In the city, they did not yet know anything of the latest events. Laurence, the treasury and all that, had been forgotten long ago in favor of other, more current, stories and the name of the unfortunate Arcady was covered over by the same oblivion. Therefore, if on this day some verifiable information had arrived about what happened in the cretins’ hamlet or in the village with the sawmill, it would have appeared in small print, and only for lack of other material, on the last pages of the newspaper, where no one, it goes without saying, would even notice. And at present there was more than enough material, and the most urgent, official information, not subject to any rewriting or abbreviation, and so you could say with certainty that reports of Laurence’s latest appearance would not have landed in the news section—no space for them would have been found even in the provincial chronicle. Today, the city was graced with a visit from the emperor

In consideration of the empire’s breadth and variety, its juridical, so to speak, head was deprived, naturally, of the possibility of frequently displaying his outward ugliness to the populace, so devoted to him for his inner ugliness, and all the more of appearing in places distant from the capital, like the city with the grand boulevard. And since, besides, the emperor, dubbed The Prodigal Frigging Hand, hated his people for the characterization bestowed on him, despised them for their servility, and feared them, without knowing why, then, although appearing before the people was an obligatory condition of any reign, viewing The Prodigal Hand was permitted on extremely rare occasions. However, in accordance with considerations intelligible only to his entourage, it was incumbent on him, nevertheless, sometimes to travel, and the emperor was even now traveling, and since the city with the grand boulevard lay along his route, he could not avoid the grand boulevard and was obliged to give its citizens an occasion for demonstrating once again all their slavishness and the baseness of their race

In all classes of the population, therefore, a phenomenal fever held sway, whose degree depended on the degree of each class’s participation in the events described. And it reached virtually its highest degree among the police. Since the task set before the state’s police force was in this case particularly difficult and ticklish

First of all, they needed to preserve the person of the emperor, since it was customary in the country’s history for emperors to end their lives in violent death. This problem would not have been so complicated if it had been possible to know precisely from whom they needed to protect the emperor. Although there was a simple answer in such cases: from the party, the inadequacy of this answer was too obvious: the party had been in existence for not all that many years, while emperors had been dying violent deaths since the dawn of time. But in view of the fact that the other assailants were too highly placed and that they were inaccessible or simply unknown to the police, the police stood by their answer and, naturally, strove to prove that they were right. And in view of the fact that the party, knowing that the emperor was only the sign over a shop where others were enriching themselves, had no plan for assassinating him, the police, in order to have something to intercept, had to arrange for an assassination attempt on their own. But because, finally, plotting attempts on the emperor himself was risky and his lackeys didn’t have enough spirit, plots were set in motion against those close to the emperor, who actually trembled in fear for their own heads on such trips. That’s why the struggle against the party was the second, concomitant concern for the police

But since the attempt had to be carried out, all the same, not by the police but by the party, it was necessary for the police, if not to run the party, then, in any case, to urge the party on to heroic exploits. The whole question came down to getting rid of surprises, which, however, remained, for no matter how many hands the police had in the party, not all the party’s leaders were its people. The robbery of the treasury had succeeded only thanks to Basilisk’s quick wits, and this time they had to be especially careful so as not to repeat the episode with the treasury

Several facts made the work of the police easier during such trips, in part the etiquette that divested a crowned personage of all freedom of action and predetermined for several months how that personage would pass each day and along what streets he would move while carrying out the ceremonies that made up his schedule. And since it had long been established that the linchpin of his visit would be a solemn prayer service in the city’s cathedral in the presence of all ranks of civilians and soldiers, high and middling, the cathedral was chosen as the next theater

This time, the pantomime was sure to come off particularly ravishing and elegant, since the main role was assigned to a woman remarkable in all respects. Actually, Anna was a flower girl, whose adventurous love affairs were known well beyond the bounds of the city. She wasn’t beautiful, perhaps good-looking, but in her strange figure—a small head with a broad smile, flat chest, excessively voluptuous thighs and sculpted little legs—was so much charm and banality that the males of the city were driven mad. Anna, however, who could easily have become rich and made a name for herself, derived no advantage from all her attractions, remaining trifling and poor. That’s why the glory of an unmercenary settled on her, opening all doors into society, which despised disinterestedness, and the police, resolved to be, at long last, sharp-witted, suggested to Anna that her genuine path in life, in that case, was the party. But to keep Anna from becoming too zealous in working for the benefit of the party, they kept her in reserve for some solemn occasion. And now such an occasion was at hand, and it was decided to release Anna into circulation

