The Slynx

NASH

How do you like that! Man proposes, God disposes. Halfway through my earthly life, I awoke in a twilit forest! Having strayed from the path in the darkness of the valley! There I was, living my life, enjoying the sun, gazing in sorrow at the stars, smelling the flowers, dreaming lovely dreams, and suddenly- what a blow! What a drama! A crying shame and a drama- nothing this really terrible has probably ever happened to anybody, not even the Gingerbread Man!

Benedikt had lived his whole life proudly: fine and fit as a fiddle he was. He knew it himself, and people said so. You can't see your own face, of course, unless you pour water in a bowl, light a candle, and look in. Then you can sort of see something. But his body was right there in plain sight. Arms, legs, belly button, nipples, private parts, here are all the fingers on his hands and there are the toes on his feet-and all without any defect. And what's in back? His backside, of course, and on his backside-a little tail. And now Nikita Ivanich says people don't and shouldn't have tails! What? What is it then, a Consequence?

Of course, there was a time when Benedikt didn't have a tail. In childhood his backside was smooth. But when he started growing and his male strength began to show, his tail began to grow too. Benedikt thought that was the way it should be. That's the difference between a man and a woman, that on him every-thing grows on the outside, and in her everything grows inside. His beard and the hair on his body didn't grow at first either, but then they came in real handsome.

He was proud of his tail! A well-formed little tail, white and strong, about as long as your palm or a little longer. If Benedikt was pleased, or feeling happy, it would wag back and forth. What else was it supposed to do? And if he felt a sudden fear or sadness come over him, then his tail would kind of lay low, flat down. You could always tell from your tail what mood you were in. And so how is it that now it turns out it's not normal? All wrong? Holy moly! Maybe his privates-his pudential, in book talk-are also wrong? Take a look, Nikita Ivanich!

Nikita Ivanich examined Benedikt and he looked kind of dejected. No, he said, your privates are just fine, handsome and healthy, there's only one set, and anybody would be happy to have one like that. But your tail is completely superfluous. I'm rather surprised that someone like you, a dreamer and a neu-rotic, didn't catch on earlier. I always told you not to eat so many mice! Let me amputate it for you right now. That means that I'll get an ax and chop it off. Whack!

No! It's too scary! What do you mean, chop it off? It's like a hand or a foot! No! Not for anything! Nikita Ivanich kept it up: Come on, come on, maybe all your nonsense and neuroses are caused by the tail!… No, no! I won't give in!

But how could he get married now? How could he look Olenka, that radiant beauty, straight in the eye? After all, getting married isn't only pancakes and embroidery, or walking hand in hand in the orchard garden, it means pulling your britches down. And Olenka will look at it and take fright: What is that?! Won't she? But all the other women: Marfushka, Kapi-tolinka, Crooked Vera, Glashka-Kudlashka, and lots of others -they never said anything, they never fussed or griped. No siree. They always complimented him! Uneducated idiots! Don't know anything except the woman's business.

All right, but what should he do now? He was halfway there, he'd already proposed and been invited to his in-laws. He'd already agreed with Olenka and set a day to visit their izba, to pay his respects and get acquainted! Hello, dear people, I want to marry your daughter! And who exactly are you and what do you have to show for yourself? I'm Benedikt Karpich, the late Karp Pudich's son, who was the son of Pud Christoforovich, who was the son of Christopher Matveich, and whose son that Matvei was and from where-we can't remember, it's been lost in the gloom of time. What I have to show for myself is that I'm young, healthy, good-looking, and I have a good clean job, you know that… "Aren't you lying to us, Benedikt Karpich?" "I'm not lying." "Then why do you have a dog's name, Benedikt? Maybe it's not a name but a nickname?… Why would they give you a dog's name? What kind of Consequence do you have?"

That's the drama of it.

What do I care that other Golubchiks have Consequences: extra hair, rashes, blister bumps! Blisters are just water bubbles, they burst-and they're gone. Horns, ears, and cock's combs aren't comely, but what do I care? Your own bump's a proper lump, the other guy's-just a little itch! There's no secret to horns or ears, everything's in plain view, people are used to it. No one's gonna laugh and say: Hey, you over there, whatcha got horns for! They were always there, the horns, you don't even see them anymore. But a tail-it's kind of a secret-all hidden, private. If everyone had one that would be all right. But if you're the only one-it's shameful.

