The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

  The letters too: at first they slip and jump around. Then they settle into even rows, nice and black, all whispering. Some are open wide like they were inviting you: Come on in!

  Take the letter O for instance. It's a round window, like you're looking down from the attic at a burbling, chirping spring forest: you can see streams and fields far away, and if you're lucky and you squint your eyes, you might see the White Bird- tiny, distant, like a white speck. Or the letter [*], Pokoi. Well it's just a doorframe! And what's beyond that door? Who knows, maybe a completely new life no one ever imagined! One that's never happened before!

  X, Kher, or [*], Zhivete, they block the way, they won't let you in, they crisscross and close off the passage: Stay out! Forget it!

  [*], Tsi, and [*], Shcha, have tails, like Benedikt before his wedding.

  [*], Cherv, is like an upside-down chair.

  [*], Glagol, is shaped like a hook.

  Now if the signal is really true, then it all comes together: the paper, the letters, the picture you can see through them, the whispering, and the hum, the wind from the turning pages-a dusty, warm wind-it all thickens in front of your eyes, floods you, washes over you in a kind of airy wave. Then you know. Yes! That's it! I'm coming!

  And in a flash it falls away and leaves you, all the heaviness stays on the bed, all the dull daze, the thick, bodily, meaty heaving from side to side. Suddenly there's no confusion, no laziness, no sticky, slurping swampy bog in you. You rise in a single surge, taut like a thread pulled tight, light and resonant; there's a goal in your head, you know what to do, you're collected and cheerful!

  All that sticky weight falls away-there's only the surge! The soul!

  The robe wrapped itself around his shoulders like a magic skin. The hood, his reliable protector, leapt onto his head: I may not be seen, but I see through everyone! His strong weapon seemed to grow into his hand-his trusty hook, bent like the letter [*], Glagol! "With words to burn the hearts of men!" With a birdlike, lilting cry, with one sweep of the hand, I call my comrades. Always prepared!

  Wondrous comrades, a flying division! You call from the yard or from the gallery-and there they are, as if they neither sleep nor eat, each dozen in harmony like a single being! Ready. Onward! Stern, shining warriors, we rise and fly, neither snow nor rain nor sleet shall stop us-we know no obstacle, and the people part like the sea before us.

  We tear them away and take them; we save them. If the signal was really true, we take them and save them, because then there really was a Book there. It called, beckoned, cried out, came in a vision.

  But if the signal is false-well, then there isn't anything. That's the way it was at Konstantin Leontich's. Nothing but garbage.

  But it turned out all wrong at Konstantin Leontich's. Why? Well, because Benedikt was riding along in his sleigh, darker than a thundercloud, lost in his thoughts, and his thoughts were grim and tearful like autumn clouds-clouds in the sky, clouds in the breast, it's all the same, feelosophy has got that part right. Without seeing, he knew that his eyes were red with blood, that he had dark, deep rings under his eyes, that his face and curls had darkened, stuck together-uncombed, unwashed, his head had become flat, like a spoon. His throat was sticky from smoking, as though he'd swallowed clay. He turned the corner and suddenly he felt the pull: over there. In that izba.

  And then he allowed himself some Freethinking, or what you might call a violation of procedure. He went alone, right then, without his comrades. Whoa! he cried to Nikolai. He pulled on the reins and stopped him: Wait here; he threw on his hood and kicked the gate open with his foot.

  They teach you: never go out on a confiscation alone-it's Freethinking, and they're absolutely right: you wouldn't go alone for firelings, now, would you? The fireling might guess that there's a human walking around, and cry out, and put out its light to warn the others, mightn't it? And what if it turns out to be a fake fireling? Well, in our business it's the same thing: science is the same everywhere.

  Konstantin Leontich screamed and resisted. He hit Benedikt on the arm so hard it really really hurt. In professional terms: he complicated the confiscation.

  He let out a blood-curdling yell and called his neighbors. They didn't come, they'd hidden. Then he tore the hood off and recognized Benedikt. He squealed and hit him in the face when he recognized him.

  He scratched him furiously; he even knocked him over.

