The Slynx

SLOVO

At first Benedikt thought that he missed the sound of scurrying mice. After all, the mouse is our be all and end all. It's food, and clothes you can make from the pelts, and trading at the market for whatever you want. Remember how he'd caught two hundred of them at New Year's? His soul sang, people sang with him! He remembered how he walked along almost dancing, stomping on the collapsed snowdrifts, splashing his heels in puddles to make them spatter rainbows! Honest pay for an honest job. And how much he got when he traded all those mice! He and Nikita Ivanich ate that food for a whole week and they couldn't finish it. The old man baked sweet rolls… Somehow, they became friends over those sweet rolls. That is, if you could be friends with an Oldener. He's a bad cook compared to Mother-in-law. The sweet rolls came out lopsided-raw on one side, burned on the other, and in the middle not curds, but who knows what. Mother-in-law's sweet rolls just melt in your mouth. Then he thought maybe he missed his izba. Sometimes he dreamt he was walking around a house that seemed to be his father-in-law's, from one gallery to the next, from one floor to the next, and it was like the same house, but not the same: it was longer, sort of sideways, everything was warped sideways. He walked and walked and kept being surprised: there was no end to this house. He had to find one special door, so he opened all the doors. But what he needed behind that door wasn't clear. He opened one door and there was his izba, but it wasn't quite the same either, it had gotten bigger: the ceiling went way up into the darkness, you couldn't see it. A bit of dry hay fell from the ceiling with a whoosh and a crackle. He stood and looked at that hay, and he was full of fear, as if someone had grabbed his heart with a paw, then let it go again. He would find out something any minute now. He was just about to find out. Then Olenka walked by and seemed to be lugging a log. She was unfriendly, sort of dry. Where are you lugging that log to, Olenka, why aren't you friendly anymore? And she laughed nastily and said, "Olenka? I'm not Olenka…" He looked again: and it really wasn't Olenka, but someone else…

… When you wake up from a dream like that, your mouth's dry and your heart goes boom-boom, boom-boom. You can't understand where you are. You touch yourself: Is this me? And the moon shines through the bladder window, bright and horrible. And the lunar path on the floor has stretched out. Some people walk in their sleep when the moon's full: they call them lunatics. The moon speaks to them, or so they say. We don't know why they stretch their arms out. It looks like they're asking for handouts or some kind of help, but if you take them by the hand, they flinch. They look surprised. And they listen: heads cocked, they listen. Their eyes are open but they don't see us. Golubchiks like that get up out of bed, go out in the yard, wander around, and then scramble up on the roof, one-two-three like it was stairs. They get right up on the roof, at the very tippy top, and walk back and forth. It's closer to the moon up there. They stare at the moon and she stares back at them: you can see a face on the moon, and that face is crying: it looks at us, at our life, and it cries.

That's what it is, Benedikt thought, he missed his izba. He even rode over to take a look: he hitched up Teterya and rode to his native settlement. But no, it wasn't that. He looked at his izba, at the straw roof: it had completely dried out. The door was open, there was burdock growing in the yard, which hadn't been weeded since springtime, and grabble grass, and biteweed, and some other strange weed with long black stems and withered leaves. The first snowflakes were whirling about, falling, indifferent to everything. He stood there awhile, took off his hat like he was standing by a grave. Everything was probably torn up inside. It was kind of a pity, but not really: his heart didn't care. It had broken away. But he shouldn't have taken the sleigh: after that trip Teterya got completely out of hand and lost all respect for Benedikt. While Benedikt stood at the fence, that furry pig stood by and smoked, he even spat on the ground, and then said, "Ha! I had a dive in Sviblovo that was better than that place."

"Teterya, watch how you talk to your betters! Your place is in the bridle!"

"And yours is-you know where… I had a mirrored buffet. And a color TV with an Italian tube… My brother-in-law managed to get a hold of a Yugoslav cabinet set, I had a separate bathroom and toilet, Golden Autumn wallpaper."

"Talking again! Go on, bridle up!"

"The kitchen was linoleum, but the rest was parquet tiles. I had a three-burner stove."

"Teterya! Who am I talking to!"

"A fridge with a freezer, beer in cans… lemon vodka, nice and cold…"

And he stands there, the rodent, on his hind legs like he was an equal, leaning on the fence, chatting, and there's a dream in his eyes, and it's clear as day he doesn't think of Benedikt as his master at all! He's lost in memories!

