"Benediiiikt! Come heeeere, let's make love!" Olenka called from the next room.
"Lie down and wait!" cried Father-in-law. "We're having a governmental conversation! About worldviews! So now, this is the way things go: Illness isn't in books, my dear boy, it's in people's heads."
"Like a cold?"
"Worse. Now, you talk about nails. All right. We didn't use to know about nails, right?"
"That's right."
"And was it better when there weren't any nails, what do you think?"
Benedikt thought a moment. "It was worse."
"That's right. So. Things used to be worse. And now they're better. You get my drift."
"I think I get your drift."
"And before that, they were even worse. And before everything-well, there was the Blast. Was that a good thing, what do you think?"
"Heavens no!"
"That's right. So, which way do we need to go? Forward, of course. When you're walking down the street, would you start stepping in place? No. You go straight on ahead. Why are our eyes on our forehead and not on our rear ends, right? Nature is giving us directions."
"That's true," Benedikt admitted.
"Only forward, no other way. So, for instance, since I'm Head Saniturion, I am going to light the way." And he gave off rays as bright as full-moon light. "Do you follow me now?"
"No," said Benedikt.
"No again. Well, what can you do… All right, then. There's a lot of backwardness in society," Father-in-law explained. "And all people are brothers. Now then, can a brother refuse help to his brother? What would he be if he did that? A bad guy, a sleazeball. Helping and fixing come first. But how do some people think? 'Oh, it's none of my beeswax.' Is that good?"
"It's kind of bad. That's not more-alls."
"Right. And how to help?"
"I don't know."
"Think about it."
"Well… I don't know… Feed someone?"
"Ha! You call that thinking! If you feed and feed and feed people, and keep on feeding them, they'll stop working. You'll be the only one sweating, all for them. How're you gonna come up with all that food? Where are you gonna get new food? Where's the food coming from if no one's working? No. Think again."
Benedikt thought about how to help his brother. True, he didn't have a brother, and thinking was uncomfortable. He imagined someone tall, lanky, and irksome: he sat on a stool and whined: "Brooother… He-e-1-l-p me… Pleeease help me, brooother…" And you don't feel like it, so you whack him on the head.
"Maybe by keeping a lookout while he's off?"
"Sure. You stand there like a pillar all day long. And he's out chasing skirts."
Benedikt got mad at this brother: What a bastard! What more did he need?
"You give up," Father-in-law said, shaking his head. "Well, all right. Let's think it through together. You ever planted turnips?"
"Yes."
"You've planted them. Good. So you know how it works: you plant the turnip and you wait. You're waiting for a turnip-but who knows what will sprout up? Maybe half turnips, half weeds. You ever weeded grass?"
"Yes."
"Good. So you know. What's left to explain? If you don't weed the turnip in time, the whole field will be covered in weeds. And the turnip won't be able to push through the weeds. Isn't that right? And there won't be anything to eat, or to guard. So there you have it!"
"True," Benedikt admitted.
"Of course it's true. Now, follow me. You read the story 'The Turnip'? Copied it?"
"The story? I read it: Grandpa planted a turnip. The turnip grew and grew and grew till it couldn't grow anymore."
"Right. Only it's not a story. It's a fable."
"What's a fable?"
"A fable is a directive rendered in a simplified form for popular consumption."
"And which direction do they cook the turnip in?" asked Benedikt in surprise.
"And you call yourself a careful reader, do you? Grandpa pulls and pulls on the turnip, but he can't pull it out. He calls Grandmother. They pull and pull and pull, but they can't pull it out. Then they call a lot of others. No go. Then they call in a mouse-and they pull the turnip out. How do we interpret this? I'll tell you how. It means we can't do without mice. Mice Are Our Mainstay."
And it was true! As soon as Father-in-law explained it that way, it was suddenly all clear, it all fit together. What a smart man.
"So, in general, and all in all," concluded Father-in-law, "this is the picture: the collective depends on the mouse, because the mouse, you see, it's the cornerstone of our happy existence. I'm explaining social science to you, don't turn your head away. This way, leaning against the cornerstone, people grab what they can and pull. If you get a turnip, fine. If there's no turnips, then horsetail, or rusht at worst."
