Olenka wailed: "He just reads books and doesn't pay any attention to me!"
Father-in-law defended him: "It's none of your business. Shut up! If he's reading, that means he needs to read…"
"What is he reading all the time? He's reading about women! And he won't look at his own wife! I'm going to tear up all those books of yours!"
"There's nothing here about women! Here, look, it says: 'Roger pulled out a pistol and listened. A door creaked.' No women."
"You see, no girls there!"
"Yeah, sure! No women! Why'd he pull his pissdoll out then, the filthy old man?"
"Because now Mister Blake will go inside, and he'll hit him on the head with a pistol-Roger will. He's hiding behind the portier. Leave me alone," said Benedikt.
"What Mister Blake?"
"The family notary. Don't bother me."
"Why is he pulling out his pissdoll in front of a family man? Get your own family and show it to them!"
"Well, that just shows to go what an idiot you are," Father-in-law said to her. "Family is family, but you've got to realize there's such a thing as research. Your husband isn't here just for fun and games, he's a citizen of society, a breadwinner and protector. All you wanna do is giggle, but he needs to study. Son!"
"Hmm?"
"Have you read Hamlet yet?"
"Not yet."
"Read it. Mustn't allow gaps in your education… you have to read Hamlet."
"All right, I'll read it."
"Macbeth too. Oh, now that's a good book, very useful…"
"All right."
"Mumu is a must. Very exciting story. By a fellow called Turgenev. They put a stone around the dog's neck and throw her in the water… The Gingerbread Man is good too."
"I read The Gingerbread Man."
"You've read it? Great, isn't it?"
"Uh huh."
"That fox really gives it to him… Snap! Yes, brother, that fox, you know… That's a real fox for you… Snap!"
"It's kinda sad…"
"What do you mean, sad!… It's art! It's not sad, it's a hint… You have to know how to read between the lines… You read Krylov's Fables?"
"I started them."
"There are some good ones… 'The Wolf and the Lamb.' That's good. 'It's your fault that I'm hungry!' Pure poetry."
"I like adventure stories better."
"Ah, I see, you mean so they draw it out, don't do it all at once… That yellow one, The Head Hunters, you have to read that one too."
"Listen, leave me alone! I'll read it! You're bothering me! Let me read in peace."
"That's it, that's it! Not another word!" Father-in-law put his finger to his lips. "Go on, do your work, study in peace. Not another word, not another word."
FERT
Spring had come with its huge flowers. Beyond the window everything was bright blue-but Benedikt noticed only because light poured in and it was easier to read. He pulled aside the bladder covering the window-there it was! All the meadows and glades had long been covered with greengrass, the little azure flowers were wilting, the yellow ones were coming in. Honey waves of wind blew, calling stout hearts to set off for faraway lands, to explore wondrous kingdoms, launch dugouts on clean rivers and hold course for the Ocean-Sea. But Benedikt didn't need any of this. He had everything in books, rolled up, buried in little secret boxes: sea and meadow, deep blue and sandy winds, foul winds and snow, and the wind they call Zephyr. Starless nights and nights of passion, velvety nights and sleepless nights! Southern, white, pink, sweet as could be, dreamy, draining nights! Golden and silver stars, blue and green as sea salt, shooting and falling stars, foreboding stars, glittering diamond and lone stars, stars that herald woe, and stars that shine like beacons-there you go, beacons! All the vessels on all the seas, all the kisses, islands, roads and all the cities those roads lead to, all the city gates, nooks, crannies, dungeons and tunnels, towers, flags, all the golden curls and jet black braids, the thunder and clash of arms, the clouds, the steppes, and again the wind, sea, and stars! He didn't need anything else, it was all here!
A rich man-that's who he was. Rich as rich could be! Benedikt thought about himself. I'm rich, he thought, and he laughed. He even yelped. I'm my own Murza! My own Sultan! Everyone's in the palm of my hand, in little letters: the bounty of boundless nature and the lives of countless people! Old-timers, youngsters, and indescribable beauties!
