The Fantastic Worlds of Yuri Vynnychuk

by Yuri Vynnychuk

  Then Gramps finked on us under the window and bellowed:

  “What are you scamps doing here?”

  And we answered him:

  “Hush, Gramps! You’ll frighten away the client!”

  “What kind of client, dammit?”

  “Come here and just take a look!”

  And from that time our Gramps began to hang out under the windows. He would instruct us:

  “Look, don’t forget to call me when those... Cause I’ll take a crowbar and break your legs! Take that, blockheads!”

  It wasn’t even a year since Dad’s death, and our mom had exhausted herself to nothing from riding. Then the suitors disappeared somewhere—as if the wind had blown them away.

  As though for spite, there was an adventure with Gramps. Gramps, ya see, was busy checking the neighbor’s chicken coop. He liked order everywhere.

  “I,” he says, “don’t take anybody else’s stuff, just what’s left over. And when I begins to count the chickens, I sees an uneven count, and I sez to myself: if you don’t get hitched—the tartars’ll make your life a bitch. And I takes away one chicken. And when I count an even number, then if I takes one—you break up the pair. So I takes two.”

  At a certain unfortunate hour Gramps was caught in the chicken coop just as he was screwing the heads off of a pair of chickens. Gramps, of course, tried to explain that his activity was directed exclusively for the benefit of the economy, but the cudgels didn’t pay any attention and skillfully counted up the paired nature of Gramps’ ribs. Now no one has had any doubts about Gramps not having an extra rib.

  After such a counting out the dearly departed didn’t get up out of bed. But we already knew quite well that our breed has more lives than a cat and Gramps has, God knows, many more years of tumbling in bed till he even thinks about giving up his spirit to God. This wasn’t to the point for us, and we didn’t complain much when somehow at night Grandpa puffed and panted underneath the feather comforter that covered his head. So that feather comforter wouldn’t slide off and our Gramps, God forbid, wouldn’t catch a cold, we sat on top with Mom.

  The dearly departed couldn’t even quack because our Mom even then was a stout woman, and, though she had a rump the size of two, all the same, for sure, Gramps’ pretty little head hurt her, especially his long hooked nose.

  Thus just as Gramps, God rest his soul, we were left standing on sheep dung. His diploma for soundless penetration into the chicken coops lost its validity from the time his authorship to the deeds became known to everyone it served. So it wasn’t a surprise when our mom somehow said:

  “Well, you’ve already grown up, time to get on with business. Cause I’m not planning on supporting any spongers.”

  That this is the holy truth, we were assured through Gramps, and to insure ourselves against various surprises, at which our mother was very adroit, we started up an entirely decent business: if something was lying in the wrong place, we dragged it into the house at once.

  Little Max was a strangely talented boy, but already much too screechy. Somehow that screeching burnt me up so much that I couldn’t take it:

  “Shut up,” I says, “or I’ll cut off your ear.”

  As much as I tried, he wouldn’t stop. I really loved my little brother, but you have to keep a promise. So I take a knife, slash-slash—and the ear’s gone.

  Max fell silent instantly, his tears vanished. First they dripped as though from a downspout, then disappeared without a trace. He looked at me with such bulging eyes. His mouth gaped, and from his ear ever so quietly, the brrr-brrr of blood.

  “Idiot!” I couldn’t hold back. “You could at least cover it with your hand!”

  Not even a peep from him. He stands there as though he’s struck dumb. It would have gone on for a while if mom had not come out and asked:

  “What happened that he’s not crying? First he wailed like somebody not quite knifed to death, then he quieted down and hasn’t even stirred. What did you do to him?

  “Nothin’. I just lopped off his ear cause he was convulsing too much.”

  “Did you at least clean his ear before you lopped it off?”

  “No, but so what?”

  “The what is that you can spread infection. Lord, what am I to do with you? You never ask the grown-ups, you decide everything yourselves. Max, go into the house. I’ll cover your wound with dough. Just look at how it’s bleeding all over! At least cover it with your hand, just look at him, he’s bugging out his eyes like a frog!

