The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  Gloom and doom.

  "There's so much nastiness among the people," Father-in-law said, "just think. I mean, at one time they were told: Don't keep books at home! Were they told? Yes, they were. But no, they keep holding on to them. Everyone wants things their own way. The books rot, they get them dirty, they bury them in the front garden. Can you imagine?"

  "Yes, yes."

  "They poke holes in them, tear out pages, roll them up like cigars…"

  "That's horrible, I can't even listen!"

  "They use them as tops on soup pots…"

  "Don't make me sick! I can't stand it!"

  "Or they stick them in a dormer window and when it rains, the pages slip and you end up with mush… Or they use them in the stove-what do you get? Smoke, soot, and then poof-it burns up… There are people who don't want to waste firewood, and they just heat the stove with books…"

  "Stop, please, I can't stand it!"

  "And then-do you hear me, son?-there are people who tear out the pages and use them in the privy, hang them on a nail for nature's calls… And we know what that means…"

  Benedikt couldn't take any more. He jumped up from the stool. Running his hands through his hair, he paced the room: there was a tight knot in his heart, his soul was dazed and dizzy as though he were on a steep incline, as though the floor under his feet were tilting like in a dream and any minute now everything would roll off it into a bottomless pit, into a well, who knows where. Here we are sitting around, or lying on the bed in a warm terem, everything is clean and civilized, you can smell bliny cooking in the kitchen, our women are decent, they're white, rosy, steamed in the bath; all decked out with beads, headdresses, sarafans, first, second, and third petticoats with ribbons, and they also thought up wearing shawls that swish, with clean, lacy, patterned feathers. But down there in town are Golubchiks in unswept izbas, living in constant soot and filth, with black and blue faces, dimwitted gazes, they grab books without wiping their hands; they crack the spines, tear out pages crosswise and top to bottom; they tear off the legs of steeds, the heads of beauties. They crumple the Ocean-Sea's wine-dark waves and chuck them into the greedy fire; they roll white roads into cigars and squeeze them: blue-gray smoke winds around the paths, the flowering bushes crackle and go up in flames. Cut down at the root, the lilac tree falls with a moan, the golden birch topples and the tulip is trampled, the secret glade is soiled. With a fierce cry, her mouth torn, Princess Bird tumbles from her branch, her legs upside down, her head smashed against a stone!

  What's burned can't be returned, what's dead can't be fed. And what would you take out of a burning house?… Me? You don't know? And you call yourself a Stoker! You asked the riddle, what you call a dilemma. If you had to choose, what would you take: a pussy cat or a painting? a Golubchik or a book? Questions! And he worried about it, wallowed in doubt, shook his head, twisted his beard!… "I can't decide, I've been thinking about it for three hundred years…" Really now, a pussy! A cat, to be scientific, his job is to hunt, to fly like spit on the wind, stay out from underfoot, to know his business-catching mice! Pussy cat pussy cat what did you there? And not paintings! Golubchiks? Golubchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they'll all return to clay. They're full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.

  You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call-

  O tender specter, happy chance, Again I heed the ancient lore, Again with beauty rare in stance, You beckon from the distant shore!

  You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet-but you laugh, shout, and sing; you're obedient-but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings! Sometimes a kind of wordless feeling tosses and turns in the chest, pounds its fists on the door, the walls: I'm suffocating! Let me out! How can you let that feeling out, all fuzzy and naked? What words can you dress it in? We don't have any words, we don't know! Just like wild animals, or a blindlie bird, or a mermaid- no words, just a bellowing. But you open a book-and there they are, fabulous, flying words:

  O city! O wind! O snowstorms and blizzards!

  O azure abyss all raveled and tattered!

  Here am I! I'm blameless! I'm with you forever…

  … Or there's bile and sadness and bitterness. The emptiness dries your eyes out and you search for the words, and here they are:

  But is the world not all alike? From the Cabbala of Chaldaic signs Throughout the ages, now and ever more, To the sky where the even star shines.

  The same old wisdom-born of ashes, And in that wisdom, like our twin, The face of longing, frailty, fear, and sin, Stares straight across the ages at us.

