would know the meaning of the alliance between the gray army and the night army, the unnatural accord between shopkeepers and highway robbers; he would learn what Don Reba was trying to do and what new provocation he had conceived. Or, to put it simply: who was being slaughtered today. Chances were that it was the beginning of a Night of the Long Knives, which would see the destruction of a gray leadership that had gone too far, accompanied by an extermination of the barons who happened to be in town and the most inconvenient of the aristocrats. I wonder how Pampa is doing, he thought. If he’s not sleeping, he’ll fight them off.

  He didn’t have the chance to finish his thought. Someone was pounding on the door with a heartrending wail of “Open up! Guardsman, open up!” Rumata threw back the bolt. A half-dressed man, blue-gray from fear, burst in, grabbed Rumata by the lapels of his waistcoat, and shrieked, trembling: “Where’s the prince? Budach has poisoned the king! Irukanian spies have started a riot in the city! Save the prince!”

  This was the Minister of the Court, a foolish and highly loyal man. Pushing Rumata away, he dashed into the prince’s bedroom. Women screeched. Sweaty, jowly storm troopers in gray shirts were already trying to get through the door. Rumata drew his swords. “Back off!” he said coldly.

  He heard a short, muffled scream in the bedroom behind him. Something’s not right, thought Rumata. I don’t understand a thing. He jumped into a corner and barricaded himself in with a table. Storm troopers were filling the room, breathing hard. There were about fifteen of them. A lieutenant in a tight gray uniform pushed his way to the front, his blade drawn. “Don Rumata?” he said, out of breath. “You’re under arrest. Lay down your swords.”

  Rumata gave a derisive laugh, glancing at the window. “Take them,” he said.

  “Get him!” the officer barked.

  Fifteen well-fed bumpkins with axes weren’t too much for a man who’d mastered methods of battle that would only become known on this planet three centuries in the future. The mob pressed forward and fell back. A number of axes remained on the floor; two storm troopers were doubled over and clambering into the back rows, carefully cradling their dislocated arms. Rumata had complete mastery of the fan defense, in which attackers are faced with a solid curtain of gleaming steel, and breaking through this curtain seems impossible. The storm troopers, huffing and puffing, exchanged uncertain glances. They gave off a sharp odor of beer and onions.

>   Rumata pushed the table away and carefully walked to the window along the wall. Someone in the back rows threw a knife but missed. Rumata laughed again, put a foot on the windowsill, and said, “Try it again, and I’ll start chopping hands off. You know me.”

  They knew him. They knew him extremely well, and not one of them budged, despite the cursing and prodding of the officer, who nonetheless was also behaving very cautiously. Rumata stood on the windowsill, continuing to make threatening gestures with his sword, and at that very moment a spear came out of the dark yard and hit him in the back. It was a terrible blow. It didn’t pierce the metalstrom shirt, but it knocked him off the windowsill and threw him onto the floor. Rumata didn’t let go of his swords, but they were now completely useless. The entire herd was immediately on top of him. Together, they probably weighed more than a ton, but they got in each other’s way, and he managed to get to his feet. He slammed his fist into someone’s wet lips, someone screamed like a rabbit under his arm, he kept smashing and smashing them with his elbows, fists, and shoulders (he hadn’t felt this free in a long time), but he couldn’t shake them off. With great difficulty, dragging a pile of bodies behind him, he walked toward the door, bending down and tearing off storm troopers who clung to his legs along the way. Then he felt a painful blow to the shoulder and fell onto his back, the crushed storm troopers flailed beneath him, but he stood up again, delivering short strikes with full force, causing the storm troopers to smack heavily into the walls, waving their arms and legs. The twisted face of the lieutenant, who was holding his unloaded crossbow in front of him, was already flickering before his eyes, but then the door opened and some new sweaty faces clambered toward him. They threw a net on him, tightened the ropes on his legs, and toppled him.

  He immediately stopped struggling, conserving his strength. They trampled him with boots for some time— intently, silently, grunting avidly. Then they grabbed him by the feet and dragged him. As he was being pulled past the bedroom door, he had time to see the Minister of the Court pinned to the wall with a spear, and a heap of bloodstained sheets on the bed. So it’s a coup! he thought. Poor boy … They started dragging him down the stairs, and then he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 7

  he was lying on a grassy hillock and looking at the clouds drifting in the deep blue sky. He was calm and content, but a prickly, bony pain was sitting on an adjacent hillock. It was outside him and at the same time inside him, especially in his right side and the back of his head. Someone barked, “Did he croak or something? I’ll tear your heads off!” And then a mass of ice-cold water fell from the sky. He really was lying on his back and looking at the sky, except he wasn’t on a hillock but in a puddle, and the sky wasn’t blue but leaden and black, illuminated with red. “Nah,” said another voice. “His Lordship’s alive, blinking those peepers.” I’m the one who’s alive, he thought. They’re talking about me. I’m the one blinking my peepers. But why are they speaking funny? Have they forgotten how to talk like human beings?

  Someone moved nearby and splashed heavily through the water. The black silhouette of a head wearing a pointed cap appeared in the sky. “Well, noble don, will you walk yourself or should we drag you?”

  “Untie my legs,” Rumata said angrily, feeling a sharp pain in his swollen lips. He felt them with his tongue. Some lips, he thought. Pancakes instead of lips.

  Someone fumbled at his feet, unceremoniously yanking them and moving them around. He heard low voices around him: “You got him good.”

