Once again there was a scratching sound under the table- this time right nearby. Benedikt couldn't help himself, he knocked a piece of bread off the table on purpose with his elbow and bent down as though to pick it up. Under the table he saw the father's feet in their lapty. And through the lapty he saw claws. Long ones, gray and sharp. Olenka's father was scraping the floor with those claws and had already scraped up a huge pile of shavings-they lay there like hair or light-colored, curly straw. Benedikt looked and saw that the mother had claws. Olenka too. But hers were smaller. There was a small pile of scrapings under her.
Benedikt didn't say anything-what could you say? He tore off another piece of goat for himself. And gulped down a lot more horsetail. A lot more.
"But tell me," the father continued, "don't you sometimes think: We aren't doing things right, our life is all wrong?"
"No, I don't."
"Don't you sometimes think thoughts like: We should figure out who's to blame, and crush him or stick his head in a barrel?"
"No, I don't."
"Or break his back, or throw him off a tower?"
"No, no!"
"What's that tapping?" the mother suddenly spoke. "Sounds like someone's knocking."
Benedikt quickly stuck his hand under him to hold his tail still.
"And don't you have thoughts like: The Murzas are to blame for everything, they should be overthrown?"
"No!!!"
"You never thought of overthrowing the Greatest Murza?"
"Goodness, no!! No!!! I don't understand what you're talking about!!!"
"What do you mean you don't understand? The Greatest Murza, I mean Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. You never dreamed of overthrowing him?"
"Kudeyar Kudeyarich, how could you?"
"Control yourself, Papa…"
"Oh, all right… Let me show you something…"
The father got up from the table, went into another room, and returned with a book. An Oldenprint book. Benedikt sat on both hands and held his tail tight.
"I'll show you… Ever seen one of these?"
"Never!"
"You know what it is?"
"No!"
"Think about it a minute."
"I don't know anything, I've never seen anything. Never heard anything. I don't understand anything, don't want anything, haven't dreamt anything."
The father laid the book on his lap, shone his light on it, and turned the pages.
"Do you want one of these? Should I give it to you? It's a good one!…"
"I don't want anything!!!"
"Don't even want to get married, then?"
Get married! Benedikt had almost forgotten-from fear and longing, from the incredible, unending shame of what was held tight in his hands under his body-that he was supposed to get married. Married! How could he ever have gotten that idea in his head? Got too big for his britches, the knucklehead, the mongrel stray! Wasn't enough for him to have Marfushka, Kapi-tolinka, Crooked Vera, Glashka-Kudlashka, and all the others! Had to try for a girl like this: meek eyes, a white face, a braid five yards long, a chin with a dimple, and claws on her feet! Run! That's right, run-toss a knapsack over your shoulder and run as far as you can, toward the sunrise, or the south, no looking back, to the Ocean-Sea itself, to the blue expanses, to the white sands!
But Olenka raised her eyes, turned on the light in them, a reddish light, faint like a fake fireling on a dark trunk. She raised her eyebrows right up to her ribbon, laughed with her red mouth, straightened the white blouse on her breasts, and wiggled her shoulders. "Papa, you're such an incorrigible rascal. We've already settled everything. Embrace your son-in-law."
"So… It's all settled, is it? Made up your minds behind Papa's back. Papa works day in and day out, without a moment's rest… Wants what's best… I see right through all of you…!" the father suddenly shouted.
"Papa, you're not the only one who-"
"He's not one of us!" shouted the father.
"Papa, you're not at work!"
"What kind of work does he do?" whispered Benedikt.
"What do you mean, what kind of work?" asked the mother in surprise. "Don't you know? Kudeyar Kudeyarich is the Head Saniturion."
POKOI
Benedikt stopped going to work. Why bother? He was a goner however you looked at it. Luckily for him, summer had arrived and the Scribes were on vacation. Otherwise he would have been pressed into roadwork as an idler. It was time to plant turnips, but he was overcome with such heartache that he didn't have the usual stomach for turnips. He went to the far settlement and bought some bog bilberry from the Golubchiks there. He snorted it. It didn't help much. He lay on his bed. Cried.
