The Slynx

SHA

Bright thoughts ascend In my heart's battered torch And bright thoughts descend By a dark fire scorched.

"Under Sergei Sergeich there was law and order," said Benedikt.

"You said it," replied Father-in-law.

"No more than three people gathered at a time."

"No way."

"But now everybody's too smart for their britches, they read books, they've gone to seed. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, has let everything get out of hand."

"Words of gold!" Father-in-law exclaimed joyfully.

"Sergei Sergeich built fences, but What've we got nowadays?"

"A crying shame!"

"Holes everywhere, fences falling down, the people's path is overgrown with dill!"

"That's right!"

"A useless weed, no taste, no smell!"

"Not a smidgen."

"People hang underwear and pillowcases on the pushkin, and the pushkin-is our be all and end all!"

"Right down to his itty bitty toes!"

"He's the one who wrote the poems, not Fyodor Kuzmich!"

"Never a truer word spoken."

"He's higher than the Alexander column!"

"Oh, my dear, the column can't compare!"

"But Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, is only knee high to a grasshopper! And he wants to be the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live. Sits right down on Olenka's lap and makes himself at home!"

"Yes, yes… tell me more…"

"What do you mean, 'yes and tell me more'?"

"Take the next step, think it through."

"Think what where?"

"What does your heart tell you?"

Benedikt's heart wasn't telling him anything. His heart was dark, dark as an izba in winter when all the candles have gone out and you live with your hands outstretched. There was an extra candle somewhere, but just try and find it now in the pitch dark.

You stumble and your hands fumble, they're blind, frightened: who knows what you might find or touch, not seeing what it is. Your soul will freeze: What's this? There's never been anything like this in the izba. What is it?

Your insides are like to pop with fear and you throw the thing away, whatever it was… You stand there, petrified, scared to breathe… Scared to take a step… You think: If I move, I'll step on it…

Carefully… sideways… along the edges… against the wall. One step, two steps… and you make it to the door. You yank the door open and run as fast as your legs will carry you!

You collapse under a tree or next to the fence; everything inside is pounding. Now you have to pull yourself together, ask someone for coals or maybe a candle. If they give you a candle it's easier, not so scary; you'll go back to the izba and take a look.

What was that thing? And there doesn't seem to be anything there.

Nothing at all.

Could be your neighbors were playing a trick on you, the jokesters: while you were out, they put who knows what there, to ruin your reason with fear; and while you were running back and forth, trying to get some fire, they go and fetch whatever it was they stuck there. So there's nothing there now, and you never know what it was.

His heart wasn't telling him anything. But his head-yes, his head was telling him something. That's why reason is up there in the head. His head told him that a long time ago, before his wedding-yikes, ages ago-when he was still a wild young man, an uneducated greenhorn with a tail and no sense, he saw a book at Varvara Lukinishna's place. He couldn't remember what book it was, big or little, or what it was called: the fear and the strangeness made it so he didn't understand anything at the time, he only understood that he was scared stiff.

Now, of course, as an educated man, sophisticated, you might say, he'd know how to appreciate such a treasure. He'd fondle it, turn it over, count the number of pages and see what the letters were like: big or small. Is it a quick read or not? Having read it, he'd know which shelf to put it on, with a kiss.

Now, refined and wiser, he knew that a book is a delicate friend, a white bird, an exquisite being, afraid of water.

Darling things! Afraid of water, of fire, They shiver in the wind. Clumsy, crude human fingers leave bruises on them that'll never fade! Never!

Some people touch books without washing their hands!

Some underline things in ink!

Some even tear pages out!

And he himself used to be so barbaric and clumsy, such a Cro-Magnon, that he rubbed a hole in a page with a spit-covered finger! "And the candle by which Anna read a life full of alarm and deceit…" Idiot. He'd rubbed a hole in it, Lord forgive him. It was the same as if you'd found the secret glade in the forest by some miracle-all covered in crimson tulips and golden trees- and finally embraced the sweet Princess Bird, and while embracing her you'd gone and poked your dirty finger in her bright, self-admiring eye!

