The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  "Yeah, sure. Hold your pockets open. They need it for themselves."

  "Golubchiks! Maybe we could trade with the Cockynorks for plaited baskets?"

  "Trade what? By spring everything's eaten up."

  "Speak for yourself."

  "And you, Olenka, what will you decorate with?"

  Olenka, as always, blushed and looked down at the ground.

  "Us? We, well, we… something, some kind of…"

  Benedikt was charmed. He started imagining how Olenka, in a new dress with full sleeves would sit at some bountiful table, lowering her eyes to the tabletop or glancing at him, at Benedikt, or gazing at the candles-and those candles would make her eyes shine and glisten and a blush cover her cheeks. And the part in her fair hair was clean, even, milky, like the heavenly Spindle. Colorful braided bands adorned her brow, beads and decorations dangled from them, temple rings hung on either side, and in the middle was a blue stone, deep and murky like a tear. She wore stones around her neck too, threaded on a string, tightly tied right under her chin. Her little chin was so white, with such a sweet little dimple right in the middle. There she'd be, sitting straight up like a New Year's tree, all decked out, still as can be, glancing here and there…

  The other Olenka, the one here, in the Work Izba, was drawing pictures and her tongue stuck out. She was really sort of ordinary-her face, and clothes, and manner. Both of them were one and the same Olenka, and how she splits in Benedikt's head, how he conjures one of them up like a vision-it's not easy to understand.

  It's as though a sort of sleepy image splits off from the simple Olenka, and hangs in front of his eyes like a mirage, a fog, an enchantment. Hard to figure… You can poke the simple Olenka in the ribs, like regular people do, and tell her a joke, or play a trick on her: while she's drawing you can sneak up and tie her braid to the stool, for instance. Her braid goes down to the floor, so it's easy as pie. When she gets up-to go to the privy or to lunch-the stool will fall over with a clatter! It's a funny joke, he's done it lots of times.

  You can't joke that way with the other Olenka, the magical vision, you can't elbow her in the ribs, in fact he's not sure what to do with her, but he can't get her out of his head. The vision turns up everywhere-on the street, especially in the evening, when he makes his way home in the dusk, and in the izba… That's how he imagines it: he opens the stiff, frozen door, steps inside. There in the dim, smoky air, in the warm pancake steam, in the midst of all the izba smells-sour, wet wool, stuffy ashes, something else familiar, homey-in the midst of all of this, there's a gleam like a feeble torch glow, and there's Olenka floating right in the air all fancy like an idol. Motionless, wrapped stiff in beads, the milky part on her head combed straight, her eyes sparkle, her eyelashes tremble, and in her gaze there's a secret and the light of a bluish candle flame.

  Ugh. He can't shake it.

  Well, the Golubchiks will probably celebrate the New Year Holiday dancing and feasting, and Benedikt has nothing saved up in his izba but old socks. And it's a lot of work to invite guests and feed them. What to offer them? Spring is the hungriest time. Benedikt always thins out in the spring, his ribs even stick out. All day long at work, and you had to work in the summer too- early morning in the fields to gather provisions. You get such blisters you can't hold the writing stick tight. Your hands shake and your handwriting's bad. That's why Scribes get a vacation in the summer: they're no good for work anyhow. In the summer the Scribe is like an ordinary Golubchik-a sickle on his shoulder and into the fields and glades to cut goosefoot, horsetail. Bring in the sheaves. You tie them up-lug them to the shed, and go back again, another time, once more, all over, run, run, run. While he's gone the neighbors or a stranger will filch a couple of sheaves for sure, sometimes from the field, sometimes straight from the shed. But that's all right: they steal from me, and I'll get good and mad and steal from them, those guys will steal from these guys-and so it goes in a circle. It comes out fair. Everyone steals, but everyone ends up with their own. More or less. As Nikita Ivanich says, it's a basic redistribution of personal property holdings. Maybe that's what it is.

  Used to be, when Mother was still alive, the old man would drop in and chat. He took to teaching Benedikt all sorts of ideas. Think, think for yourself, young man, use your head: wouldn't it be more efficient without all this thievery? How much time and effort would be economized! How many fewer injuries there would be in the settlement! And he'd argue, and explain, and Mother would nod her head in agreement: I always tell my son the same thing, I try to explain the elamentree preeceps of more-allity. But, alas, to little effect.