He went to see Nikita Ivanich, and worked on carving the pushkin from the log, bit by bit. The idol's head was already big and round, like a cauldron. Dejected looking. His nose hung on the chest. The elbow stuck out, as requested.
"Nikita Ivanich. What did you call my tail?"
"An atavism."
"What other kinds of atavisms are there?"
"Hmmm. Hairy women."
"How about claws?"
"I haven't heard of that. No, probably not."
He thought of going to see Marfushka. Decided not to. He didn't feel like joking, and he wasn't so interested in her squeals or pancakes anymore.
He went to the house where Varvara Lukinishna lived. Looked through the fence. There was underwear hanging on ropes. Yellers were blooming in the yard. He didn't go in.
He drank about three barrels of rusht. He wanted to forget everything. The rusht didn't go to his head, it just made his stomach bloat. He felt slightly deaf and his vision was dimmer too. But there was an unbearable clarity in his head, or rather, an expanse, and the expanse was empty. The steppes.
He wanted to take his sack and head south. To carve a big stick-for fighting off Chechens-and head for the sea. And which sea it is-who knows? You can imagine whatever you like. Three years to get there on foot, they say. Benedikt imagined it this way: he climbed a tall mountain, and from the top you could see forever. He looked down and there was the sea: a big body of water, warm and blue, and it plashed, the water played and plashed! A small wave ran along it, a curly wave, coiled white. There were islands everywhere in the sea-poking up like pointed hats. All of them were green, seething with green. Amid that green, unimaginable colored gardens grew. The lilac tree that Mother told him about grew there too. The flowers of the lilac were a blue froth of bell-like flowers hanging to the ground and fluttering in the wind. On the very tippy top of those islands were towns. White stone walls encircled them. The walls had gates, and behind the gates were cobbled roads. If you walked along the road up the mountain there would be a terem, and in the terem a golden bed. On that bed there was a girl braiding her hair, one gold hair, the next silver, one gold, one silver… Her feet had claws… She hooked you with her claw… with her claws…
Sometimes he wanted to head for the sunrise. To walk and walk… the grasses would grow higher and brighter, the sun would come up, and its light would shine through them… He imagined himself walking along, jumping over little streams, wading through rivers. And the forest would become denser and denser, like a fabric, and the bugs whirred and whirled about, buzzing. And in the forest there'd be a glade, and in the glade there'd be tulip flowers, a red rug of tulips covering the whole glade so you couldn't see the ground. And on the branches there'd be a lacy white tail that folded and spread out like a net. Above that tail its mistress, the Princess Bird, would gaze longingly, admiring herself. Her mouth is red as a tulip. And she'd say to him, "Hello, Benedikt, my fleet falcon, did you come to take a look at me?… I never harm anyone, but you already know that… Come closer, Benedikt, let's kiss…"
He didn't head south or toward the sunrise. His head felt clear and dull at the same time. He packed his sack and then unpacked it. He looked at his things: What did I put in there? The stone knife I used for carving the pushkin. Another knife. A chisel. He'd taken some wooden nails, who knows
why. Why did he need nails in the south? He took them out. An extra pair of pants. Still good, almost no patches… A bowl, a spoon. He took them out. What was he going to eat with them? How was he going to make food? Without fire?
You couldn't go anywhere without fire.
Now, if he could take Nikita Ivanich along… They'd walk together, and talk. At night, they'd light a fire. Catch some fish, boil up some soup if they weren't poisonous.
Only you couldn't go far. They'd miss him and come looking. As soon as someone's stove went out, they'd come looking to find him right away. They'd run, shouting: Nikita Ivanich! Bring Nikita Ivanich here now! And they'd find Benedikt too. They'd catch up, give him the what for, twist his white arms behind his back: You're supposed to get married! Married, married!…
Maybe that's what he should do: get married. So what if she has claws? Claws can be clipped. You can clip them… That's not the point… Man isn't without defects. One has a tail, one has horns, someone else has a cock's comb, or scales, or gills… A sheep's hole and a human soul. But that wasn't the way he wanted it to be… He imagined strolling in the orchard garden, smelling the bluebells together. Talking about serious things, about life, or nature, about what you can find in it… Reciting some poetry…
But the hand behind your back is stronger The coachman's whistle more alarming, And the moon in its insanity, Is reflected in your eyes, I see.
