The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  O spring without end or borders! Dream without borders to yield!

  I recognize you, life, I embrace you, And greet you with the ring of the shield!

  Only why is it "the ring" of the shield? After all, the shield- the one for announcing decrees-is made of wood. If you happen to get a roadwork notice, if someone takes it into his head to make his own sleigh or doesn't turn over enough mouse meat, for instance, or if they postpone Warehouse Day too many times, the shield doesn't ring, it makes a dull thud. But then, the law isn't written for Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. He has something to say about this, too. "Be proud," he says, "such art thou, poet, there is no law for thee." So it's not for us to tell him.

  Other Scribes sit next to Benedikt in the Work Izba. That sweetheart Olenka draws drawings. A pretty girl: dark eyes, a gold braid, cheeks like the sky at sunset when the next day'll bring wind-all shiny. Bow-shaped eyebrows, or, like we're supposed to say now, yoke-shaped; a rabbit coat, felt boots with soles-must be from an important family. Olenka comes to work on a sleigh, the sleigh's waiting for her after work too, and it's not a plain one either: it's a troika. Under the harness the De-generators stomp their feet, the shaft Degenerator is skittish, watch out or he'll bite you, and the trace Degenerators are even worse. How can you approach Olenka? Benedikt only sighs and steals glances at her, and she already knows, the sweetheart: she'll blink her eyes at him or turn her head just so. A modest girl.

  So Benedikt goes to work, looking all around him, bowing to the Stokers, watching out for the sleighs, breathing in the frosty air, enjoying the blue sky. He was staring at a beautiful girl mincing by, and boom-he ran straight into a post. Ooooh, may you all go to here and there and back again. Damn things are all over the place!

  Ouch. Nikita Ivanich, the Head Stoker, put up these posts. An old friend of Mother's, may she rest in peace. Also one of the Oldeners. He's about three hundred years old, maybe older, who knows. Who counts time? Do we know? Winter, summer, winter, summer, but how many times? You'd lose count just thinking about it. There are ten fingers, and on the feet ten toes -though some people have as many as fifteen, it's true, and some have two, and Semyon, the one from Foul Ponds, has a lot of tiny fingers on one hand, just like little roots, and nothing at all on the other. That's the kind of Consequence he got.

  Nikita Ivanich would spend time with Mother. He'd come to the izba, wipe his feet off, "May I?" he'd say, and plop down on the stool and start talking about Oldener Times. "Polina Mik-hailovna, do you recall Kuzminsky? Ha, ha, ha. And how Vais-man used to drop by, do you remember? Oh ho ho. And Sidor-chuk, the son of a gun, remember, he was the one who concocted all those denunciations, and where are they now? Dust, it's all dust! And how Lyalya made coffee! I wouldn't object to a cup of coffee right this minute…" Mother would laugh or start sobbing, and the thought of deportmunt stores and booticks would drive her out of her mind. Or she'd suddenly ask, Where did all the lilac go? Lilac-that was flowers, they grew on trees, it's said, and had a wonderful smell. The old man couldn't stand these conversations, he'd run out into the yard and start chopping wood: Whack! Hack! Smack! Crack!… You could get mad all right, but how could you say a word to Nikita Ivanich? He's Head Stoker.

  Benedikt is good with his hands, he can make anything, so can the other Golubchiks, but they can't make fire. It was Fyo-dor Kuzmich, Glorybe, brought fire to people. Only how it all happened, where he got the fire, we don't know. You could think on it for three days and you wouldn't figure it out, you'd just get a headache, like you'd drunk too much egg kvas. Some say it was from the sky, some say that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, stamped his foot and the earth flared up in a clear fire right then and there. Anything could be true.