  I put away the ear in a matchbox, covering it with cotton, and Max never parted with it. His ear soon became the subject of envy of all the boys on the street, even kids from the edge of town came to eye it. With pride Max showed his ear, explaining:

  “It was Vlodzyo who cut it off when I was screaming like somebody not quite knifed to death.”

  Then everybody turned their gaze to me, filled with respect and envy: this little brother is really cute!

  Fortunately I realized that, for the displaying of a cut-off organ, you could make some decent dough, and I began to take a nickel from every onlooker. And only in rare cases, when an onlooker was too young to control his own finances, was the payment exchanged for some valuable objects. These might be colored glass lenses, buttons, a dead mouse, a bizarre little beetle, or even a piece of candy.

  Momma couldn’t have been more thrilled with us:

  “I always said: my blood’s flowing inside you.”

  She never mentioned our dad’s blood, since she could never be sure which of her countless suitors really was our dad.

  But all things must come to an end. When the audience for admiring the ear dwindled, our profiteering declined. Poor Max couldn’t take this. With tears in his eyes, he begged me to cut off his other ear, but well I knew that this would hardly interest anyone again.

  And then we began to reflect upon what else we might cut off Max. We thought for a long time until Max finally gave notice with a secret glance that he had one other strange thing that was completely unnecessary, and happily he would part with it. But when he showed me the thing, I didn’t want to take upon myself such a heavy sin.

  “Max,” I said, “you’re still much too little and can’t appreciate the value of that thing. When you grow up a bit, you’ll really need it once in a while.”

  In short, whether we wanted to or not, we were forced to look for other earnings.

  2.

  About the same time a lush wandered into our yard and fell asleep, and our sow snuck up and bit him on the neck. And she, as rarely happens with a sow, wasn’t miserly and called over the boar to share the sweets.

  Upon hearing the really loud snorting and smacking, we ran out with our mom and chased off the gluttons. But it was too late, the lush had already departed for a better world. And at that moment a bold idea visited Mom’s gray little head: so as not to waste good stuff, and before the meat began to stink, she decided to make schnitzel from the lush.

  Without thinking much, we dragged him into the barn and quickly chopped him apart into bits and pieces.

  Since the skin was already damaged we buried it, and separating the meat from the bones, we put it through a meat grinder.

  The next day, a sign above the doors adorned our house:

  Under the Greed Dog

  Here you can tastefully dine

  and lodge overnight

  in the company of an incomparable Lolita.

  The incomparable Lolita, of course, was our momma. She got a shaggy black wig and didn’t look bad at all, even though no rubber or corsets could tuck her shape in any longer.

  Our work lay in making sure our overnight guests were fed with the most varied of meat delicacies, lavishly flavored with hemlock. When the guests dispersed to their designated bedrooms, right away they got interested in the incomparable Lolita. What confusion when it turned out to be our momma. But there was no other way out—the incomparable Lolita visited each room in turn and forced them to lay down, mixing the pra
ctical with pleasure.

  By dawn not a single one of the clients was breathing, and then our real work began. Although visitors of “Under the Green Dog” often dropped by, so much meat was left over that we had to take it to the market. And so many damn bones collected that the entire barn was cluttered. Then we suggested to mom that she make soap from them. So much work piled up that we, no joke, were really huffing and puffing.

  One evening after a long discussion, we decided that Max would care for the garden. We’d planted hemlock and henbane everywhere, so that we’d have seasoning for the meat. He’d also take care of the kettles in which the bones and fat cooked. The butcher’s work fell to me, and to Momma—the cook and the incomparable Lolita.

  Despite this, later on, we still couldn’t manage everything, and therefore Momma suggested that we look up her brother, my uncle.

  3.

  My uncle lived outside of town on a farm, and he had three underswine: Bodyo who was my age and two twins—Milko and Filko. I’ll tell you about the daughter later.

