The Slynx (21 page)

He scares people, the swine. And attracts disrespect. Some-

times he just plunks down in the middle of the road and sits there.

"What's going on, Teterya?"

"Some can call me Teterya, and some Terenty Petrovich."

"I'll give you a Petrovich! Get a move on! .. . Stop. Where the hell're you going?"

"Back to the garage. I'm off duty!"

And he bursts out laughing, the rat.

But all in all, life is good. Everything's all right. Well, almost everything. At night Benedikt would sometimes wake up suddenly, and at first he couldn't understand: Where am I? The room was big, the windows were bright with moonlight, and the moonlight lay in stripes on the floor. Someone snored lightly nearby. Oh, that's right, I'm married. You get up, walk around barefoot, quietly. The floor in the room is warm--that's because we sleep on the second story, and under the floor are stovepipes that warm it. What will they think up next? The floors are smooth, only here and there are little piles Olenka has clawed up. You stand, listening to the silence. It's quiet. .. Well, Olenka is snuffling, a snore can be heard somewhere far off in the house, someone suddenly cries out in his sleep, but still, it's quiet. And that's because the mice aren't scampering around. There aren't any mice.

At first it was kind of strange. A mouse scurries, life hurries, goes the saying, and poems say the same kind of thing: "Life, you're but a mouse's scurry, why do you trouble me?" "Hickory dickory dock..." "There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile ..." But here--nothing. Benedikt wanted to ask, but it was kind of awkward to ask all kinds of silly questions. There aren't any, so they must have caught them all.

Yes, things are good: it's warm, his stomach's full, his wife is nice and fat. And he's used to his in-laws now, they're not so bad. They have faults, but who's perfect? Everybody's different, isn't that so? Mother-in-law, for instance, she's .. . well, kind of boring. There's nothing to talk about. All she says is "eat," and "eat." I got it, I got it, I'm eating. I open my mouth, put food in, close it, chew. Now I want to talk about life or art or something.

I chew, and was just about to ask something, when she says: "Why aren't you eating?" I open my mouth again, more food -- it's hard to talk with your mouth full--and swallow, in a hurry to say something, and she says, "Why aren't you eating anything? Maybe it isn't tasty? Just tell me."

"No, everything's delicious, I just wanted to--"

"If it's delicious, then eat."

"But I--"

"You don't like our food?"

"No, I didn't--"

"Maybe you're used to delicacies, and you're turning up your nose at our food?"

"We don't have any dainties, of course, we get by with what we have, but if you don't care for our ..."

"But--"

"Olenka! Why is he so picky ... If he won't taste my cooking, then I just don't know what to feed him!"

"Benya, don't upset Mama, eat..."

"I'm eating, I'm eating!!!"

"You're not eating well enough, then." As soon as the bickering starts, all thought of art, or poems, or anything else, disappears.

Father-in-law is a little different. He really likes to talk. You could even say he wants to talk all the time, so you start thinking: It would be nice if he'd be quiet for a change. He likes to teach and ask questions, like he's testing you. He opens his mouth, takes a few breaths, and starts asking. There's a bad smell from his mouth, it kind of stinks. And he sort of stretches his neck out. Benedikt thought that his collar was tight, but no: his collar is always unbuttoned. It's just a habit. When Benedikt has eaten his full, he sits down by the window to look out--and there's Father-in-law sitting down next to him, ready for a chat.

"So, how about it, son, no thoughts popping up?"

"What thoughts?"

"All kinds of bad thoughts?"

"No, nothing popping up."

"Think about it carefully."

"I can't think. I'm stuffed."

"Maybe you feel like committing some villainy?"

"No, I don't."

"But if you think about it?"

"I still don't."

"Maybe you've planned some homicide?"

"No."

"But if you think about it?"

"No."

"If you're honest about it?"

"For heaven's sake, I told you. No!"

"No dreams of overthrowing the bosses?"

"Listen, I'm going to sleep! I can't take this!"

"And what if you have some murderous dreams?"

Benedikt gets up, goes to his room, slams the door and flops on the bed. Then the door opens noiselessly: Father-in-law pokes his head in.

He whispers, "Haven't thought up any malicious acts against the Big Murza, have you?"

Benedikt doesn't answer.

"Against the Murza, I said?"

Benedikt doesn't answer.

"Hey? No ideas? I'm asking. Son? Hello . .. son? Against the Murza, I'm asking you, have you dreamt up--"

"No! No! Close the door! I'm sleeping! Don't bother me, what is this? I want to sleep!"

