The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  Anai's Nin, Nina Sadur, Nineveh: An Archeological Collection. Ninja in a Bloody Coat, Mutant Ninja Turtles Return, Pa-panin, Make Life from Whom?

  Eugenia Grandet, Eugene Onegin, Eugene Primakov, Eugene Gutsalo, Eugenics: A Racist's Weapon, Eugene Sue.

  Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Tashkent-City of Bread, Bread -A Common Noun, Urengoi- The Land of Youth, Uruguay- An Ancient Land, Kustanai- The Steppe Country, Scabies-An Illness of Dirty Hands,.

  Foot Hygiene on the Road, F. Leghold, Ardent Revolutionaries, The Barefoot Doctors, Flat Feet in Young Children, Claws: New Types, Shoe Polish Manufacture, Grow Up, Friend: What a Young Man Needs to Know about Wet Dreams, Hands Comrade!, Sewing Trousers, The Time of the Quadrupeds, Step Faster!, How the Millipede Made Porridge, Marinating Vegetables at Home, Faulkner, Fiji: Class Struggle, Fyodor's Woe, Shakh-Reza-Pahlevi, Shakespeare, Shukshin.

  Mumu, Nana, Shu-shu: Tales of Lenin, Gagarin: We Remember Yura, Tartar Women's Costumes, Bubulina-A Popular Greek Heroine, Boborykin, Babaevsky, Chichibabin, Bibigon, Gogol, Dadaists Exhibition Catalogue, Kokoschka, Mimicry in Fish, Vivisection, Tiutiunnik, Chavchavadze, Lake Titicaca, Popocatepetl, Raising Chihuahuas, The Adventures of Tin Tin.

  Afraid of guessing, Benedikt went through the treasures with shaking hands; he was no longer thinking about issue number eight. It's not here, I'll live. But book after book, journal after journal-he'd already seen this, read this, this, this, this, this… So what did this mean? Had he already read everything? Now what was he going to read? And tomorrow? A year from now?

  His mouth went dry and his legs felt weak. He lifted the candle high; its bluish light parted the darkness and danced on the shelves along the books' covers… maybe, up on the top…

  Plato, Plotinus, Platonov, Plaiting and Knitting Jackets, Herman Plisetsky, Maya Plisetskaya, Plevna: A Guide, Playing with Death, Plaints and Songs of the Southern Slavs, Playboy. Plinths:

  A Guidebook, Planetary Thinking, Plan for Popular Development in the Fifth Five-year Plan. Plebeians of Ancient Rome. Plenary Sessions of the CPSU, The Horn of Plenty in Oil Painting, Pleurisy. Pliushka, Khriapa, and Their Merry Friends. Plying the Arctic Waters. The Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. He'd read them all.

  That was it. "It's all over," muttered Vladimir. Nothing foretold this. Benedikt stood there, dripping candle oil on the floor, trying to take in the full horror of what he'd just realized. A guy is feasting at a rich banquet, wearing a crown of roses, laughing, carefree, his whole life lies ahead: he doesn't have a worry in the world and everything's bright; he takes a bite of sweet roll in play, reaches out for another-and all of a sudden he sees that the table is empty, cleared, there are no leftovers and the room is dead: no friends, no beauties, no flowers, no candles, no cymbals, no dancers, no rusht, maybe even the table itself is gone, there's only dry straw… slowly drifting from the ceiling… rustling and drifting…

  Slowly, slowly he returned to the dining room and sat down; they talked and grumbled, served him food… Patties… On his plate-a meat pattie. It lay there. A pattie… There's a meat pattie on Benedikt's plate. He looked and looked… the pattie lay there. He couldn't understand… what should he think… about the meat pattie?

  "Eat! Eat, while it's still warm! Do you want some sauce?" They're saying words; who's talking? He looked and saw a huge woman, a female. A big head, a little nose in the center. On either side of the nose, cheeks-red, rubbed with beets. Two dark, worried eyes that looked as though they were full of autumn water; just like when you step on moss in the woods and leave a footprint-brown water fills it up right away. Black eyebrows arching over the eyes. A stone hung between the eyebrows, clear, bluish from the candlelight. On either side of the eyebrows-the temples, with woven, colorful temple rings, and above the eyebrows no forehead, only golden hair, all twirled and plaited, and above the hair a headdress. Small stones set in the headdress like stars, a blizzard of ribbons and beaded threads falling like rain-they hang, jangle, reach all the way to the chin. Under the chin, under its dimple-right away there's the torso, wide as a sleigh, and on the torso-three-story tits. Wow! Unbelievably, horribly beautiful: could this really be Olenka? The Queen of Sheba.

