The Slynx

CHERV

… Nikita Ivanich and another Oldener, Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents, were sitting at the table drinking rusht. They'd been drinking awhile and were feeling fine: their faces were red, and they were mumbling a lot of nonsense.

Benedikt took off his hat. "And a good day to you."

"Benya? Benya! Is it really you?" Nikita Ivanich was pleased. "It's been so long! How long has it been? A year, two?… Extraordinary… Do you know each other? Benedikt Kar-pov, our sculptor, the people's Opekushin."

Lev Lvovich looked at him skeptically, as though he didn't recognize him, as if he hadn't helped to carry the pushkin himself. He made a face. "Kudeyarov's son-in-law?"

"That's right."

"I heard about it, I heard about your mesalliance."

"Thank you," said Benedikt, feeling touched. So they had heard about his marriage.

He sat down and the Oldeners moved over. It was crowded, of course. The izba seemed smaller than the last time he'd been there. The candle smoked and dripped, shadows danced. The walls were black with soot. Poverty showed on the table too: a jug, a couple of mugs, a plate of peas. They poured some rusht for Benedikt.

"So what are you up to? How are you? Just think… Here we were, sitting, drinking… talking about life… about the past… That is, we were talking about the future too, of course… About our Pushkin… How we sculpted him, hey? How we erected him! What an event! A milestone! The resuscitation of the saints! An historical landmark! Now he's with us again. And Pushkin, you know, Benya, Pushkin is our be all and end all! He's everything to us. You just think about it, remember, and assimilate it… But what a pity… can you imagine? He already requires restoration…"

"What does he require?" asked Benedikt, standing up.

"Fixing, Benya, he needs fixing! The rain, the snow, the birds… they've all taken their toll. If he were only made of stone! I won't even mention bronze, we're nowhere near having bronze. And then there's the people-people are utter savages: they tie a rope around him, and hang their laundry on freedom's bard! Underwear and pillowcases-barbarians!"

"But Nikita Ivanich, you were the one who always said the people's path to him should never be overgrown. And now you're complaining."

"Oh, Lord… Benya… That was a figure of speech."

"All right, we can put that figure wherever you want. I'll send some serfs. We could use the sleigh too."

"O Lord in Heaven, help us."

"We need a Xerox," said Lev Lvovich gloomily.

"It was only about a hundred years ago that you said we needed a fax. That the West would come to our aid," replied Nikita Ivanich.

"That's right, but the irony is that-"

"The irony is that there isn't any West."

"What do you mean there isn't any West!" snapped Lev Lvovich. "There's always a West."

"But we don't know anything about it."

"No, no, no. Excuse me! You and I know. It's just that they don't know anything about us."

"And that's news to you?"

Lev Lvovich became even more gloomy and scraped at the table. "Right now the most important thing is a Xerox."

"But why, tell me why?!"

"Because it was said: be fruitful and multiply!" Lev Lvovich raised a long finger. "Multiply!"

"Well then, just how do you envision this?" Nikita Ivanich asked. "Let's just suppose, for the sake of argument, that you have your fax and your Xerox. Under current conditions. Let's just suppose. Although it's highly unlikely. What would you do with them? How to you intend to fight for freedom with a fax? Go on, tell me."

"My pleasure. It's quite simple. I take an album of Durer's work. That's just an example. Black and white, but that doesn't matter. I make a copy. I multiply it. I fax it to the West. They receive it and say: 'Wait a minute, what's going on here! That's our national treasure.' They fax me back: 'Return our national treasure immediately!' And I say to them: Come and get it. Take charge. Then you've got international contacts, diplomatic negotiations, everything you could hope for. Coffee. Paved roads. Nikita Ivanich, remember shirts with cuff links? Conferences…"

"Confrontations."

"Humanitarian rice."

"Porno films…"

"Jeans."

"Terrorists."

"Of course. Complaints to the UN. Political hunger strikes. The International Court in The Hague."

"The Hague doesn't exist anymore."

Lev Lvovich shook his head so hard the candle flame flickered: "Don't upset me, Nikita Ivanich. Don't say such terrible things. That's just nationalistic claptrap."