"So, no ideas've popped up, is that it?"

That's how time passes. Eat, sleep, bicker with your relatives. And ride in the sleigh. Look out the window. Everything's just fine, all right--it doesn't get any better. But something is missing. Like you need something else. Only he forgot what.

After the marriage Benedikt didn't need anything at first. For about two weeks, maybe three. Well... four. Maybe five. While he got used to things, had a look around at this and that. But then--it felt like there was something--and it was gone.

SLOVO

At first Benedikt thought that he missed the sound of scurrying mice. After all, the mouse is our be all and end all. It's food, and clothes you can make from the pelts, and trading at the market for whatever you want. Remember how he'd caught two hundred of them at New Year's? His soul sang, people sang with him! He remembered how he walked along almost dancing, stomping on the collapsed snowdrifts, splashing his heels in puddles to make them spatter rainbows! Honest pay for an honest job. And how much he got when he traded all those mice! He and Nikita Ivanich ate that food for a whole week and they couldn't finish it. The old man baked sweet rolls . .. Somehow, they became friends over those sweet rolls. That is, if you could be friends with an Oldener. He's a bad cook compared to Mother-in-law. The sweet rolls came out lopsided--raw on one side, burned on the other, and in the middle not curds, but who knows what. Mother-in-law's sweet rolls just melt in your mouth. Then he thought maybe he missed his izba. Sometimes he dreamt he was walking around a house that seemed to be his father-in-law's, from one gallery to the next, from one floor to the next, and it was like the same house, but not the same: it was longer, sort of sideways, everything was warped sideways. He walked and walked and kept being surprised: there was no end to this house. He had to find one special door, so he opened all the doors. But what he needed behind that door wasn't clear. He opened one door and there was his izba, but it wasn't quite the same either, it had gotten bigger: the ceiling went way up into the darkness, you couldn't see it. A bit of dry hay fell from the ceiling with a whoosh and a crackle. He stood and looked at that hay, and he was full of fear, as if someone had grabbed his heart with a paw, then let it go again. He would find out something any minute now. He was just about to find out. Then Olenka walked

by and seemed to be lugging a log. She was unfriendly, sort of dry. Where are you lugging that log to, Olenka, why aren't you friendly anymore? And she laughed nastily and said, "Olenka? I'm not Olenka..." He looked again: and it really wasn't Olenka, but someone else ...

... When you wake up from a dream like that, your mouth's dry and your heart goes boom-boom, boom-boom. You can't understand where you are. You touch yourself: Is this me? And the moon shines through the bladder window, bright and horrible. And the lunar path on the floor has stretched out. Some people walk in their sleep when the moon's full: they call them lunatics. The moon speaks to them, or so they say. We don't know why they stretch their arms out. It looks like they're asking for handouts or some kind of help, but if you take them by the hand, they flinch. They look surprised. And they listen: heads cocked, they listen. Their eyes are open but they don't see us. Golubchiks like that get up out of bed, go out in the yard, wander around, and then scramble up on the roof, one-two-three like it was stairs. They get right up on the roof, at the very tippy top, and walk back and forth. It's closer to the moon up there. They stare at the moon and she stares back at them: you can see a face on the moon, and that face is crying: it looks at us, at our life, and it cries.

That's what it is, Benedikt thought, he missed his izba. He even rode over to take a look: he hitched up Teterya and rode to his native settlement. But no, it wasn't that. He looked at his izba, at the straw roof: it had completely dried out. The door was open, there was burdock growing in the yard, which hadn't been weeded since springtime, and grabble grass, and biteweed, and some other strange weed with long black stems and withered leaves. The first snowflakes were whirling about, falling, indifferent to everything. He stood there awhile, took off his hat like he was standing by a grave. Everything was probably torn up inside. It was kind of a pity, but not really: his heart didn't care. It had broken away. But he shouldn't have taken the sleigh: after that trip Teterya got completely out of hand and lost all respect for Benedikt. While Benedikt stood at the fence, that furry pig

stood by and smoked, he even spat on the ground, and then said, "Ha! I had a dive in Sviblovo that was better than that place."

"Teterya, watch how you talk to your betters! Your place is in the bridle!"

"And yours is--you know where ... I had a mirrored buffet. And a color TV with an Italian tube ... My brother-in-law managed to get a hold of a Yugoslav cabinet set, I had a separate bathroom and toilet, Golden Autumn wallpaper."

"Talking again! Go on, bridle up!"