"You're right there. It's true. Last year someone grabbed all the rusht in my pantry. I got home-the door was open, they'd pulled everything out!"
"Good. You've finally started to think. So then, how do you see your job?"
"Which one?"
"Which?! Weeding!"
Benedikt thought hard. "Weeding? Hmm… Do you have to weed? Aha! You mean catch thieves?"
"What thieves!… Figure it out! Who are the thieves?"
"Thieves? Thieves are the ones who steal."
"Well, and who steals?"
"Who steals… who steals… Well, everyone steals."
"That's the whole point," said Father-in-law with a laugh. "Everybody steals! So who are you gonna catch? Your own self? My, my, my, you're so funny."
Father-in-law opened his mouth and laughed hard. Benedikt turned his head: a really foul smell came from Father-in-law's mouth.
"So, then, what's your job? You give up? To treat them, of course. You have to treat people, my fine boy!"
Benedikt felt a chill pass through him.
"Who-me?"
"And who else? Of course you! We'll feed you up a bit-I'll give you a little hook, and when you're used to it, when you've got the hang of it-you'll get a big one."
"I can't, no, no, no I can't. What do you… I can't hook people, no, no, no… knock, knock, knock on wood, no no no-"
"There you go again! I explained it to you, and I thought you were listening up good, and then I hear this T can't, I can't.' You just forget that 'I can't.' Do you have a duty to society or not? Should the people move toward the bright, lofty future or not? Should we help our brothers? Yes, we should. Don't argue. Our job, dear boy, couldn't be more noble, but the people are backward, they don't get it. They've got all these silly fears, they spread gossip. Savages!"
Benedikt was dejected. He had only just understood everything and then Father-in-law sort of turned it all topsy-turvy- and once again everything was all mixed up and he was in the doldrums.
"So what does that mean: We can't read books?"
"What do you mean you can't read books?" said Father-in-law in surprise. "Why not? Read to your heart's content, I have a whole library of Oldenprint books, some of them have pictures. I'll get you a pass."
"Then why treat people?"
"Again all this why oh why! Because of Illness!"
"I don't get it…"
"Not all at once. You'll get it, you will."
"Well, but you said Mice Are Our Mainstay. Then why aren't there any mice in our house?"
"We don't have any mice because we lead a spiritual life. We don't need mice."
UK
Father-in-law had a whole storeroom full of Oldenprint books. When Benedikt got his pass to the books-ooooeeee!- his eyes popped out, his knees went weak, his hands shook and he nearly had a fainting fit. The room was huge, on the very top floor, with windows, and shelves, shelves, and more shelves, all along the walls, and on the shelves were books, books, and more books! Big ones, little ones, all kinds. Some fit in your palm but the letters were big. Others were big but the letters were tiny. There were books with pictures, not just plain ones, but color! Honest to God. Color pictures! There wa
s a whole book of color pictures, with lots of naked women, all pink-sitting on the grass, and on stools, and squatting, and every which way. Some were thin as brooms, others not bad, nice and plump. One of them had climbed onto a bed and thrown off the blanket- pretty good, that one.
He turned the pages-some men were walking along with rakes-they must be going to plant turnips.
Then there was the sea, and on it a boat, and over the boat a sheet on sticks. They must have decided to do the washing and hung it out to dry. That's handy: look how much water there is in the sea.
He turned the pages back to where the woman climbed on the bed. A fine woman. Kind of like Olenka, only no sour cream on her face.
Then there were a lot of Golubchiks sitting on animals-animals that looked something like goats, but with no beards. Father-in-law said they're steeds. Steeds. Aha. So that's what a steed is. Scary looking. But these guys rode them and weren't afraid.
Then there were colored flowers. A pot, and flowers sticking out of it. Boring. Then everything was all slathered on and mushed around and you couldn't figure out what it was. That was boring too. He turned some more pages and there was this picture: nothing on it, just a white page, and in the middle, a square-shaped black hole. Nothing else. Kind of like the end of everything. He looked and looked at the hole-and suddenly got scared, like in a dream. He clapped the book shut and dropped it.