  More-alls are a good thing, who can argue. But good's only good if something good comes of it. Besides more-allity, there's a lot of other things in life. Depends how you look at it.

  If Golubchiks didn't steal my goods-of course that's more-allity for me. Everything would be calmer.

  On the other hand. Suppose a Golubchik has cut a bunch of horsetail, right? Now he has to carry it back to the izba, right? As soon as he's started, here I come by, winking at him. He's worried, of course, he covers his sheaves, hides them from me, frets, makes a mean face, furrows his eyebrows and peers out from under them. I see all this, and stand nearby, my legs spread out. I open my mouth and start teasing him: So, what's the matter Demian? Scared to lose your provisions? Is that it? Worried? That's right, you ought to be! That's the way things go, Demian, just turn your back! Right? What do you say? Worried about your stuff? Hunh!

  So the Golubchik grumbles, and paces back and forth, or maybe roars at you: What're you after, you dog! Off with you or I'll tear you to pieces! And I just laugh, of course. I move over to the side, lean against the fence or whatever's there, cross my legs, have a smoke, and keep an eye on him, wink at him, drop hints here and there, just keep worrying at the Golubchik. If he doesn't have the time, he'll drop it, gather however many sheaves he can, dragging them along on his back, if his health allows, and keeping an eye out: What am I doing, have I ruined something? Have I run off with anything? Is it his? Have I relieved myself on his provisions? Wiped my nose on his valuables? I might!

  You could die laughing, it's so funny! You just have to swipe at least one sheaf from a worrywart like that.

  And if I give him a more-allity? Then there's no fun in it. What do you have then? Just walk by frowning, like you didn't have breakfast? Not even look at someone else's stuff? Not even dream about it? That's awful! Really terrible. After all, that's how the eyes work: they just wander around and run into other people's stuff, sometimes even pop out. Legs can trip up and still walk on by, but the eye just sticks like glue, and the whole head turns with it, and thoughts get jammed like they ran straight into a column or a wall: damn, if only that were mine! Wouldn't that be… I would…! For sure I would…! You start to drool, and sometimes it runs down onto your beard. Your fingers start moving on their own, as if they were grabbing something. There's a buzzing in your chest. It's like someone's whispering in your ear: Take it! So what? No one will see!

  Well then, after all that sweat and hard work, when you've played your pranks, you store up edibles for the winter. And by the springtime you've eaten it all up. So you either take yourself to the Food Izba and eat their garbage, Golubchik, or you make do with food for the soul.

  That's what they always say about booklets: food for the soul. And it's true: you start reading and your belly doesn't growl as much. Especially if you smoke while you read. Of course books are different. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, works day and night. Sometimes he writes fairy tales, or poems, or a novel, or a mystery, or a short story, or a novella, or some kind of essay. Last year Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, decided to write a shopping-hower, which is kind of like a story, only you can't make heads nor tails of it. A long sucker, they read it for three months, copied it a dozen times, wore themselves to the bone. Konstan-tin Leontich bragged that he understood everything-but he always brags: everyone just laughed. So you think you understood it, Golubchik-then tell us the story
: who goes where, who do they see, how're they gonna do that shopping, what hanky panky do they get up to, who do they murder? Huh? You can't? Well, there you go. It was called The World as Will and Idea. A good name, inviting. After all, you've always got a lot of ideas in your head, especially at bedtime. You wrap your coat around you so there's no draft, cover your head with a cloth, draw up one leg, stretch out the other, put your fist or your elbow under your head; then turn over, flip your pillow onto the cold side, wrap your coat up again if it slipped, toss and turn- and start to drift off.

  And the ideas come.