  But he made a mistake when he grabbed the hook with his hands; the hook is double-edged, you shouldn't grab it with your hands.

  That's not what it's for.

  The hook is to grab the book with, to catch it, drag it to you, to pull it toward you; it's not a spear. Why is it so sharp? So that it's dangerous for a Golubchik to hold on to the book when it's confiscated. They all clutch the book tight, so the hook is sharpened. That way, if you get out of hand, you won't be able to hold on, you'll slice your hands off in an instant, and every single last one of your fingers!

  On the outside and the inside it's sharpened really sharp, that's why you need practice grabbing and turning with it; that's why every confiscated book has cuts from the hook, like little wounds. A clumsy Saniturion could carelessly slice through a book, and that must never happen, you can't ruin art. If the work is good and clean, you can pull in a book with one flick, and there'll only be a little scar.

  So they work in groups or brigades: one comrade confiscates the book, the others use their hooks to catch the Golubchiks in the izba by their clothes, or by the collar, they wind him up, in rags.

  And another thing the hook is useful for: if the Golubchik is rambunctious, the hook is good for knocking him off his feet, so he falls down right away, and for that there's always a set of horns handy. It's a professional instrument too, but simpler, it looks like the letter Y, or a set of tongs. When someone falls, you can hold his neck down to the floor to make sure he doesn't get back up.

  Saniturions used to be given spears. One poke, and that was the end of the Golubchik. But we don't do that anymore, now we're humane.

  And a Saniturion should also watch himself, his hands always have to be clean. The hook will always be dirty from the Golubchik: with blood or vomit, whatever; but the hands have to be clean. That's why Benedikt always washes his hands.

  Because otherwise how are you going to hold the book after the confiscation? In the sleigh when you're on your way back?

  So there you have it, that's the technique, the tricks, or the scientific organization of labor. It seems simple, but it's not so simple. It's crowded in the izba, and dark; you bump into each other-a lot of people complain.

  Freethinking is out of place here, but Benedikt let it happen, as always. So he went and got wounded by Konstantin Leontich: on his hands, and on his face, and on his chest too; and he sprained his ankle. And all in vain: it was a false signal, there weren't any books.

  It was the day of the October Holiday, Konstantin Leontich was getting ready for the yearly recount, he was washing rags out in the tub-pants, a shirt. Well, so there'll be one Golubchik missing, the Murzas won't count Konstantin Leontich. They'll write down in the official lists: taken for treatment.

  After all, you can't count everyone, can you, Murza?

  In December, at the darkest time of the year, Olenka delivered triplets. Mother-in-law came by and called Benedikt in to come look at the brood. She congratulated him. He lay there, empty and heavy-hearted, waiting for the signal; and there wasn't any. All right then, he'd go take a look.

  There were three kids: one appeared to be female, she was tiny and cried. Another seemed to be a boy, but it was hard to tell right off. The third-well, you couldn't figure out what it was- to look at, it was a fuzzy, scary-looking ball. All round-like, but with eyes. They picked it up in their arms to rock it, and started singing: "Bye Baby Bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting…" and with a shove it pushed away, jumped on the floor, rolled off, and disappeared into a crack in the floor. They all rushed to catch it, their hands outstretched. They moved stools
and benches-but no luck.

  Benedikt stood around awhile, watched, as though through a fog, congratulated Olenka on a successful delivery. Then he went back to his room. Mother-in-law ran to call Terenty Petro-vich to take a look so she could brag about her grandchildren.

  He lay down on the bed that had seen so many sighs and groans. He had made himself a serious rut, lying there during all those empty years, those countless, joyless nights. He frowned and thought: If the thing just stayed under the floor that wouldn't be so bad, but what if it comes out and starts chewing up books? Maybe he should spackle the cracks closed? The floor boards had gotten quite thin. The family could scrape up a big heap in a day. Sometimes you'd walk by and it looked like there was a whole head of hair fallen on the floor! You could never tell, that thing might come out from under the floor and head straight for the book room. It would gnaw on the bindings, the spines… There's glue in there. Leather sometimes.

