"Here it is. Take a look…"
"What is it?"
A box-but not a box, just something shaped like it. Inside were whitish pages that looked like fresh bark, but lighter; they were very, very thin, and they seemed to be covered with dust or poppyseed.
"What is it?"
"Look closely!"
He brought it to his eyes. The dust was fine and even… like spider webs… He stared, amazed… Suddenly it was as though the web fell from his eyes and it hit him: "and the candle by which Anna read a life full of alarm and deceit…" He gasped. Letters! They were letters! Written teeny tiny, but so carefully, and they weren't brown, they were black… He licked his finger and rubbed the bark: he rubbed a hole right in it. Gosh, how thin.
"Careful, you'll ruin it!"
"What is it?…"
"It's a book… an Oldenprint book."
"Ay!!!" Benedikt jumped from the stool and dropped the poison. "What are you doing? I'll get sick!"
"No! Wait! Just wait a minute!…"
"The Sickness!…"
"No!…"
"Let me out of here!…"
"Just sit down. Sit down! I'll explain everything. I promise." Varvara Lukinishna pried Benedikt's hands away from the bolts, her cock's combs trembling. "It's completely safe… Nikita Ivanich confirmed it."
"What's he got to do with it?"
"He knows! He gave it to me!"
Benedikt quieted down and sat on the stool, his knees weak. He wiped his nose with his sleeve to stop the trembling. Nikita Ivanich. One of the bosses. And he didn't get sick. He touched a book-and he didn't get sick…
"It's safe…" whispered Varvara. "You know, he's an extraordinary old man… so knowledgeable. He explained it to me: it's completely safe, it's just a superstition… You see, when the Blast occurred, everything was considered dangerous, because of the radiation… You've heard about it… That's why it was forbidden. The books were radioactive…"
"To hear the Oldeners tell it, everything is radioactive," said Benedikt, shaking. "No, this is something else…"
"But Nikita Ivanich knows… he has… If it was truly dangerous, he would have fallen ill long ago, but you can see that he's healthier than either of us…"
"Then why do they… Why are people taken away and treated… knock on wood?"
"It's a tradition, knock on wood…"
They both knocked on wood.
… God have mercy and protect me… I'm not sick, I'm not sick, I'm not sick, no, no, no. I won't get sick, I won't get sick, no, no, no. Don't come, don't, don't, don't. The red hoods don't need to come, knock on wood. I don't want to be hooked.
"Nikita Ivanich explained it to me… It was thought to be extremely dangerous because paper absorbs other substances… You and I copy things so that they're not dangerous to the people's health… But now it doesn't matter anymore, two hundred years have passed… You and I are copying old books, Benedikt…"
"What do you mean, old? Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, wrote all those booklets…"
"No, he didn't… Different people wrote them, but everyone thinks it was Fyodor Kuzmich. I felt there was something going on… You know, after I saw him, Fyodor Kuzmich, I couldn't sleep all night… I kept thinking, thinking… Then I made a decision, I worked up my nerve and went to see Nikita Ivanich. We talked for a long, long time…"
"He never told me anything…"
"Oh, Benedikt, he's an unusual man… We talked about you… He wanted to tell you, but not right away… He wanted to prepare you… I know it's a huge blow… but I think it's better to know the truth than to live life in darkness…"
Benedikt sat on the stool, hunched over. His thoughts strayed here and there, his head felt heavy. Maybe he went back to work too soon? Maybe he still had fever? He had the chills. Or was it just the bath?… Why did he have to bathe when there was no one to kiss?
"And what now?"
"Now? Nothing, simply now you know."
"What for?"
"Well, I mean, I thought…"
"Why think? I want to live."
"But what does that have… I want to, too… but I want to know the truth… if it's possible…"
"'For in much wisdom is much grief.' So you mean Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, didn't write that either?"
"Probably not."
"Then who?"
"I don't know… You'll have to ask the Oldeners."
Varvara Lukinishna picked the Oldenprint book up off the floor, placed it on the table, and stroked it with her hand. It was strange to see such a fearsome thing up close.
"Still… Why are you touching it?… If we are copying old books, then just wait till we're told to copy it… Then you can hold it…"
"But when will that be?… Maybe not soon enough. Life is so short, and I just adore art… And it's such an interesting book!…"
"What? You're reading it?"
