The Slynx

DECREE

Since I am Fyodor Kuzmich Kablukov, Glory to Me, the Greatest Murza, Long May I Live, a Seckletary and Acade-mishun and Hero and Captain of the High Seas and Carpenter, and seeing as I am constantly concerned with the people's welfare, I hereby command:

That the Holiday of New Year be celebrated.

That this here holiday be celebrated the First of March kinda like the May Holidays.

It's a day off too.

That means nobody goes to work. Drink and make merry, do what you want, but within reason, and not like sometimes happens when you go to town and burn everything down and then have to mend all the fences.

The New Year Holiday should be celebrated like this: chop down a tree in the forest, not too big but full, so that it will fit in your izbas but if you want you can put it in the yard. Stick this tree in the floor or wherever you can, so it stands up, and hang all sorts of stuff on its branches depending on what you 've got. It could be colored threads braided together, or nuts, firelings, or whatever you can spare around the house, all kinds of junk always piles up in the corner and it might come in handy. Tie this stuff on tight so it doesn't fall off on top of you.

Light candles so that everything's bright and cheery.

Cook up lots of yummy dishes, don't be stingy after all spring is coming soon and all kinds of things will grow in the forest.

Invite guests, your neighbors, kinfolk, feed everyone, don't bestingy, they won't eat you out of house and home. You'll get to eat too you know.

Play on pipes whoever has the knack, or on drums, you can dance if your legs are fit.

Put on good clothes, dress to the teeth, also put things in your hair.

Some of you might want to bathe, so I order the Baths to open in daytime, be my guest, drop in and bathe only bring your own firewood with you cause there won't be enough to go around otherwise.

It will be interesting, you'll see.

Kablukov

Benedikt copied the Decree four times, gave Olenka the bark so she could decorate the letters to make them pretty- with plaited ribbons, birds and flowers, since this was serious business, or as Jackal put it, fateful affairs. He perked up and felt cheerful. The rest of the Golubchiks working in the izba also seemed to brighten and straighten up. Why not be happy: spring was on the way! Spring! Who doesn't love spring! Even the most miserable lousy Golubchik looks better, grows kinder, and hopes for something in spring.

You spend the whole winter lying on the stove bed in soot and peelings, not even taking your lapty off; you don't bathe or brush your hair; you can't tell your feet from your felt boots with all the dirt, they're grimy enough to boast about or show off to your neighbors. Your beard is full of knots and rats' nests- mice would be happy to take up house; your eyes are overgrown with scales so you have to push them open with your fingers and hold them or they'll snap shut. But when spring comes, you crawl out in the morning, into the courtyard, to do your business or whatever-and suddenly a strong sweet wind will blow in, as if there were flowers somewhere around the corner, or a girl sighed, or someone invisible were standing at your gate with presents-the stinky fellow stands there, stock-still, and thinks he hears something but can't believe his ears: could it really be? Really? He stands there, his eyes glassed over, his beard rattling in the breeze like rusht or like tiny bells; his mouth wide open 'cause he forgot to close it; he grabs his britches and freezes, and his feet have already melted two black circles, and the shitbird has already messed on his hair and he keeps standing there, innocent, bathed in the first wind, the golden light, and the shadows are blue, and the icicles are burning with the heat and working overtime: drop-drip, drip-drop, ding dong! He stands there until a neighbor or a co-worker walking by shouts: "Whatcha hanging out for, Beauregard, whatcha lookin at? Chokin' or somefin?" and laughs in a friendly way, kindly, springlike.

The First of March is soon. Right around the corner. True, it freezes up good and hard at night still, there'll be more snowstorms, the snow will have to be dug out more than once, a path beaten down to the izba, and the main road shoveled out if it's your turn to do roadwork-but things are already easier, you can see the end of it, and the days already seem longer.

Winter shows its anger still- Its time has almost passed. Spring knocks on the windowsill And shoos it from the path.

