Father-in-law swore and led Benedikt further on.
"Swine… Lazy so and sos… I'll give you Terenty, son, he'll be quieter. Only watch out, don't overfeed him. I wanted to give you Potap, but he's skittish. Chews on the bit, insults you… So… Here are the goats. I keep these for meat. Those are for wool. They make a fine jersey, very warm. Women like them."
"What's a jersey?"
"A knitted thing. Here are our chickens. I built an outdoor cage here, I keep rabbits."
"How about that!"
Benedikt craned his neck. There it was: a cage of woven sticks, tall as could be. A whole tree grew in the cage and on the very top was a nest, and in the nest, there they were, rabbits. One stuck his tail out and wagged it like he was teasing. Benedikt didn't have anything to wag anymore. And his sitting bone ached… On and on, cages and more cages… His father-in-law walked along, pointing left and right.
"Here we got some curiosities. All kinds of animals. We don't go hungry here. I got bird catchers sitting in the forest all day long, they bring back full snares. Sparrows and nightingales are good in pies. My wife, Fevronia, she fancies them. You can't eat every single kind of bird, of course. First we try 'em out on the serfs. One time they caught a tiny little bird, red, beady eyes; it smelled good and had a pretty voice. We wanted to marinate it, but then had second thoughts: Let's feed it to a serf, we decided. He took one bite, fell down on the floor, and kicked the bucket. We laughed so hard! What if it'd been us? Well, there you go! You have to keep an eye on nature."
There's another cage and there's a moss-covered tree in it too, with a hollow.
"What's here? I can't see anything."
"Ah… Here I got a woodsucker."
"You caught a woodsucker?"
"Uh huh. It's in the tree hollow."
"Wow…"
Father-in-law raised the whip he used to keep the Degenerators in line, stuck it through the branches, and knocked on the trunk.
"Woodsucker! Come out! Come out, listen up!"
Silence. It didn't want to come out.
"Come out, you bitch!!" Father-in-law poked the tree hollow with the whip.
And sure enough-it darted out like a shadow, and then hid its head.
"You see it?" said Father-in-law, happy.
"Amazing…" Benedikt said in wonder.
"That's right. We want to use this one for soup. Let's see… What else do we have here?"
In the cages and wicker sheds everything whistled, cackled, and ruffled like some kind of jungle. Over there on a branch a dozen nightingales were lined up like mice. A blue feather flashed by over there, and in the far cages there was another tree, bare, gnawed, with no bark. Something white and rumpled, like a worn sheet with holes in it, hung on a limb of that tree.
"I got some of everything stored up… There you have it, son! Summer, winter-the cup is full. Come on, I'll show you the barns."
He showed Benedikt the barns where the thistledown grain and goosefoot bread were stored, he showed him the fish farms, the gardens. It was a rich, sizable household-no doubt about it. Benedikt had never known such wealth existed. So how's that now-he's sort of like the owner of this property? Great!
It really did turn out well, it'd be a sin to complain. And he had been scared of something… What had he been scared of? It wasn't scary. A friendly family, everyone has meals together. The table is always set wall to wall with dishes, and they eat every last crumb. Benedikt can't keep up with them.
Mother-in-law serves herself more than anyone, of course, or, as Kudeyar Kudeyarich put it, she takes the lead. After her comes Father-in-law, and then Olenka, and Benedikt hangs somewhere at the end of the line. They laugh at him all the time! But in a good-natured way.
And we don't just put everything on our plate at the same time, but in a certain order. First come the pasties. We toss about forty in our mouths, one after the other, one after the other- like peas. Then it's time for pancakes. Can't keep count of the pancakes. Then we snack on ferns. After we've warmed up, we move on to soup. After about five bowls, we say: Aha, now that we've finally worked up an appetite-it's time for the meat. After the meat come the bliny: with sour cream, a dollop of marshrooms, then you roll it up and-Lord bless us! We finish off a whole tray of bliny. Then come all kinds of sweet rolls with powdered firelings, doughnuts, crullers. Then cheese and fruit.
Benedikt didn't want to go near the cheese and fruit. He resisted.
"After sweets? Cheese? What do you mean?"
They laughed at him.
"I told you: my wife, Fevronia, is of French extraction! Didn't we explain that?"