  As if he didn't have enough worries, and here… It would eat them up, it would definitely eat them! It needs to eat, right? There are threats to art all around: from people, rodents, the damp! How stupid and blind Benedikt used to be, blind as the blind men at the market: they sing, sing their hearts out, but they live in darkness, for them it's dark at midday! He didn't understand anything back then, like he was a worrum! He asked all kinds of silly questions, frowned, and opened his mouth wide so it was easier to think, but he didn't understand anything.

  How come we don't have mice? How come we don't need them? Well, we don't need them because we live a spiritual life: we've got books preserved here, and art, and mice would come out and eat up our treasures! With their tiny, sharp teeth, crunch crunch, nibble nibble, they'd chew them up, ruin them!

  But Golubchiks have a different life, they depend on mice. They can't do anything without mice. They need them for soup, of course, and stew, and if you want to sew yourself a coat, or trade at the market, pay taxes, that is, pay the tithe. There's the house tax, the pillow tax, the stove tax-you need mice for all of them. So that means they can't keep books at home, no, no, no! It's either one or the other.

  And why is it that spiritual life is called a higher life? It's because you put books up as high as you can, on the top floor, on a shelf, so that if misfortune strikes and the vermin get into the house, the treasure will be safer. That's why!

  And why do Father-in-law, Mother-in-law, and Olenka have claws on their feet?-for the same reason, of course! To protect spirituality! To be on the watch for mice! You won't slip by them. That's why there are three fences wrapped around the terem! That's why the guards are so strict! That's why they search you when you come in! Because no matter who you are, even the fanciest suitor or some other very important person, you could still bring a mouse in with you and you wouldn't even notice.

  If you have a rat's nest in your hair a mouse could make its own nest there too.

  It could hide in your pockets, that happens sometimes.

  Or in a boot.

  It couldn't have been clearer, but he hadn't understood. And he hadn't understood Illness, goodness knows what he thought. But Illness is in people's heads, Illness is human ignorance, stupidity, Freethinking, dimwittedness, it's when they think "Oh, well, who cares, it doesn't matter, mice and books can live in the same izba." Jeez! A book in the same izba with a mouse! Horrible even to think about.

  And how stubborn the scum are: you'd think no one let them read, that someone took away poems and essays! And just why did the government hire Scribes, why did it build the Work Izba, teach people letters, hand out writing sticks, scrape bark clean, sew bark booklets? It's a lot of extra work for the government, extra effort, fuss and bother! It's all for the people, that's who it's for. Catch all the mice you like, go on, be my guest-then trade them for booklets and read to your heart's content!

  He clenched his fists in anger, tossed and turned on the bed, and in his head everything grew clearer and clearer, like a great space was opening up! Good Lord! That's how it always was, in ancient times too! "But is the world not all alike… Throughout the ages, now and ever more?" It is! It is!

  Beneath a canopy of fetid thatch, In valleys far below the mountain's crest, A web has bound both kith and kin, Nearby, an earthly mouse now builds its nest.

  Now kith and kin crowd round the valley,

  They clamor, yet each one is still alone, And each conceals in his own desert A frozen knot, an ever precious stone.

  There you go! In the Oldener days people did the same thing: they made mischief, had a spell of Freethinking, hid books in the cold somewhere, in the damp, all frozen in a knotted bundle. Now he got it!

  In the stony cracks between the tiles

  The faces of the mice squeezed through,

  They looked like triangles of chalk,

  With mournful eyes on either side-one, two.

  That's right, there's no holding a mouse back! It can get through any crack or crevice!

  … Life, you're but a mouse's scurry, Why do you trouble me?

  Ah, brother pushkin! Aha! You also tried to protect your writing from rodents! He'd write-and they'd eat, he'd write some more, and they'd eat again! No wonder he was troubled! That's why he kept riding back and forth across the snow, across the icy desert! The sleigh bells jangle ting-a-ling! He'd hitch up a Degenerator and it was off to the steppes! He was hiding his work, looking for a place to keep it safe!