Varvara Lukinishna said that Nikita Ivanich gave her the book. So, he was caught out in a lie, the old man! You do have books, you old drunk, you hide them somewhere, bury them, won't let good people read them… They aren't in the izba, Benedikt knew that izba like the back of his hand, he'd spent a lot of time there… They aren't in the shed, we carved the pushkin in the shed… There's only rusht in the pantry… In the bathhouse maybe?

Benedikt thought about the bathhouse and got mad. He could feel his face puffing up with anger: the bathhouse is damp, books would mildew there. Here he'd come, asking nicely, offering to trade. He'd brought a valuable present. He didn't begrudge anything; he sat with the Oldeners for half a day, listened to their nonsense-but no, they had to go and lie, had to pretend, and pull the wool over his eyes, look away, brush him off, deny everything. No, no, not us, we don't have any books, don't even bother to look for any!…

And they invited that stinking bastard, that Degenerator, to sit at the table with them. Yes, Terenty Petrovich. What do you think, Terenty Petrovich? Would you care for some rusht, Terenty Petrovich? They fed him and got him drunk, and then they got mad at him for some reason, and threw him out in the snow like a sack of turnips… Served him right, of course.

But they treated Benedikt the same way: they laughed and left him with nothing to show for his trouble…

The old man said: the heavens and the heart, it's all the same, and you remember that. What's in the sky? There's darkness and blizzards, stormy whirlwinds. In summer, stars: the Trough, the Bowl, Horsetail, Nail Clippings, the Belly Button, there are tons of them! They're all written down in a book, he said, and that book lies locked behind seven gates, and that book holds the secret of how to live, only the pages are all shuffled… and the letters aren't like ours. Go and look for it, he said. Pushkin looked for it, and you go and look too. I'm looking, I'm looking, just think how many people I've shaken down: Theofilactus, Eensy Weensy, Zuzya, Nenila the Hare, Methuselah and Churilo, the twins; Osip, Revolt, Eulalia, Avenir, Maccabee, Zoya Gurevna… January, Ulcer, Sysoy, Ivan Pricklin… They caught them all with the hook, dragged them across the floor, all of them grabbed the tables and stools, all of them howled bloody murder when they were taken away to be treated… Noooooo, that is, doooooon't…!

What do you mean, don't? It says: Books shouldn't be kept at home, and whoever keeps them shouldn't hide them, and whoever hides them should be treated.

Because everything's gotten out of hand under Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. And who grabbed the main book and hid it-the one where it says how to live? Roach Efimich had books with letters that weren't like ours right out in plain view, two dozen of them, all clean and dry. Is that where the precious writings are? Probably not. Nikita Ivanich said they're locked behind seven gates, in a valley of fog… So keep on thinking, Benedikt…

Go and hitch up Teterya. To make sure he wouldn't swear the whole time or give anything away, so he'd keep his mouth shut, Benedikt made him a plug, that is, a gag: you take a rag, roll it up, tie it with a string, and stuff it in between the blabbermouth's teeth; then you fasten it around the ears. And off you go, at a gallop, but without songs!

"Where ya going so late, Benny?"

"I've got, I have to… go talk about art…"

From the threshold of the gate Let the wilting beauty gaze Whether gentle or depraved Whether spiteful or quite chaste.

Who cares about her charming hands! Who needs her bed's warm heat Come on, brother, let's retreat, Let's soar above the sands!

But the weather is bad: the air is heavy and full of alarm. The blizzard is rotten, like it was mixed with water, and the snow no longer sparkles as it did, it sticks to things. On the corners, at the crossroads, on the squares, the people stand around in bunches -more than three at a time. They huddle, looking at the sky or talking, or just standing there fretting.

Why is there unrest among the people?… He just passed two Golubchiks with worried faces, their eyes flitting back and forth. Others run past, waving their hands. And those guys over there were chatting, then they ran back in their houses and slammed the gates. Benedikt stopped in the sleigh, watching people he knew. Poltorak whizzed by like a wheel and was gone: he has three legs, you could never catch up with him.

