The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  Tell me, pushkin! How should I live? I hacked you out of a dumb log all by myself, bent your head, bent your elbow so you would cross your chest and listen to your heart: What has passed? What is yet to come? Without me you would be an eyeless chunk, an empty log, a nameless tree in the forest; you'd rustle in the wind in spring, drop your acorns in fall, creak in winter: no one would know about you! Without me-you wouldn't be here! "Who was it, with iniquitous power, called me forth from nothingness?" It was me, I called you! I did!

  It's true, you came out a little crooked, the back of your head is flat, your fingers aren't quite right, and you don't have any legs. I can see that for myself, I understand carpentry.

  But you're who you are, be patient, my child-you're the same as us, no different!

  You're our be all and end all and we're yours, and there's no one else! No one! Help me!

  YERY

  "Give me the book," whined Benedikt. "Don't try to jew me out of it, give me the book!"

  Nikita Ivanich looked at Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents. Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents looked out the window. It was a summer's eve, still light, the bladder off the window-you could see far, far away.

  "It's too soon!" said Nikita Ivanich.

  "Soon for what? The sun is already setting."

  "Too early for you. You don't know the ABCs yet. You're uncivilized."

  "Steppe and nothing else… as far as the eye can see… And neither fish nor fowl…" said Lev Lvovich through his teeth.

  "What do you mean, I don't know them?" answered Benedikt in amazement. "Me? Why, I… I… Why… Do you know how many books I've read? How many I've copied?"

  "It doesn't matter if it's a thousand."

  "It's more than that!"

  "Even if it's a thousand, it hardly matters. You don't really know how to read, books are of no use to you. They're just empty page-turning, a collection of letters. You haven't learned the alphabet of life. Of life, do you hear me?"

  Benedikt was flabbergasted. He didn't know what to say. To be told such a bold-faced lie straight out like that. Nikita Ivanich might as well have said: You're not you, you're not Benedikt, and you aren't living on this earth, and… and… and I don't know what.

  "You already said that… What do you mean I don't know? The alphabet… There's Az… Slovo… Myslete… Fert."

  "There's Fert, but there's Theta, and Yat, and Izhitsa, there are concepts inaccessible to you: sensitivity, compassion, generosity…"

  "The rights of individuals," piped up Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents.

  "Honesty, justice, spiritual insight…"

  "Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association," added Lev Lvovich.

  "Mutual assistance, respect for others… self-sacrifice…"

  "Now that's a lot of stinking mystical blather," shouted Lev Lvovich, wagging his finger. "This isn't the first time I've noticed where you're heading with all that monument preservation! This smacks of nationalistic mysticism. It downright stinks."

  It did smell bad in the izba. Lev Lvovich sure got that one right.

  "There isn't any Theta," objected Benedikt. In his head he went through the entire alphabet, afraid that perhaps he'd let something slip-but no, he hadn't forgotten anything, he knew the alphabet by heart, backward and forward, and he'd never had cause to complain about his memory. "There's no Theta, and after Fert comes Kher, and that's that. There isn't anything else."

  "And don't hold your breath, there isn't going to be any," said Lev Lvovich, getting worked up once again, "You, Nikita Ivanich, you've got no business sowing obscurantism and superstition. Social protest is what's needed now, not Tolstoyism. This isn't the first time I've observed this in you. You're a Tolstoyan."

  "A Tolstoyan, a Tolstoyan! Don't argue with me!"

  "But-"

  "On this point, old man, you and I are on different sides of the barricades. You are dragging society backward. 'To a cell in a shell.' You are a socially pernicious element. Mysticism! Right now the most important thing is protest. It's crucial to say: No! Do you remember-now when was that?-remember when I was called up for roadwork?"

  "And-"

  "I said: No! You must remember, you were around then."

  "And you didn't go?"

  "No, no, why do you say that? I went. They forced me. But I said: No!"

  "Who did you say it to?"

  "To you, I told you, you must remember. I believe it's very important to say no at the right moment. To say: I protest!"

  "You protested, but you went anyway?"

  "Have you ever met anyone who didn't go?"