  And Nikita Ivanich tends the fire. All the Lesser Stokers go to him, they take their coals in stone pots to their izbas. What a good job! Oh, what a job! Sit at home, look out the window, and wait for Golubchiks to come by with surprises. During the daytime the Golubchiks are at work: some are wearing out holes in their chairs in the Work Izbas, some collect rusht in the swamp, some plant turnips in the fields, different things. A stove likes tender loving care; if you're late getting home-oops, it's out. Weren't paying attention-and the coals go cold. Just now, just now a little blue flame was running about and every bit of wood shone as if it were alive inside, red, clear, as if someone were breathing or wanted to say something-and that's that… Then it's quiet, gray, dull, like something died.

  And it did die. The fire, that is. Ahh, hard to figure it all out. A mystery.

  And where there's mystery-there's government service.

  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, f
or 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.

  GLAGOL

  So nikita ivanich went and put his poles all over the place, and Benedikt kept banging his head on them. Lumps would pop up. That was too bad. The girls would probably giggle and whisper. They might stick their tongues out at him. Or shout from behind the gates and tease him: "Lumpy Bumpy!" One of them might run ahead on the path, stop right in front of him, raise her skirts and show him her bare ass. It was so insulting you could cry. Others, hiding in the izbas, laughed and squealed like harpies: there would be a shrieking and screeching all around, and you couldn't see who was doing it even if you turned your head, ears, or what-have-you to all sides. From those izbas where all the racket was, the shriek would up and jump to other izbas in the back row, and from there it would go to the third row, and from there out around the whole settlement. That's the way it always goes, spreading like a plague, like a fire when the wind blows the flames from yard to yard, God forbid. You could go stick your head into any house, push the door open with your boot, and shout in a furious voice: "Whaddya squawking about like a bunch of sick goats? Whasso funny?"-and they couldn't tell you. They don't know.

  So just go to hell, you insulting bareass you. Sometimes, of course, it was fun to look at bare bottoms: they gave you all sorts of ideas, your heart pounded, and you didn't notice the time flying by. Yes, other times it was fun, but times like this it wasn't. Why was that?

  Well, it's because the bareass was set against you, to put you in your place-you're lower than low, and don't go getting any ideas. If someone laughs at you, it's like he's showing his power over you, and you, boy, are down in the ditch.

  That's something to think on. But if it's so simple, why is it that the Lesser Murzas, who are there to watch us, never laugh? Why do they stare at you like you've been dished out of the out- house with a ladle? They talk through their teeth like they've got something valuable in their mouths, like it might fall out, and you're gonna grab it and take off. And the look in their eyes: they make them go all muddy like they're not moving. But they still cut straight through you. And then… but no, no, that must be Freethinking. No, no, I mustn't think. No.

  … So then the pesky old man puts up all these posts, God forgive him, and Benedikt gets stuck with a nickname for his whole life: Lumpy. Other Golubchiks get nicknames: Rotmouth, or Gooseshake, or something else, depending on what he has coming, what stubborn habit or especially nasty Consequence he has. Benedikt didn't have any Consequences, his face was clear, he had ruddy cheeks, a strong torso, you could marry him off any time you liked. His fingers-he counted and he had just the right number, no more no less, no webbing or scales on them or on his toes. His nails were pink. He had one nose. Two eyes. An awful lot of teeth, almost three dozen. White. A golden beard, darker hair on his head, and curly. On his stomach too. On his nipples too. His belly button was where it should be, right smack in the middle. His private business also in the middle, lower down. Nice-looking. Just like a forest marshroom. Only without spots. You could take it out and show it off anytime.

  And just where did Nikita Ivanich put that post? Right by the Work Izba. Wasn't that Freethinking? The sleighs wouldn't be able to turn around! Benedikt grabbed a handful of snow, held it to his lump, and stood there, reading the inscription: "Pioneer of Printing: Ivan Fyodorov." Hunh. Fancy shmancy. Come on now, let's pull it out. Benedikt grasped the stupid thing, strained, yanked, and pulled it out. He threw it down. Kicked it. Looked around. No one. Too bad Olenka or the other girls didn't see how strong he was.