"There is no Hague, Golubchik. There never was."

Lev Lvovich started crying drunken tears and banged his fist on the table. The peas jumped on the plate. "It's not true, I don't believe it! The West will come to our aid!"

"We have to do it ourselves, all on our own."

"This is not the first time I've noticed your nationalistic tendencies! You're a Slavophile!"

"You know, I'm really-"

"A Slavophile, a Slavophile! Don't deny it."

"I hope for a spiritual renaissance."

"Samizdat is what we need."

"But Lev Lvovich! We have lots of samizdat, it's flourishing. If I'm not mistaken, you yourself used to insist it was the most important thing. And just look-no spiritual life. So apparently it's not the main thing."

Benedikt coughed politely to interrupt. "My life is spiritual."

"In what sense?"

"I don't eat mice."

"Well, and what else?"

"Not a single bite… Only birds. Meat. Pasties once in a while. Bliny. Marshrooms, of course. Nightingales dipped in batter, horsetail a la Savoy. Bullfinch stew. Fireling parfait a la Ly-onnaise. Then -cheese and fruit. That's it."

The Oldeners' eyes bugged out and they stared at him silently.

"And cigars?" Lev Lvovich finally asked, grinning.

"We go into another room to smoke. Near the stove. Fevro-nia, my mother-in-law, doesn't let us smoke at the table."

"I remember Pigronia," remarked Lev Lvovich. "I remember her father. An imbecile. And her grandfather. Another imbecile. Her great-grandfather too."

"That's right," affirmed Benedikt. "She's from one of the oldest families, of French origin."

"They were fruitful and multiplied," giggled tipsy Nikita Ivanich. "There you go! Hmm? Lev Lvovich!"

"And there's your spiritual renaissance for you, Nikita Ivanich!"

They poured some more rusht.

"All right, then… Here's to returning to sources, Lev Lvovich!"

"To our freedom!"

They drank. Benedikt drank too.

"Why is it," said Nikita Ivanich, "why is it that everything keeps mutating, everything? People, well, all right, but the language, concepts, meaning! Huh? Russia! Everything gets twisted up in knots."

"Not everything," argued Benedikt. "Now, if you eat cheese, then yes, your insides will mutiny, and your stomach'll get tied up in knots. But if you eat a pasty-it's all right… Nikita Ivanich!… I brought a present for you."

Benedikt fumbled inside his coat and pulled out the book with "Slitherum Slatherum" wrapped in a clean cloth. He really didn't want to give it up, but it wouldn't work without a sacrifice.

"Here. It's for you. A book."

Nikita Ivanich was taken aback. Lev Lvovich ruffled: "It's a provocation!… Careful, Nikita Ivanich!"

"It's a poem," explained Benedikt. "Everything about our life is all written down here in poems. You're arguing, next thing you'll start fighting-but why don't you read it instead. I learned it by heart." Benedikt looked up into a dark corner of the ceiling-it was always easier to remember things that way, when nothing distracted you. "Hickory dickory six and seven. Alabone, Crackabone-"

"That's enough," said Lev Lvovich.

"You like to read to yourself? I do too, with my eyes. When there's no one to bother me… I just pour myself a cup of compote- and read!"

"Where did you get it?" asked Nikita Ivanich.

Benedikt's face expressed a certain vagueness: he stuck his jaw out, screwed up his mouth, as if ready to kiss someone, raised his eyebrows as high as he could, looked over his shoulder, and flapped his hands around in different directions.

"I got it… well, I just got it. We have a big library at home."

They poured some more rusht. The Oldeners didn't look at Benedikt, and they didn't look at each other. They stared at the table.

"Special Reserves," said Lev Lvovich.

"A spiritual treasure trove," corrected Nikita Ivanich.

"But I've already read everything," said Benedikt. "I, well, I have a favor to ask. Maybe you have something to read, no? I'll be careful… no spots, nothing. I respect books."

"I don't have any books," replied Nikita Ivanich. "I truly don't. Would I lie?"