  "Olenka!" said Benedikt in amazement. "Is that really you? How beautiful you've become! When did this happen? My forest rose! My Siren!"

  "Control yourself," said Olenka, heaving and jiggling. But her eyes didn't leave him for a moment.

  Benedikt didn't try to control himself, and Olenka was just saying that out of habit, just for appearances, as they say. For three days running, or maybe it was four, or five, or perhaps six… why beat around the bush-for an entire week Benedikt and Olenka frolicked and capered every which way as if in some sort of daze-and, well, you couldn't keep track of what they did. Seeing what was going on, Mother-in-law rolled a barrel of egg kvas out of the granary, strong stuff, take a gulp-you gasp- and tears spring to your eyes; it's good kvas. They romped and rollicked royally-got up to all sorts of antics, and played leapfrog. They ran around on all fours, Olenka in her birthday suit. Benedikt had a sudden hankering to wear Olenka's headdress and rattle her beads, and where his tail used to be he tied her bobbins on so there'd be more of a clatter-you tie on a string, thread the bobbins on it and it makes a regular racket-my oh my, like a thunderstorm at the beginning of May. Then he'd start bleating like a goat.

  But after a while-how to put it? There was a pause. A kind of grimness set in.

  SHCHA

  "In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer. His name was Kandarpaketu…" Already read it.

  What to do now? What to live for? Once again, he had a feeling of alarm, as if he'd lost himself, but where and when-he hadn't noticed. It was frightening… Just recently he'd thought: I'm a rich man. But then he caught himself-all his wealth was now behind him, it had leaked out like water. Ahead lay a great drought, a desert. In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer…

  He looked around. Silence. No mice scurrying. Quiet. Then sounds began to come through: the regular click-clack of a knife. Someone was chopping meat for dumplings; over there he heard a smooth, womblike sound-someone was rolling dough. Outside the window nature fussed and complained. It droned and squeaked; it would suddenly send the wind wailing, blizzarding, hurling snow at the windows; then it began to drone again; it droned and droned, on and on in the tops of trees, rocking the nests, tossing the tree crests. Dense, heavy snows surrounded the terem, swept over the three fences, through the sty and the warehouses, everything was engulfed in a swift, nocturnal burst of snow. There's no heart in it, in the snow, and if there is, it's mean, blind. The snow billows like great sleeves, sweeps up to the roof, throws itself across the fences, courses through the settlement, along the lanes, through the plaited fences, the thin roofs, to the outskirts, across the fields, to the impenetrable woods. Trees fall there, dead and white, like human bones; the northern juniper bush spreads its needles to prick pedestrians and sleigh riders. The paths wind like nooses and grab you by the legs, swaddling you in snow; branches knock your hat off; prickly vines have hung themselves up to rip at your collar. The snow will pound your back, ensnare you, knock you down, string you up on a branch; you'll jerk and struggle. But the Slynx has already sensed you, the Slynx knows you're there…

  Benedikt flinched, shook his head to get rid of the thoughts, squeezed his eyes shut, plugged his ears with his fingers and bit his tongue to chase the Slynx from his thoughts, chase it, get rid of it! Its body is long and supple, its head flat and its ears flattened back… Shoo! The Slynx is pale, muscular, colorless- like the twilight or like a fish, or like the skin on Kitty's stomach, between the legs… No, no!… No!!!

  Its claws itch, it's itching to… But you can't see it, you can't see it… He began to beat his head against the wall so stars would glitter in his eyes, so that some sort of light would break the darkness. Eyes are tricky, though: you squeeze them shut tight, yet something creeps into the reddish gloom under your eyelids, flashes across it: from left t
o right little hairs flit by or there's a shimmering you can't get rid of, or some uninvited object will run out and seem to laugh at you and then, poof!-it melts. He squeezed his eyes and opened them again: red and yellow rings whirled, his head spun, and there it was, he could see it with eyes wide open. It champed and grimaced.

  He began stomping his feet: boom, boom, boom! He waved his arms about, and then grabbed his hair and pulled! Again! Heyyyy!! he cried. Heeeeyyyyy! In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer, and his name was Kandarpaketu!!! There lived a wealthy water-bearer, lived a wealthy water-bearer! Lived-lived, lived-lived, lived a wealthy water-bearer! With a hi and ho and a derry down-o! Through the town of Ramsey… And a twee dum fiddle dee dee! A wealthy water-bearer, don't you know, a rich and wealthy water-bearer!