These French sure are out to get you: you eat cheese and your stomach turns and you can say goodbye to your dinner. Even if you eat it first. And gooseberries are a sour fruit, horrible, fuzzy, even worse. You chew and groan: you feel like a goat.
That's dinner. But besides dinner we have other meals: breakfast, midmorning breakfast, snacks, supper-each and every day. And at nighttime you get a bowl of food: you might wake up at night to take a leak or something-and what if your innards are growling from hunger? God forbid.
After eating, you rest. Lie on the bed. Doze. Next to the stove.
Or we might take a ride in the sleigh: in autumn when there's a bit of frost, it's great. In the morning, after you wake up, you open the bladder on the window and look out: what's nature doing? Is winter coming? The air is so fresh, so cold, and the sky's murky white. The first snowflakes, big, white, and jagged, fall on the ground. Slowly at first, just a little bit, or one by one: you can even count them. Then more and more-and then you see they've thickened in the air: first you can't see the fence, then the nearby huts disappear, and when it gets going-you can't see anything at all, only a white net dancing in front of your eyes. And in the dining room it's all clean and warm; the stove crackles and hums, the bed is wide and soft, Olenka has flopped on the bed, the lazybones, she doesn't want to come out from under the covers.
"Come here, Benedikt, let's love it up…"
You hang the window back in place, and jump under the covers with Olenka. After making love, you crawl to the table, have breakfast-and it's into the sleigh with you. The sleigh is wide and soft too: it's lined with fur and piled with feather pillows. And the serfs bring more skins to put on top like blankets. They tuck you into the fur on all sides and you lie there like you're in bed. Mother-in-law runs up with a bowl full of pasty pies: "You might get hungry on the road."
The Degenerator stomps and grumbles.
"What weather!… A good master wouldn't let his dog out in this kind of weather…"
What's the bastard hinting at?
"Come on, Terenty, don't think. Just go. I want to take a ride."
"Been a long time since you walked, eh, chief?"
"How dare you! Come on, get a move on!"
Here's a nasty breed for you: all they want to do is argue, object, and whistle. Benedikt ended up with a lazy cur, a real slacker. He wouldn't race flat out like a whirlwind, the way Benedikt liked. No, he had to prance around putting one foot after the other, whistling and grinning. If a girl passed by he'd even allow himself to make comments: "Whoa, what a voluptuous broad!"
Or: "Now there's a cadre for you!"
Or he'd say to Benedikt: "Maybe we should give them a hay-ride? Hey, baby! Hey, you ginches! Over here!"
He scares people, the swine. And attracts disrespect. Sometimes he just plunks down in the middle of the road and sits there.
"What's going on, Teterya?"
"Some can call me Teterya, and some Terenty Petrovich."
"I'll give you a Petrovich! Get a move on!… Stop. Where the hell're you going?"
"Back to the garage. I'm off duty!"
And he bursts out laughing, the rat.
But all in all, life is good. Everything's all right. Well, almost everything. At night Benedikt would sometimes wake up suddenly, and at first he couldn't understand: Where am I? The room was big, the windows were bright with moonlight, and the moon
light lay in stripes on the floor. Someone snored lightly nearby. Oh, that's right, I'm married. You get up, walk around barefoot, quietly. The floor in the room is warm-that's because we sleep on the second story, and under the floor are stovepipes that warm it. What will they think up next? The floors are smooth, only here and there are little piles Olenka has clawed up. You stand, listening to the silence. It's quiet… Well, Olenka is snuffling, a snore can be heard somewhere far off in the house, someone suddenly cries out in his sleep, but still, it's quiet. And that's because the mice aren't scampering around. There aren't any mice.
At first it was kind of strange. A mouse scurries, life hurries, goes the saying, and poems say the same kind of thing: "Life, you're but a mouse's scurry, why do you trouble me?" " Hickory dickory dock…" "There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile…" But here-nothing. Benedikt wanted to ask, but it was kind of awkward to ask all kinds of silly questions. There aren't any, so they must have caught them all.