There's a woman being led by the elbow: she can't walk on her own, she beats her breast with her hand, and cries out: "Oh, woe is me! Woe is me!…" She slumps. What's going on…?

"Konstantin Leontich!" Benedikt cried out. "Stop, Konstan-tin Leontich!… What's wrong, what happened?"

Konstantin Leontich, agitated, hatless, his coat buttoned wrong, answered in a strange voice: "There was just an announcement: it's a leap year!"

"What, again?"

"Yes, yes! We're all so upset… They let us go home early."

"Why?" worried Benedikt. "They didn't give any reason?"

"We don't know anything yet… I'm in a hurry, Golubchik, forgive me. My wife doesn't know yet. Our livestock is still in the yard, the attic window has to be closed shut, you know how it is…"

So that's it… leap year: await misfortune! Furry stars, a bad harvest, hungry livestock. Grain comes up withered in the fields, if there's a drought. If there's a flood and storms, on the other hand, horsetail will take over like it's swelled with water, it'll grow higher than the trees, its roots will dig down into the clay on which the city stands: it will bring on mudslides and carve out new ravines. The woods will be sprinkled with fake firelings. If you don't watch out the Chechens will attack, and what an affliction that will be! And if the summer turns out to be cold and stormy, with winds, nothing good'll come of it, and the harpies will awake! God forbid!

Why is it that some years are leap years and others are just plain years? Who knows! What can you do? Nothing at all, you just have to put up with it!

But the people get anxious. Hostility and dissatisfaction rise. Why? Because a bad year is never shorter, just the opposite: they deliberately mock us, they make it longer. They add an extra day: here you go, all yours! And an extra day means extra work, extra taxes, all kinds of human vexation-you could just cry! And they put that day in February. There's a poem that goes:

February! Grab the inks and cry!

Well, that's what the Scribes do. So do cooks and woodcutters, not to mention the people who get called up for roadwork.

Some say: Well, it's extra work, but it means you live longer, right? You get an extra day on earth, get to eat an extra pancake or pie! Is that so bad? You think you're about to die-but no, there's another dawn to greet, another sun to shine, and in the evening you can dance and drink! Though it would be better if this day wasn't added in winter, when life seems dreary, but in the summer, in the good weather.

Yeah, sure! Don't hold your breath! Good weather. If they wanted to make things easier for people, they wouldn't add this day to a leap year but to a regular year, and not just one day, but two or three, or a whole week, and make it a holiday!

Meanwhile, they'd arrived at the izba where Varvara Lukinishna lived.

"Wait here."

Teterya grunted under the gag and rolled his eyes.

"I said: Wait and be quiet."

No, there he goes, moaning again, waving his felt boot.

"So what is it now? What is it?"

He took off his boot, freed his hand, untied the gag, and spit with a hiss.

"… I said, I know this place."

"So what? So do I."

"You know how to get your rocks off, but I know that there used to be a gas station here."

"Who cares what was where."

"And a gas station means fuel. Underground. Throw a match in, and boom-we all go up in a puff of smoke."

Benedikt thought a moment. "What for?"

"Not what for but where to. To hell and gone."

Benedikt opened his mouth to remind him: shut your trap, your place is in the bridle. But he knew what the answer would be and decided not to go asking for the rude cracks; his foot already had a callus from kicking, and you could kick the pig as much as you liked-he didn't care. So Benedikt didn't say anything, he just opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Gasoline, I tell you. Up to your ass in gas. Gasoline, gasoline, capish? It's like water, but it burns." Tetery laughed. "Tiger, tiger, burning bright, don't forget to leave the light… Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a tiger by the toe… Gimme a cigar while you're in there doing your business."

"What'll it be next?"

"Then screw you. Fascist!"