"Tomatoes from Kuban, Estonian cucumbers with bumps… We ate pressed black caviar and thought the regular stuff was shit… There was dark rye bread for twelve kopecks… Herring with onion… Tea with lemon… Pink and white meringues… Cherries in liqueur from Kuibyshev… Samarkand melon…"

Once he got started, he just kept on, who was there to stop him! Nikita Ivanich is right when he says there should be respect for people, and justice too! But this swine doesn't respect people, he doesn't give a fig for them! Benedikt got mad and beat him on the sides with the whip, slapped him on the ears and kicked him good and hard. And his father-in-law says Terenty's the calm one, it's Potap that's skittish! What's Potap like, then, if this one is obedient?… After that trip, you gotta call him Ter-enty Petrovich, like he was some kind of Murza. Yeah, sure.

Then he had another thought. Maybe he missed his tail? He'd had a tail a long time, he'd wagged it, enjoyed it. When you wag your tail sometimes it makes your ears tickle. It was a good tail, smooth, white, and strong. Sure, it's embarrassing to have a tail when others don't, but it wasn't a bad tail. That's a fact. And now Nikita Ivanich had gone and chopped it off, almost to the very root-jeez it was scary. Nikita Ivanich crossed himself: God bless me! And… whack… but it didn't hurt as much as he'd feared. And that's because it's all cartilage, says Nikita Ivanich. Not bone. "Congratulations," he said to Benedikt, "on the occasion of your partial humanization." That was probably a joke. "Maybe you'll get smarter," he joked again.

Now, in place of a tail he had a callus, like a bump, and it ached. Afterward Benedikt walked around for a whole week with his legs apart. He couldn't sit down. But it healed before the wedding. And now it was kind of strange: you couldn't wag it or anything. So that must be how everybody else feels, he thought. Hmmm.

But on the other hand-what does that mean, everybody else? Who is everybody else? After all, each and every one has his own special Consequence. His relatives have claws, for instance. They ruin the floor. Mother-in-law is bulky, descended from the French-she can scratch up the floor so bad it looks like a whole head of hair fell out on it. Olenka is more delicate, her piles are smaller. Father-in-law scrapes up long thin strips of kindling, you could start a fire with them. Benedikt suggested to Olenka that he clip her claws. He was afraid that she would scratch him in bed. But she started howling: What are you talking about? Look at what he's after now! My organism! No!!! Ay!!… And she didn't let him.

But the Degenerators don't have claws, even though they're probably not really people. They have feet at the end of their legs and hands on their arms. Very dirty ones: they wear felt boots all day long, when they're not playing cards. Sometimes they sit down, stretch their legs out, and scratch behind their ears, real quick, but if you catch a glimpse you can see that they don't have claws.

All in all, it was kind of sad at first. His rear end felt orphaned, and he stared at every tail he came across, whether a goat's, a bird's, a dog's, or a mouse's.

He went to check out the pushkin. Just a week before the wedding Benedikt had decided: That's enough, it's ready. What else is there to do?

Toward the end he wasn't really carving the figure but fixing details. He chiseled the curls, shaved down the back of the neck so it looked more like the genius was hunched over, like he was saddened by life. He touched up the fingers, the eyes. He had carved six fingers to begin with. Nikita Ivanich got mad as a hornet, shouted all kinds of things at him, but Benedikt was used to his shouts and explained calmly that that's what carpentry science requires: a bit extra never hurts. Who knows how things will turn out, what kind of mistake you might make, if you're drunk and you hit the wrong place with the ax. You can always cut off the extra. He'd finished the work now, you could say, he'd rubbed it with dry rusht-polishing, they call it-so it would be smooth and wouldn't have any splinters. Then, of course, he offered the commissioner a choice: which finger did he wish to cut off of freedom's bard? There's a lot to choose from, it made him feel good, take your pick! If you want-this one, or maybe that one; oh, you don't like that one, well, then this one, we could take off this one or that, or that one or this. Well? When everything is done scientifically, the way it's supposed to be-with extra to spare and no stinting-the soul rejoices.

But Nikita Ivanich got all tied up in knots and couldn't choose, he ran around and around and pulled out his hair-and he had a ton of hair. How could he, so to speak, dare to have the Freethinking temerity to blasphemously hack off the poet's hands at his own caprice? A tail was one thing, but this is a hand!!! He buried his face in his palms, shook his head, peeked out with one eye, then squeezed it shut, fretted and fretted, and couldn't decide. He left all six fingers. And the pushkin didn't have any legs, they decided not to bother with legs. They didn't have time. Only the trunk, just down to the sash around his shirt. After that it was like a stump, all smooth.

It took six of them to drag it-they hired serfs and paid them with mice. One of the Oldeners, Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents, a friend of Nikita Ivanich, decided to help. He approved of the idol.