"I could give you mine, for a little while… Kind of like an exchange. If you'll be careful… Wrap them in something… a cloth or rags… I have good books, they don't have any Illness or anything…"

"Interlibrary with Leviathan. I wouldn't get involved."

"You're in a conspiratorial phase… Where are your democratic values?"

"We shouldn't cooperate with a totalitarian regime…"

Benedikt waited for the Oldeners to stop their gibberish. "What do you think, Nikita Ivanich?"

Nikita Ivanich waved his hands around like he hadn't heard the question. He poured some more mead. It went down smoothly…

"I have interesting books," Benedikt tempted them. "About women, and nature, and science too… they tell you all sorts of things… You were talking about freedom-well, I've got one about freedom too, about everything. It teaches how to make freedom. Should I bring it? Only you have to be careful."

"Really?" Lev Lvovich said with interest. "Whose book?"

"Mine."

"The author, who's the author?"

Benedikt thought.

"I can't remember right off. I think It starts with Pl."

"Plekhanov?"

"No…"

"It couldn't be Plevier?"

"No, no… Don't interrupt… Aha! It's Plaiting and Knitting Jackets. 'When knitting the armhole we cast on two extra loops for freedom of movement. We slip them on the right needle, taking care not to tighten them excessively.'"

"We've always known how to tighten things excessively around here…" said Lev Lvovich with a grin.

"So should I bring it? It's all right?" said Benedikt, rising.

"Don't bother, young man."

Benedikt had been sly: he himself didn't like Plaiting very much-it was a boring sort of essay; but he thought maybe it would do for Oldeners-who knows what they like? He himself liked Embraces better. Since he'd already gotten up, Benedikt pushed the door open to let in some of the blizzardy air-they'd smoked up the place something fierce. He wanted to keep an eye on Teterya: Had he gone and committed Freethinking, and crawled up into the sleigh? There was a bear skin there, and sometimes the stinking scum did that: he'd get up under the skin to get warm, and after that just try airing it out! Degenerators have a strong smell: dung, straw, unwashed feet. No, he hadn't crawled in, but what was he doing? He was standing on his legs. He'd taken the felt boots off his hands and was scratching swear words onto the pillar that said "Nikitsky Gates."

"Teterya!!!" Benedikt croaked. "You hairy rat! I see everything!"

He immediately darted back on all fours, as if he hadn't been doing anything, and raised his leg on the pillar as if to say, yeah? I'm just relieving myself, the way we do. I'm pissing.

"You pig…"

Nikita Ivanich looked out over Benedikt's shoulder. "Benya! Why don't you invite your comrade inside? Good Lord, he's outside and in such cold weather!"

"Comrade? Nikita Ivanich! That's a Degenerator! Don't tell me you haven't seen Degenerators before!"

Lev Lvovich hadn't taken a liking to Benedikt: he looked at him with disdain and kept his mouth squinched to one side. He also got up from the table, crowded behind the Stoker's back, and looked out. "Appalling exploitation…" he muttered.

"Call him, call him into the house! That's inhumane!"

"But he's not a human! Humans don't have felt boots on their hands!"

"You have to look at it more broadly! Even without him the people is incomplete!" Lev Lvovich instructed.

"We won't argue about definitions…" The old man wrapped a scarf around his neck… "Who are you and I…? Bipeds without feathers, with articulate speech… Let me out, I'll go and invite him… What's his name?"

"He answers to Teterya."

"But I can't speak to an adult like that… What's his patronymic?"

"Petrovich… Don't be crazy, Nikita Ivanich, watch out, for God's sake!!! Invite a Degenerator into the izba? He'll muck the whole place up. Wait!"

"Terenty Petrovich," the Stoker said, leaning over into the snowdrift, "kindly come in to the izba! Come sit at the table and warm up!"

The deranged Oldeners unhitched the Degenerator, took off his shaft, and led him into the izba. Benedikt spat.

"Please, let me have your reins, I'll help. Hang them on the nail."