  Uncle occupied himself with a nice little business: he’d catch cats and dogs and make soap out of them, which, of course, couldn’t compete with ours. Auntie then would sew mink and fox furs from the cat and dog skins, which suspiciously gave off too much of an odor, and their owners would really complain about the fact that at least a dozen cats and dogs would run after them on the streets, perhaps relatives of the fox fur.

  Thus I was designated negotiator. Just in case, I picked up an ax and hid it beneath my belt under my jacket.

  Quiet reigned on the farm. An autumn wind was playing with the miserable leaves. Auntie was sitting at the doorstop kneading butter. It was hardly cow’s butter.

  I politely said “hello” and asked whether Uncle was there.

  “Yep, yep, go back of the house—he’s there, landlording.”

  In back of the house my old blockhead uncle and his three little blockheads were tanning cats.

  “God help you,” I greeted them.

  “Oh, look who’s come to us!” Uncle shouted out, pretending to be really pleased. The threesome of his ferrets stretched their mouths from ear to ear, baring sparse yellow teeth. “What wind brought you here?”

  “The wind that sweeps in money.”

  On hearing about money, Uncle looked at me with interest. Then he wiped off his bloody hands in the grass and stepped closer.

  “Well, okay, let’s talk. But first let my boys check if you don’t happen to have any kind of dumb thing under your shirt that might cut a finger.”

  With these words the three jerks rushed toward me, baring their teeth, already eager to fulfill their dad’s command, but I stopped this impetus in time, welcoming the eldest with a shot to the head.

  “Eh-eh,” Uncle got fidgety, “I was just kidding.”

  “Keep these kind of jokes for a job that I’m about to toss your way.”

  They poured a bucket of rainwater on Bodya and he came to. We sat under a tree on the grass, and I explained:

  “Well, the deal’s like this. With our mom we opened up an inn “Under the Green Dog,” which a lot of guests frequent, but no one notices whether they ever come back out.”

  Uncle looked back and forth at his den mates meaningfully, and I continued:

  “We treat them to meat, and the leftovers of the meat we sell at the market. In addition we make soap from the high quality bones and fat. Maybe you’ve heard about the brand ‘Chinese Orange?’”

  “Why wouldn’t I have heard about it? It’s the best soap there is. I use it a lot myself.”

  “Yeah, we make it. Though, true, we don’t use it ourselves.”

  “So you cook it from the bones you separate from the meat?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you get the meat after the overnight guests disappear?”

  “Right.”

  “And you feed the overnight guests with meat that appeared after a room is freed up by their predecessors?”

  “How quick you are, Uncle!” I shouted rapturously.

  Uncle sat lost in thought. The three ruffians wrinkled their stunted brows, pretending that thoughts were strongly depressing them.

  “Hmm...” Uncle finally mumbled. “And you want to propose that we work together?”

  “It’s as if you, Uncle, just read my mind.”

  “And you aren’t afraid I’ll sell you out?”

  “Naw.”

  Uncle raised his eyebrows in surprise:

  “Why?”

  “Because Max and I are juveniles, and the court would decide that Momma threw us off the righteous path. But Momma won’t end up in jail because she’s too smart. They’ll lock her up in a palace of culture for crazies, and they’ll release us to all the four corners of the earth. But then, dear Uncle, your judgment day is about to begin. There’s lots of fat on you, the soap’d be splendid.”

  Uncle grimaced.

  “Well, good. I agree. How about you, my lovely kiddies?”

  The lovely kiddies immediately nodded their heads. I liked their reticence. We squeezed each other’s hands, and Uncle said:

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to wash down something to seal the deal. Let’s go inside the house.”

  Auntie covered the table. Uncle got some kind of bottle overgrown with moss out of the cupboard and poured out a shot glass for everyone. In all my life I’ve never had to drink a more abominable poison. A corpse would have cursed had someone sprinkled that contagion on his lips. I bit a pickle, because those meat dumplings that appeared on the table failed to win my trust.

  4.

  From then on our business was so successful that we made oodles of money and began to think about how to expand. It’s true, things didn’t go without altercations, because Uncle and Momma never missed the chance to cheat each other.

  Once Momma said to Uncle:

  “Listen, Lodzyo, why don’t we become related?”