  He felt like slugging someone to dispel the fear and rage; maybe he should go and wallop Olga-here's for your bobbins! Or run and kick Mother-in-law in the ass; let her wibble-wobble for a couple of hours…

  He ran down the stairs recklessly, knocked over a flowerpot, ran into his father-in-law, and shouted:

  "There's no more books! Let's go, dammit!"

  "Let's go!!!" replied Father-in-law like an echo. His eyes blazed, he stomped and thrust a double-edged hook-who knows from where-into Benedikt's hand. He threw open the door of the closet and tossed a robe to Benedikt; it blinded Benedikt for a moment, but the slits settled right over his eyes. He could see everything through this crevice, all human affairs, trivial, cowardly, fussy: all people want is a bit of soup and to bed, but the wind howls, the snowstorm shrieks, and the Slynx is in flight; it soars, triumphant, over the city. "Art is in danger!" shouted Father-in-law as the sleigh swerved and screeched at the bend in the road. Our robes gleam with red light in the blizzard wail-watch out!-the storm's red cavalry flies across the city, and two pillars of light, a bright force, shine from Father-in-law's eyes, illuminating the path: our hope, protection, force-the Slynx withdraws, we won't surrender, we are legion!-forward, Saniturions, else art will perish! The white pancakes of frightened faces appear in the open door of an izba-"Ha, ha, so scared you're pissing in your pants, are you? The book! Give us the book!" The Golubchik squeals, shields it with his elbow, braces his foot, the shadows romp. "Hold him!!! He's stuffing it in the stove!!! Aha, you want to burn art, do you? Get him with the hook, the hook. Turn it!" comes Father-in-law's savage cry, or someone else's, you can't tell under the robes. "Turn the hook, for crying out loud." He turned it, yanked, something burst and streamed out, there were shouts and cries, he grabbed the book, pressed it to his heart, trembling-I'm alive! He pushed something away with his foot and leapt out into the blizzard.

  … Benedikt lay in bed and sobbed. The tears flowed and flowed. Mother-in-law changed the pillows, Father-in-law ordered the women to walk on tiptoe, speak in whispers, and not worry the patient with troubling questions. He himself sat on the edge of Benedikt's bed, gave him warm drinks, hung right over him, shaking his head, sympathizing, consoling him.

  "Now, how did that happen, tell me? How come you were so clumsy?… I told you to turn the hook carefully, gently… From the shoulder, the shoulder… And you go and: whack! That's what did it."

  Benedikt choked on his tears. He wailed softly, delicately, his weakened fingers trembled; he could feel the cold and the slippery turn of the hook although he no longer held any hook, only a mug with compote.

  It didn't happen-and yet it had happened. His arm could still feel the crunch up to the elbow, the way you squash a beetle: instead of just grabbing the book, jerking it, tearing it away, he caught the Golubchik right on the neck, on the vein, and since he whirled the hook with unpracticed fingers, the vein snapped and something streamed out, something black. The head flopped to one side, the eyes dimmed, and vomit gushed from the mouth.

  Benedikt had never killed anyone, that is, Golubchiks, and it had never even occurred to him. He might hit someone or knock him around, but that was different, just ordinary, everyday stuff. You get him, he gets you, and you're quits. A bruise here, a sprain there-the usual. And before hitting a Golubchik you have to get yourself worked up against him, store up a gloomy weight in your heart. The bruises or sprains balance out this gloominess like weights on scales: goods on one side, weights on the other. Then you belt him one-and it's justified.

  But he'd never even met this Golubchik, the one he crushed. He'd never even seen him, wasn't worked up against him, didn't have a grudge against him-he was living and let him go on living, planting turnips, talking to his woman, bouncing his little kids on his knee.

  Benedikt just wanted to take the book away. Because society is backward, the people live in the darkness of ignorance, they're superstitious, they keep books under the bed, or even bury them in damp holes. You can destroy a book this way. It rots, falls apart, gets covered in green mildew, gets worm holes. Books have to be protected, they belong in a dry, bright place, they have to be cherished and cradled, preserved and kissed. No one else will bother, there's no one else to take care of them, the ancient people who wrote these books have turned to dust, they've died out, not a shadow remains. They won't return, they'll never come back! They don't exist anymore!

  But our ignorant Golubchiks-just look at them-they won't admit to themselves or others that they've hidden books. Books are rotting, being lost forever, and they'll never admit they've hidden one. They're backward and afraid of Illness, and Illness has nothing to do with it. Benedikt has read a thousand books and he's just fine.