"Why, of course… Benedikt, there are so many interesting books. I'll give it to you to read if you like."
"No!!!" said Benedikt, flinching.
"But why are you so afraid?"
"I have to go… My head is sort of-"
"Wait!…"
Benedikt tore himself away, staggered out on the porch, into the rain, into the early, raw dark. Out of sight, out of mind… His head really was sort of…
… The March wind groaned in the treetops, rattled the bare twigs and the rabbit nests, and something else unknown-who knows what's up there moaning, what awakes in spring? A gust of wind blows-it whispers, it whines in the trees, it scatters raindrops on your head. There might be a savage cry up above, from the branches: startled, you race for the closest fence… Maybe it's a woodsucker bird.
The bladders twinkle faintly in the windows, the Golubchiks have lighted their candles, they're slurping down soup… They exchange glances: maybe they too have Oldenprint books hidden under their beds… We'll lock the doors and take them out… Read a bit… Maybe everyone has one, who knows… In that izba… and this one… and in that one over there, where a pale light flickers-is it a candle smoking, or people pacing the rooms, blocking the feeble fire with their mortal bodies, trying the bolts to make sure they're firmly shut? Out from under the mattress, from under a moldy pile of rags, filthy human rags, they take a booklet… a book… a book… and he's the only one who's acting like a frightened fool… The only one in the whole town… The letters are so black, so teensy… it's scary even to think about it…
Up above everything roared and groaned. The wind flew into his sleeve, cutting straight through him. Benedikt stood at an unfamiliar fence, thinking. The baked mouse had only teased his appetite. He wanted to eat. But at home in his izba there was no fire: he'd put it out when he left to go visiting. He didn't think he'd need it. Should he go back and get some coals? She'd give them to him, she's kind… No. Go back? The squeaking door… the warmth… the white, happy pancake of her face, the trembling cock's combs, the hurried whisper: this way, this way, I have some art… One minute, I'll just wipe the mold off… And the candle by which… full of alarm and deceit! What incredible fear! "Fear, noose and ditch," Fyodor Kuzmich wrote… No, they say, not Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe… Full of alarm
… And deceit… Not Fyodor Kuzmich… Someone else, unseen, old, with a hidden face… Probably big, pale and white, ancient, extinct, as tall as a tree, with a beard down to his knees and horrible eyes… Terrifying, he stands amid the trunks, motionless, just turning his face, and his eyes look straight through the March twilight, he rolls them so that he can see Benedikt in the gloom: Where is that Benedikt? Why did he hide? Why did he run for the fence?-and Benedikt's heart is pounding in his neck, floating up to his tongue, roaring in his ears-where is Benedikt? Come here now, I want to tell you something-his hand will reach out and he'll hook a gnarled finger under Benedikt's rib, and with the frightful cry of the woodsucker, scream: Eeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhhhhhaaauuuuu!
There was a knock on the door of the strange izba. An ordinary, homey knock; plain, everyday life k
nocked on the door, drunken talk and laughter could be heard in the twilight. So someone has guests, it's a holiday and they went out on the porch-to take a leak or just to go out and breathe the fresh air, to live life or sing a song, or just to kick the cat!
They didn't notice Benedikt slinking along the fence, no one could see him. The frightful, ancient inhabitant, who read, or wrote, or maybe just hid a book full of deceit in rags, didn't notice him either; just as he'd appeared, he vanished, and he was gone.
Home. It was dark in his izba, it smelled of ashes, and the wedding was a long way off.
MYSLETE
Oldeners look just like us. Men, women, young, old-all kinds. Mostly old people. But they're different. They have a Consequence-they don't get any older. That's it. They live and live and they don't die from old age. They do die from other things once in a while, though. There aren't many Oldeners left.
They sit in their izbas or go to work, and some have made it into the bosses-same as with us. Only their talk is different. If you run into a Golubchik stranger on the street, you could never say whether he's one of us or an Oldener. Until you ask him the usual: "Who are ya? How come I don't know you? What the heck you doin' in our neck of the woods?" An Oldener doesn't answer like other people do: " Whassit to ya, tired of lugging that mug around? Just wait, I'll rip it offa ya," or something like that. No, they don't answer so's you can make sense of it, so to speak: You got muscles and I got muscles so don't mess with me! No, sometimes you'll get an answer like: "Leave me be, you uncouth hooligan!" Then you know for sure the guy's an Oldener.