  Benedikt ran out onto the gallery, looked at the settlement from the heights, at the city, its hills and valleys, the paths worn between the fences, the snow-covered streets. Snow blew and swirled all around, it slid with a swish from the roof beyond the gates. He stood there, his neck craned, turning his head this way and that, staring hard, blinking away the frost: Who was hiding them? Who had them wrapped in a cloth on the stove, in a box under the bed, in an earthen pit, in a birch chest-who? If only he knew! There are books out there! I know there are, I can sense them, I can smell them: they're there! Only where? Squinting, he gazed into the blind gloom: it was twilight, lights were coming on in the izbas; little people below were hurrying, running, rushing to the stove warmth, to their benches, to their soup, their thin mouse stew… How do they eat that slop, isn't it disgusting?… A murky water… like when you wash your feet, the same color… Bits of flesh settle on the bottom, spiced salty worrums. The people's anchovies… That was what Nikita Ivanich called worrums… Was the old man still alive? It would be good to see him… Maybe he has a book? Maybe he'd let him read it? And he wouldn't need to be treated, he'd hand it over himself… If I had my way-I'd turn the whole city upside down. Hand over those books, right now! But Father-in-law won't allow it, he holds back, all in good measure, son, if we take them all off for treatment-who's going to work? Who'll clear the roads, plant the turnips, weave the baskets? That's not the governmental approach: all in a rush. In one fell swoop! Right away! Really, now! You'd only scare people, they'd run off! You caught mice? You know the science? Well, there you go!…

  It's true, he used to catch mice. He'd feed them first. That's right. He was even rich for a whole hour. And then? It all disappeared, like it was never there! All that was left of his riches was some sweet rolls-and they were burnt!

  He needed to stretch his legs. He went into the stalls. No culture… A heavy animal smell. The goats are bleating. Teterya and his pals, as always, are playing cards: "Here's a jack for you!"

  "We'll play a ten."

  "Are you nuts?"

  "It's trump!"

  "So what if it's trump?? The ten takes it. He dropped a ten! He's cheating, guys!"

  As always-they haven't mucked out the stables or anything.

  "Teterya! Over here. Bridle up."

  "Wait a minute, we're not finished."

  "What do you mean, wait? You've had enough rest."

  "So, no… then… A dame, and another dame! There you go!"

  "Teterya!"

  "I'm between shifts. You'll take it? Here's a jack for change."

  "Teterya!!!" Benedikt shouted, stamping his foot.

  "Now, now, there he goes, shouting up a storm. The sleigh runners are bent."

  "Don't lie! It's always the same old thing! Get your boots on, I'm going for a ride. You've got five minutes to tack up!…"

  Benedikt walked along the cages. Here were the sparrows. A small bird, like a mouse, but tasty. Only it has a lot of bones. There were nightingales in this cage. They ate them, need to catch some new ones. In spri
ngtime. Right now they're all hiding. Here-what's this? Here's the woodsucker.

  "Woodsucker!" Benedikt called. "Come out!"

  It didn't come out.

  "Come out of there, you bitch!"

  It didn't want to. Terenty pulled up, smirking. "Shout louder."

  He shouted louder.

  "Even louder."

  "Woodsuuuuuuccker!!"

  It won't come, what's going on!

  "Shout like your guts are gonna split. She'll come out. From the gut."

  Benedikt looked at him doubtfully: the pig is laughing, happy: "Ha ha! You ate it already!"

  "Did we? Then what the hell are you…"

  Idiotic jokes… You could ruin your voice in a frost like this. Benedikt checked out the cage. All the weaker birds were in the hollow. The blindlie had hidden his head under his wing. The shitbirds had flocked together and were warming each other. They were suffering! There you go! That'll teach you to shit on people's heads! What a trashy bird! And its meat is rubbish- stringy, tough, they only feed it to Degenerators, but people don't eat it. And it doesn't want to live in the forest, only in town.

  In the farthest cage, where the bare tree and branch stood, you couldn't see anyone. Who knows who lived there. Whatever it was, it was in the hollow. Or maybe there wasn't anyone: the cage was clean, no droppings, no feathers. Maybe they ate it already.