Worse than dogs, those Degenerators. You swear at a dog and it can't talk back. Woof, woof, that's all; you can put up with it. But Degenerators never shut up, they keep bugging you… As soon as you sit down in the sleigh it starts: he doesn't like the route, and that's the wrong lane, and that road is blocked, and the government doesn't run things right, and he don't like the way the Murzas look, and you better believe what he'd do to them you just wait give him his way and you'll see, and who's to blame, and how in the Oldener days he drank with his cousins, and what they drank, and how they pigged out, and what he bought, and where he went on vacation, and how he caught fish at his mother's in the country, and what a good place she had: her own milk, her own eggs, what else do you need; and all the cats he ran over, the nasty pests should all be drowned so they know their place. And what women he fooled around with, and how there was one lady General couldn't live without him and he told her: Tough luck, sweetheart, love has flown the coop, don't get your hopes up, don't wait, and she said: No, my heart will break, I'll give you whatever you want. And what cost how much when, and to hear him tell it was all cheap, just take what you want and be gone. He shouts at passersby, and screams obscenities at women and girls, and after all that it turns out that he can't even go straight where he's going, he always has to take a roundabout way.

Now he's saying: guzzelean. It's water but it burns. Just where has anyone ever seen water burning? That's never happened and it never will. Water and fire don't mix, they can't. Except, of course, when people stand watching a fire and the flames lap in their eyes like in water, reflected; and the people stand there like pillars, frozen, like they were under a spell-well then, yes; but that's just a mirage, just illusion and nothing else. Nothing in nature says for water to burn. Unless the Last Days are coming?… But that can't be. I don't even want to think about it… On the other hand, it's a leap year, so that means bad omens, and the blizzard is sort of sticky, and there's a buzz in the air.

He yanked the swollen door. It smacked like a kiss. Behind it was a second door: she had a mud room between the two. He stood for a while, leaning against the second door, listening. He didn't bother to put on the robe, although he was supposed to: he allowed a little Freethinking. It's government service, of course, but every job lets you bend the rules a little for your friends or relatives.

He hesitated. Should he leave the hook in the mud room or take it with him right off? If he takes the hook with him, the sick Golubchik guesses and starts shouting right away; and where there's shouting, there's a commotion. Some of them bang their heads on the table or the stool or the stove; the place is crowded, you can't move around much, so your hand doesn't have the same flair, the same freedom. It's all well and fine to go polishing your art outdoors, training, that is. How do they teach the Sani-turions? They make big dolls, huge idols, from rags and cloth; and you work on technique on the greengrass: thrusting from the shoulder, catching with a turn, pulling, or whatever. Outdoors it's easy, but in the izba, in real life, so to speak, it doesn't work that way. Nope, it doesn't.

First of all, there's the doll: it doesn't run around the izba, does it? It doesn't let out bloodcurdling screams, does it? It doesn't grab the table or chair for dear life, does it? One whack and it just lies there quiet, not feeling anything, just like the instructions say. But a Golubchik-he's alive, he makes a racket.

That's one problem. And the other, of course, is that it's always crowded. That's really an oversight. Yep. Needs more work.

So you can't always follow all the government rules; that's where the bending comes in. Some might argue with that, but "theory is dry, my friend, and the tree of life grows green and full."

Benedikt thought about it and left the hook in the mud room. He opened the second door, and stuck his head in: "Peek-a-boo! Who came to see you?"

Not a sound.

"Varvara!"

"Who's there?" came a quiet whisper.

"The Big Bad Wolf," Benedikt joked.

There was no reaction, just some rustling. Benedikt moved into the room and looked around: what was she doing? She lay on the bed, wrapped in tatters and rags, but you could hardly tell it was Varvara Lukinishna: one eye was visible through the rags, and the rest was all cock's combs-and more combs, combs, combs, combs. It seemed that since Benedikt had last seen her, she'd sprouted cock's combs all over.

"Oh, is it really you? Come for a visit?" she said. "And here I am, a little sick… I'm not working these days…"

"What?" said Benedikt, worried. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Golubchik. Some kind of weakness… I can hardly see, everything's dark… I can barely walk… Please sit down! I'm so happy you're here! Only I'm afraid I've nothing to offer you."

