My Beloved Crocodile

This tale is definitely not for children. It’s for adults. But I believe adults need tales too, to find answers to their grown-up questions.

(Translated from Russian by Rene Maori)

I wanted to talk to you about love, which is cruel and makes us love goats, but then I thought that every goat might seem like an angel or even a god to someone in love. After all, intimacy hides not in the word “goat” but in the phrase “my goat.” Here lies warmth, tenderness, and love, which is cruel.

And then I remembered an ancient story, almost a parable. Bernard Waber even wrote several tales inspired by it. But we know that when a work is written “based on” something, it often contains many historical distortions.

“Once upon a time, there lived a crocodile…” This phrase is entirely true; the crocodile indeed lived, and his name was Sokhet. He was not quite an ordinary crocodile like those who live in abundance along the banks of the Nile; otherwise, there would be no point in telling his story. He was revered as a deity, respected, and worshipped. Most likely, this respect stemmed from his appearance and some peculiarities of his form. Rumor had it that his mother was none other than the goddess Neith herself, though doubts arose about his father—there were even such wild assumptions that they are improper to utter here. Everyone wondered why such a respectable goddess, the protector of hearth and marriage, would give birth to a crocodile. The thing is, her husband, the god Khnum, had a ram’s head on his shoulders, but their children bore no resemblance to him. Ra, for example, was born with the head of a falcon, while Sokhet was born as a human-crocodile hybrid. In this story, there is only one clue that partially explains these familial differences: Mother Neith was also the patroness of arts, and among bohemians, promiscuous relationships often occur. Father Khnum noticed nothing since he had ram brains and accepted all the children as his own.

"He walked down Nevsky Prospect," - said the Russian children's writer Korney Chukovsky. Now that is false information. Sokhet never in his life walked down Nevsky Prospect. I’ve walked it, sure, but never. He also never smoked cigarettes, only inhaled the fragrant smoke of incense burners lit in his honor. And he didn’t speak Turkish either, as his native tongue was Ancient Egyptian. The only truth here is that the real Sokhet, the one from the parable, did indeed exist—handsome and well-educated. With his noble lineage, he rightfully bore the title of a deity, a rank even higher than that of a pharaoh. This is why the pharaohs of that time gladly chose him as their patron, adorning their homes and even themselves with countless depictions of the youthful crocodile god. In their obligatory menageries on the lower levels of their palaces, they dug wide pools teeming with crocodile deities, well-fed on the meat of disobedient slaves and unfaithful wives.

In those distant times, there lived a courtesan. A woman of not-so-heavy morals but renowned and beautiful, nonetheless. Her name was Rhodopis, which means "rosy-cheeked." Most likely, she suffered from a rare condition commonly called "rosacea," yes, the same one Bill Clinton had. Her life story resembled a version of Cinderella’s tale. The girl wandered and wandered until she wandered her way into the pharaoh’s palace in search of her lost sandal. By the time our story begins, she was already the lawful wife of the pharaoh and a mighty queen of Egypt. This gave her every right to commission her own pyramid.

The crocodile-headed Sokhet, naturally, was welcomed in the pharaoh’s palace and often stopped by for various administrative matters—confirming when Sirius would become visible in the night sky, when to flood the Nile, and even when to impose droughts as punishment for disobedient citizens who had ceased paying taxes altogether.

One day, the queen, before her daily stroll, decided to visit her husband to discuss the construction of her own pyramid, which the pharaoh had promised her as a wedding gift. It was a fine tradition—to present the bride with a tomb for her wedding. But Rhodopis desired a pyramid worthy of a pharaoh, and she was not denied. Near the entrance to the administrative wing, she hesitated because she overheard her husband speaking with an unfamiliar visitor. Blessed be the architect who invented colonnades, the queen concealed herself among the columns and listened attentively to the voices echoing beneath the palace’s vaulted ceilings.

- I agree, - said the stranger. - Rain will fall tomorrow afternoon. Do not let your children go outside at that time, for your youngest might catch a cold and die—so said the oracle.
-Thank you for the warning, Sokhet, - the pharaoh replied.

Rhodopis peeked out from behind a column but saw only the departing guest’s back—his strong, slender legs, smooth skin, and a headdress adorned with a solar disk. From a golden chain encircling his right wrist hung an enormous Ankh cross.