  "Forgive me, but what's the point… if no one hears-"

  "And what's the point of your… what shall I call them… activities? All those posts?"

  "What do you mean? Memory, of course!"

  "Of what? Whose memory? It's just empty noise! Hot air! Now, here we've got a young man," said Lev Lvovich, looking at Benedikt with distaste. "Let this young man tell us, since he knows his letters so well, precisely what is inscribed on the pillar standing in the burdock and nettle patch next to your izba, and why is it there."

  "It's grabweed," Benedikt corrected.

  "It doesn't matter, I'm used to calling it nettle."

  "Call it a pot if you like. It's grabweed."

  "What does it matter?"

  "Stick your hand in and you'll find out."

  "Lev Lvovich," remarked Nikita Ivanich, "it's possible that the young man is right. Nowadays they differentiate nettle from grabweed. You and I don't, but they can tell the difference."

  "No, no, no. Excuse me," said Lev Lvovich stubbornly, "I'm not yet blind, and let's not have any mysticism here: I see nettle and I insist that it is nettle."

  "Crikey, Lev Lvovich, nettle is nettle!" Benedikt said. "And grabweed is grabweed. If it grabs you, you'll know it. You can make soup from nettle. It's not very good, but you can do it. But just try making soup from grabweed. No way you can make soup of it! No, no, no-o-o-o," Benedikt said with a laugh, "you'll never make soup of grabweed. Yeah, sure, nettle! It's not nettle. I swear. It's grabweed. That's it. Grabweed and nothing but."

  "All right, all right," Lev Lvovich stopped him. "So what is written on the post?"

  Benedikt stuck his head out of the window, squinted, and read everything that was on the post out loud to the Oldeners: "Nikita's Gates," seven swear words, an obscene picture, "Fedya and Klava," another five cuss words, "Vitya was here," "There is no heppinness in life," three swear words, "Zakhar is a dog," and one more obscene picture. He read everything aloud.

  "There you've got it, the whole inscription, or text, exactly like it is. And there's no Theta there. Lots of the F letter, one, two… eight. No, nine, the ninth is in Fedya. But there's no Theta."

  "Your Theta isn't there," Lev Lvovich confirmed.

  "Yes, it is," cried the Stoker, beside himself. "Nikita's Gate is my Theta to you, to everyone! So that there's some memory of our glorious past! With hope for the future! We'll restore everything, everything, and we'll start with the small things! It's a whole layer of our history! Pushkin was here! He was married here!"

  "The pushkin was here," Benedikt agreed. "Right here in the shed, that's where we started him. We chiseled his head out, his arm, everything was fine and dandy. You helped drag him yourself, Lev Lvovich, you forgot already? You have a bad memory! And Vitya was here."

  "What Vitya?"

  "I don't know, maybe it was Vitya the Fainter from Upper Maelstrom, maybe it was the Chuchin's Vitya-a big guy, a bit younger than I am. Or maybe it was Vitya Ringlegs. It's not likely, though-I don't think he could make it all the way here. No, he couldn't make it. His legs are kind of turned around, like his foot was on the inside…"

  "What are you talking about, what Vitya, what does Vitya have to do with anything?"

  "There it is, over there on the post, on the post! 'Vitya was here!' I only just read it out loud to you!"

  "But that's completely unimportant, whether he was
or wasn't here, who knows…? I'm talking about memory…"

  "Well, he left a memory! He carved it! So that people would know, whoever walked by-so they'd remember: he was here!"

  "When will you learn to differentiate!!" shouted Nikita Ivanich, who had puffed up, turned red, and begun gesticulating… "It's a milestone, a historical landmark! Nikita's Gates stood here, do you understand that? You Neanderthal!!! A great city stood here! Pushkin was here!"

  "Vitya was here," shouted Benedikt, becoming incensed himself. "Fedya and Klava were here! Klava, I don't know, maybe Klava was at home and just Fedya was here! He carved a memory! And it's all here! Aha! I've got it! I know which Vitya! It was Viktor Ivanich, who buried your old woman. The organizer. It must have been him. That Viktor Ivanich."