  You might have an idea about Olenka, all decked out, white, immobile, enough to give you butterflies in your stomach; or about how you're flirting with a woman, or with a beautiful girl, you grab her, and she squeals, and you both have fun; or you're walking along the street and you find something valuable: a purse with chits or a basket of food. Or your dream might really take off and you go somewhere you've never been: along a path through the forest, toward the sunrise, and farther, into the glade, and even farther, to an unknown forest where bright streams burble, where the golden branches of the birch tree plash in a stream like long threads, like a girl's hair gleaming in the sun-they splash and play, curling in the warm wind; and under the birch tree there's greengrass, fancy ferns, beetles with shiny blue backs, and poppies-you pick them, breathe deep, and you feel sleepy, a far-off chime rings in your ears, and clouds are floating in your chest, and it's like you're on a mountain, and from the mountain you can see a white road, twisting and turning, and the sun shines, plays tricks on you, blinds you, gets in the way of seeing, and in the distance something sparkles. Is it the Ocean-Sea they sing about in songs? Or islands in magic waters, islands with white cities, gardens, and towers? Or a strange, lost kingdom? Or another life…?

  There you go, your head fills with all sorts of ideas-and you fall asleep.

  Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, doesn't write about anything like that in his shoppinghower, and, to tell the truth, it's a yawn, Lord knows. But people bought all the copies anyway, that is, they traded for it, and so now somewhere someone must be reading the thing, spitting as he goes. People love to read; on weekends at the market they always go to trade mice for booklets. The Lesser Murzas come out, set up the governmental stalls along the fence, set out birch-bark booklets, a tag stuck in each of them that says how much they'll take for it. The prices are different: five mice, ten, twenty, or if it's really interesting or has pictures, it can go as high as fifty. The Golubchiks crowd around, checking prices, discussing whether to buy or not to buy, what the book is about, what's the story, are there a lot of pictures? But you can't look inside: pay up first, then look as much as you like. The Lesser Murzas stomp their boots in the cold, slap their sleeves, hawk their goods.

  "A new one, who wants a new one? The Eternal Call! A hu-mongous novel!"

  "Who'll take The Fundamentals of Differential Calculus, a popular brochure, incredibly interesting!"

  Another one will put his hands to his mouth like a cup so the sound's louder and cry out: " The Three Billy Goats Gruff! Last Copy! A thrilling Epic! This is the last copy, come and get it!"

  He does that on purpose, but he's really lying, he has another dozen under his counter. That's just how he gets the Golubchiks interested, so a crowd gathers: if it's the last one they don't want to miss it. If someone has a passion for trading books, he'll pay. "What? They're all sold?" And the Murza, pretending to hesitate: "Well, there is one… I put it aside for myself… I don't know…"

  The Golubchik says: "Maybe you'll let me have it? I'll throw in a couple of extra mice… What do you say?"

  And the Murza says: "I don't know… I wanted to read it myself… But I guess if you throw in another five…"

  "Five? Come on, now! My mice are fat, each is worth a mouse and a half!"

  "Well, let me take a look." They bargain, and it's all gravy for the Murza. That's why their faces are fatter and their izbas are taller.

  But Benedikt's face is ordinary, not too big, and his izba is tiny.

  I DESIATERICHNOE

  Benedikt spent the whole night catching mice.

  Easy to say: catching mice. Not so simple. Like everything, you have to know how. You think: Here I am and here's the mouse, I'll just grab him. Noooo.

  He caught them with a noose, of course. But if the space under the floor was empty, the mouse would run over to someone richer, and then you could wiggle the noose till you were blue in the face and you wouldn't catch anything. You have to feed a mouse. That means you have to think things out ahead of time.

  He got paid on the twentieth. Fifty chits. All right. The tax on them was 13 percent. That means six and a half chits of tax. Early in the morning the Golubchiks stood in line at the Payday Izba. It wasn't dawn yet. It's dark in winter-like someone poked your eyes out.

  That really happens sometimes. A Golubchik might be feeling his way along in the dark to get his pay-and suddenly he falls in a ditch, or a branch pokes him in the eye, or he'll slip and break a leg, get lost, wander into a strange settlement where vicious dogs will tear him to shreds, or he'll trip and freeze to death in a snowdrift. Anything can happen.