There was another good thing about books, he thought. The beauties rustling their dresses between the pages, peering from behind shutters and from under lace curtains, the beauties wringing their white hands and throwing themselves with loosened hair under the hooves of steeds, their eyes sparking fiercely -she's crying and her waist is the size of an hourglass-beauties who lounge on divans with pounding hearts, and leap up to cast a wild gaze around the room; who step fearfully, lowering their dark blue eyes; who dance fiery dances with roses in their hair-these beauties never have to answer nature's call, they never have to bend over to pick things up, they never get gas, no pimples pop up on their faces, and their backs never hurt. Their golden hair never has any dandruff and lice never nest or lay eggs in it, they leave them alone. And those golden curls-they curl for days on end, and no one ever says anything about these beauties spending half the day with bobbins in their hair. They don't chomp, sneeze, or snore. Their cheeks don't squelch; no Is-abelle or Caroline ever wakes up puffy with sleep; their jaws don't clack when they yawn, they awake refreshed and toss back the curtains. And they all throw themselves joyfully into the arms of their beloved. And just who is their beloved? Why, it's Benedikt, of course, whether he's called Don Pedro or Sysoy.
It's spring! Why does he need spring? Well, there's one good thing about it: there's more light for reading. The day is longer, and the letters are clearer.
In summer Benedikt had a hammock hung for him in the gallery. Above the hammock he hung a light sheet to protect him from the shitbirds. They have no shame, not the least bit: wherever they see a cornice, that's where they sit, cooing and shitting. It's not so bad if it falls on your hair, but what if it falls on a book? He had two serfs stand on either side of him to fan him and shoo away gnats and mosquitoes. He had a rocking girl sit there to rock the hammock ever so gently, not too hard, just a little bit. Another girl brought him cool drinks: she crushed dogwood berries, stewed compote from them, and added lots of chopped ice. The ice was left over from winter: all winter long workers chopped ice and stored it in cold cellars. And this compote was good to drink through a straw: they'd cut some grass, and if it wasn't poisonous they'd dry it, and inside there was a little hole, and you could drink through it.
The flies had grown mean and big, their wings shimmered blue, their eyes were rainbows. Two workers stood next to Benedikt fanning them away, while a third ran to help. It must be fall. He raised his eyes: it really was fall, rain was dripping from the clouds. God forbid a book should get wet. He moved back inside the house.
KHER
It was an ordinary day, Thursday. A bit of snow was falling, and nothing foretold anything. And that's the way it is in books: if nothing foretells anything they always tell you special. And if they tell you, hold on: birds will cackle, the wind will take to howling, and the mirror will crack. A mirror is what people had in Oldener times, sort of like a board, and they looked at that board and could see themselves, like when we look in the water.
They all sat down to eat.
Benedikt opened issue number seven of the Northern Herald. It was a very strong book, sewn with threads and glued together; he cracked the spine so it wouldn't close, leaned on it with his elbow, and held it down with a bowl of soup.
Mother-in-law said: "Eat up, son, the meat patties are getting cold."
"Mmm…"
"They're tasty, juicy."
"Mmm…"
"Steamed with marshrooms. Try them, they should be good, I steamed them in the oven for an hour."
Olenka said: "Mashed turnips are good with patties."
&nb
sp; Father-in-law: "Puree goes good with everything."
"No, especially with meat patties."
"Well, that's for sure-it's not every day we steam patties."
"It sure isn't."
"…," Benedikt read, his eyes already accustomed to racing across the lines,"…"
"Last year, remember, we gathered biteweed and cooked up some macedoine with turnips."
"Uh huh."
"If you slopped some goat cheese into the macedoine for the taste, it would be even more delicious."
"That's right."
"And noodles are good too."
"How could they be bad?"
"It's really good when you put butter in the noodles, add some forest herbs, a bit of kvas, bake it and then let it simmer, and as soon as it sizzles, you serve it."
"With ground marshrooms on top."
"That's right."
"And a flaky roulette stuffed with nuts."
"And ferns."
"Ferns, yep."
"Then spice cookies. Braided ones."
"Why braided? Broiled are better."
"Yeah, sure, broiled. Broiled they come out a touch bitter."
"So? So what? That's good."
"What's good about it? Woven ones are way better. There's an egg in them."
"What do you know. Woven!… Next thing you'll be talking about bliny again."
"Bliny, so what? What about bliny?"
"What about, nothing about! Bliny! What'll it be next?"
"What's it to you?"
"Nothing! That's what!"
"Well, then, don't say nothing. But I say: bliny!"
"I'll give you bliny!"
"You're a real blin yourself."
"That's right, I'm a blin. So what does that make you?"
"Nothing!"
"Then shut up!"
