The Slynx

VEDI

Nikita ivanich was short, with a puny body, scruffy beard, and beady eyes like a chicken. But what a head of hair-yikes. In the Oldener Times, before the Blast, he was an old, old man who coughed and was about to die. He loved to tell Mother the story; if he told her once he told her a hundred times, like it made him proud. And then, he'd say, the whole shebang goes kaboom and blows to kingdom come-and here I am. I'm alive and well, he'd say, and haven't the slightest intention of dying, Golubchiks. And you needn't try to persuade me otherwise.

Mother didn't have an intention either, but those damned firelings tricked her. After Mother died, it wasn't like Nikita Ivanich changed, but he didn't talk so much, and he started to avoid people. It was easy to see why: you could count the Oldeners in a flash, there were hardly any left except for Degenerators, who aren't really people, and with today's Golubchiks, that is, with us, you can't talk the same way. When it comes down to it, the Oldeners don't understand our words, and we don't understand theirs.

Sometimes they babble and chatter such drivel, like little kids, I swear. When Mother and the old man were still alive, the housekeeping ran better. They kept fowl, put up powdered wor-rums, and there was Kitty to catch mice. Mother was lazy and slow. Summer was the time to put away eggs for kvas in winter. Everyone knows when fall comes the fowl head off south, but who knows if they'll come back? So you have to be on your toes.

But one time Mother said: Let's just lock them up so they'll stay at home and lay eggs for us year-round. Sure! Just try and hold them back! Grab them by the legs! They'll peck your eyes out in a thrice. Another time she said: What a pity they aren't edible-I would love to have a nice chicken dish. Father nearly keeled over laughing. What a dimwit, he said, what a dolt-nothing but air between your ears. Klim Danilych ate chicken once-and where is he now? He not only kicked the bucket, first he turned all black, swelled up like a hollow log and burst; and that wasn't the end of it. Then the ground around his grave sank and caved in and wicked fires flicker there, cold they are, and it stinks so bad they sent people over twice to dump sand on the grave, and even that didn't help.

Nikita Ivanich goes on the same way: he doesn't get it, but sure knows how to talk. Once he said: There isn't any Slynx, it's nothing but human ignorance. How d'ya like that? And who rips people's veins out? Who sucks the lifeblood out of the neck? Tell me! And if you don't know, then shut your trap.

Nikita Ivanich started putting signposts all over town. Next to his own house he carved one that said "Nikita's Gates." As if we didn't know. No gates there, but still. They rotted. Well, all right. In another place he carved " Balchug St." Then: " Polyanka Rd. " " Strastnoi Blvd. " " Kuznetsky Bridge." " Volkhonka St." You ask him: Nikita Ivanich, what's going on? And he says: I want to keep memory alive. As long as I'm breathing, he says, and I'm planning on living forever, as you can see, I want to make my contribution to the restoration and rebirth of culture. Just wait, he says, in a millennium or so, you people will finally set foot upon the path of civilized development, curse your bloody souls. The light of knowledge will finally dispel the impenetrable darkness of your ignorance, O obstinate people, and the balm of enlightenment will flow down over your coarse manners, mores, and customs. Above and beyond everything, he says, I hope for a spiritual runnysauce. For without one, all the fruits of technological civilization will turn to murderous boomerangs in your callused hands, which, for that matter, has already happened. So, he says, don't stare at me from under your eyebrows like a loutish goat; when you listen to someone, keep your mouth closed. And don't shuffle.

Well, the Golubchiks got good and mad at first. You get up in the morning, rub your eyes, and right in front of your window there's a pole sticking up: " Arbat St." There's not much light in the window in winter anyway, even less what with the bladder pane, and now there's this arbat sticking up like a stud headed for a wedding. They all want to pull it out and send it to hell in a wheelbarrow. They want to use it for kindling or flooring. It doesn't take long for a person to get worked up: a wink and a blink and he's hopping mad. You can't lay a hand on Nikita Iva-nich, he's a bossman, but your neighbor Golubchik-anything goes. Neighbors aren't easy to deal with, they're not just any old fuddy-duddy, you can't get rid of them. Neighbors are there to make your heart heavy, muddle your head, fire up your temper. Neighbors make you jumpy or can give you a feeling of dread. Sometimes you think: Why is my neighbor like that and not like this? What does he want? You look at him: he comes out on the porch. Yawns. Looks at the sky. Spits. Looks up at the sky again.

And you think: What's he looking at? Like he hasn't seen it before? There he goes again, standing around, and he doesn't know what he's standing around for. You shout, "Hey!"

"Whadisit?"

"Nuthin. That's whadidis. Whadisidding are you? Whaddya whadisidding at?"

"Whasit to ya?"

"Nuthin."

"Then shudjer trap!"

"You shudjer trap or else I'll ledja have it!"

So sometimes you have a good fight, even to the death, or you just break a few arms and legs, punch out an eye or something. Because it's your neighbor. There were a lot of killings on account of these poles at first, but then, as always, people got used to it, they'd just scrape off "Arbat" and carve something new: "Pakhom lives here," or cuss words. Cuss words are fun to carve. Never boring. There aren't too many of them, but they're all so cheery. Lively. If a fellow is in a serious mood, if he feels like crying or a weariness comes over him, a weakness-he'll never say or write any cuss words. But if he gets good and mad, or falls down laughing, or if he's taken by surprise all of a sudden -then they kind of come rolling out all on their own.