Yes, things are good: it's warm, his stomach's full, his wife is nice and fat. And he's used to his in-laws now, they're not so bad. They have faults, but who's perfect? Everybody's different, isn't that so? Mother-in-law, for instance, she's… well, kind of boring. There's nothing to talk about. All she says is "eat," and "eat." I got it, I got it, I'm eating. I open my mouth, put food in, close it, chew. Now I want to talk about life or art or something.
I chew, and was just about to ask something, when she says: "Why aren't you eating?" I open my mouth again, more food – it's hard to talk with your mouth full-and swallow, in a hurry to say something, and she says, "Why aren't you eating anything? Maybe it isn't tasty? Just tell me."
"No, everything's delicious, I just wanted to-"
"If it's delicious, then eat."
"But I-"
"You don't like our food?"
"No, I didn't-"
"Maybe you're used to delicacies, and you're turning up your nose at our food?"
"We don't have any dainties, of course, we get by with what we have, but if you don't care for our…"
"But-"
"Olenka! Why is he so picky… If he won't taste my cooking, then I just don't know what to feed him!"
"Benya, don't upset Mama, eat…"
"I'm eating, I'm eating!!!"
"You're not eating well enough, then." As soon as the bickering starts, all thought of art, or poems, or anything else, disappears.
Father-in-law is a little different. He really likes to talk. You could even say he wants to talk all the time, so you start thinking: It would be nice if he'd be quiet for a change. He likes to teach and ask questions, like he's testing you. He opens his mouth, takes a few breaths, and starts asking. There's a bad smell from his mouth, it kind of stinks. And he sort of stretches his neck out. Benedikt thought that his collar was tight, but no: his collar is always unbuttoned. It's just a habit. When Benedikt has eaten his full, he sits down by the window to look out-and there's Father-in-law sitting down next to him, ready for a chat.
"So, how about it, son, no thoughts popping up?"
"What thoughts?"
"All kinds of bad thoughts?"
"No, nothing popping up."
"Think about it carefully."
"I can't think. I'm stuffed."
"Maybe you feel like committing some villainy?"
"No, I don't."
"But if you think about it?"
"I still don't."
"Maybe you've planned some homicide?"
"No."
"But if you think about it?"
"No."
"If you're honest about it?"
"For heaven's sake, I told you. No!"
"No dreams of overthrowing the bosses?"
"Listen, I'm going to sleep! I can't take this!"
"And what if you have some murderous dreams?"
Benedikt gets up, goes to his room, slams the door and flops on the bed. Then the door opens noiselessly: Father-in-law pokes his head in.
He whispers, "Haven't thought up any malicious acts against the Big Murza, have you?"
Benedikt doesn't answer.
"Against the Murza, I said?"
Benedikt doesn't answer.
"Hey? No ideas? I'm asking. Son? Hello… son? Against the Murza, I'm asking you, have you dreamt up-"
"No! No! Close the door! I'm sleeping! Don't bother me, what is this? I want to sleep!"
"So, no ideas've popped up, is that it?"
That's how time passes. Eat, sleep, bicker with your relatives. And ride in the sleigh. Look out the window. Everything's just fine, all right-it doesn't get any better. But something is missing. Like you need something else. Only he forgot what.
After the marriage Benedikt didn't need anything at first. For about two weeks, maybe three. Well… four. Maybe five. While he got used to things, had a look around at this and that. But then-it felt like there was something-and it was gone.