"Shut up yourself!"
"I'll just shut up, then!"
"So just go ahead and shut up!"
"So there, I'll shut up! Bliny!"
"Then just shut up! Give us some peace and quiet!"
They shut up. Chewed. Benedikt turned the page, resettled his bowl, and held the journal down again.
"Eat your patties, son."
"I'm eating."
"Take some more. Olenka, serve him some more. Pour some sauce on them, for heaven's sake! There you go. Pour some more."
"Give him some marshrooms."
"And some fried steak."
They were silent again.
"Too bad Eudoxia croaked. She knew how to whip up the best nut souffle."
"You're not kidding."
"There was a kind of crust on top, but it was soft inside."
"That's right…"
"And her charlottes… Who can make a charlotte like that nowadays?"
"Which one? With turnips?"
"That's right, turnips."
"I know how to make one from turnips."
"Yeah, sure."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing."
"You don't think I can?"
"Nope."
"Well, I can."
"You're lying."
"Oh, yes, I can. First you steam it, then you mash it. Then you add eggs, nuts, and goat milk and pop it in the oven. On a high heat. Like for bliny."
"There you go with your bliny again."
"What's wrong with bliny, you creep? Just wait, you'll be asking for them next thing you know!"
"Yes, I will! Puffy, flaky ones."
"To hell with you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said."
"Just you wait, I swear I'll smack you on the forehead with a ladle-then you'll have your bliny!"
Benedikt turned another page.
"Son!"
"Mmm…"
"Put the book down. As soon as you're at the table you've got your nose in a book. Can't sit with you or have a proper conversation."
"Mmm…"
"Son!"
"Mmm?"
"What're you reading there? Read it out loud."
"What? Art, that's what!"
"So go on and read it."
Olenka pursed her lips. "He's just reading about women. Wants an adventure."
"Fat chance you'll understand. Well, why not… Here goes: 'Liudmila wrapped her shivering body in the fluffy shawl, covering her thin, shaking shoulders. Her blushing cheeks blazed brightly with a crimson fire. Her starry eyes shot arrows of alarm at Vladimir. Under her silk blouse, her high breasts rose and fell like the ocean waves. "Vladimir," she whispered. "Vladimir…" Vladimir gritted his teeth. Stern muscles bulged under his tanned skin. He turned away. Liudmila's delicate fingers played nervously with the fringe of her shawl. "Vladimir!" she cried, reaching out with her palms…'"
Olenka frowned stubbornly. "And just how many hands does she have, that Liudmila?"
"Just the right number. Two!"
"Well, she's fiddling around like she's got six. Is that a Consequence or what?"
"Take a look at yourself!" said Benedikt angrily. "This is art."
Women-they're all the same. They'll go and spoil your whole dream. Just riles you. Benedikt turned some more pages. "'Liudmila rubbed her tired temples with delicate fingertips. "Never," she murmured, wringing her hands. A deathly pallor filled her face. She released herself from his embrace. "It's all over," muttered Vladimir. The stern line of his lips betrayed extreme emotion.'" Oh, jeez, it's true… Liudmila has a Consequence… Why didn't they say anything about this before? Benedikt turned the page. "To be continued…" Damn! In the most interesting place. He felt the journal, turned it over, thumbed through the pages: maybe he'd find the next part at the end-it happens sometimes. But it wasn't there. He pushed back the stool to go have a look in the storeroom.
"Where are you going? What about the meat patties?"
Benedikt had arranged all the shelves in the storeroom a long time ago: you could see right away what was where. Father-in-law had Gogol right next to Chekhov-you could look for a hundred years and you'd never rind it. Everything should have its own science, that is, its own system. So you don't have to fuss around here and there to no good end, instead you can just go and find what you need.
Number eight wasn't there. Well, maybe he made a mistake and put it in the wrong place… that happens… Here's The Northern Herald, here's The Herald of Europe, Russian Wealth, The Urals, Lights of the Urals, Beekeeping… no, not here… Banner, Literary Bashkortostan, New World… he'd read them, Turgenev, he'd read it, Yakub Kolas, read it, Mikhalkov, A Partisan's Handbook, Petrarch, The Plague, The Plague of Domestic Animals: Fleas and Ticks, Popescu, Popka-the-Fool-Paint It Yourself, Popov, another Popov, Poptsov, The Iliad, Electric Current, he'd read it, Gone With the Wind, Russo-Japanese Poly-technical Dictionary, Sartakov, Sartre, Sholokhov: Humanistic Aspects, Sophocles, Sorting Consumer Refuse, Sovmorflot-60 Years, Stockard, Manufacture of Stockings and Socks, he'd read that one, that one and that one…
Chalk Farm, Chandrabkhangneshapkhandra Lal, vol. 18, Chaucer, John Cheever; The Black Prince, aha, a mistake, that didn't go there, Chekhov, Chapchakhov, Chakhokhbili in Kar-sian, Chukh-Chukh: For Little People.