Benedikt didn't have anything with him either. You're not supposed to go visiting without a gift, it's true, but he couldn't come up with anything to give. A book was out of the question, better to die than give away a book. Like an idiot he went and gave the Head Stoker the one with "Slitherum Slatherum," and then he was sorry, so sorry! He kept imagining what a good book it was, how beautifully it stood on the shelf-clean and warm, and how, poor thing, it was probably lying around at the Stoker's somewhere now in a messy, gloomy, smoky izba. Maybe it fell on the floor and the old man didn't notice with his bad eyesight; maybe there was nothing to cover the soup with, and he… Or maybe Lev Lvovich, the lecher, asked to borrow it and took it home, hid himself away from everyone, put out the candle, and xeroxed it: I want to multiply, he said! There are insatiable rakes like that, women aren't enough for them! They fool around with goats and dogs, Lord forgive me, and even with felt boots! He felt so bad he banged his head against the wall, wrung his hands, and bit his fingernails; no, he'd never give another book to anyone.

Flowers-now Golubchiks do give flowers sometimes when they go visiting women. They pick a bunch of real bright ones in the garden or, so they smell good, put a lot of them together- and you've got a bouquet. They give the woman the bouquet: you're so beautiful, so to speak, you're a regular bouquet yourself. And you don't smell too bad either. Hold it tight and we'll mess around. But what flowers could you find in winter?

Most people bring rusht when they go visiting, or even better, mead brewed from rusht. Because you're going to want to drink some too, and that way you don't have to think about it.

Mead is good for two reasons: you can drink it right away without waiting for anyone to brew, steep, filter, and clarify it, or cool it down and then filter it again! It's all ready, help yourself and drink.

Second, it's good because if you came visiting, and the guests didn't get along-say you argue with the Golubchik who invited you, or fight, or spit at someone, or they spit at you, or something else-well, you think, at least I had a drink, it wasn't a complete waste.

But Benedikt hadn't done his own housekeeping for a long time, he didn't have his own mead, and the Kudeyarovs, well, as soon as you started making some… no, better not to have anyone asking questions. So he came empty-handed. And left the hook in the mud room. He pulled up a stool and sat down next to the bed, put an expression of sympathy on his face: he cocked his eyebrows up, turned his mouth down. No smile.

"How are you?" said Varvara in a weak voice. "I heard that you married. Congratulations. A wonderful event."

"Yes, a real mesalliance," Benedikt bragged.

"How lovely it must be… I always dreamed… Tell me… tell me something moving and exciting."

"Hmm. Oh, they announced that we're having another leap year."

Varvara Lukinishna burst into tears. Well, no doubt about it, nothing happy in that news.

Benedikt shifted his weight and cleared his throat, not knowing what else to say. The book was hidden somewhere. Under the bed? He stretched out his leg, real casual, stuck it under the bed and felt around with his foot. There seemed to be a box.

"You know, you read in books: fleur d'orange, fate… flowers pinned at the waist, filigree lace…"

"Yep, they all start with the letter Fert," said Benedikt. "With Fert I noticed you can hardly ever make any sense of the words." Through his felt boots it was hard to feel what kind of box it was and where the top was. There you go: without a hook you might as well be missing your hands.

Varvara Lukinishna's one eye filled with tears.

"… the altar… the choir… the incense… dearly beloved… the veil… the garter…"

"Just what I said, can't make sense of it!"

Benedikt stuck his second leg under the bed, pulled his boot down on his heel, and pulled his foot out. The foot wrapping got stuck-it must have been poorly wound. No, better to take off both boots. But how hard it was with no hands! What now? To take the first boot off, you have hold down the heel with the second, but to take the second one off, you have to press it down with the first one. But if you've gone and taken off the first one, then it will be off, won't it? How are you supposed to hold the other one? Now there's a scientific question they don't answer in books. And if you try to learn by watching nature, then you have to move your legs like a fly-quick quick rub them against each other. Then the legs get kind of mixed up, you can't tell which is first and which is second: but all of a sudden the boots fly off.

