The Slynx

YERY

"Give me the book," whined Benedikt. "Don't try to jew me out of it, give me the book!"

Nikita Ivanich looked at Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents. Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents looked out the window. It was a summer's eve, still light, the bladder off the window-you could see far, far away.

"It's too soon!" said Nikita Ivanich.

"Soon for what? The sun is already setting."

"Too early for you. You don't know the ABCs yet. You're uncivilized."

"Steppe and nothing else… as far as the eye can see… And neither fish nor fowl…" said Lev Lvovich through his teeth.

"What do you mean, I don't know them?" answered Benedikt in amazement. "Me? Why, I… I… Why… Do you know how many books I've read? How many I've copied?"

"It doesn't matter if it's a thousand."

"It's more than that!"

"Even if it's a thousand, it hardly matters. You don't really know how to read, books are of no use to you. They're just empty page-turning, a collection of letters. You haven't learned the alphabet of life. Of life, do you hear me?"

Benedikt was flabbergasted. He didn't know what to say. To be told such a bold-faced lie straight out like that. Nikita Ivanich might as well have said: You're not you, you're not Benedikt, and you aren't living on this earth, and… and… and I don't know what.

"You already said that… What do you mean I don't know? The alphabet… There's Az… Slovo… Myslete… Fert."

"There's Fert, but there's Theta, and Yat, and Izhitsa, there are concepts inaccessible to you: sensitivity, compassion, generosity…"

"The rights of individuals," piped up Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents.

"Honesty, justice, spiritual insight…"

"Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association," added Lev Lvovich.

"Mutual assistance, respect for others… self-sacrifice…"

"Now that's a lot of stinking mystical blather," shouted Lev Lvovich, wagging his finger. "This isn't the first time I've noticed where you're heading with all that monument preservation! This smacks of nationalistic mysticism. It downright stinks."

It did smell bad in the izba. Lev Lvovich sure got that one right.

"There isn't any Theta," objected Benedikt. In his head he went through the entire alphabet, afraid that perhaps he'd let something slip-but no, he hadn't forgotten anything, he knew the alphabet by heart, backward and forward, and he'd never had cause to complain about his memory. "There's no Theta, and after Fert comes Kher, and that's that. There isn't anything else."

"And don't hold your breath, there isn't going to be any," said Lev Lvovich, getting worked up once again, "You, Nikita Ivanich, you've got no business sowing obscurantism and superstition. Social protest is what's needed now, not Tolstoyism. This isn't the first time I've observed this in you. You're a Tolstoyan."

"A Tolstoyan, a Tolstoyan! Don't argue with me!"

"But-"

"On this point, old man, you and I are on different sides of the barricades. You are dragging society backward. 'To a cell in a shell.' You are a socially pernicious element. Mysticism! Right now the most important thing is protest. It's crucial to say: No! Do you remember-now when was that?-remember when I was called up for roadwork?"

"And-"

"I said: No! You must remember, you were around then."

"And you didn't go?"

"No, no, why do you say that? I went. They forced me. But I said: No!"

"Who did you say it to?"

"To you, I told you, you must remember. I believe it's very important to say no at the right moment. To say: I protest!"

"You protested, but you went anyway?"

"Have you ever met anyone who didn't go?"

"Forgive me, but what's the point… if no one hears-"

"And what's the point of your… what shall I call them… activities? All those posts?"

"What do you mean? Memory, of course!"

"Of what? Whose memory? It's just empty noise! Hot air! Now, here we've got a young man," said Lev Lvovich, looking at Benedikt with distaste. "Let this young man tell us, since he knows his letters so well, precisely what is inscribed on the pillar standing in the burdock and nettle patch next to your izba, and why is it there."

"It's grabweed," Benedikt corrected.

"It doesn't matter, I'm used to calling it nettle."

"Call it a pot if you like. It's grabweed."

"What does it matter?"

"Stick your hand in and you'll find out."

"Lev Lvovich," remarked Nikita Ivanich, "it's possible that the young man is right. Nowadays they differentiate nettle from grabweed. You and I don't, but they can tell the difference."

"No, no, no. Excuse me," said Lev Lvovich stubbornly, "I'm not yet blind, and let's not have any mysticism here: I see nettle and I insist that it is nettle."

"Crikey, Lev Lvovich, nettle is nettle!" Benedikt said. "And grabweed is grabweed. If it grabs you, you'll know it. You can make soup from nettle. It's not very good, but you can do it. But just try making soup from grabweed. No way you can make soup of it! No, no, no-o-o-o," Benedikt said with a laugh, "you'll never make soup of grabweed. Yeah, sure, nettle! It's not nettle. I swear. It's grabweed. That's it. Grabweed and nothing but."

"All right, all right," Lev Lvovich stopped him. "So what is written on the post?"

Benedikt stuck his head out of the window, squinted, and read everything that was on the post out loud to the Oldeners: "Nikita's Gates," seven swear words, an obscene picture, "Fedya and Klava," another five cuss words, "Vitya was here," "There is no heppinness in life," three swear words, "Zakhar is a dog," and one more obscene picture. He read everything aloud.

"There you've got it, the whole inscription, or text, exactly like it is. And there's no Theta there. Lots of the F letter, one, two… eight. No, nine, the ninth is in Fedya. But there's no Theta."

"Your Theta isn't there," Lev Lvovich confirmed.

"Yes, it is," cried the Stoker, beside himself. "Nikita's Gate is my Theta to you, to everyone! So that there's some memory of our glorious past! With hope for the future! We'll restore everything, everything, and we'll start with the small things! It's a whole layer of our history! Pushkin was here! He was married here!"

