The Slynx

IZHE

Oh, how Benedikt envied Nikita Ivanich! That evening, arriving home after work, all worried, he checked the stove as he always did. As if to spite him, as often happened, the stove had gone out. If he'd gotten home an hour earlier, it might have been all right, a little bit of life might still have warmed the embers, he could have probably gotten down on his knees and, turning his head like he was praying, blown and blown till a live flame came out of the gray, ashen sticks. Yes, just an hour earlier it could have still been done. The workday is long, and by the time you get to work and then run home afterward-it's like on purpose, like someone figured it out so that you couldn't make it in time! The soup, of course, wouldn't be cold yet if it was wrapped in rags the way it ought to be; you can fill your belly, but the taste is sad, twilightish. You're in the dark-there's nothing to light a candle with. You feel sorry for yourself, so sorry! The izba isn't cold yet either, you can hit the hay in your padded coat and hat. But it will start freezing up at nighttime: winter will creep up to the thin cracks and the notches, it'll blow under the door, breathe cold up from the ground. By morning there will be death in the izba, and nothing else.

No, you can't go that long. You have to go ask the Stokers for fire-and you'd better get some little surprises ready for them, Golubchik. Or you can knock on your neighbor family's door and beg, if they aren't too mean. Family people have it easier: while the husband works, the wife sits at home, keeps house, watches the stove. Makes soup. Bakes. Sweeps. Maybe even spins wool. You can't go on begging like that day after day, the neighbor ladies will lose all patience: they'll smack you on the head with a shaft. Or maybe they've gone to bed, maybe they're barking at each other like family folk do, or fighting, pulling each other's hair out, and here you show up: Could you spare some coals, kind Golubchiks?

But Nikita Ivanich now, he doesn't need a family, or a woman, or neighbors; his stove could go out a hundred times-what does he care? He puffs up-and lights it again. That means he can smoke when he wants, in the forest or the fields or wherever- he's got fire with him. If he wants, he can start a campfire and sit down by the flames, tossing on dry storm kindling, branches, forest garbage, fallen thicket rubbish; he can stare into the live, reddish-yellow, flickering, warm, dancing flame. He doesn't have to ask, or bow, or scrape, or be afraid-nothing. Freedom! Bene-dikt would like that! Yes, he would!…

Once again, in the pitch dark, he felt for the pot with the warm soup and fumbled around: Where is the spoon? Who the devil knows, he stuck it somewhere and forgot. Slurp it over the rim again? How much could he take, he wasn't a goat after all.

He went out on the porch. Lordy! How dark it was. To the north, to the south, toward the sunset, the sunrise-darkness, darkness without end, without borders, and in that darkness, pieces of gloom-other izbas like logs, like rocks, like black holes in the black blackness, like gaps into nowhere, into the freezing hush, into the night, into oblivion, into death, like a long fall into a well, like what happens to you in dreams-you fall and fall and there's no bottom and your heart gets smaller and smaller, more pitiful and tighter. Lordy!

And over your head is the sky, also blacker than black, and across the sky in a pattern are the bluish spots of the stars, thicker sometimes, or weaker, it looks like they're breathing, flickering, like they're suffocating too, they're withering, they want to break away, but they can't, they're pinned fast to the black heavenly roof, nailed tight, can't be moved. Right over Benedikt's head, always overhead wherever you go-the Trough, and the Bowl, and the bunch of Northern Horsetail, and the bright white Belly Button, and the strewn Nail Clippings, and dimly, crowded, thickened, in a stripe through the whole night vault, the Spindle. They've always been there, as long as you can remember. You're born, you die, you get up, you lie down, you dance at your neighbor's wedding, or in the morning, in the stern raspberry dawn you wake in fright as though someone hit you with a stick, like you alone remain alive on earth- and the stars are still there, always there, pale, blinking, indistinct, eternal, silent.

Behind your back the izba grows cold. Soup. Bed. On the bed-a cloth: a boiled felt blanket left by Benedikt's mother, a summer coat to cover his legs; a feather pillow, kind of filthy. There should be a table at the window, a stool at the table, on the table a candlestick with an oil candle, and extra candles in the closet, and a half pood of rusht, and in the safe place, hidden from thieves, extra felt boots, knitted socks, lapty for spring, a stone knife, a string of dried marshrooms, and a pot with a handle. They were there this morning, anyway. Everything you could want. Everything. And still, something's missing. Some-thing gnaws, gnaws at you.

… Is it riches I covet?… Or freedom? Or I'm scared of death? Where is it I want to go? Or have I gotten too big for my britches, reached the heights of Freethinking, fancy myself a Murza, or some ruler-who knows what-or a giant, magical, all powerful, the most important of all, who tramples Gol-ubchiks, dwells in a terem squeezing his hands, shaking his head? Think how Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, walked into the mud room and everyone fell on their knees… Think how Nikita Ivanich roared fire…

That old man isn't afraid of anything. He doesn't need anyone-no Murzas, no neighbors. Because he has such power, such an envious Consequence: fire comes from his innards. If he wanted, he could burn down the whole settlement, or the whole town, all the woods around it, even the whole flat pancake of the earth! That must be why the bosses avoid him, they don't mess with him like they do with us, simple Golubchiks; he has strength and glory and power on earth! Aye, aye, aye, but we poor small folk have to stand on our porches at night, inhaling the freezing darkness, exhaling a slightly warmer darkness. We stomp our feet, turn our faces to the distant heavenly Spindle, listen to tears tinkling like frozen peas, rolling into the thickets of our beards, we listen to the silence of the black izbas on black foothills, the creak of the high trees, to the whine of the blizzard, which brings in gusts-barely audible, but still clear-of a distant, pitiful, hungry northern wail.