  "Viktor Ivanich would never go around carving nonsense on posts," protested the Oldeners, "it's difficult to even imagine… completely unthinkable…"

  "Why wouldn't he? How do you know? What, is he dumber than you? You carve things, and he can't carve anything, is that it? It's all right to carve something about some gates, go ahead, but about a real person-not on your life, is that it?"

  All three of them sat in silence, breathing through their noses.

  "All right," said Nikita Ivanich, spreading his hands. "Let's calm down. Right now-wait-now I'll concentrate and explain. Good. In some ways you're right. Human beings are important. But! What's the point of this?" Nikita Ivanich gathered his fingers together. "The point is, that this memory-pay attention Benedikt!-this memory can exist on different levels…"

  Benedikt spat.

  "You think I'm an idiot! You're talking like I was a little baby!… If he's a big strapping nitwit, then of course he's at a different level! He'll do his carving right on the very top! If he's a pip-squeak-he won't be able to reach, so he'll say what he has to on the bottom! And this one's right in the middle, exactly Viktor Ivanich's height. He's the one that did it, and there's no doubt about it."

  "Steppe and nothing else…" Lev Lvovich suddenly started singing.

  "As far as the eye can seeee…" Benedikt chimed in joyfully. He liked this song, always ordered the Degenerators to sing it on the road. "Out on that lonesome steppe…"

  "A coachman called to meeeee!"

  All three began singing, Benedikt sang the bass, Nikita Ivanich sort of croaked along, and Lev Lvovich sang in a high, beautiful, heartfelt voice with a tear in it. Even Nikolai out in the yard was surprised. He stopped munching grass and stared at the singers.

  You, my oldest friend, Don't recall bad deeds, On this desolate steppe, Please do bury meeeeeee!

  The singing went so well, such a languid lightness set in, such a sense of accord, such wings, it felt like the smoky izba wasn't an izba, but a meadow, like nature raised her head, turned to look, opened her mouth in surprise and listened, and tears kept on falling and falling from her eyes. Like the Princess Bird forgot her beautiful self for a minute and set her brilliant gaze on the singers in amazement. Like they hadn't just been arguing, their hearts incensed, hadn't exchanged angry looks and put on grimaces of mutual disdain; like their hands hadn't been itching to punch the other guy in the kisser so he wouldn't look at me like that, so that he didn't make faces, didn't talk through his teeth, didn't hold his nose! It's hard to stay mad when you're singing: if you open your mouth the wrong way, you'll ruin the song. If you squawk, you lose track, like you've dropped something, and spilled it! If you ruin a song, you're the fool, you'll be to blame, there's no one else! The others have gone on, they're carrying the tune along nicely, calmly, and it's like you were drunk and tripped and fell face down in the mud. Shameful!

  Please go tell my wife,

  That on the steppe I froooooooze! -

  Lev Lvovich broke off, banged his head against the table, and began to cry, like he was barking. Benedikt was scared, he stopped singing and stared at the Oldener, forgetting to close his mouth, which remained open at the letter O.

  "Lev Lvovich! Lyovushka!" pleaded Nikita Ivanich. The Stoker ran all around, tugged at the crying man's sleeve, grabbed a cup, put it down, grabbed a towel, dropped it. "Now what is this! Lyovushka! Come on, that's enough! We'll manage somehow! We're alive, after all, aren't we?"

  Lev Lvovich shook his head, rocking it on the table, like he was saying no and he didn't want to stop.

  "Benya! Get some water, quick…! He's not supposed to be under stress, he has a heart condition!"

  They gave the Oldener something to drink, dried him with a towel, and fanned his face with their hands.

  "You sing so well!" said Nikita Ivanich comfortingly. "Did you study or is it just natural? Does it run in your family?"

  "Probably… Papa was a dentist," sniffed Lev Lvovich one last time. "And on my mother's side I'm from the Kuban."

  YER'

  They say you can never have too much of a woman's body- and they're right. Olenka expanded sideways, forward, and backward. You couldn't have asked for anything more beautiful. Where once she had a dimpled chin there were now eight. She had six rows of tits. She had to sit on five stools, three weren't enough. Not long ago they widened the doorway, but they'd been stingy: it needed to be widened again. Any other husband would have been proud. But Benedikt looked at all this splendor without any excitement. He didn't feel like playing goats, or tickling and pinching her.