- Ah, - murmured Rhodopis, realizing she had fallen in love.
From that moment on, even the construction of her pyramid ceased to bring her joy. The queen spent entire days in her chambers, resting her cheek on her hand and muttering: “Sokhet, my golden treasure, my shining falcon.” Night after night, she called upon her beloved to join her on her purple bed—and one night, he answered.

Thousands of lightning bolts flashed beneath the ceiling; thunder roared; and before the astonished queen stood the radiant Sokhet, the hero of her dreams. She raised her eyes and suddenly noticed that the beautiful body of the youth was crowned with an ugly crocodile head. But there was no turning back—she was in love, and it no longer mattered how her beloved truly looked.

- I am the creator of heaven and earth, the lord of the Nile and its fish, the protector of pharaohs and their families, - rumbled Sokhet in a deep voice, without opening his mouth. After all, everyone knows that crocodiles lack tongues and therefore cannot speak like humans, they can only ventriloquize. - Why have you summoned me, Rhodopis? How can I help you?

- I want your love, - the queen replied. - And afterward, I can die if that is your will.

- Is that even possible? - Sokhet asked in surprise. - I am a deity. Can you, a mortal, endure my embrace?

- Just once, - Rhodopis pleaded, - just one time. Otherwise, I will simply perish in agony—so let me die at the peak of bliss.
She seemed so defenseless, so tender, that the crocodile’s heart wavered. Sokhet cast off the radiant cloth girding his loins and reclined on the purple bed beside the queen. She covered his cold, toothy snout with kisses and surrendered to him with all the passion she could muster.
- My darling, my beloved crocodile, - she whispered passionately. But soon she stopped whispering altogether and began to moan softly, trembling in the embrace of her divine lover.

Sokhet stayed in the queen's chambers until dawn, then vanished just as suddenly as he had appeared, saying only as he departed:

- You have received everything. Do not summon me again.

What a monstrous rudeness to utter instead of a farewell kiss or sweet, tender words! Ah, such a cold, cold crocodile heart!
From that moment on, the queen grew sorrowful and urged the pyramid’s construction to be completed as quickly as possible. Even the redness of her cheeks faded, leaving them almost alabaster pale. She ordered the pyramid to be adorned with bas-reliefs of Sokhet and statues of him carved from precious marble brought from Greece. Everyone assumed that the queen had suddenly become deeply devout, and fearing to offend her piety or incur the wrath of the gods, they agreed to all her whims.

The pyramid was built in record time, and though it was smaller than others, it was far more beautiful. A true temple of love, where an elegant carved sarcophagus—decorated with those same crocodile images—could serve as a bed. She commanded that the finest aromatic herbs grown in all of Egypt be burned in the empty chamber.
But one day, unable to bear the weight of her sorrow and heartache, Rhodopis went to the menagerie. Menageries were always an integral part of every pharaoh’s palace. In separate enclosures lived lions, panthers, jackals, raccoons—any creature caught in Egypt or brought as a gift. At the very center stood a stone temple with a well at its heart, covered by an iron grate secured with a lock. On the lower level was a pool with sloping banks that mimicked the shores of the Nile, complete with an elaborate system of canals that brought water from the great river. It was into this temple that the tormented queen entered, seeking to heal the wound in her soul inflicted by Sokhet.

She unlocked the lock and lifted the grate, inhaling the putrid stench of decay rising from the half-eaten remains of sacrificial animals and humans. She heard the endless splashing of water where sacred crocodiles frolicked and recoiled in horror. Just moments earlier, she had been ready to leap down, longing for one last glimpse of the face that now haunted her tortured dreams. But crocodiles did not smell of incense—and that was their great mistake.

- I cannot do this, - Rhodopis said aloud, her voice echoing beneath the high arches. -Perhaps I do not love him enough after all, for I suddenly see ugliness in what I once so desperately desired. He is just a crocodile, no different from those down below. But do I love them? Not at all—they are repulsive.

And so "my crocodile" turned back into just "a crocodile," and with that pronoun disappeared all tenderness, warmth, and intimacy—and that cruel love itself.

As a lesson to all goats and creators, I want to say only one thing: never do anything that might cause someone who loves you to see clearly one day. Always, when saying goodbye after a passionate night, give them at least a kiss and say some kind and tender words. It will cost you nothing, but they will remain happy.