"The pushkin was here," Benedikt agreed. "Right here in the shed, that's where we started him. We chiseled his head out, his arm, everything was fine and dandy. You helped drag him yourself, Lev Lvovich, you forgot already? You have a bad memory! And Vitya was here."

"What Vitya?"

"I don't know, maybe it was Vitya the Fainter from Upper Maelstrom, maybe it was the Chuchin's Vitya-a big guy, a bit younger than I am. Or maybe it was Vitya Ringlegs. It's not likely, though-I don't think he could make it all the way here. No, he couldn't make it. His legs are kind of turned around, like his foot was on the inside…"

"What are you talking about, what Vitya, what does Vitya have to do with anything?"

"There it is, over there on the post, on the post! 'Vitya was here!' I only just read it out loud to you!"

"But that's completely unimportant, whether he was or wasn't here, who knows…? I'm talking about memory…"

"Well, he left a memory! He carved it! So that people would know, whoever walked by-so they'd remember: he was here!"

"When will you learn to differentiate!!" shouted Nikita Ivanich, who had puffed up, turned red, and begun gesticulating… "It's a milestone, a historical landmark! Nikita's Gates stood here, do you understand that? You Neanderthal!!! A great city stood here! Pushkin was here!"

"Vitya was here," shouted Benedikt, becoming incensed himself. "Fedya and Klava were here! Klava, I don't know, maybe Klava was at home and just Fedya was here! He carved a memory! And it's all here! Aha! I've got it! I know which Vitya! It was Viktor Ivanich, who buried your old woman. The organizer. It must have been him. That Viktor Ivanich."

"Viktor Ivanich would never go around carving nonsense on posts," protested the Oldeners, "it's difficult to even imagine… completely unthinkable…"

"Why wouldn't he? How do you know? What, is he dumber than you? You carve things, and he can't carve anything, is that it? It's all right to carve something about some gates, go ahead, but about a real person-not on your life, is that it?"

All three of them sat in silence, breathing through their noses.

"All right," said Nikita Ivanich, spreading his hands. "Let's calm down. Right now-wait-now I'll concentrate and explain. Good. In some ways you're right. Human beings are important. But! What's the point of this?" Nikita Ivanich gathered his fingers together. "The point is, that this memory-pay attention Benedikt!-this memory can exist on different levels…"

Benedikt spat.

"You think I'm an idiot! You're talking like I was a little baby!… If he's a big strapping nitwit, then of course he's at a different level! He'll do his carving right on the very top! If he's a pip-squeak-he won't be able to reach, so he'll say what he has to on the bottom! And this one's right in the middle, exactly Viktor Ivanich's height. He's the one that did it, and there's no doubt about it."

"Steppe and nothing else…" Lev Lvovich suddenly started singing.

"As far as the eye can seeee…" Benedikt chimed in joyfully. He liked this song, always ordered the Degenerators to sing it on the road. "Out on that lonesome steppe…"

"A coachman called to meeeee!"

All three began singing, Benedikt sang the bass, Nikita Ivanich sort of croaked along, and Lev Lvovich sang in a high, beautiful, heartfelt voice with a tear in it. Even Nikolai out in the yard was surprised. He stopped munching grass and stared at the singers.

You, my oldest friend, Don't recall bad deeds, On this desolate steppe, Please do bury meeeeeee!

The singing went so well, such a languid lightness set in, such a sense of accord, such wings, it felt like the smoky izba wasn't an izba, but a meadow, like nature raised her head, turned to look, opened her mouth in surprise and listened, and tears kept on falling and falling from her eyes. Like the Princess Bird forgot her beautiful self for a minute and set her brilliant gaze on the singers in amazement. Like they hadn't just been arguing, their hearts incensed, hadn't exchanged angry looks and put on grimaces of mutual disdain; like their hands hadn't been itching to punch the other guy in the kisser so he wouldn't look at me like that, so that he didn't make faces, didn't talk through his teeth, didn't hold his nose! It's hard to stay mad when you're singing: if you open your mouth the wrong way, you'll ruin the song. If you squawk, you lose track, like you've dropped something, and spilled it! If you ruin a song, you're the fool, you'll be to blame, there's no one else! The others have gone on, they're carrying the tune along nicely, calmly, and it's like you were drunk and tripped and fell face down in the mud. Shameful!

Please go tell my wife,

That on the steppe I froooooooze! -

Lev Lvovich broke off, banged his head against the table, and began to cry, like he was barking. Benedikt was scared, he stopped singing and stared at the Oldener, forgetting to close his mouth, which remained open at the letter O.

"Lev Lvovich! Lyovushka!" pleaded Nikita Ivanich. The Stoker ran all around, tugged at the crying man's sleeve, grabbed a cup, put it down, grabbed a towel, dropped it. "Now what is this! Lyovushka! Come on, that's enough! We'll manage somehow! We're alive, after all, aren't we?"

Lev Lvovich shook his head, rocking it on the table, like he was saying no and he didn't want to stop.

"Benya! Get some water, quick…! He's not supposed to be under stress, he has a heart condition!"

They gave the Oldener something to drink, dried him with a towel, and fanned his face with their hands.

"You sing so well!" said Nikita Ivanich comfortingly. "Did you study or is it just natural? Does it run in your family?"

"Probably… Papa was a dentist," sniffed Lev Lvovich one last time. "And on my mother's side I'm from the Kuban."