There were lots of pictures in other books too. Benedikt sat on the floor for three days turning the pages. There were drawings of everything you could imagine. Good Lord! Pretty girls with babies sat laughing, and off in the distance were white roads and green hills, and on the hills were mountain towns, bright blue, or pink like the dawn. There were serious men, all important, with pancake-shaped hats on their heads, yellow chains across their chests, and puffy sleeves like women wear. Or a huge crowd of Golubchiks, and a bunch of little kids, only the kids are naked, they've only got colored rags wrapped around them. They're flying up somewhere, and they're taking lots of flowers and wreathes with them. The whole family must have gone weeding together, and some tricksters robbed them, took off with their coats while they were in the fields.
Once something familiar caught his eye. It was none other than The Demon. For sure. The one Fyodor Kuzmich gave them. Benedikt sat for a long time looking at it and thinking, so long that his feet went to sleep. It's one thing to listen to others, and another thing altogether to see for yourself. So it was true, they weren't lying, it wasn't Fyodor Kuzmich who wrote books, but other Golubchiks. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, must have seen this Demon, painted by a Golubchik named Vrubel, and he just up and tore the picture out of the book. So that's what he's like: dinky but daring. It was sad, somehow: he had deceived Benedikt, set him up, taken him for a fool.
After these books Benedikt started dreaming in color, and his heart pounded. It was all big green hills, covered with green-grass, and a road, and Benedikt was running along the road on light feet, amazed at how easy it was to run. And there were trees on the hills, and their shadows were lacy and fleet: the sun played through the leaves, danced on the greengrass. He ran and laughed: it's so easy to run, I want to tell someone! But there wasn't anyone, everyone was hiding. That's all right: they'll come out in time and laugh together with Benedikt! He didn't know where he was running, only that someone was waiting for him happily, someone wanted to praise him: Good boy, Benedikt, good boy!
He dreamt he knew how to fly. Not very high, and not for long, but still, he was flying. This was on a road too, but it was dark. And warm. It must be summer. Benedikt seemed to be dressed in white pants and a white shirt. And somehow he just knew that if he pushed off the ground with his feet, and then arched his back like this, and waved his arms to the side like a frog, that he could float in the air for about ten yards. Then that power seemed to dry up, and he pushed off again, and floated again. Benedikt showed someone and explained. You see how simple it is, just arch your back, point your stomach to the ground, and do this with your arms, there, like that. Then he'd wake up-and what a pity: he had known how to fly, and now he'd forgotten.
Once he dreamt that his tail had grown back ornate and patterned, all white, like the tail of the Princess Bird. He looked over his shoulder and gazed at his tail… It was dark and cool in the room and the window was low. The light of the morning sun hit the window and the white feathers, splintering into tiny rainbows, sparkling splotches. He would fan out his tail and gather it up again, and watch how the sparks played on the white feathers, as though they were made of fluffy, flying snow. He liked this tail so much, so much-he'd like to squat and jump through the window onto a branch right now, and walk along the branch: ko-ko-ko. Only the tail ached a little bit, and it was hard to walk with it. Then he was no longer by the window, but going down a staircase, the tail rustling behind him, bumping along the stairs, stiff and cold, and even fuller than before. Benedikt went into a room where the family was waiting for him. They're sitting at the table and watching… They're creeping around in lapty. And they look at him so sternly, judging, angry. Benedikt looks too and sees he's naked. He forgot to put his pants on, or he lost them or something. It's time to eat. So he sits down at the table and wants to cover his privates with his tail. He tries this way, and that, but nothing works because the tail's too short. How could that be? Just now it was so long it thumped on the stairs, and suddenly it's too short. He reached for it with his hands, turned his head, and looked at it under his arms. It wasn't the same tail anymore. It was dark and speckled, and the feathers stuck to his hands: he touched them and they fell off…