It's not like he ended up with an amazing Consequence like Nikita Ivanich got: breathing fire! Nice and clean: people are scared, they respect you. You are our Head Stoker, they say. But about Benedikt they'd say: Mongrel! You're a stray mutt, a streetwalker! That's what they always say to dogs. For that matter, any Golubchik who sees a dog wants to crush it or kick it, throw a stick at it or poke it with something, or just swear at it, not mean-like, no, meanness is for people-but with a kind of disgust.

Nikita Ivanich said: Well, on the other hand, the tail is an original characteristic of primates. Long, long ago, when humans had not yet fully evolved, tails were normal phenomena and surprised no one; they clearly began to disappear when man began using sticks and tools. Nowadays a tail is an atavism. But what concerns me is the sudden reappearance of this specific appendage. What could the reason be? After all, we're in the Neolithic period, and not some savage animal kingdom. What could it mean?

With a tear in his eye, Benedikt said: All fine and well for you to talk and use all kinds of big words, Nikita Ivanich. You're always wanting to restore the past, to put up posts and pillars, carve pushkins out of wood, but you don't care about the past hanging off my backside and I have to get married! All you Oldeners are the same: "We'll re-create the lofty past in full measure." Well, here's your full measure! Take it! And since you love the past so much, why don't you go running around with a tail? I don't need one! I want to live!

And Nikita Ivanich said: You're right, young fellow, those are the words of a real man, not a boy. But what I mean is that I hope for the resurrection of the spiritual! It's time! I hope for brotherhood, love, beauty. Justice. Mutual respect. Lofty aspirations. I want thoughtful, honest labor, hand in hand, to replace brawls and altercations. I want the fire of love for one's fellow man to burn in the soul.

Benedikt said: Sure, right away. Easy for you to talk, you've got your own fire. Everyone bows to you, kisses your feet, they probably bring you surprises in baskets: bliny or noodles! And if things don't go your way-you can just huff and puff and burn your mortal enemy down, turn him to ash! But what can the simple folk do?

Nikita Ivanich said: No, now just a minute, young man, hold your horses, you misunderstood me again. I have no intention of burning anyone up, I merely help as best I can. Of course, I have an unusual Consequence, a rather convenient one-I can have a smoke any time I like. But I too may not be immortal-look at Anna Petrovna, she left us for a better world, where there is no sorrow or lamentation. It's time for you, my good people, to cease relying on this old man and display a little-just a little- initiative. It's time to make fire yourselves!

And Benedikt said: Good Lord Almighty, Nikita Ivanich, are you crazy? Where would we get fire from? It's a mystery! It can't be known! Where does it come from? If an izba burns down, everybody will come running and grab some coals for their pot. Then, of course. But if all the stoves in the town went out? Hunh? What're we supposed to do, wait for lightning storms? We'd all croak in the meantime!

Nikita Ivanich said: Think friction, young man, friction. Try it. I'd be happy to, but I'm too old. I can't.

Benedikt said: Oh, come on now, Nikita Ivanich. You talk about how old you are, but there you go being bawdy again.

"Unfortunately," said Nikita Ivanich, "I don't have his portrait, a fact which is a constant source of grief and regret to me. I didn't manage to save it. What does one take out of a burning house? What would we want with us on an uninhabited island? The eternal question! At one time my friends and I squabbled for hours on end on summer verandahs, in winter kitchens, or with fellow travelers we chanced to meet on the train. Which three books are the most valuable in the world? Which are dearest to our hearts? Tell me, young man, what would you carry out of a burning house?"

Benedikt thought long and hard. He imagined his izba.

When you go in, on the right-hand side, there's a table with a stool. The table is pushed up to the window so there's more light. There's a candle on the table and next to the table there's a stool. One of its legs rotted, and he had never got around to fixing it. Farther along the wall there's another chair. Mother used to sit in it, but now no one sits in it, though Benedikt sometimes hangs his jacket there or throws his clothes over it. There's nothing else. The other wall goes out from that corner, and that's where the bed is. There's rags on the bed, of course. Over the bed, on the wall, there's a shelf, and there are some booklets on the shelf if the thieves haven't stolen them. Under the bed, like everyone else, he has a box for all kinds of junk, the junk you hate to throw out-tools, wooden nails and stuff. At the head of the bed there's another corner. On the third wall, the one facing you when you enter, is the stove. What about the stove? A stove's a stove. No secret there. On top of it there's also a bed if you like the warmth, and in the bottom part you cook food. Plugs, latches, chokers, dampers, handle turns, hiding pockets- everything's part of the stove. It's wrapped all around in ropes and string so you can hang things to dry, or just for decoration. And it's so wide, so fat-assed, that there's no room for anything else on the fourth wall: just a couple of hooks to hang a hat or a towel on, and that's it. Then there's the door to the pantry, where rusht and dried marshrooms are stored.