"… and my youth flew by without love!" Varvara Lukinishna cried.

"Yes, yes!" agreed Benedikt. Now he had to unwind the foot wrappings: they got in the way.

"Take my hand, dear friend!"

Benedikt guessed more or less where Varvara Lukinishna's hand must be, took it, and held it. Now his hands were occupied, there was nothing to help his feet. That meant he had to keep turning his foot around and around, so the wrapping would unwind, and had to hold it to one side with his second foot. You could get downright bushed and work up a real sweat that way.

"Don't tremble so, my friend! It's too late! Fate did not deign to let our paths cross!…"

"Yes, yes, that's true. I noticed that myself."

A bare foot is so much more agile than a foot in a shoe! Almost like it had eyes on the soles! There's the wall of the box, fuzzy, but with no splinters: birch doesn't splinter, it's not like pulpwood. And not every bark works for a box: thin bark is used more for letters, and thick bark, that's for baskets: we know our carpentry. Here's the top. Now he had to raise the top with his toes…

"You're equally distraught? Dear heart! Could it be… is it true?…"

Benedikt grabbed Varvara Lukinishna's hand, or whatever it was, even harder, for support. He spread his toes, stretched out his big toe, and flipped the top. Aha! Got it!

Suddenly his eyes squeezed shut, he jerked upward and then fell, grabbing on to something. A damned cramp! He forgot that feet don't work like hands, that's for sure!!!

It passed. Whew!

… Varvara Lukinishna lay there without moving, her eye open, staring at the ceiling. Benedikt was taken aback and looked closely. What was going on? His elbow had kind of pressed down on her somewhere… he couldn't figure out where. Did he bump her or something?

He sat and waited. "Hey," he called.

She didn't answer. She wasn't dead, was she?… Ay, she was dead. Jeez! What from? It was kind of unpleasant… Dying sure wasn't fun, not like playing dead.

He sat on the stool, his head lowered. This was bad. They had worked together. He took off his hat. She wasn't an old woman, she could have gone on living and living. Copying books. Planting turnips.

She didn't really have any relatives-who was going to bury her? And how? Our way, or like the Oldeners do it?

Mother was buried the Oldeners' way. Stretched out. If it was done our way, then you had to gut the corpse, bend the knees, tie the arms and legs together, make clay figures, and put them in the grave. Benedikt had never done this himself, people who like to do that sort of thing always came out of the woodwork and he only stood to the side, watching.

"Teterya!" he yelled out the door. "Come here."

The Degenerator ran willingly into the izba: it was warm inside.

"Teterya… This woman died. A co-worker… I came to visit a co-worker and she just up and died right this minute. What needs to be done? Huh?…"

"OK," said Teterya in a rush. "You have to put her hands on her chest in a cross… like that… Not that way!… Where is her chest?… Christ, who the hell knows… it should be lower than the head… Anyway, the arms crossed, an icon in the hands, of course. Close the eyes… Where are her eyes?… Oh, here's one! Spartak vs. Armenia, one to zero. Tie the jaw; where's her jaw! Where's… oh, forget it; just let her lie there like that. You, you're supposed to call people together, rustle up a lot of grub, bliny and stuff, and make sure there's a shitload of booze."

"All right, you can go, I know what to do from here."

"Beet and potato salad, the more the better! The red stuff, you know, with onion! Ah!"

"Out!" Benedikt screamed.

… He crossed her arms, if they were in fact her arms, closed her eye… Shouldn't he put a stone on it? But where could you find a rock in winter! Now. An icon? That's what they draw on birch bark? An idol?

A bluish mouse-oil candle trembled on the table; just moments ago Varvara lit that candle. He opened the stove damper, that's where the sticks were: the fire jumped back and forth, dancing. Varvara had just put the sticks in the stove. She stoked the fire-and now it was burning in the emptiness. She wasn't there anymore. He threw in a few more pieces so that the fire hummed and there'd be more light in the izba.