"They'll filch the bear skin! No one's watching the hide," screamed Benedikt and ran to the sleigh. Just in time: two Golubchiks had already wrapped the bear skin in a rug and thrown it on their shoulder. Everyone would have done the same-why not? Who leaves goods like that in the middle of the street without an owner nearby! Seeing Benedikt, they ran into a lane with the rug. He caught up with them, gave them a thrashing, and recovered the goods, huffing and puffing. Oohh, what thievery!

"… I came home, everything was quite civilized, the floors were covered with goddamn Polish varnish!" cursed a soused Teterya. "I took off my shoes, put on my slippers, and there was figure skating on the tube. Irina Rodnina! A double lux… Maya Kristalinskaya was singing. She gets on your nerves, doesn't she?"

"I…" objected Lev Lvovich.

"I, I, I, it's always I. T is just a letter of the alphabet! Gone to seed under Kuzmich, Glorybe! He's let everyone go to pot, frigging dwarf! Reading books, all a bunch of smart alecs all of a sudden! Under Sergeich you wouldn't have done all that reading!"

"Excuse me, but I beg to differ!" Lev Lvovich and Nikita Ivanich broke in, interrupting each other. "Under Sergei Sergeich there was utter terror! He trampled the rights of the individual!… There were arrests in broad daylight! Have you forgotten that more than three were forbidden to gather at one time?… No singing or smoking on the streets!… Curfew!… And what happened if you were late to the recount?-And the uniforms…"

"There was law and order under Sergeich! All the terems were built! All the fences! They never held up Warehouse packages! A basket for holidays, my ration was fifth category, and I got a postcard from the local committee!…"

"You've got it all mixed up, all confused… postcards were before the Blast!… But just remember-a mere forty years ago private mouse-catching was forbidden!"

"… A co-op apartment in Skabl… in Sviblovo," said Te-terya, tripping over his own tongue, "five minutes from the metro. A park zone, you got me? We weren't a bunch of rabi-noviches living in the center!… They were right to put you all in jail!"

"I beg your pardon… we're talking about Sergei Sergeich!"

"… They stick a pair of glasses on and then they start thinking!… I won't let you weeds hit me with a wrench. Don't you shake your beard at meeee! Abraham! You're an abraham! The government gives you a quota and you're supposed to stay within it… Jeezus F… Christ… and not go wagging your butts in front of a bunch of foreigners…"

"But-"

"Gone and multiplied like rabbits, shit! Supposed to be two percent and not a cent more so you don't crush the working class!… Who ate all the meat? Epstein! Huh? Who bought up all the sugar… and we're supposed to make hooch from tomato paste, right? Isn't that right? You're a hitler! There's no Zhirinovsky for you guys anymore!"

"But-"

"Made your son a nice liddle blue shoot, suit, a hunnert percent wool! Then you made a deal to sell the Kuriles to Reagan!… Not an inch will we yield!…"

"Terenty Petrovich!"

"I said not one inch!… We won't give up the Kuriles… And you can stick your pillars up your rear end! You parasites, tried to turn the country into a museum. Pour gasoline over you and-just one little match!… and your ppppparliament, and your books, and your academic Ssssssakharov! And…"

"Now you've done it, you s.o.b.!" A crimson Lev Lvovich suddenly hauled back and punched him. "Don't you dare touch Andrei Dmitrich!!!"

There wasn't any Andrei Dmitrich in the izba; but that happens when you drink too much: your eyes see everything double, and strange figures and faces watch you from the corners. Then you blink-and they're gone.

"You bastard!" shouted the Head Stoker as well. "Get out of here!"

"Don't touuuuch me!" Teterya yelled, flailing his furry elbows. "Help! They're beating Ruuuusssssians!"

"You prison slime… Terrorist! Tie him up!"

They knocked over the table and the jug rolled away. Benedikt jumped in too, and helped them tie the drunken pig with the reins; they rolled him up, threw him outside in the snow, and kicked him for good measure.

"I had a chrome faucet in Sviblovo!" they could hear from the snowstorm. "And you can't even get it up, you queers!…"

If this one is quiet, what is Potap like?