  But let's say he makes it where he's going, thank God. Good. He lines up. The first guy to get there is in the hall, or mud room. Whoever's at the end stands on the street, stomping his feet in the cold. Everyone is cursing or chatting, trying to guess whether the Paymaster Murza will come or whether he drank too much mead or kvas or hemp mash again the night before. Or they play pranks: if one of the Golubchiks in the hallway dozes off from the warmth and takes a nap, they'll pick the sleepyhead up carefully under the arms and carry him out to the end of the line. When the Golubchik wakes up, he can't figure out what happened, where he is or why he's there. He rushes back to where he was and everyone says: Don't butt into the line! Go to the end! And he says: But I was first in line! And we say: Don't know what you're talking about! Then there's a lot of shouting and fisticuffs and injuries of all kinds.

  It passes the time. The dawn comes up pink and hazy, the darkness moves over. Chigir, the morning star, shines with untold beauty, like a fueling up high. The cold seems stronger. The snow sparkles.

  So we wait for the Murza. Will he come? If anyone sees snow-dust in the distance or catches a glimpse of a sleigh, the shout goes up: "He's coming! He's not coming! It's him, you can see his hat," and things like that. There's a real ruckus.

  If he doesn't come by evening time, we go our own ways, but if he managed to unstick his eyelids the Golubchiks will get their pay-So you stand and stand-and suddenly you make it to the window. You're the one who's lucky, it's your pay, so you're the one who has to bend over. And why do you have to bend over? Because the tiny, narrow little window is right smack at the level of your belly button. And that's because the Murza on the other side is sitting on a stool, to make it comfortable for him. He does it that way so we bow down to him, show our respect, so the body is humbled. After all, if you stand up straight when you're counting your chits, who knows what ideas you might get. Like, why so few? or why are they torn? or did he give me all of them? or did he keep a handful, the damned creep? and all kinds of Freethinking. But when you lean over at the waist, your head turned to the side so you can see what's going on, and your arm is stuck waaaayyy into the window slot-it's deep-and your fingers are spread out to grab the chits, and your shoulder aches -well, then you get a feeling for what government service means, its power and glory, and authority on earth, for all time, amen.

  So if you're in luck again, you grab the chits. If you've got short arms, of course, or an ailment in your joints, then you'll never grab hold of ' em all. There's a wise proverb about that:

  His arms are short. The other Golubchiks are pushing from behind, rushing you, shoving, they're plastered to your back, breathing down your neck. It's hard. Benedikt, now, he's young, he can fend for himself, hold his chits tight, and pull his arm back out of the window fast enough, only scraping his knuc
kles a bit, but that's nothing, it happens all the time. If you put a warm compress on at night and wrap the hand up, the blood will thicken. And by next payday, just wait and see, new skin will grow over it.

  When you've grabbed your chits from the government, then you have to stand in another line to pay taxes. That's what they say, go stand in line, but who would do it of their own free will? So of course there's a guard with a poleax who herds the Golubchiks along into another hall, hup two, line up, one-two, left right, and stone chains block the way on every side: that's the way it's supposed to be.

  The rest is all the same, only the Murza in the window isn't a paymaster, he's a tax collector, and the window is wide and spacious-a sleigh could get through.

  Things go quicker here-you can finish in four hours. Count out six and a half chits to the Murza and hand them over. But you can't tear a chit in half, can you? Who needs it torn? So that means you hand over seven. By the end of the day these Murzas have thousands of extra chits. So they all take some for themselves, to buy some food, or to add a floor to the terem, or a balcony, or to get a fur coat, or a new sleigh.

  That's why he's a Murza, the tax collector.

  People who don't have any government know-how, just silly thoughts, like Nikita Ivanich, for instance, they say: Why can't one and the same Murza give you your salary and keep back the taxes? So things go faster.

  Jeez, what idiots! You just have to laugh at them! Why? Because the Paymaster Murza is a Paymaster Murza, and the taxes are collected by the Tax Collector Murza! How could one Murza both give and take? Huh? Why would he even bother coming to work with that kind of money around? He could just lock himself in the house, eat and drink, or hop in his sleigh and head off hunting, and that'd be the last you'd see of him, right?

  Anyone would do the same.

  If the Tax Murza weren't sitting in his izba collecting money, would the Paymaster ever stick his nose out the door? Of course not, the drunken bastard, he'd never remember that the twentieth is payday or that the fifth is advance day!