And when one of them does die, the others bury him. But not like we do. They don't put stones on the eyes. They don't take out the guts and stuff the insides with rusht. They don't tie the hands and feet or bend the knees. They don't put anything in the grave, not even a candle or a mouse, no dishes, no pots, no spoons, no bows and arrows, no little clay figures, nothing like that. They might tie a cross together from twigs and stick it in their corpse's hands, or draw an idol on bark and also put it in his hands like a portrait. But some of them don't even do that.
One of their old ladies died recently. Nikita Ivanich dropped by to see Benedikt, all gloomy: he was unhappy that an Oldener lady died.
"Benya, our Anna Petrovna has gone to meet her maker. Please, as a friend, do me a favor and help us carry the coffin. The thaw has made all the roads muddy. We won't be able to manage it."
What else could he do. He went to help. It was even interesting to see how they did things different than other people.
The crowd was small, about a dozen. Most of the people were elderly. No cussing, nothing. Just quiet talk. They all looked upset.
"Who's the master of ceremonies?"
"Viktor Ivanich."
"Viktor Ivanich again?"
"Who else? He's very experienced."
"But he couldn't arrange any transportation."
"They wouldn't give him any. Said the garage was closed for inclement weather."
"They always have excuses."
"As if you didn't know."
"They're just mocking us."
"Not as though you haven't had time to get accustomed to it."
Viktor Ivanich, their master of ceremonies, was fairly young. He had short, blond hair, combed to the side. He looked annoyed. Red threads were wound round his sleeve so you could see him from far away. Not a Murza, but sort of like one, so just in case, Benedikt bowed to him. His eyebrows twitched: he accepted the bow. He said to Benedikt: "Don't crowd around."
They put the coffin on the ground next to the hole. Someone put a stool nearby and placed a pillow on it. They stood by in a sparse half circle and took off their hats. Viktor Ivanich chose two of them and pointed.
"You and you. Please. Form the honor guard."
He looked over the heads of the crowd and raised his voice sternly.
"I declare the civil memorial service open. I shall begin!"
The Oldeners said to him: "Begin, begin, Viktor Ivanich. It's cold."
Viktor Ivanich raised his voice and began: "Are there any relatives, close friends? Move up front, please!"
No one stepped forward. That means she didn't have any relations, just like me, Benedikt thought. It means she caught her own mice.
"Co-workers?"
No one. One Golubushka stepped up: "I'm her neighbor. I looked after her."
Viktor Ivanich spoke to her angrily, in his everyday voice: "Don't get ahead of things! I haven't called you yet."
"But I'm freezing. Hurry up."
"If you are going to be obstreperous, I'll have to ask you to leave the premises!" said Viktor Ivanich rudely. "Order must be observed!"
"That's right!" a few shouted from the crowd. "Order has to be observed, so let's observe it! Or it'll be a disaster. As always. We're just wasting time!"
Viktor Ivanich used his other voice: elevated and sort of ringing, as if he were calling out to someone in the forest: "Neighbors, housekeepers?… Take your place in the first row…"
The neighbor lady who'd made the fuss ran forward. Viktor Ivanich gave his expression a little more warmth: he pinched his mouth up like a chicken's rump and sort of wrinkled his eyes. He squeezed the woman's elbow and said: "Chin up."
The woman burst into tears. Viktor Ivanich again intoned: "Are there any military awards, commendations, orders? Government tributes, testimonials? Diplomas from state institutions? Medals of honor, pins? Epaulettes?…"
Nothing.
"Party cards, Komsomol or trade union ID?… State lottery tickets? Domestic loan bonds? Employment records? Writers or Artists Union cards? No? Drivers' licenses of any sort? Trucks? Passenger vehicles? Tractor trailers? No? Leases? Subscription forms? Gas or telephone bills? Collective antenna registration documents? Receipts for overpayment?"