She would be amazed and listen. Her eyes would be glued to him. And in the evening he'd catch a mouse and hide it in his hand. Playfully, he'd say: Come on now, what have I got here?… Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? Go on, guess. Who's been nibbling at my housekin?… And she would blush: "Control yourself, fleet falcon…"
Or he could go back to work. Copying books. You stretch your neck out and copy… It's interesting… What are the people in those books doing?… They travel somewhere… Murder someone… love someone… Whew, there are so many people in books! You just keep on copying and copying. Then he'd spit on his finger, put out the candle-and go home… Autumn would come, the leaves would fall from the trees… The earth would be covered in snow… the izba would be buried up to the windows… Benedikt would light a mouse-oil candle, sit down at the table, prop his head in his hand, hunch over, and gaze at the thin flame. Dark beams would run above his head, the wail of the snowy emptiness would be heard beyond the walls, the wail of the Slynx on the dark branches in the northern thickets: Slyyyynxxx! Slyyyyynxxxx! It would wail as though it hadn't gotten something, as though its life were ended if it didn't get a drink of a live soul, as if it couldn't find peace, and hunger had twisted its innards. It would turn its invisible head, and splay its invisible paws, and scratch the dark air with its invisible claws, and smack its cold lips, looking for a warm human neck to suck on, to drink its fill, to swallow something living… It shakes its head and sniffs. It catches the scent and jumps from the branches, and it's off, crying and whining: Ssslllyyynxxx! Slyy-ynxxx! And the snowspouts rise from the dark fields where there's nary a light above your head nor a path in the impassable expanses, no north no south, only white darkness and blizzardy blindness, and the snowspouts will rush forth and grab the Slynx and a deathly plaint will fly over the town, and my faint, unseeing heart that only wanted to live will be buried under a heavy snowdrift!…
Olenka's family is getting ready for the wedding. It's set for fall. You'll come live with us, they say. You'll eat well, build up your strength, and later we'll set you up in a good business. What kind of business could they have, the Saniturions?… He didn't want to think about it…
Should he go and finish the pushkin? Old Nikita Ivanich now has two ridiculous dreams: to chop off Benedikt's tail, and to put the pushkin up on the crossroads, on White Hill. What did he need this pushkin for? He trembled over it, and he ordered Benedikt to tremble as well, like he worshipped it. He wrote a lot of poems, said Nikita Ivanich, he thought the people's path to him would never be overgrown-but if you don't weed, then it's sure to grow over. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, said Nikita Ivanich, sits there on top of those books and copies them. He's littering the people's path. Wants all the glory for himself, and what about more-allity. That's not right. You see, Benedikt, don't you, that that's not right? You and I, young man, will erect an idol on the crossroads, and that will be our challenge and our protest. Work with inspiration and devotion, and if I shout every now and then, don't pay attention to my outbursts.
When the hand and fingers showed up out of the log, Nikita Ivanich applauded. You have real talent, Benedikt, real talent! Just shave off a tad here. Let him stand, his head lowered, listening to the mice scurrying, the breeze blowing, to life hurrying somewhere, it just goes on and on, on and on, day in and day out! Day in and day out!
Summer adorned itself in luxuriant colors. The days grew longer. Pushkin's caftan was already visible. During the day Benedikt chipped away at the pushkin, in the evening he gathered the chips for kindling, heated up soup, gulped it down, and sat out on the porch to smoke. You smoke, sigh, gaze off into the distance, and your head is empty. But once again visions fill it.
Again, toward evening, when the sunset grew yellow and went out, when the fog gathered in the lowlands and the first star came out in the sky, the woodsucker began yowling in the grove. Benedikt began imagining Olenka again. Here he was, sitting on the porch, smoking, watching the sky go out; the air was about to turn blue and cold. Silence. Near the ground everything was blue as blue could be, and up above, the sky shone even and yellow, smoldering its last; every now and then a swipe of pink would tint the yellow, or a gray cloud would stretch like a spindle, hang there a bit until its top would stain raspberry, flare, and be gone. Like someone was rubbing the sunset, smearing it with his fingers.