  “Had to, he almost took off … He must be charmed, arrows bounced off of him.”

  “I knew a man you could take an ax to and it didn’t do nothing.”

  “Musta been a peasant.”

  “Uh-huh, he was.”

  “That’s what did it. And this one’s noble-born.”

  “Oh, stick a tail in it … Can’t do nothing with these damn knots. Some light here!”

  “So use a knife.”

  “Please, brothers, please, don’t untie him. He’ll start swiping at us again. He almost crushed my head as is.”

  “Nah, betcha he won’t.”

  “Brothers, do what you want, but I hit him real hard with that spear. I’ve pierced armor like that.”

  An imperious voice shouted from the darkness: “Hey, you almost finished?”

  Rumata felt that his legs were free, tensed his muscles, and sat up. A few squat storm troopers were silently watching him squirm in the puddle. Rumata gritted his teeth in shame and humiliation. He wriggled his shoulder blades; his hands were twisted behind his back, in such a way that he couldn’t even tell his elbows from his wrists. He mustered all his strength, jerked himself up to his feet, and was immediately twisted by the terrible pain in his side. The storm troopers laughed.

  “Betcha he won’t run away,” said one.

  “Yeah, His Lordship’s a bit tired, stick a tail in it.”

  “Come on, Don, not enjoying yourself?”

  “Enough prattle,” said the imperious voice from the darkness. “Come here, Don Rumata.”

  Rumata walked toward the voice, feeling himself tottering from side to side. A little man with a torch appeared out of somewhere and went ahead of him. Rumata recognized this place: it was one of the countless interior courtyards of the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown, somewhere near the royal stables. He quickly realized, If they take me to the right, that means the tower, the dungeon. If they take me to the left, that means the office. He shook his head. It’s OK, he thought. While I’m alive, I can still fight.

  They turned left. Not right away, thought Rumata. There will be a preliminary investigation. That’s strange. If it comes down to an investigation, what can they accuse me of? I guess that’s easy. Inviting the poisoner Budach, poisoning the king, plotting against the crown. Possibly murdering the prince. And, of course, spying for Irukan, Soan, the barbarians, the barons, the Holy Order, and so on, so forth. It’s simply astonishing that I’m still alive. The pale fungus must be plotting something else.

  “Over here,” said the man with the imperious voice.

  He opened a low door, and Rumata crouched down and entered a spacious room lit by a dozen lamps. There were tied-up, bloodied people sitting and lying down in the middle of a threadbare carpet. A few of them were either already dead or unconscious. Practically all of them were barefoot, in tattered nightshirts. Red-faced troopers, savage and self-satisfied, were standing along the walls, casually leaning on their axes and poleaxes—the champions of the night. An officer holding a sword, his hands behind his back, was pacing back and forth in front of them, wearing a gray uniform with an extremely greasy collar. Rumata’s escort, a tall man in a dark cloak, approached the officer and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded, looked curiously at Rumata, and disappeared behind the colorful curtains at the opposite end of the room.

  The storm troopers were examining Rumata curiously. One of them, with an eye swollen shut, said, “A nice rock on the don!”

  “That’s some rock,” another one agreed. “Fit for a king. And the circlet’s solid gold.”

  “We’re all kings today.”

  “So let’s take it?”

  “Enough!” the man in the black cloak said quietly.

  The storm troopers stared at him, bewildered.

  “Who’s this come to pester us?” said the swollen-eyed storm trooper.

  The man in the cloak turned around without answering, walked over to Rumata, and stood by his side.

  The storm troopers looked him up and down with hostile eyes.

  “A priest, huh?” the swollen-eyed storm trooper said. “Hey, Friar, your robe on fire?”

  The storm troopers guffawed. The swollen-eyed storm trooper spat on his hands, tossing his ax from one hand to the other, and moved toward Rumata. He’s really going to get it now, thought Rumata, slowly drawing back his right foot.

  “Who I’ve always beaten up,” the storm trooper continued, stopping in front of him and examining
the man in black, “it’s priests, literates of any kind, and toolsmen. Once I—”

  The man in the cloak raised his hand, palm up. A loud snap came from just below the ceiling. Bzzzz! The swollen-eyed storm trooper dropped his ax and fell onto his back. A short, thick crossbow bolt with dense feathering protruded from the middle of his forehead. The room went quiet. The storm troopers backed away, nervously eyeing the vents beneath the ceiling. The man in the cloak lowered his hand and ordered, “Remove the carcass, quickly!”

  Several storm troopers dashed forward, grabbed the dead man by his hands and feet, and dragged him away. A gray officer emerged from behind the curtains and waved invitingly.

  “Let’s go, Don Rumata,” said the man in the cloak.

  Rumata walked toward the curtains, going around the group of prisoners. I don’t understand a thing, he thought. In the darkness behind the curtains they grabbed him, searched him, tore the empty scabbards off his belt, and then pushed him into the light.

  Rumata immediately realized where he’d been taken. He was in Don Reba’s familiar office in the lilac quarters. Don Reba was sitting in the same place and in exactly the same position, tensely upright, his elbows on the desk and his fingers interlaced. You know, the old man has hemorrhoids, Rumata suddenly thought with pity. On Don Reba’s right side, Father Zupic sat in state—pompous, concentrated, with pursed lips; on his left side, there was a genially smiling fat man with captain’s stripes on his gray uniform. There was no one else in the office.