Ignat the Witch and the People

I recently talked to a friend about the Russian writer Victor Pelevin.  The conversation prompted me to go online and dig up an archive of Pelevin’s short stories.  This is a quick translation of one of them that I liked.
  October 22, 2003

A Hairy Tail
(by Victor Pelevin; translated from the Russian by A. Baylin)

On the 4th of May 1912 archpriest Arsenicum dropped in on Ignat the Witch.  While Ignat fiddled with the samovar and fetched some biscuits his guest marked time at the door.  He  blew his nose, and struggled with his galoshes, and crossed himself sporadically, and sighed.  Finally he settled on the edge of a stool, fished from some recesses of his cassock a red folder, and remarked casually:  “Looky what I wrote!”

“Interesting,” said Ignat, taking the first page.  “Shall I read it aloud?”

“Oh goodness, no!” the archpriest clucked in dismay.  “Read it silently.”

This is what Ignat read:

THE REVELATION OF ST. THEOCTISTUS
“People!” spake St. Theoctistus as he shook his knotty staff.  “Verily I tell ye, Jesus Christ showed Himself unto me.  He ordained me to go to you and apologize.  It didn’t work.”

Ignat laughed while thinking: this is strange.  He kept his doubts to himself, though, and instead said: “Got any more?”

“Yeah.”  The archpriest handed Ignat another page which read:

THE MADNESS AND DEATH OF MIKHAIL IVANOVICH
“No matter where I go,” Mikhail Ivanovich thought as he sank to the sofa in amazement, “there is always at least one madman.  But now I am finally alone…”

“Then again,” Mikhail Ivanovich continued to think as he turned to the window in amazement, “no matter where I go, there is always at least one dead man.  But now, thank god, I am at last alone…”

“The time has come,” Mikhail Ivanovich told himself as he opened the shutter in amazement, “to get down to it…”

“This is definitely most peculiar,” Ignat decided yet again kept his feelings to himself and said instead: “Interesting.  I don’t quite get the main idea, though.”

“That’s simple,” said the archpriest with an insolent wink.  “The idea is that death is preceded by a brief spell of insanity.  That’s because the thought of death is intolerable.”

“He is definitely up to something,” thought Ignat.

“Here’s more,” the archpriest said cheerfully and gave Ignat the following:

THE TALE OF COCKROACH NAMED ZHU
Cockroach named Zhu moves inexorably towards death.  Poison lies ahead.  He has to stop and change his course.

“I made it.  Death but impends,” notes cockroach named Zhu.

Boiling water pours from above.  He has to dodge it and escape under the table.

“I made it.  Death but impends,” notes cockroach named Zhu.

In the sky a shoe appears and grows in size as it comes down.  There is no escape.

“Death,” notes cockroach named Zhu.

Ignat raised his eyes.  Unfamiliar men in sheepskin jerkins were entering the house.  They hid large rusty axes behind their backs.

“I see…” said Ignat.  “You unlocked the door.  I was wondering what took you there so long.”

The archpriest assumed a dignified air and stroked his beard.

“You there, what do you want?” Ignat demanded sternly, addressing the men.

“Well,” the dithering and fidgeting men replied, “we was thinkin’ of doin’ you in.  That’s our wossname—worldly decision.  ’Cause the world does all them witches in dead certain.”

“The world, my foot,” Ignat thought sadly as he vanished into thin air.  “The world was done in by its own witches a long time ago.”

“Damn it!” cursed the archpriest and crossed himself.  “Blew it again.”

“Gotta bring an icon,” one of the men advised and emptied his nose into his sleeve.  “Can’t get ’em witches no other wise.”

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