On the table there was a pile of birch sheets, a writing stick, and an ink pot: she boiled her own rusht for ink, sharpened her own sticks, she liked for everything to be orderly… Homemade was always better than official, she used to say. Come over for some soup, she used to say. How can you compare official soup to homemade? He didn't come. He was afraid of her cock's combs…

Oh, the moment, oh, the bitter fight.

Let the beer brew with the malt.

Life could have been pure flight,

But rain and cold streamed from the heavens' vault.

Benedikt started to cry. The tears burned his eyes, backed up quickly and overflowed the brim, pouring down into his beard. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. She was kind. She always gave you her own ink if yours ran out. She explained what words meant. A steed, she said, is not a mouse-truer words were never spoken. An idol in her hands…

Sniffling, Benedikt sat at the table, took a piece of birch bark, and turned it around. We need an idol… He squeezed the writing stick-he hadn't held it for so long-and dipped it in the ink. An idol. But how to draw one…

… He drew a bent head. Around the head-curls: scritch scratch, scritch scratch. Kind of like the letter S, technically, "Slovo." All right… A long nose. Straight. A face. Sideburns on the sides. Fill them in so they're thicker. Dot, dot-and you've got the eyes. The elbow goes here. Six fingers. Squiggle squaggle squiggle all around: that's supposed to be a caftan.

It looks like him.

He stuck the idol in her hands.

He stood there and looked at her.

Suddenly it was as if something broke through his chest, burst, exploded like a barrel of kvas: he started to sob, he shook, he gulped and gasped, he howled-was he remembering Mother? His life? Springtimes gone by? Islands in the sea? Un-traveled roads? A white bird? Nighttime dreams? Go on and ask, no one will answer!… He blew his nose and put on his hat.

Yes! That's right. So what did I come here for? Oh, the book!… Where does she have the book? Benedikt got down on all fours and looked under the bed, holding the candle. There's that box. He pulled it out and rifled around in it-women's junk, nothing valuable. No book. He looked some more-nothing, just the usual garbage. He put his hand under and felt around. Nothing.

He looked on the stove. Nothing…

Behind the stove. Nothing.

Under the stove. Nothing.

In the closet-he held the candle up-just rusht. With a deft hand he grabbed the hook-it's so much easier with a hook- and poked everything. Nothing.

Perhaps the table, a drawer of some kind-no, nothing. A stool-does it have a false bottom? No. He stood, looking over the izba with his eyes: the shed! He ran outside into the shed with the candle: nothing. She didn't have a bathhouse, there was no one to start the fire. He went back into the izba.

The mattress! He stuck his hands under Varvara. It was awkward, she got in the way. He felt the whole mattress, but she got in the way. He dragged her off onto the floor. He felt the mattress and pillow, poked them with the hook; he checked the blanket with hurried fingers, and the quilt of crow feathers. Nothing.

The attic!!! Where was the hatch? Over there. He climbed up on the stool. Hurrying, he bumped Varvara, and the idol fell out of her hands. He bent over, stuck it back somewhere in her middle.

There was nothing in the attic. Only torn strips of moonlight coming in through the dormer window.

It should be closed: it's a leap year, you never know…

The moon shone, the wind blew, the clouds scudded across the sky, the trees swayed. The air smelled of water. Spring again, was it? And the emptiness, the meaninglessness, and some kind of scurrying-sticks of hay fell from the ceiling, the roof was drying out. No, something else.

Ah-the mice. The mice were scurrying. She has mice in her izba. Hickory dickory dock. "Life, you're but a mouse's scurry…"

Who cares about her charming hands! Who needs her bed's warm heat Come on, brother, let's retreat, Let's soar above the sands!

… Benedikt returned to the sleigh. The Degenerator looked at him questioningly. Benedikt stuck out his leg and kicked him. He kicked Terenty Petrovich until his foot was numb.