"He looks like a pure retard. A six-phalanged seraphim. A slap in the face of public taste," he said. But he wasn't much help pulling, he was so skinny, he was more of a director, so to speak, the way bosses always are. "Come on, come on. Stop! Move it! There you go. Not like that! To the left!" They wanted to put the pushkin where Nikita Ivanich showed them-for some reason he liked that spot. They started digging a hole under him. But the owner there turned out to be ornery: he ran out waving his arms, spitting and frothing at the mouth-they trampled his dill, you see. That dill is useless stuff, no taste, no smell, it's more for looks' sake; but of course if you're starving you'll eat dill too.

Nikita Ivanich had to go and put his symbol right in the middle of a Golubchik's garden, of course, and he argued with him and tried to shame him and bribe him with getting fire without standing in line, and then appealed to the serfs to raise a ruckus so that the people's voice could be heard. But the serfs didn't give a hoot: they stood there frowning, crossing their legs, smoking, waiting for their pay, for the boss to shout himself out, for his heart to burst so he'd quiet down, that's what always happens. In the end, the chunk of beriawood had to be lugged across the street. There was a place between the fences that didn't belong to anyone.

So there he stands, the poor dear, listening to the noise of the street, like Nikita Ivanich wanted-you turn the corner and see him on a hill, in the wind, all black. This wood, beriawood, always blackens from the rain. The pushkin stands there like a bush at night, a rebellious and angry spirit; his head bent, two meat patties on the sides of his face-old-fashioned sideburns -his nose down, his fingers tearing at his caftan. A shitbird had settled on his head, of course, but that's just what they do, shamelessly: whatever they see they shit on, that's why they got that disgraceful nickname, for their disgracefulness.

So Benedikt went. He looked at the pushkin. Shooed away the kids so they wouldn't climb on it. He wanted to tamp down the snow around it but was too lazy to get out of the sleigh. He looked around… and that was it. So let it stand there, it's not bothering anyone.

He thought and he thought. What was missing? Suddenly he realized. It hit him. Books! He hadn't read any books for a long time, or copied them, or held them in his hands! Since May! He stopped going to work of his own will, then he had vacation, then the wedding, then family life, and now another fall was already breaking into winter but hadn't broken through. That always happens with nature, it can't make up its mind. One day rain, the next snow. The October Holiday is already over. Only this year he didn't go for the head count. His father-in-law had to go for work-he complained, but he went, and he told us: Stay at home, I know there are three of you, anyway, I'll put you on the list.

Benedikt couldn't stand the October Holiday. Who could like it, except for maybe some Murza, and even then as part of his job? Still, it was some kind of entertainment, and you could look at the people and they might hand out something from the Warehouse. Only now he didn't need anything. So there was trouble in nature, and trouble in his head too. There's nothing to do. It's boring.

You wander around the house, skulk, and loaf around looking for things to do. You spit on your finger and run it along the wall. You keep on, tracing the whole room, or at least go as far as you can till the spit dries out. Then you spit on your finger again and start over.

What else? You squat, put your elbows against your knees grab your beard with your fists and rock: back and forth. Back and forth.

Or you stick out your lower lip and flap it with your finger. It makes a funny noise, bub bub bub.

Or you sit on a stool or a bench and rock back and forth, stick out your tongue, close one eye, and look at your tongue with the other one. You can see part of your nose, and the tip of your tongue. But only just.

Or else you pull the skin around your eyes back till they're skinny slits just to see what happens; and what happens is that you see everything, but kind of blurry.

You can hang your head between your knees to the floor, and wait until the blood rushes down. There'll be a roar in your head, things'll go all foggy; and there'll be a buzzing and thumping in your ears.

You can weave your fingers together, one after the other, and then turn them inside out and wiggle them: here's the terem, here's the steeple, open the door, and there are the people. Or you can just wiggle your fingers. That's on your hands. But if you try it with your toes you'll get a cramp in your foot. Who can figure it? Your hands work this way and your feet that way. Well, hands are hands, and feet are feet. That's probably why.

Or you can just look at your fingernails.

And you don't see any visions: somehow they're all gone, the visions. Too bad. Benedikt used to see Olenka: beads, dimples, ribbons. And now what? Now there she is, Olenka herself. Right by your side. Dimples-she's got dimples over her whole body. Dimples so big you stick your finger in and it almost disappears. Stick your fingers in as much as you like. She won't get mad. You could even say she welcomes it: "You rapscallion, you. Why such a hurry?"

Only she used to kind of sparkle. Like a secret. And now there she is, sitting on the stool, her face spread thick with sour cream-to make it whiter; only the sour cream makes her look awful. She scratches her head. "Take a look, Benedikt. What is this here? Is it a rat's nest?"

There never used to be any rats' nests: her braid went all the way down to the ground. But now she's not supposed to wear a braid. Since she's a married Golubushka, Olenka has to have a woman's hairdo. And this is a lot of trouble. She divides her hair into locks, wets them down with water or rusht, and then starts winding the hair on wood bobbins. She wraps her whole head up this way and walks around with the bobbins rattling, knocking against each other all day long. She has to have curls, you see. And her face is smeared with sour cream: she looks like a real ghoul.