  But he hadn't gotten mad at that Golubchik, it was all the fault of the water-bearer from Delhi, whose name was Kandar-paketu, it was all his father-in-law's fault-he handed him the hook at the wrong time, when his heart was blinded, when the snow raged, and that distant wail deprived him of reason!… Look, just look what it does with people: flushes the reason clear out of them, flies through the storm, hungry, pale, and you can't hear yourself think. You see rings of stars in your eyes, and your hand turns the wrong way. Crunch!-and everything flows out.

  … But he saved the book. The book! My precious treasure! Life, the road, the sea's expanses, fanned by the wind, the golden cloud, the blue wave! The gloom parts, you can see far away, the wide open spaces unfold, and those spaces hold bright forests with sun filtering through them and glades splattered with tulips. The spring wind Zephyr rocks the branches, waves like white lace, and the lace turns, spreads open like a fan, and in it, as in a decorated cup, is the white Princess Bird, with her red, innocent mouth. The Princess Bird doesn't eat or drink, it lives only by air and kisses, never harms anyone, and never brings sorrow. And when the Princess Bird smiles with her tulip mouth, she raises her bright eyes to the heights-she always thinks luminous thoughts about herself; she lowers her eyes and admires herself. When she sees Benedikt, she'll say: Come here, Benedikt, it's always spring here with me, I always have love…

  "My dear sweet boy… you've got a heart of gold…" His father-in-law lamented, "I taught you, didn't I, I taught you… Ay, my boy… Turn it, I said, the hook, turn it… Didn't I tell you? I told you! And you?… What have you gone and done?"

  Father-in-law shook his head. He sat, dejected, leaning on his hand. He gazed reproachfully at Benedikt.

  "In a hurry, were you? Well, you went too fast… you didn't protect life… Now he'll never be treated! I mean, how could we treat him now? Huh?" Father-in-law leaned over, shined his light into Benedikt's eyes, and his foul breath enveloped Benedikt.

  "It was an accident!" Benedikt whined through his tears. The words came out in a squeak. "It scared me!"

  "Who scared you?"

  "The Slynx!… It scared me! And I missed!"

  "Get out of here, women," said Father-in-law. "My son-in-law is upset, don't you see? What bad luck he's had. He'll survive. Don't get underfoot. Give him some more compote. Bring some soft white patties."

  "I don't want any, noooo!"

  "You must. You have to eat. Some broth too. Listen to your heart… it's beating so hard�
�" Father-in-law touched Benedikt's heart, feeling it with hard fingers.

  "Don't touch me! Leave me alone!"

  "What do you mean, leave you alone? I'm a medical worker. Am I supposed to know your condition? I am. Just look: you're shaking all over. Come on, now. Come on, like that. Eat up! Take some more."

  "The book…"

  "The one we confiscated?… Don't worry. I've got it."

  "Give it…"

  "You can't have it! Not now! What are you thinking of? Just lie down. You're very upset. How could you read yourself? I'll read it to you aloud. It's a good book… A book of the highest quality, my dear…"

  Benedikt lay there wrapped in blankets, swallowing broth and tears, while Father-in-law, lighting the pages with his eyes, running his fingers under the lines, read in a thick, important voice:

  Hickory, dickory, six and seven, Alabone, Crackabone, ten and eleven, Spin, spun, muskidun, Twiddle 'em, twaddle 'em, twenty-one…

  A duck and a drake, And a half-penny cake,

  With a penny to pay the old baker.

  A hop and a scotch

  Is another notch,

  Slitherum, slatherum, take her.

  TSI

  They took one from Theofilactus, one from Boris, two from Eulalia. Klementy, Lavrenty, Osip, Zuzya, and Revolt were all a waste of time, they didn't find anything, just bits and pieces. Maliuta had three books buried in the barn, all covered with black spots so you couldn't make out a word. Vandalism pure and simple… Roach Efimich-who would have thought?- had a whole trunkful right out in the open, two dozen books, dry and clean. Only there wasn't one word in our language, all the letters were strange: hooks and bent nails. Ulyana only had ones with pictures. Methuselah and Churilo-the twins who lived behind the river and loaned mice for a living-had one tiny torn book. Akhmetka managed to burn his: they scared him… Zoya Gurevna burned hers. Avenir, Maccabe, Nelly the Harelip, Ulcer, Riurik, Ivan Pricklin, Sysoy had nothing. January used to have one, but he didn't know where it was, though his pantry walls were all hung with pictures, and there were indecent women on the pictures.