You dream the strangest things, but who knows what to think about all these dreams? When he'd looked at all the books with pictures, he started on the others. In the beginning his eyes couldn't follow the Oldenprint letters, they jumped around. Then they got used to it, like it was the way things ought to be. As if Benedikt had been reading forbidden books his whole life! At first he grabbed anything and everything, but then he decided to put them in order. To count up everything. He piled all the books on the floor and rearranged them his own way. At first he arranged them by color: yellow books in this corner, red books in that corner. That wasn't quite right. Then he organized them by size: big ones over there, little ones over here. He didn't like that either. Why? Because every book said who wrote it on the cover. Jules Verne, for instance. He wrote a big brown book, and a little blue one. How can you stick them in different corners? They should be together. Then he tripped up: there are books called journals, and more than one Golubchik wrote in them, maybe ten of them, and each wrote something different. These journals need to be together too, by numbers: first number one, then two, then-but what's this?-it should be number three, but there isn't any three, the next one is seven. What happened? It's gone! That's upsetting. Maybe it's around here somewhere, he'll find it later. There's all kinds of journals, and they have wonderful names. Some make sense and others don't. Take Star, for instance, that's clear. You'd have to be a complete idiot not to understand that one. But then there's Cadries, and what is "Cadries"? It must be a mistake, it should probably be "Cadres." That's what Teterya calls girls he meets on the street. Benedikt brewed some ink from rusht, whittled himself a writing stick, and fixed everything. There was a lot about girls written in that journal, it was true.
Then there's Questions of Literature. Benedikt took a look at it: no questions at all, only answers. The issue with questions must have got lost. Too bad.
There's a journal called Potatoes and Vegetables, with pictures. And there's At the Wheel. Siberian Lights. There's one called Syntaxis, which seems like a bad word, but who knows what it means. It must be a cuss word. Benedikt skimmed it: there you go, there are cuss words in it. He put it to one side: interesting. He'd have to read it before going to bed.
There's Heartfelt Words; European Herald; Scales. These are sort of different, they smell moldy. That doesn't matter, but some letters, a couple in almost every word, are strange, different. Benedikt thou
ght that maybe it wasn't in his language, but in Cockynork instead. Once he got used to reading it, though, it wasn't so bad. He stopped paying attention to the extra letters, like they weren't there.
Some Golubchiks tried real hard, they wrote neat little books the same size and color, called "collected works." There was Zola, for instance. Or Antonina Koptiaeva. The collecteds also had a portrait of the Golubchik who wrote them drawn right in the book. Such funny portraits, unbelievable. Take Golubchik Sergei Sartakov: such an awful-looking face, if you met him on the street, you'd jump. But he sat around writing things. He wrote a lot.
Some books are worn and dirty, pages fall out of them. Some are so neat and clean, seems like they were made yesterday. A real pleasure to look at. Take Anton Chekhov. His book was so worn! Seems he was all thumbs, a real loser. Maybe a little blind. Look at his face, he's got a Consequence on his eyes: two shiny circles and a string hanging down. Now Koptiaeva, you see, is a clean woman, she takes care of herself. Her book looks untouched. He set Koptiaeva aside to read before bed too.
Father-in-law came by, watched Benedikt rearranging everything and said approvingly, "I see you love culture."
"I adore culture."
"It's good stuff. We like to read too. Sometimes we sit in a circle and read."
"Hmmm."
"But there are some people who don't respect culture, who ruin it."
"Hmm."
"They tear pages out, turn the pages with dirty hands."
"Oh no… Who?"
"They're all around."
Father-in-law stood there for a while, breathing heavily- the whole room smelled terrible-and then he left.
First thing in the morning, without eating or drinking, Benedikt splashed water on his face and began reading. He'd be called to lunch-too bad, they interrupted the most interesting part! At first he'd run in quickly, grab a bite, and go back to the books. Then he realized that he could read at the table. The food tasted better and you didn't lose time that way. The family was insulted, of course. Mother-in-law was hurt that Benedikt didn't praise her cooking that much, Olenka thought he was reading about women, and she's sitting right there like some kind of fool. Father-in-law stood up for him: Leave him alone, this is art.
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