What would he carry out if, God forbid, there was a fire? Rusht? What for? You can always get some more. His new bowl? He could make another one. He'd miss the chair a bit, the chair was very old.

"I'd take the chair," said Benedikt.

"Really?" said Nikita Ivanich, surprised. "Why?"

"It was Mother's."

"Yes, of course. Sentimental value. But what about books? Aren't books important to you?"

"I love reading, Nikita Ivanich, but so what? If I have to, I can always make some new booklets. Or trade mice for them. And if there's a fire, God forbid, Nikita Ivanich, they'll be the first thing to burn. Puff! They're gone. Bark just doesn't hold up."

"But the words inscribed in them are harder than copper and more enduring than the pyramids. Isn't that right? Do you deny it?" Nikita Ivanich chuckled and patted Benedikt on the back like he was coughing. "You too, young man, are a participant! A participant!-you've no business being such a scatterbrain, such an ignoramus, a spiritual Neanderthal, a depressed Cro-Magnon! I detect a spark of humanity even in you! I do. I harbor some hope for you! Your little brain is smoldering," said Nikita Ivanich, continuing to insult him. "Your soul is not devoid of impulses… 'You're destined to know a noble impulse / but won't accomplish anything at all,'" sang Nikita Ivanich in a ghastly voice, like a goat bleating. "But you and I will create something fine, something edifying. You do have a certain creative streak, I think…"

"Nikita Ivanich," Benedikt sniveled, offended. "Why all these words!… You might as well just kick me, I swear, why are you calling me names?"

"Right, then. So, as I said," the old man went on, "I don't have his portrait, but I'll assist you. He wasn't very tall."

"But you said he was a giant," muttered Benedikt, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

"A giant of the spirit. 'His proud head rose higher than…'"

"'… the Alexander column.' I know, I copied it. But we don't know how many yards tall that column was, Nikita Ivanich."

"It doesn't matter, not one little bit! Now, we'll extract him from this log-sorry, but we haven't got any others. The most important thing to me is the bowed head and the arm. Like this." The Stoker showed him. "Look at me. Carve a curly head, a straight nose, and a thoughtful face."

"Was his beard long?"

"No beard."

"None at all?"

"Just on the side, like that. Sideburns."

"Like Pakhom has?"

"Good heavens, no. Fifty times smaller. So: the head, the neck, the shoulders, arms, hands, the arms are the most important. Understood? Bend the elbow."

Benedikt tapped the log with his boot. It rang; the wood was good, light. Dense and dry. Good material.

"Beriawood?"

"What? Who?!?!"

The old man cursed, spat, and sparks flew from his eyes; he didn't explain what enraged him. He turned red and puffed up like a beetroot:

"It's Pushkin! Pushkin! The future Pushkin!"

So who's the real Cro-Magnon? Who's got a newrottick now? You can't do anything with them, these Oldeners. They start shouting at the wrong time, swear in strange words, and push you around for who knows what reason. They're always unhappy: they don't understand a good joke, they don't like our dances or games, they never have a good time like people are supposed to, they're no fun, and all you hear from them is "Oh, horrors!" when there's nothing horrible happening at all.

What's really horrible? Horrible is when the Red Sleigh rides, knock, knock, knock on wood, no, no, no. Not me, don't take me. Or when you think about the Slynx, now that's horror, because then you're alone. Completely alone, there's no one. And it's heading toward you… No!!!-I don't even want to think about it… But what's so horrible about dancing and singing together, or playing leapfrog?