SLOVO
At first Benedikt thought that he missed the sound of scurrying mice. After all, the mouse is our be all and end all. It's food, and clothes you can make from the pelts, and trading at the market for whatever you want. Remember how he'd caught two hundred of them at New Year's? His soul sang, people sang with him! He remembered how he walked along almost dancing, stomping on the collapsed snowdrifts, splashing his heels in puddles to make them spatter rainbows! Honest pay for an honest job. And how much he got when he traded all those mice! He and Nikita Ivanich ate that food for a whole week and they couldn't finish it. The old man baked sweet rolls… Somehow, they became friends over those sweet rolls. That is, if you could be friends with an Oldener. He's a bad cook compared to Mother-in-law. The sweet rolls came out lopsided-raw on one side, burned on the other, and in the middle not curds, but who knows what. Mother-in-law's sweet rolls just melt in your mouth. Then he thought maybe he missed his izba. Sometimes he dreamt he was walking around a house that seemed to be his father-in-law's, from one gallery to the next, from one floor to the next, and it was like the same house, but not the same: it was longer, sort of sideways, everything was warped sideways. He walked and walked and kept being surprised: there was no end to this house. He had to find one special door, so he opened all the doors. But what he needed behind that door wasn't clear. He opened one door and there was his izba, but it wasn't quite the same either, it had gotten bigger: the ceiling went way up into the darkness, you couldn't see it. A bit of dry hay fell from the ceiling with a whoosh and a crackle. He stood and looked at that hay, and he was full of fear, as if someone had grabbed his heart with a paw, then let it go again. He would find out something any minute now. He was just about to find out. Then Olenka walked by and seemed to be lugging a log. She was unfriendly, sort of dry. Where are you lugging that log to, Olenka, why aren't you friendly anymore? And she laughed nastily and said, "Olenka? I'm not Olenka…" He looked again: and it really wasn't Olenka, but someone else…
… When you wake up from a dream like that, your mouth's dry and your heart goes boom-boom, boom-boom. You can't understand where you are. You touch yourself: Is this me? And the moon shines through the bladder window, bright and horrible. And the lunar path on the floor has stretched out. Some people walk in their sleep when the moon's full: they call them lunatics. The moon speaks to them, or so they say. We don't know why they stretch their arms out. It looks like they're asking for handouts or some kind of help, but if you take them by the hand, they flinch. They look surprised. And they listen: heads cocked, they listen. Their eyes are open but they don't see us. Golubchiks like that get up out of bed, go out in the yard, wander around, and then scramble up on the roof, one-two-three like it was stairs. They get right up on the roof, at the very tippy top, and walk back and forth. It's closer to the moon up there. They stare at the moon and she stares back at them: you can see a face on the moon, and that face is crying: it looks at us, at our life, and it cries.
That's what it is, Benedikt thought, he missed his izba. He even rode over to take a look: he hitch
ed up Teterya and rode to his native settlement. But no, it wasn't that. He looked at his izba, at the straw roof: it had completely dried out. The door was open, there was burdock growing in the yard, which hadn't been weeded since springtime, and grabble grass, and biteweed, and some other strange weed with long black stems and withered leaves. The first snowflakes were whirling about, falling, indifferent to everything. He stood there awhile, took off his hat like he was standing by a grave. Everything was probably torn up inside. It was kind of a pity, but not really: his heart didn't care. It had broken away. But he shouldn't have taken the sleigh: after that trip Teterya got completely out of hand and lost all respect for Benedikt. While Benedikt stood at the fence, that furry pig stood by and smoked, he even spat on the ground, and then said, "Ha! I had a dive in Sviblovo that was better than that place."
"Teterya, watch how you talk to your betters! Your place is in the bridle!"
"And yours is-you know where… I had a mirrored buffet. And a color TV with an Italian tube… My brother-in-law managed to get a hold of a Yugoslav cabinet set, I had a separate bathroom and toilet, Golden Autumn wallpaper."
"Talking again! Go on, bridle up!"
"The kitchen was linoleum, but the rest was parquet tiles. I had a three-burner stove."
"Teterya! Who am I talking to!"
"A fridge with a freezer, beer in cans… lemon vodka, nice and cold…"
And he stands there, the rodent, on his hind legs like he was an equal, leaning on the fence, chatting, and there's a dream in his eyes, and it's clear as day he doesn't think of Benedikt as his master at all! He's lost in memories!
"Tomatoes from Kuban, Estonian cucumbers with bumps… We ate pressed black caviar and thought the regular stuff was shit… There was dark rye bread for twelve kopecks… Herring with onion… Tea with lemon… Pink and white meringues… Cherries in liqueur from Kuibyshev… Samarkand melon…"
Once he got started, he just kept on, who was there to stop him! Nikita Ivanich is right when he says there should be respect for people, and justice too! But this swine doesn't respect people, he doesn't give a fig for them! Benedikt got mad and beat him on the sides with the whip, slapped him on the ears and kicked him good and hard. And his father-in-law says Terenty's the calm one, it's Potap that's skittish! What's Potap like, then, if this one is obedient?… After that trip, you gotta call him Ter-enty Petrovich, like he was some kind of Murza. Yeah, sure.
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