Everything was extremely uncomplicated. In the cathedral, Anna had to carry out an attempt on the person of the chief of the state’s police force (it stands to reason that this was a decision of the police chief himself, who worked out the details of the attempt), but not an entirely successfully one, then to be apprehended and immediately put to death. Thanks to the attempt, the chief of police was making his tenure more secure and receiving his next ribbon, and rewards and promotions were being prepared for his subordinates. Members of the party, once they had been accused of aiding and abetting, could be, in part, sent into exile, and in part, incarcerated: new sources for police prosperity. And everything was so clear and preordained, even the fever that had seized the police gained hold, essentially, only over the lower and less responsible ranks, while its leaders maintained the most magnificent calm in fulfilling their loyal duty. From the outside, the only thing that differentiated the peculiar life of the massive police barracks from its everyday aspect was that all ongoing work was suspended and the barracks was transformed into a theatrical wardrobe. Day and night, apparel for all kinds of citizens was being sewn, since it behooved the costumed police both to embody a crowd and to represent a delegation of craftsmen and merchants, bureaucrats and teachers, and every kind of delegation imaginable, up to and including governing circles. And although the emperor knew of this, and if he didn’t, could easily have guessed, seeing in all corners of the country approximately the same forensic types, etiquette required him to pretend that, as he said, he was pleased with the reception, to believe in the genuineness of the people presented to him, often ten times in one day in one and the same city, changing their costumes and makeup, and to pose questions, hear out replies and read with pleasure the patents and charters submitted to him. True, the costumers’ tastes and the love of state folklorists for old-fashioned things led to the people who met the emperor usually being dressed as no one had dressed for many centuries already. But this only made everything more picturesque, and for the unfeigned philistine who watched the shuffling of costumed police, the spectacle turned out to be not merely amusing, but even educational

The Prodigal Hand was dressed in the same kind of antediluvian costume in order not to break the unity of the decor when, emerging from the train station, he had to clamber up onto the horse that was presented to him and, surrounded by his entourage, brilliant to a rare degree, ride through the entire city to the cathedral. And since the number in disguise was, nevertheless, insufficient to bank the road from the station to the cathedral, The Prodigal Hand was forced to move along at a particularly slow pace, thereby giving the ecstatic populace the opportunity, once he had passed them, to race forward along side streets and, in this way, fill the boulevard, which, cordoned off by soldiers, was, in fact, deserted. In the cathedral, what there was of baseness in the city and whatever vapidity could be brought were united for the meeting. And Laurence, scrutinizing the monstrous mugs, heavy-lobed, hawk-nosed and cross-eyed, and the feeble bodies, bony hands, bugged-out and unctuous eyes, the whole devil’s Sabbath, asked himself with a shudder what the leader of these fiends must be and why a church was such a suitable place for bats, guano, sin and degeneration

After managing to jump out the window following his fight with the wenny and to flee the unpronounceable hamlet, Laurence considered Arcady’s murder the last thing left to do and showed up in the village with the sawmill in search of the captain. But there he found out about The Prodigal Frigging Hand’s arrival in the city and, seeing in this unexpected trip his one chance for redeeming the past, since to sweeten the theatrical effect they often pardoned bandits who turned up with a confession, he asked the village scribe to draw up a petition, carefully hid the sheet and, without disturbing Arcady’s dreary sleep, set off once more for the city, where, so recently, he had resolved never again to make an appearance. And now, after gaining access to the cathedral thanks to his picturesque bandit’s costume, Laurence was standing not far from the entrance, holding his petition, determined to press the paper immediately into The Prodigal’s hands, since the hope for a pardon was an unhoped-for way out with respect to the future father who had returned to his senses

When she saw him, Anna could not for a long time recollect whether this was the same person she had met in Basilisk’s company in the suburban garden on the eve of the robbery. But when she was certain he was the same, only then did it occur to her: yes, of course, that’s Laurence, and everything was suddenly extraordinarily illumined, and Anna no longer saw anyone in the cathedral besides Laurence. But Laurence’s very presence was so unnatural that Anna could in no way come to terms with it, and meanwhile, she needed to act. And allowing that Anna knew Laurence’s tie to the party had been broken, and saw that he was alone, she was convinced that Laurence had planned something incredible, more magnificent than his former audacity. And although the object of his new plan could only be the emperor, the emperor whose approach the hautboys were already announcing, Anna did not consider whether she ought to get in Laurence’s way, for to get in his way would mean renouncing what she had planned. And acknowledging that, no matter what, she had been driven into a corner and that if she did not shoot and kill the chief of police, she would all the same be strangled somewhere, Anna in the end decided to let Laurence act first and see what would come of it

And at once her agitation disappeared and was replaced by a sense of utter fulfillment. What fun it would be if he killed The Prodigal Frigging Hand or caused some unbelievable calamity here. And with the rapture, which, she tried to assure herself on this point, she had experienced once before when she met Laurence with Basilisk, Anna gazed at her hero, standing near the entrance on a dais and poised over the cathedral. The sunshine, penetrating the rainbow-colored glass, scattered bunches of alpine flowers around Laurence and cast a shadow from him in such a way that Anna, overwhelmed by the difference between him and the officials, had a vision: the whole area of the building was shrouded by Laurence, and the degenerates crowding around dissolved in him, along with the streams of people filing into the cathedral, more and yet more, the powerful of this world, preceding the emperor