  "Benedikt, you don't understand anything about female beauty. Terenty Petrovich, now, he appreciates… Go sleep in another room."

  To hell with her, then. She might squash him at night, smother him. Benedikt made himself a pallet in the library. From there you could hardly hear her snoring. And that way the signal would come quicker.

  He slept fully dressed, and stopped bathing: what a bore. Dirt collected behind his ears, all kinds of garbage. Creatures of some kind settled in: slow, with lots of legs; at night they moved from place to place, uneasy. Maybe they were lugging their nests somewhere, but you couldn't see who they were-they were behind the ears. His feet were sweaty and stuck together. It didn't matter. You lie there like a warm corpse: your ears don't hear, your eyes don't see. True, he did wash his hands; but he had to for his work.

  … And where is that clearest of fires, and why does it not burn?

  You get up, go to the kitchen, pluck a meat pattie out of a bowl with two fingers, with a third you scoop the jelly out of the bowl.

  You eat it. No emotion. You eat it-that's all. Now what? Start dancing a jig?

  You open the window bladder-a fine rain drizzles, needling the puddles; the clouds are low, the whole sky is covered, it's dark during the day, as if the sun had never risen. A serf crosses the yard-he covers his head from the rain and goes around the puddles, carrying a sack of hay to the Degenerators. A long time ago, oh, how long ago it was, in a former life!-you would have tried to guess: Will he slip or not? Will he fall? And now you look on sort of dumbly: Yeah, the serf slipped. Yeah, he fell. But there's no joy in it anymore.

  … The lamplighter should have lit them, but sleeps. He sleeps, and I'm not to blame, my sweet…

  From the bedroom came a clicking and clattering: Olenka and Terenty Petrovich were playing dominoes and laughing. Another time he would have burst into the room like a tornado and beat Terenty's mug black and blue, loosened a few teeth for him, and kicked him out of the family quarters! Olenka would have got what was coming to her as well: he'd have grabbed her by the hair, by those bobbins of hers, and smashed her sour-creamed face against the wall. Again! Once more! Another time for good measure! He'd have stomped on her and given her a few in the ribs, in the ribs!

  But now it didn't matter; they're playing and let them play.

  You lie there. Just lie and lie there. "Ne'er a drop of divinity, nor single sigh of inspiration." No tears, no life, no love. For a month, perhaps a half a year. Suddenly: hark! Something blows in on the breeze. This is a signal.

  You perk up right away, on guard. Has it come, or did you just imagine it? Seems like you imagined… No! There it is
again! Clear as clear can be! You rise up on your elbow, cock your ear to one side, listening.

  There's a faint light in your head-like a candle behind a door cracked open… Careful not to scare it off…

  It's gotten a bit stronger now, that light, and you can see the room. In the middle there's nothing, and on that nothing- there's a book. The pages are turning… It seems to be coming closer and closer, you can almost make out what's written…

  Then your mouth goes dry, your heart pounds, your eyes go blind: you just saw the book, and the pages were turning, they were turning! But you can't see what's going on around you, and if you do see it, it doesn't mean anything at all. The meaning is over there, in the book; the book is the only real, living thing. Your bed, stool, room, father- and mother-in-law, your wife and her lover-they aren't alive, they're like drawings! Moving shadows, like the cloud shadows running across the earth-and they're gone!

  But what kind of book it is, where it is, why its pages are turning-and is someone turning them or is it moving on its own? That is a mystery.

  One time he felt the pull-and rushed to check Konstantin Leontich. He was driving by, and suddenly he felt the pull: What if he's got one? There wasn't anything there, just a string of worrums. Now that was a false signal.

  There are true signals and then sometimes there are false ones: if the signal is for real, then the vision you see in your head gets stronger, thicker, so to speak; the book you see in your vision gets heavier and heavier. At first it's clear and watery, and then it thickens; you see its paper, white, oh, so white, or yellowed and rough, you can see every freckle and spot and scratch on it, like you were looking at skin close up. You look and you laugh from the joy of it, just like you were about to make love.