All these words were so funny, total gibberish. Benedikt couldn't stop himself, he giggled, and turned to look at the crowd: they were probably cracking up too. No, they were all crying, tears streaming from their eyes. They all looked like they were staring at something very far away. One woman was wringing her hands, whispering: "We never appreciated… never appreciated…" Tears were welling in Nikita Ivanich's eyes too. Benedikt whispered to him: "What's wrong, Nikita Ivanich? You feel sorry for the old lady?"
"Quiet, Benya! Quiet. Please. This was our whole life… Lord… There you have it… A whole way of life…"
He trembled, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Viktor Ivanich continued: "Instructions for using household appliances? No? A television? A gas or electric range? A microwave? Kerosene stove? No? Vacuum cleaner? Floor polisher? Washing machine? Sewing machine? Kitchen appliances?"
"Yes, yes! There are instructions!" someone cried out.
"Very good! Please come up front! What kind of instructions?"
"It's for a meat grinder. With attachments."
"Put it right here. Here. On the pillow."
An old Golubchik approached and placed a tattered, soiled, frayed scrap of who-knows-what on the red pillow and put a stone on top of it so the wind wouldn't blow it away. All the women began sobbing; they howled like Spoiled Ones. One of them suddenly felt faint, so they held her up and fanned her face with their hands.
"Courage, comrades!" Viktor Ivanich intoned. "So! To continue. Who has any memorial objects? Relics? No? That's it? I'll move on to the second part. Comrades!" Viktor Ivanich spoke in such a hooting voice, just like some kind of blindlie bird, that Benedikt squatted down. He looked around. Jeez, the guy shouted like he wasn't talking to a dozen Golubchiks, but a whole thousand.
"Death has wrenched an irreplaceable laborer from our ranks," Viktor Ivanich went on. "A marvelous human being. A worthy citizen." Viktor Ivanich dropped his head on his chest and was silent for a time. Benedikt crouched and looked up at his face: Was he crying? No, he wasn't crying. He looked back at Benedikt angrily. He jerked his head up and continued. "It's sad, comrades. Immensely sad. On the eve of this glorious day, the two-hundredth anniversar
y of the Blast-"
"Viktor Ivanich, Viktor Ivanich!" cried the Oldeners. "You're talking about the wrong thing!"
"What do you mean? Oh, excuse me. I apologize. That's for a different occasion. I got them mixed up."
"You mustn't confuse things!"
"Don't interrupt! I'm being interrupted here," he said, squinting at Benedikt. "People are crowding around!"
"That's Polina Mikhailovna's boy!"
"Don't argue, ladies and gentlemen. Let's continue! On the eve…"
Viktor Ivanich collected himself, frowned, and stood at at-lention.
"On the eve of this mournful occasion, the two-hundredth anniversary of the Blast, which dispersed and then consolidated our ranks, a great, inspiring comrade, an irreplaceable citizen, a modest, inconspicuous toiler, has left us. An individual possessed of a grand soul. She has left us, but her cause is not dead. Though Anna Petrovna's contribution to the restoration of our Lofty Past may not have been large," said Viktor Ivanich, pointing to the pillow, "it is nonetheless weighty, tangible… Rest in peace, Anna Petrovna!… Who wants to speak on behalf of the settlement? You, Nikolai Maximich? Be my guest."
Another old Golubchik appeared, his hair blowing in the wind. His face was tear-stained and he blew his nose. "Anna Petrovna! You toiled in anonymity," he said, addressing the coffin directly. "How did it come to this, Anna Petrovna? Tell me! And what about us? We didn't appreciate you! We weren't interested! We thought-there's Anna Petrovna and there's Anna Petrovna again! Just another old lady. We thought you would always be with us. Why beat around the bush, we didn't give a fig about you! Who needs her, we thought, that little old mean-spirited, communal-apartment crone, she just gets underfoot like a poisonous mushroom, God forgive us!"
"Hey, watch it," the Golubchiks warned. "Go easy."
"De mortuis aut bene aut nihil!" someone cackled into Benedikt's ear.
"What did I do?" said Benedikt, startled. "What do I have to do with it?"
"It's not about you, Benya, nothing to do with you. Calm down," Nikita Ivanich said, tugging on Benedikt. "Stand still, don't fidget."
The Slynx Page 12