No matter how repulsive the beings who already filled the cathedral, the look of those entering turned out to be even more shocking. Boys opened the procession, two by two, dressed in crimson broadcloth, in overly tight trousers that emphasized their loathsome, rickety legs. Their bloodless faces reflected inchoate vices. But on the muzzles of those who followed after them, carrying crosiers and wearing caftans embroidered with gold, the vices had been inscribed with diligent application, and, looking at the cavities and humps, bunions and sores that ornamented the courtiers, Laurence was more and more amazed. But this amazement gave way to squeamishness when the old men who were already completely decayed, so you couldn’t tell how they were still bearing up, made their appearance. But, no matter how great Laurence’s revulsion, which had begun to be complicated with fear, everything turned out to be trivial in comparison with the sensations that took hold of him: he shuddered, stiffened, stood transfixed, when he saw the emperor

Bringing up the rear of the procession, hunched over, wiping his eternally sweating hands, shaking the red beard dappled with gray that sprouted from his waxen face, wandering with the nervous gaze of his dull, bloodshot eyes, faded, paunchy, decrepit, Brother Mocius, dressed in a jester’s costume, moved along, heading for the emperor’s throne and noiselessly treading the marble of the church

Laurence’s hand, grasping the sheet of paper and already on the point of being lifted up, hung in the air. Filled with trepidation, the young man watched Brother Mocius reach the throne, kiss the cross, and take his seat under the baldachin decorated with double eagles. The bandit couldn’t believe his ears when he heard: “For the emperor Mocius, let us pray.” To hand this person his petition, this pitiful pretender who had already been put to death once, someone like that—would he have what it takes? Could he really disentangle the contradictions that had been tied together in the course of the story to form the noose in which Laurence would perish? Breathe life into a brain drained of blood? Could he give sound back to the grass, clarity to the snowy ridges, and stillness to a shaking hand, and dreams to a hollow, unrestorative sleep? Could he reconcile Laurence with everything that had happened, rendering it suitable for toothless tales told to grandsons and granddaughters?

But, when Laurence recalled the misadventures of the past year, he forced himself to believe that Brother Mocius could do all. Brother Mocius would forgive him—he was, after all, one of his own, a neighbor, he would understand that Laurence had gone astray, had been punished as he deserved and that it was time to return to the sawmill, to his earlier tedium, hardworking and poor

Still, hadn’t Laurence gone mad? How could this murdered holy fool, buried up there in the cemetery, not only be living, but in possession of the empire, ruling over impure spirits? And that he was now alive, who had been slain, you could handle that, but how could it be that he was a holy ascetic, supposedly, but when you took a closer look, he was pulling strings (and the pudding), the great prince of darkness, and so on, and so forth. And weren’t his spawn just poor imitations of their emperor? And what about Captain Arcady’s outrages? The gendarmes’ brutality? Bureaucratic arbitrariness? The instigator of all the crimes that entangled the mountains and the plains—was he not this lout? And to think what Laurence had endured on account of his saintliness, which was in fact sin

And now to prostrate himself, abase himself, bending the knee, submit to his mercy and acknowledge the depravity ruling this world? Or was it better to finish off the creep?

And, nevertheless, there, high, high above the righteous hamlet, among the ice floes and stars, Ivlita was waiting for Laurence, reconciled to his evil for the sake of her future child

What hadn’t Laurence borne on account of this woman! And it was still too little—he had to go on to new humiliations, mortal, to grovel in the dust once more and, possibly, even after death. “Isn’t Ivlita Brother Mocius’s ally?” flashed through the young man’s head

The service was coming to an end. Incense filled the cathedral, and the sun’s rays could no longer seep through the dove-colored density. The Prodigal Hand’s eternally tired face became even grayer, melted, and he doubled up. Anna exchanged one or two glances with the police officers standing next to her, but prolonged the action. For as time slipped away, her rapture in the young man deepened, and she no longer wanted him to carry out the assassination attempt, on the contrary, she planned to get in his way. He would, of course, be apprehended by the police, beaten, hanged, this one and only decent human being. She had to save him; and no matter how pleasant it would be to see The Prodigal Frigging Hand prostrate, Laurence’s fate was more precious

The clergy were crowding around the emperor. The ritual had ended. The bowlegged youths formed up once more, the gilded smut-mouths, the undead elders. They moved toward the exit. Laurence raised his paper again and, descending the steps, pushed his way through the ranks that separated him from the procession. “Should I submit it or not? Humiliate myself or kill him?” he was still repeating. Anna didn’t take her eyes off of him, and when she saw that ten paces, not more, separated the emperor from Laurence and that they would shortly collide, she pulled a pistol from her purse, aiming at the emperor. But the hand of someone who had been following Anna rather attentively flung her hand up forcefully

A shot rang out, and the bullet, flying over the emperor, struck an infant painted on the wall