  Neither fire nor darkened huts, Just woods and snow to greet me, The whitened stripes of frosty ruts Are all that here do meet me.

  He was looking for a place to bury… Suddenly, everything became so clear that Benedikt sat up and put his feet on the floor. Why didn't he realize it earlier…? How could he have missed the instructions?… A long time ago! What did they sing with Lev Lvovich?

  Steppe and nothing else, As far as the eye can see…

  Out on that lonesome steppe A coachman called to me.

  Well! Why did he go racing off to the steppes, if not to hide books?-"in his own desert / a frozen knot, an ever precious stone…"

  Please do tell my wife, That on the steppe I froze, And that I took with me Her undying love!

  What love is he talking about? It was a book! What else could you love but a book? Huh?

  "Tell my wife… that I took with me." He asks his pal to tell his wife so that she doesn't keep looking, otherwise she'll be missing them… Now there's a poem for you! Not a poem but a regular fable! Governing instructions rendered in a simplified, popular form!

  That's why Lev Lvovich was crying. He probably buried some books too, and now he can't find them. That's enough to make you cry. But he started singing and remembered!

  How did they hint to Benedikt? Benedikt asked them: Are there any books around to read? And they answered: You don't know your ABCs. And he said: What do you mean I don't know them, I know them! And they said: "Steppe and nothing else, as far as the eye can see…" It was a hint. A fable. That's where the books are buried, they were telling him. We don't keep them at home.

  All right. Where is the steppe? The steppe is in the south… But why did he keep saying: the west will help us?… And Nikita Ivanich kept telling him: No way, it won't help, we have to do it ourselves. So which is it? Where are they?

  Mother-in-law knocked on the door: "Time to bathe the children! Are you going to watch?"

  "Don't bother me!" screamed Benedikt, pounding his fist. "Close the door!"

  "Should we bathe them?"

  "Shut the door!"

  She broke his train of thought, dammit!… Benedikt dressed hurriedly, throwing on his coat, the robe, and the hood. He dashed down the stairs and whistled to a lethargic Nikolai to hitch up.

  He drove him impatiently, tapping his boot in the sleigh. He had to check the horizon. He absolutely had to. Before the faint winter light was gone, he had to survey the horizon in all four directions.

  Benedikt was driving to the watchtower, that's where. He'd never been up in the watchtower before. Who would have let a Go
lubchik up there, anyway? It was forbidden, it belonged to the government, only guards and Murzas are allowed on the tower. And why is that? Because you can see far and wide from there, and that's governmental business, it's not meant for just anyone! An ordinary Golubchik has no call to be looking off far and wide: it's not fitting. Maybe there are warriors approaching off in the distance! Maybe a ferocious enemy wants to take a bite out of our bright homeland, so he's sharpened his sticks and marched off toward us. That's governmental business! It's forbidden! But no one would ever stop Benedikt, since he was a Saniturion.

  No one stopped him. Naturally.

  The watchtower was higher than the highest terem, higher than the trees, higher than the Alexander column. There was a room on the very top. In the room, set in the walls, were four small windows, four slits facing the four sides of the world. Above it sat a slanted four-sided roof, like a hat. Like the one the Murzas wear. When you look up from below-way, way up, under the clouds, the government workers and guards swarm like little ants. They crawl from one place to another, fiddling around with something. Down on the ground the guards have poleaxes. Benedikt rose heavily from the sleigh, one part of him at a time, his awful eyes looking through the crimson slits. He raised his hood-and the guards fell prostrate onto the hard, frozen snow crust. He stepped into the tower. There was a strong doggy smell from dirty coats and the acrid odor of cheap rusht: they were smoking damp, uncleaned rusht with twigs and straw. The wood steps clunked and clattered under his feet. There was a spiral staircase covered with yellow ice-this was where they relieved themselves and stamped out butts. On the walkways, sparkling with frost, someone had scratched curse words, the usual stuff. Not a whiff of spirituality… He climbed slowly, leaning on the hook, stopping on the landings to rest. Steam came out of his mouth and hung there, hovering in clouds in the foul, frosty air.