That's right. That's the way it is. Now it's time to choose a tree in the forest, like Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, decreed, and dress it in whatever's to hand. During lunch break the Golub-chiks discuss the Decree. What to use for decoration? They're worried.

Ksenia the Orphan says: "I have two nuts and about five yards of thread in my cupboard."

Konstantin Leontich dreams: "I'll make doilies and confetti from bark, and symmetrical garlands."

Varvara Lukinishna: "I see it this way: a fireling on the very top, and spirals of beads descending the tree."

"Beads of what?"

"Well… You could roll balls of clay and string them on a thread."

"Clay? In winter?"

Everyone laughed.

"You could thread peas if you have some."

"Peas would be perfect. Enjoy looking at it a bit, and then eat some. Enjoy a little more-and eat some more."

"Maybe they'll give out something from the Warehouse for the holiday."

"Yeah, sure. Hold your pockets open. They need it for themselves."

"Golubchiks! Maybe we could trade with the Cockynorks for plaited baskets?"

"Trade what? By spring everything's eaten up."

"Speak for yourself."

"And you, Olenka, what will you decorate with?"

Olenka, as always, blushed and looked down at the ground.

"Us? We, well, we… something, some kind of…"

Benedikt was charmed. He started imagining how Olenka, in a new dress with full sleeves would sit at some bountiful table, lowering her eyes to the tabletop or glancing at him, at Benedikt, or gazing at the candles-and those candles would make her eyes shine and glisten and a blush cover her cheeks. And the part in her fair hair was clean, even, milky, like the heavenly Spindle. Colorful braided bands adorned her brow, beads and decorations dangled from them, temple rings hung on either side, and in the middle was a blue stone, deep and murky like a tear. She wore stones around her neck too, threaded on a string, tightly tied right under her chin. Her little chin was so white, with such a sweet little dimple right in the middle. There she'd be, sitting straight up like a New Year's tree, all decked out, still as can be, glancing here and there…

The other Olenka, the one here, in the Work Izba, was drawing pictures and her tongue stuck out. She was really sort of ordinary-her face, and clothes, and manner. Both of them were one and the same Olenka, and how she splits in Benedikt's head, how he conjures one of them up like a vision-it's not easy to understand.

It's as though a sort of sleepy image splits off from the simple Olenka, and hangs in front of his eyes like a mirage, a fog, an enchantment. Hard to figure… You can poke the simple Olenka in the ribs, like regular people do, and tell her a joke, or play a trick on her: while she's drawing you can sneak up and tie her braid to the stool, for instance. Her braid goes down to the floor, so it's easy as pie. When she gets up-to go to the privy or to lunch-the stool will fall over with a clatter! It's a funny joke, he's done it lots of times.

You can't joke that way with the other Olenka, the magical vision, you can't elbow her in the ribs, in fact he's not sure what to do with her, but he can't get her out of his head. The vision turns up everywhere-on the street, especially in the evening, when he makes his way home in the dusk, and in the izba… That's how he imagines it: he opens the stiff, frozen door, steps inside. There in the dim, smoky air, in the warm pancake steam, in the midst of all the izba smells-sour, wet wool, stuffy ashes, something else familiar, homey-in the midst of all of this, there's a gleam like a feeble torch glow, and there's Olenka floating right in the air all fancy like an idol. Motionless, wrapped stiff in beads, the milky part on her head combed straight, her eyes sparkle, her eyelashes tremble, and in her gaze there's a secret and the light of a bluish candle flame.

Ugh. He can't shake it.