  There were sooooo many people in the izba. Tons and tons. Sweetie-pie Olenka was there. Sitting, blushing, her eyes lowered. But she did glance at Benedikt. Good. And Varvara Lukinishna was there, talking to Olenka, talking their girl talk. And Ksenia the Orphan. And Vasiuk the Earful.

  Soon they'll announce it: time to start working. Good that he wasn't late. Being late doesn't matter, but people start to look and whisper: has he fallen ill, God forbid, God forbid. Knock on wood. True, as far back as Benedikt can remember, no one in their izba has ever fallen ill, knock on wood. Someone might get a scratchy throat or a headache-but that's not Illness, God forbid, God forbid. A finger might break, or you might get a black eye-that's not Illness either, God forbid, God forbid. Sometimes the hiccups get ahold of you-but that's not Illness, God forbid, God forbid. If the hiccups get you, you say three times:

  Hiccup, Hiccup, Go see Jacob, From Jacob to John, From John on and on.

  They'll go away. If you get a sty on your eye, then you need a stronger spell so it'll last. You blow three times, spit three times, stand still on one leg, grab your other leg with your hand, hold it, and God forbid don't fall. And say:

  Sty, sty,

  Fly out of my eye.

  Strap, strap,

  Don't fall in the trap.

  Fig, fig,

  You'll ne'er buy a pig.

  Buy an ax and laugh

  Chop the strap in half.

  That sty will go right away. That isn't Illness.

  And what it is, Illness, and when it comes, and what happens then-no one knows. They don't talk about it. And if they do, they whisper. And if they whisper, then only when Vasiuk the Earful isn't around.

  Everyone knows that he eavesdrops. That's the way it is. He's got so many ears you can't count them: on his head, and under his head, and on his knees, and behind his knees, and even in his boots. All kinds: big, little, round, long, and just plain holes, and pink pipes, and something like smooth slits, with hair-all kinds. You ask him, "Vasiuk, what do you need so many ears for?"

  "They aren't ears."

  "Then what are they?"

  Just for a laugh someone will stick a piece of bone or a rusht butt or some other kind of rubbish in one of his ears. But the m
ain ears, the ones he eavesdrops with, grow under his arms. When he's at work, he spreads his elbows wide so it's easier to listen. Then he almost moans in frustration: what kind of secrets can he hear, when anyone can see that his elbows are spread, so he must be listening.

  Varvara Lukinishna also has an affliction: she's a terrible sight, even with your eyes closed. Only one eye, not a hair on her head, and cockscombs growing all over it, waving back and forth. There's one growing from her eye too. It's called cock's fringe. But it isn't Illness either, God forbid, God forbid. It's a Consequence. She's a nice woman all the same, and she writes beautiful and clean. And if you run out of ink, she'll always give you some of hers.

  And fringe isn't Illness, God forbid, God forbid. And the Saniturions don't need to come, no, no, no.

  They hit the clapper: work time. Benedikt sat down at his table, arranged the candle, spat on his writing stick, raised his eyebrows, stretched out his neck, and looked at the scroll: what did he have to copy today? He got Fyodor Kuzmich's Tales.

  "Once upon a time," Benedikt wrote, "there was a goose who laid a golden egg." There you go, another Consequence. Everyone has Consequences! Take Anfisa Terentevna, she had a lot of grief from her chickens last year. And what chickens they were: big, beautiful, choice. They laid black and marble eggs-you couldn't find better! Kvas made of those eggs went straight to your head. You drain a pitcher of that kvas, and right away- bam! You feel like showing your stuff. You look around-everyone's double. A girl passes by-and it seems like there's two of her. You shout, "Girls! Come on over and fool around with me" -and she runs off. You roll over with laughter! You look at Anfisa Terentevna-and there's two of her too. But don't try to fool around with her, or Polikarp Matveich will come out, and there'll be two of him, and that's no joke, one of him is scary enough.