  And so now the time comes for me to say a few words about Uncle’s daughter, who was already 17 and considered herself marriageable. Her name was Ruzya. This was a creature born quite stupid, who was good only for being kept in a dark garret, so she wouldn’t frighten decent people.

  Imagine an emaciated, greenish, and, if that’s not enough, mustachioed babe. And they were planning to hitch me with such a dirty snout.

  I resisted this idea with my hands and feet:

  “She’s as ugly as the world communism! When I see her, everything gets limp and hiccups take over.”

  “My son,” said Momma, “our business needs this. And if you don’t agree, then I’ll have to take extreme measures.”

  She looked at me in such a way that I envisioned one leg in the place my beloved dad was.

  5.

  The wedding was grand. The number of stray cats and dogs in town noticeably decreased, and they shot down so many crows you couldn’t even count them. Auntie baked such tasty chicken in cream made from them that the guests nearly swallowed their fingers. I won’t even speak of the stewed rabbits from cats and the roasted meat of dogs. Auntie put all her culinary talent into this, so that even the most discerning gourmet wouldn’t doubt the naturalness of the sausage, the pate and hams.

  I sat with a sour look on my face, and next to me jutted out, like a sore thumb, my Ruzya. Her mustachioed smile gleamed from ear to ear.

  For a long time I tried not to look her way, so as not to ruin my appetite, and scrupulously consume those several natural sandwiches that my momma had stuffed into my pockets. But those greenhorns, her off-their-rocker brothers, screeched awfully—so to speak, the liquor was bitter (but can it be sweet if it’s made of animal dung?), and they’re not going to drink, you see, until the young couple sweetens it up.

  I turned pale and felt that ants were crawling down my back. Forget about sweets, mother damnedest! Let a fence post like her kiss my boots, then, maybe, they’ll glisten from her lips as though from tar. But those monsters don’t sit up, they lament so their mugs turn red as a
beet from the exertion.

  In the meanwhile Ruzya looks at me like she’s looking at a dog, and I hear something gurgling in her stomach, as though someone there is pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks uphill.

  I rose up on my feet with a heavy heart, Ruzya stuck her mug at me and, spattering me all over with saliva, nearly bit off my nose. That nag attached herself to me by sucking like a leech. I thought she’d suck out my soul. I already sensed how in my stomach furious juices were diving and rising up to my throat. I barely tore her off me. I fell on the bench. My muzzle glistened from the saliva, but it wouldn’t have been apropos for me to wipe my face, so I grabbed a piece of wedding cake, though it was baked from sawdust, that I stuffed it into my mouth to somehow kill the taste of Ruzya’s lips.

  In the meanwhile the parents somehow decided that I was burning to be alone with the bride and, grabbing us under the arms, shoved us into the bedroom and locked us in.

  My little wife, all red from indefatigable thirst, was filled with the desire to finally destroy the concrete and iron Maginot Line of her innocence, instantly slipped off her rags, everything that hid her bony form from the human eye, and became naked as a jay bird before me, the way her stupid mother had given her birth.

  My depressed gaze rode along the smooth flat surface of her absent breasts and sank to her sunken stomach covered with blue veins, which you could straighten out nails on, and with horror I got entangled in a black distaff that stuck out from beneath her stomach. This horrible broom stunned me with its disproportionate size, and I immediately suspected the talented hand of my auntie.

  Laughing malevolently, I tugged at that nest. Ruzya let out a scream. An ordinary wig ended up in my hands, it had been adapted for a different function—and not without great skill. And on the spot where there had been impenetrable debris, a timid Ho Chi Minh-like little beard now reddened that Ruzya not inappropriately had decided to chastely cover with her bony hand.

  To somehow dispel the tense atmosphere, Ruzya giggled and, jumping on the bed, sprightly threw her little legs apart, so that I wouldn’t immediately doubt the reality of the spot they had married me, a dope, to. I really saw that everything there was in order and that a disguised chopamatic wasn’t lying in ambush for me. From my relatives you could expect just about anything.