  Jeez, they ate the woodsucker. And he hadn't even noticed, he was so busy reading. He never got a good look at it. Who knows when they'd catch another one. They don't just come and fly into your hand, woodsuckers.

  "Let's go," Teterya hurried him. "I'm freezing."

  "Don't give me orders, you pig. If you have to-you'll freeze!"

  He kicked the louse in his side, sat down in the sleigh, and covered himself with a bear skin. "Off with you! At a gallop- and I want songs!"

  CHERV

  … Nikita Ivanich and another Oldener, Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents, were sitting at the table drinking rusht. They'd been drinking awhile and were feeling fine: their faces were red, and they were mumbling a lot of nonsense.

  Benedikt took off his hat. "And a good day to you."

  "Benya? Benya! Is it really you?" Nikita Ivanich was pleased. "It's been so long! How long has it been? A year, two?… Extraordinary… Do you know each other? Benedikt Kar-pov, our sculptor, the people's Opekushin."

  Lev Lvovich looked at him skeptically, as though he didn't recognize him, as if he hadn't helped to carry the pushkin himself. He made a face. "Kudeyarov's son-in-law?"

  "That's right."

  "I heard about it, I heard about your mesalliance."

  "Thank you," said Benedikt, feeling touched. So they had heard about his marriage.

  He sat down and the Oldeners moved over. It was crowded, of course. The izba seemed smaller than the last time he'd been there. The candle smoked and dripped, shadows danced. The walls were black with soot. Poverty showed on the table too: a jug, a couple of mugs, a plate of peas. They poured some rusht for Benedikt.

  "So what are you up to? How are you? Just think… Here we were, sitting, drinking… talking about life… about the past… That is, we were talking about the future too, of course… About our Pushkin… How we sculpted him, hey? How we erected him! What an event! A milestone! The resuscitation of the saints! An historical landmark! Now he's with us again. And Pushkin, you know, Benya, Pushkin is our be all and end all! He's everything to us. You just think about it, remember, and assimilate it… But what a pity… can you imagine? He already requires restoration…"

  "What does he require?" asked Benedikt, standing up.

  "Fixing, Benya, he needs fixing! The rain, the snow, the birds… they've all taken their toll. If he were only made of stone! I won't even mention bronze, we're nowhere near having bronze. And then there's the people-people are utter savages: they tie a rope around him, and hang their laundry on freedom's bard! Underwear and pillowcases-barbarians!"

  "But Nikita Ivanich, you were the one who always said the people's path to him should never be overgrown. And now you're complaining."

  "Oh, Lord… Benya… That was a figure of speech."

  "All right, we can put that figure wherever you want. I'll send some serfs. We could use the sleigh too."

  "O Lord in Heaven, help us."

  "We need a Xerox," said Lev Lvovich gloomily.

  "It was only about a hundred years ago that you said we needed a fax. That the West would come to our aid," replied Nikita Ivanich.

  "That's right, but the irony is that-"

  "The irony is that there isn't any West."

  "What do you mean there isn't any West!" snapped Lev Lvovich. "There's always a West."

  "But we don't know anything about it."

  "No, no, no. Excuse me! You and I know. It's just that they don't know anything about us."

  "And that's news to you?"

  Lev Lvovich became even more gloomy and scraped at the table. "Right now the most important thing is a Xerox."

  "But why, tell me why?!"

  "Because it was said: be fruitful and multiply!" Lev Lvovich raised a long finger. "Multiply!"

  "Well then, just how do you envision this?" Nikita Ivanich asked. "Let's just suppose, for the sake of argument, that you have your fax and your Xerox. Under current conditions. Let's just suppose. Although it's highly unlikely. What would you do with them? How to you intend to fight for freedom with a fax? Go on, tell me."

  "My pleasure. It's quite simple. I take an album of Durer's work. That's just an example. Black and white, but that doesn't matter. I make a copy. I multiply it. I fax it to the West. They receive it and say: 'Wait a minute, what's going on here! That's our national treasure.' They fax me back: 'Return our national treasure immediately!' And I say to them: Come and get it. Take charge. Then you've got international contacts, diplomatic negotiations, everything you could hope for. Coffee. Paved roads. Nikita Ivanich, remember shirts with cuff links? Conferences…"

  "Confrontations."