Well, the Golubchiks will probably celebrate the New Year Holiday dancing and feasting, and Benedikt has nothing saved up in his izba but old socks. And it's a lot of work to invite guests and feed them. What to offer them? Spring is the hungriest time. Benedikt always thins out in the spring, his ribs even stick out. All day long at work, and you had to work in the summer too- early morning in the fields to gather provisions. You get such blisters you can't hold the writing stick tight. Your hands shake and your handwriting's bad. That's why Scribes get a vacation in the summer: they're no good for work anyhow. In the summer the Scribe is like an ordinary Golubchik-a sickle on his shoulder and into the fields and glades to cut goosefoot, horsetail. Bring in the sheaves. You tie them up-lug them to the shed, and go back again, another time, once more, all over, run, run, run. While he's gone the neighbors or a stranger will filch a couple of sheaves for sure, sometimes from the field, sometimes straight from the shed. But that's all right: they steal from me, and I'll get good and mad and steal from them, those guys will steal from these guys-and so it goes in a circle. It comes out fair. Everyone steals, but everyone ends up with their own. More or less. As Nikita Ivanich says, it's a basic redistribution of personal property holdings. Maybe that's what it is.

Used to be, when Mother was still alive, the old man would drop in and chat. He took to teaching Benedikt all sorts of ideas. Think, think for yourself, young man, use your head: wouldn't it be more efficient without all this thievery? How much time and effort would be economized! How many fewer injuries there would be in the settlement! And he'd argue, and explain, and Mother would nod her head in agreement: I always tell my son the same thing, I try to explain the elamentree preeceps of more-allity. But, alas, to little effect.

More-alls are a good thing, who can argue. But good's only good if something good comes of it. Besides more-allity, there's a lot of other things in life. Depends how you look at it.

If Golubchiks didn't steal my goods-of course that's more-allity for me. Everything would be calmer.

On the other hand. Suppose a Golubchik has cut a bunch of horsetail, right? Now he has to carry it back to the izba, right? As soon as he's started, here I come by, winking at him. He's worried, of course, he covers his sheaves, hides them from me, frets, makes a mean face, furrows his eyebrows and peers out from under them. I see all this, and stand nearby, my legs spread out. I open my mouth and start teasing him: So, what's the matter Demian? Scared to lose your provisions? Is that it? Worried? That's right, you ought to be! That's the way things go, Demian, just turn your back! Right? What do you say? Worried about your stuff? Hunh!

So the Golubchik grumbles, and paces back and forth, or maybe roars at you: What're you after, you dog! Off with you or I'll tear you to pieces! And I just laugh, of course. I move over to the side, lean against the fence or whatever's there, cross my legs, have a smoke, and keep an eye on him, wink at him, drop hints here and there, just keep worrying at the Golubchik. If he doesn't have the time, he'll drop it, gather however many sheaves he can, dragging them along on his back, if his health allows, and keeping an eye out: What am I doing, have I ruined something? Have I run off with anything? Is it his? Have I relieved myself on his provisions? Wiped my nose on his valuables? I might!

You could die laughing, it's so funny! You just have to swipe at least one sheaf from a worrywart like that.

And if I give him a more-allity? Then there's no fun in it. What do you have then? Just walk by frowning, like you didn't have breakfast? Not even look at someone else's stuff? Not even dream about it? That's awful! Really terrible. After all, that's how the eyes work: they just wander around and run into other people's stuff, sometimes even pop out. Legs can trip up and still walk on by, but the eye just sticks like glue, and the whole head turns with it, and thoughts get jammed like they ran straight into a column or a wall: damn, if only that were mine! Wouldn't that be… I would…! For sure I would…! You start to drool, and sometimes it runs down onto your beard. Your fingers start moving on their own, as if they were grabbing something. There's a buzzing in your chest. It's like someone's whispering in your ear: Take it! So what? No one will see!

Well then, after all that sweat and hard work, when you've played your pranks, you store up edibles for the winter. And by the springtime you've eaten it all up. So you either take yourself to the Food Izba and eat their garbage, Golubchik, or you make do with food for the soul.