Once again, Olenka would emerge from the twilight, as though she were painted on the air. She glistened like a fueling, but you could see through her, faintly, dimly. Her hair was combed smooth, her part shone. Olenka's face was white as the moon, and it didn't budge; her neck was veiled in a dozen rows of beads, up to the very dimple in her chin. On her forehead and her ears there were beads and more beads, and little tassels. Her eyes took up half her face, from under the eyebrows to the temples on the sides, dark eyes, but they sparkled like water in a barrel at midnight. And she looks straight through you with those eyes, looks like she wants to say something but never will, not for anything. She never takes her eyes off you, seems like she's going to laugh, or is waiting for a question, or like she'll start singing with her mouth closed. Olenka's mouth is red and she's white, and this vision is fearsome, like it wasn't Olenka, but the Princess Bird herself, only not kind and good, but like she killed someone and was happy about it…
And Benedikt fell into such a daze, he felt like he'd snorted a lot of bog bilberry. His legs and seat had goosebumps and there seemed to be a ringing in his fingers. In his chest, or rather, his stomach, there was a ringing too, a dull one, like someone had stuck an empty stone bucket inside him. This daze, which looked like Olenka, would blink its eyelashes and stare at him again. Its eyes got even bigger and its black eyebrows ran straight across, and between the eyebrows was a little stone, like a moon teardrop.
What the hell does she want from him?
Old pushkin-mushkin probably didn't want to get married either, was probably dead set against it, cried, resisted, but then married-and it was all right. Right? His proud head rose higher than the Alexander column. He rode in sleighs. Was bothered by mice. Ran around with girls, got his rocks off. He was famous: now we're carving a pinocchio of him.
We're just as good as him. Isn't that right? Or is it?
"I'll have you know that Immanuel Kant," the Head Stoker instructed him, "and by the way, since you're so inclined to philosophizing, you'd do well to remember that name. Now, as I was saying. Two things surprised Kant: the moral law inside man and the starry heaven above our heads. How do we interpret this? Well, it means that man is the crossroads of two abysses, equally bottomless and equally inacce
ssible: the outer and inner worlds. And just as the stars, planets, comets, nebula, and other heavenly bodies move according to laws that we understand but poorly, though they are strictly preordained-are you listening to me, Benedikt?-so it is that moral law, all our imperfections notwithstanding, is preordained, etched with a diamond blade on the tablets of the conscience! Inscribed in fiery letters in the Book of Being. And even if this book is hidden from our myopic eyes, even if it is hidden in the valley of mists, behind seven gates, even if its pages are mixed up, its alphabet barbaric and indecipherable, it still exists, young man! It shines even at night! Our life, young man, consists of the search for this book. It is a sleepless path through the dense forest, groping our way, an unexpected acquisition! Our poet-the one to whom you and I are erecting a modest altar-our poet knew this, young man! He knew everything! Pushkin is our be all and end all-the starry sky above and the law in our heart!"
"All right, all right," said Benedikt. He tossed his butt and stamped it out with his shoe. "To hell with it, Nikita Ivanich. Go on and cut off my tail."
And he lay down across the bench.
RTSY
Father-in-law has a huge menagerie, almost a whole street, cages and pens running down both sides. First there's a big shed, and in that shed a stable, and in the stable Degenerators. Hairy, black-yikes. All the fur on their sides is matted. Nasty faces. Some scratch their sides on the fence branches, some guzzle swill from jugs, others chew hay, some sleep, and three in the corner play birch cards and quarrel.
"Are you bonkers, lead with a diamond?"
"You shut up!"
"Oh, so that's it. Here's a stud fer ya."
Father-in-law didn't like it, he scratched the floor.
"Card games again, is it? And the stalls haven't been cleaned!"
The Degenerators don't give a hoot.
"Don't freak, boss. Everything's hunky-dory. Ycur play, Val-era."
"Ha. Trump you."
The Slynx Page 15