  "Humanitarian rice."

  "Porno films…"

  "Jeans."

  "Terrorists."

  "Of course. Complaints to the UN. Political hunger strikes. The International Court in The Hague."

  "The Hague doesn't exist anymore."

  Lev Lvovich shook his head so hard the candle flame flickered: "Don't upset me, Nikita Ivanich. Don't say such terrible things. That's just nationalistic claptrap."

  "There is no Hague, Golubchik. There never was."

  Lev Lvovich started crying drunken tears and banged his fist on the table. The peas jumped on the plate. "It's not true, I don't believe it! The West will come to our aid!"

  "We have to do it ourselves, all on our own."

  "This is not the first time I've noticed your nationalistic tendencies! You're a Slavophile!"

  "You know, I'm really-"

  "A Slavophile, a Slavophile! Don't deny it."

  "I hope for a spiritual renaissance."

  "Samizdat is what we need."

  "But Lev Lvovich! We have lots of samizdat, it's flourishing. If I'm not mistaken, you yourself used to insist it was the most important thing. And just look-no spiritual life. So apparently it's not the main thing."

  Benedikt coughed politely to interrupt. "My life is spiritual."

  "In what sense?"

  "I don't eat mice."

  "Well, and what else?"

  "Not a single bite… Only birds. Meat. Pasties once in a while. Bliny. Marshrooms, of course. Nightingales dipped in batter, horsetail a la Savoy. Bullfinch stew. Fireling parfait a la Ly-onnaise. Then -cheese and fruit. That's it."

  The Oldeners' eyes bugged out and they stared at him silently.

  "And cigars?" Lev Lvovich finally asked, grinning.

  "We go into another room to smoke. Near the stove. Fevro-nia, my mother-in-law, doesn't let us smoke at the table."

  "I remember Pigronia," remarked Lev Lvovich. "I remember her father. An imbecile. And her grandfather. Another imb
ecile. Her great-grandfather too."

  "That's right," affirmed Benedikt. "She's from one of the oldest families, of French origin."

  "They were fruitful and multiplied," giggled tipsy Nikita Ivanich. "There you go! Hmm? Lev Lvovich!"

  "And there's your spiritual renaissance for you, Nikita Ivanich!"

  They poured some more rusht.

  "All right, then… Here's to returning to sources, Lev Lvovich!"

  "To our freedom!"

  They drank. Benedikt drank too.

  "Why is it," said Nikita Ivanich, "why is it that everything keeps mutating, everything? People, well, all right, but the language, concepts, meaning! Huh? Russia! Everything gets twisted up in knots."

  "Not everything," argued Benedikt. "Now, if you eat cheese, then yes, your insides will mutiny, and your stomach'll get tied up in knots. But if you eat a pasty-it's all right… Nikita Ivanich!… I brought a present for you."

  Benedikt fumbled inside his coat and pulled out the book with "Slitherum Slatherum" wrapped in a clean cloth. He really didn't want to give it up, but it wouldn't work without a sacrifice.

  "Here. It's for you. A book."

  Nikita Ivanich was taken aback. Lev Lvovich ruffled: "It's a provocation!… Careful, Nikita Ivanich!"

  "It's a poem," explained Benedikt. "Everything about our life is all written down here in poems. You're arguing, next thing you'll start fighting-but why don't you read it instead. I learned it by heart." Benedikt looked up into a dark corner of the ceiling-it was always easier to remember things that way, when nothing distracted you. "Hickory dickory six and seven. Alabone, Crackabone-"

  "That's enough," said Lev Lvovich.

  "You like to read to yourself? I do too, with my eyes. When there's no one to bother me… I just pour myself a cup of compote- and read!"

  "Where did you get it?" asked Nikita Ivanich.

  Benedikt's face expressed a certain vagueness: he stuck his jaw out, screwed up his mouth, as if ready to kiss someone, raised his eyebrows as high as he could, looked over his shoulder, and flapped his hands around in different directions.