It's a fun game. You invite guests, then you clean up the izba. You scrape the crumbs off the table with your elbow: Hey, mice, come on over here! You push the trash that's piled up in the house under the bed with your boot, and cover it so it doesn't stick out. You smooth the bedclothes, straighten the sheet or blanket or whatever. If the sheet is really dirty, then you wash it. If not-well, it'll do. If there's an embroidered dust ruffle lying around, or a bed curtain, you shake them and lay them out pretty on the stove like they were always there. You light candles all over the place, and don't be stingy, so everything's bright and festive. You rustle up a mountain of hot snacks, and put eve-rvthing out on the table in rows. You set out a jug of mead on the table and put some more at the ready out in the cold pantry. The guests will bring something too, no one goes visiting empty- handed, unless he's a miserable midget or some kind of freakin' nincompoop. You have to bring a gift to the house. So everyone is all clean, combed, and dressed in fresh clothes, whoever has them. Jokes, laughter. First you sit at the table. The table's a sight to behold! Baked mice, poached mice, mice in sauce. Marinated mouse tails, mouse-eye caviar. Pickled mouse tripe also goes well with kvas. Goosefoot rolls. Marshrooms, if they're in season. If a Golubchik is richer, then there's bliny. Really rich tables have sweet rolls. Everyone sits down, says thanks, the mead is poured, the first round is gulped down right away. Now to the second. It goes to your head, starts getting to you. That's right! If it's good rusht, choice rusht, you'll never notice that there's not a lot of food. You've eaten, already put away the third and the fourth-you've forgotten when that was, we're already on the tenth. We smoke, laugh. Gossip some gossip, who was with whom, tell a few shaggy dog stories. If there are women we flirt with them: pinch them, or grab them, have a little feel. We stomp our feet and sing in unison:

Pease porridge hot! Pease porridge cold! Pease porridge in the pot! Nine days old! Some like it hot! Some like it cold! Some like it in the pot! Nine days old!

And then we start to play. Leapfrog is a good game, lots of fun. It goes like this. We put out the candles so it's dark. You sit or stand wherever you want, and one guy gets up on the stove. He sits there, sits, and then-bam, he jumps down with an ear-splitting yell! If he lands on one of the guests, he'll always knock him over, give him a bruising or pull an arm out of joint or something. If he misses-then he'll hurt himself: his head, or his knee, or elbow, or maybe he'll break a rib: the stove is high. You can hit the stool in the dark-ouch! Or hit your head on the table. If he doesn't crash, he gets back up on the stove. If he's out of the game, the others are impatient: my turn, my turn, I get to jump this time! The squeals, shouts, laughing-you could piss in your pants it's so much fun. Then you light the candles and take a look at the damage. There's even more laughter then: just a few minutes ago Zinovy had an eye-now he doesn't! Gurian over there broke his arm, it's hanging down like a loose strap, what kind of work can he do now?

Of course, if someone hurts me or my body, it's not funny. I get mad, no kidding. But that's if it's me. If it's someone else, it's funny. Why? Because me-that's me; and him-that's not me, it's him. But the Oldeners say: Oh, horrors! How could you! And they don't understand that if everything went their way, no one would ever laugh or have any fun, we'd all just sit at home all gloom and doom and there wouldn't be any adventures, or dancing, or squealing women.

We also play smothers, and that's fun too: you stuff a pillow in someone's face and smother him, and he flails and splutters and when he gets away, he's all red and sweaty, and his hair's sticking out like a harpy's. People rarely die, our guys are strong, they fight, there's a lot of strength in their muscles. Why? Because they work a lot, they plant turnips in the fields, crack stones, gather sheaves, chop trees into logs. There's no need to go insulting us, to say that there's still some brains smoldering in us: our brains are smart enough. We aren't quick, but we figure things out. We've figured out that the beriawood tree is a good tree for pinocchios and buckets, and it makes fine barrels. The elfir is also a wonderful tree, just right for bathhouse switches, and its nuts are tasty, and a lot of other things, but you can't carve a symbol from it because it's got too much resin, it bleeds all sticky. Birch, now, it's nice to look at, but the trunk is thin and crooked, it's hard to carve. The jeopard tree is even thinner, all knots and bumps, in a word: the jeopard tree. The willow won't do, the beantree is stringy, and the grab tree is wet year-round. There are a lot of other kinds when you count them, and we know them all. So now we'll strip the bark, mark the holes with a stone chisel… and whip up an idol before the wedding.

Benedikt sighed, whispered, and spat just like they tell you to -God bless!-and went at the beriawood tree with an ax.