Chen-Chen: Tales of the Congo, Cherokee Customs, Chewing Gum Stories, Chingachguk the Giant Serpent, Chipmunks and Other Friendly Rodents, Chkalov, Chrysanthemums of Armenia Part V, Chukotka: A Demographic Review, Chukovsky, Chum- Dwelling of the Peoples of the Far North, Churchill: The Early Years, read it. Kafka, Kama River Steamboats, Kashas Derived from Whole Grain. Dial M for Murder, Murder in Mesopotamia, Murder on the Orient Express, Kirov's Murder, Laudanum: The Poetic Experience, Lilliputians and Other Little People, Lim-onov, Lipchitz, Lipid-protein Tissue Metabolism… he'd read it all.
The Red and the Black, Baa Baa Black Sheep, The Blue and the Green, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, The Blue Cup, Island of the Blue Dolphins, The Chocolate Prince, The Crimson Flower… that's a good one… The Crimson Letter, Crimson Sails, Little Red Riding Hood, The Yellow Arrow, The Five Orange Pips
, The White Steamboat, White Clothes, White Bim- Black Ear, T. H. White, The Woman in White, The Purple Island, The Black Tower, Black Sea Steamboats: Registry, this is where The Black Prince goes. Now…
Appleton, Bacon, Belcher, Blinman, Cooke, Culpepper, Honeyman, Hungerford, Liverich, Pearson, Saulter… Baldwin, Beardsley, Hatcliff, Morehead, Skinner, Topsfield, Whitehead, Whisker… Bairnsfather, Childe, Fairbrother, Motherwell, Littleboy… Ambler, Bulstrode, Chatterley, Doddleton, Dolittle, Fleetwood, Gabbler, Golightly, Hopkins, Sitwell, Skip-with, Standon, Swift, Talkien, Walker, Whistler… Hammer-stein, Hornebolt, Ironquill, Newbolt, Witherspoon… Canby, Mabie, Moody, Orwell, Whowood… Bathurst, Beerbohm, Beveridge, Brine, Dampier-Whetham, de La Fontaine, Dewey, Drinkwater, Dryden, Lapping, Shipwash, Washburn, Water-house… Addicock, Cockburn, Crapsey, Dickens, Dickinson, Fullalove, Gotobed, Hooker, Longfellow, Lovelace, Loveridge, Middlesex, Sexton, Simpkiss, Sinkin, Strangewayes, Sweetecok, Toplady… Fairweather, Flood, Fogg, Frost, Haleston, Rain-borough, Snowdon, Sun Yat-sen, Weatherby, Wyndham… Middleton, Overbury, Underhill… Coffin, Dyer, Feversham, Lockjaw, Paine, Rawbone…
The Vampire's Embrace, The Dragon's Embrace, The Foreigner's Embrace, The Fatal Embrace, Passion's Embrace, Fiery Embraces, The All-Consuming Flame of Passion … The Dagger's Blow, The Poisoned Dagger, The Poisoned Hat, Poisoned Clothes, With Dagger and Poison, Poisonous Mushrooms of Central Russia, Golden-haired Poisoners, Arsenic and Old Lace, Death of a Salesman, Death Comes for the Archbishop, Death Comes at Midnight, Death Comes at Dawn, The Bloody Dawn…
Children of the Arbat, Vanya's Children, Children of the Underground, Children of the Soviet Land, Kids in Cages, Children on Christ, The Boxcar Children, Nikita's Childhood.
Marinina, Marinating and Pickling, Marine Artists, Marinetti -the Ideologist of Fascism, Mari-El Grammar: Uses of the Instrumental Case.
Klim Voroshilov, Klim Samgin, Ivan Klima, K. Li, Maximal
Load in Concrete Construction: Calculations and Tables (dissertation).
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