"The kitchen was linoleum, but the rest was parquet tiles. I had a three-burner stove."

"Teterya! Who am I talking to!"

"A fridge with a freezer, beer in cans ... lemon vodka, nice and cold..."

And he stands there, the rodent, on his hind legs like he was an equal, leaning on the fence, chatting, and there's a dream in his eyes, and it's clear as day he doesn't think of Benedikt as his master at all! He's lost in memories!

"Tomatoes from Kuban, Estonian cucumbers with bumps ... We ate pressed black caviar and thought the regular stuff was shit... There was dark rye bread for twelve kopecks ... Herring with onion ... Tea with lemon ... Pink and white meringues ... Cherries in liqueur from Kuibyshev ... Samarkand melon ..."

Once he got started, he just kept on, who was there to stop him! Nikita Ivanich is right when he says there should be respect for people, and justice too! But this swine doesn't respect people, he doesn't give a fig for them! Benedikt got mad and beat him on the sides with the whip, slapped him on the ears and kicked him good and hard. And his father-in-law says Terenty's the calm one, it's Potap that's skittish! What's Potap like, then, if this one is obedient? ... After that trip, you gotta call him Ter-enty Petrovich, like he was some kind of Murza. Yeah, sure.

Then he had another thought. Maybe he missed his tail? He'd had a tail a long time, he'd wagged it, enjoyed it. When you wag your tail sometimes it makes your ears tickle. It was a good tail, smooth, white, and strong. Sure, it's embarrassing to have a tail

when others don't, but it wasn't a bad tail. That's a fact. And now Nikita Ivanich had gone and chopped it off, almost to the very root--jeez it was scary. Nikita Ivanich crossed himself: God bless me! And ... whack ... but it didn't hurt as much as he'd feared. And that's because it's all cartilage, says Nikita Ivanich. Not bone. "Congratulations," he said to Benedikt, "on the occasion of your partial humanization." That was probably a joke. "Maybe you'll get smarter," he joked again.

Now, in place of a tail he had a callus, like a bump, and it ached. Afterward Benedikt walked around for a whole week with his legs apart. He couldn't sit down. But it healed before the wedding. And now it was kind of strange: you couldn't wag it or anything. So that must be how everybody else feels, he thought. Hmmm.

But on the other hand--what does that mean, everybody else? Who is everybody else? After all, each and every one has his own special Consequence. His relatives have claws, for instance. They ruin the floor. Mother-in-law is bulky, descended from the French--she can scratch up the floor so bad it looks like a whole head of hair fell out on it. Olenka is more delicate, her piles are smaller. Father-in-law scrapes up long thin strips of kindling, you could start a fire with them. Benedikt suggested to Olenka that he clip her claws. He was afraid that she would scratch him in bed. But she started howling: What are you talking about? Look at what he's after now! My organism! No!!! Ay!! ... And she didn't let him.

But the Degenerators don't have claws, even though they're probably not really people. They have feet at the end of their legs and hands on their arms. Very dirty ones: they wear felt boots all day long, when they're not playing cards. Sometimes they sit down, stretch their legs out, and scratch behind their ears, real quick, but if you catch a glimpse you can see that they don't have claws.

All in all, it was kind of sad at first. His rear end felt orphaned, and he stared at every tail he came across, whether a goat's, a bird's, a dog's, or a mouse's.

He went to check out the pushkin. Just a week before the wedding Benedikt had decided: That's enough, it's ready. What else is there to do?

Toward the end he wasn't really carving the figure but fixing details. He chiseled the curls, shaved down the back of the neck so it looked more like the genius was hunched over, like he was saddened by life. He touched up the fingers, the eyes. He had carved six fingers to begin with. Nikita Ivanich got mad as a hornet, shouted all kinds of things at him, but Benedikt was used to his shouts and explained calmly that that's what carpentry science requires: a bit extra never hurts. Who knows how things will turn out, what kind of mistake you might make, if you're drunk and you hit the wrong place with the ax. You can always cut off the extra. He'd finished the work now, you could say, he'd rubbed it with dry rusht--polishing, they call it--so it would be smooth and wouldn't have any splinters. Then, of course, he offered the commissioner a choice: which finger did he wish to cut off of freedom's bard? There's a lot to choose from, it made him feel good, take your pick! If you want--this one, or maybe that one; oh, you don't like that one, well, then this one, we could take off this one or that, or that one or this. Well? When everything is done scientifically, the way it's supposed to be--with extra to spare and no stinting--the soul rejoices.