"Why did you wind all those things on yourself?"

"What do you mean? To be beautiful. It's for you."

She plops down on the bed. "Come here, Benedikt, let's make love."

"That's enough, enough."

"Just come here, come over here, don't talk."

"I feel sort of weak. I ate a bit too much."

"Don't make things up, you haven't eaten since breakfast."

"You'll scratch me."

"What do you mean, scratch you? Don't invent things."

"Your face is covered with sour cream."

"You've always got excuses! I'm sooo unhaaaappy…!"

And she starts wailing. But then she stops.

"Benedikt! Come here. Something itches. Over there, right there, what is it? Did something pop up?"

"Nothing popped up."

"No, look again, you didn't look carefully. Carefully now! Something itches, it's tingling."

"There's nothing there."

"What's tingling then? It's not a carbuncle, is it?"

"No."

"Maybe a blister? Is it swollen?"

"No."

"Is it red?"

"No, no!"

"Then what is it? It keeps on itching and itching, and then it stings so bad!… And over here? Benedikt! Pay attention! Right here-no, farther! Between the shoulder blades!"

"There isn't anything."

"Maybe scales?"

"No!"

"Some dandruff, then? It's itching. Brush it off me."

"It's all clear, I said! Don't invent things!"

"Maybe I broke out in freckles all over?"

"No!!!"

"Maybe it's a pimple or a wart! You have to be careful-they can pop up and that's it, you're dead!"

"Your back is fine, I tell you! You're imagining everything!"

"Of course, since I'm the one suffering, and not you, you don't care! But I've got an ache here under my arm, Benedikt."

"It'll stop."

"Other men would be sympathetic!… If I raise my arm this way and turn it that way, it starts aching! And if I lean over like that, and put my foot there, I get a stitch in my side right away, come on now, take a look, what's on my side, I can't see it!"

He was sure of it. If only he could lie around now with a book! Snow was falling softly in the yard, logs were crackling in the stove-it was the perfect time to lie in bed with a book. Put a bowl of firelings or something else delicious nearby, to stick behind your cheek, and let yourself go… into the book… Right now it's winter outside, for instance, and there it's summer. Here it's daytime and there it's evening. And they'll describe that summer for you and pretty it up, and tell you what kind of evening it is, who went where, what they were wearing, who sat on which bench by the river, who they're waiting for-it's always a lover-what birds are singing in the sky, how the sun goes down, how the gnats swarm… And you can hear something beyond the river, a song of some sort. And everything will be in the book: how there was a noise in the bushes-the lover arrived for the tryst. What they said to each other, what they settled on… Or who built a big ship and sailed it on the Ocean-Sea, and how many people crowded on that boat, and where they set sail for, and how the boat works, they'll tell you about everything. And about how the voyage goes, who argued about what with whom, about the chip one guy had on his shoulder, how he grew blacker than a storm cloud and got all sorts of ideas in his head… and who realized it and said, Ay, why is he looking at us like a stray dog that wants to bite, let's set him down on a desert island…

You read, move your lips, figure out the words, and it's like you're in two places at the same time: you're sitting or lying with your legs curled up, your hand groping in the bowl, but you can see different worlds, far-off worlds that maybe never existed but still seem real. You run or sail or race in a sleigh-you're running away from someone, or you yourself have decided to attack -your heart thumps, life flies by, and it's wondrous: you can live as many different lives as there are books to read. Like a werewolf or something: you're a man, and all of a sudden-you're a woman, or an old man, or a small child, or a whole battalion on guard, or I don't know what. And if it's true that it wasn't Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, who wrote all those books, well, who cares? Then it means there were other Fyodor Kuzmiches, ancient people, who sat, and wrote, and saw visions. Why not?

And just about now, the candles have probably been lighted in the Work Izba, the scrolls rolled up, Jackal Demianich is looking watchfully around. Konstantin Leontich is writing fast as can be, copying, from time to time he tosses down his writing stick, claps his hands and cries out! He always gets very worked up about what happens in books. And then he grabs his writing stick again, and goes on… And Varvara Lukinishna bends her head, her combs tremble, she's thinking about something… maybe that at home she has a book hidden? There was something there about a candle, about deceit… But neither Benedikt nor Olenka are in the Work Izba anymore… Olenka lies on the bed whining, covered in sour cream, and Benedikt is rocking on the stool. If only he could catch some mice right now, and trade them at the market for a book. Only there aren't any mice in the house.

What sort of book was it that Father-in-law shoved at Benedikt? Should he go and ask? Since Father-in-law didn't get sick, knock, knock, knock on wood, then it was true: you can touch them.