That's what they always say about booklets: food for the soul. And it's true: you start reading and your belly doesn't growl as much. Especially if you smoke while you read. Of course books are different. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, works day and night. Sometimes he writes fairy tales, or poems, or a novel, or a mystery, or a short story, or a novella, or some kind of essay. Last year Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, decided to write a shopping-hower, which is kind of like a story, only you can't make heads nor tails of it. A long sucker, they read it for three months, copied it a dozen times, wore themselves to the bone. Konstan-tin Leontich bragged that he understood everything-but he always brags: everyone just laughed. So you think you understood it, Golubchik-then tell us the story: who goes where, who do they see, how're they gonna do that shopping, what hanky panky do they get up to, who do they murder? Huh? You can't? Well, there you go. It was called The World as Will and Idea. A good name, inviting. After all, you've always got a lot of ideas in your head, especially at bedtime. You wrap your coat around you so there's no draft, cover your head with a cloth, draw up one leg, stretch out the other, put your fist or your elbow under your head; then turn over, flip your pillow onto the cold side, wrap your coat up again if it slipped, toss and turn- and start to drift off.

And the ideas come.

You might have an idea about Olenka, all decked out, white, immobile, enough to give you butterflies in your stomach; or about how you're flirting with a woman, or with a beautiful girl, you grab her, and she squeals, and you both have fun; or you're walking along the street and you find something valuable: a purse with chits or a basket of food. Or your dream might really take off and you go somewhere you've never been: along a path through the forest, toward the sunrise, and farther, into the glade, and even farther, to an unknown forest where bright streams burble, where the golden branches of the birch tree plash in a stream like long threads, like a girl's hair gleaming in the sun-they splash and play, curling in the warm wind; and under the birch tree there's greengrass, fancy ferns, beetles with shiny blue backs, and poppies-you pick them, breathe deep, and you feel sleepy, a far-off chime rings in your ears, and clouds are floating in your chest, and it's like you're on a mountain, and from the mountain you can see a white road, twisting and turning, and the sun shines, plays tricks on you, blinds you, gets in the way of seeing, and in the distance something sparkles. Is it the Ocean-Sea they sing about in songs? Or islands in magic waters, islands with white cities, gardens, and towers? Or a strange, lost kingdom? Or another life…?

There you go, your head fills with all sorts of ideas-and you fall asleep.

Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, doesn't write about anything like that in his shoppinghower, and, to tell the truth, it's a yawn, Lord knows. But people bought all the copies anyway, that is, they traded for it, and so now somewhere someone must be reading the thing, spitting as he goes. People love to read; on weekends at the market they always go to trade mice for booklets. The Lesser Murzas come out, set up the governmental stalls along the fence, set out birch-bark booklets, a tag stuck in each of them that says how much they'll take for it. The prices are different: five mice, ten, twenty, or if it's really interesting or has pictures, it can go as high as fifty. The Golubchiks crowd around, checking prices, discussing whether to buy or not to buy, what the book is about, what's the story, are there a lot of pictures? But you can't look inside: pay up first, then look as much as you like. The Lesser Murzas stomp their boots in the cold, slap their sleeves, hawk their goods.

"A new one, who wants a new one? The Eternal Call! A hu-mongous novel!"

"Who'll take The Fundamentals of Differential Calculus, a popular brochure, incredibly interesting!"

Another one will put his hands to his mouth like a cup so the sound's louder and cry out: " The Three Billy Goats Gruff! Last Copy! A thrilling Epic! This is the last copy, come and get it!"

He does that on purpose, but he's really lying, he has another dozen under his counter. That's just how he gets the Golubchiks interested, so a crowd gathers: if it's the last one they don't want to miss it. If someone has a passion for trading books, he'll pay. "What? They're all sold?" And the Murza, pretending to hesitate: "Well, there is one… I put it aside for myself… I don't know…"

The Golubchik says: "Maybe you'll let me have it? I'll throw in a couple of extra mice… What do you say?"

And the Murza says: "I don't know… I wanted to read it myself… But I guess if you throw in another five…"

"Five? Come on, now! My mice are fat, each is worth a mouse and a half!"

"Well, let me take a look." They bargain, and it's all gravy for the Murza. That's why their faces are fatter and their izbas are taller.

But Benedikt's face is ordinary, not too big, and his izba is tiny.