The Slynx (22 page)

But Nikita Ivanich got all tied up in knots and couldn't choose, he ran around and around and pulled out his hair--and he had a ton of hair. How could he, so to speak, dare to have the Freethinking temerity to blasphemously hack off the poet's hands at his own caprice? A tail was one thing, but this is a hand!!! He buried his face in his palms, shook his head, peeked out with one eye, then squeezed it shut, fretted and fretted, and couldn't decide. He left all six fingers. And the pushkin didn't have any legs, they decided not to bother with legs. They didn't have time. Only the trunk, just down to the sash around his shirt. After that it was like a stump, all smooth.

It took six of them to drag it--they hired serfs and paid them with mice. One of the Oldeners, Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents, a friend of Nikita Ivanich, decided to help. He approved of the idol.

"He looks like a pure retard. A six-phalanged seraphim. A slap in the face of public taste," he said. But he wasn't much help pulling, he was so skinny, he was more of a director, so to speak, the way bosses always are. "Come on, come on. Stop! Move it! There you go. Not like that! To the left!" They wanted to put the pushkin where Nikita Ivanich showed them--for some reason he liked that spot. They started digging a hole under him. But the owner there turned out to be ornery: he ran out waving his arms, spitting and frothing at the mouth--they trampled his dill, you see. That dill is useless stuff, no taste, no smell, it's more for looks' sake; but of course if you're starving you'll eat dill too.

Nikita Ivanich had to go and put his symbol right in the middle of a Golubchik's garden, of course, and he argued with him and tried to shame him and bribe him with getting fire without standing in line, and then appealed to the serfs to raise a ruckus so that the people's voice could be heard. But the serfs didn't give a hoot: they stood there frowning, crossing their legs, smoking, waiting for their pay, for the boss to shout himself out, for his heart to burst so he'd quiet down, that's what always happens. In the end, the chunk of beriawood had to be lugged across the street. There was a place between the fences that didn't belong to anyone.

So there he stands, the poor dear, listening to the noise of the street, like Nikita Ivanich wanted--you turn the corner and see him on a hill, in the wind, all black. This wood, beriawood, always blackens from the rain. The pushkin stands there like a bush at night, a rebellious and angry spirit; his head bent, two meat patties on the sides of his face--old-fashioned sideburns --his nose down, his fingers tearing at his caftan. A shitbird had settled on his head, of course, but that's just what they do, shamelessly: whatever they see they shit on, that's why they got that disgraceful nickname, for their disgracefulness.

So Benedikt went. He looked at the pushkin. Shooed away the kids so they wouldn't climb on it. He wanted to tamp down the snow around it but was too lazy to get out of the sleigh. He looked around ... and that was it. So let it stand there, it's not bothering anyone.

He thought and he thought. What was missing? Suddenly he realized. It hit him. Books! He hadn't read any books for a long time, or copied them, or held them in his hands! Since May! He stopped going to work of his own will, then he had vacation, then the wedding, then family life, and now another fall was already breaking into winter but hadn't broken through. That always happens with nature, it can't make up its mind. One day rain, the next snow. The October Holiday is already over. Only this year he didn't go for the head count. His father-in-law had to go for work--he complained, but he went, and he told us: Stay at home, I know there are three of you, anyway, I'll put you on the list.

Benedikt couldn't stand the October Holiday. Who could like it, except for maybe some Murza, and even then as part of his job? Still, it was some kind of entertainment, and you could look at the people and they might hand out something from the Warehouse. Only now he didn't need anything. So there was trouble in nature, and trouble in his head too. There's nothing to do. It's boring.

You wander around the house, skulk, and loaf around looking for things to do. You spit on your finger and run it along the wall. You keep on, tracing the whole room, or at least go as far as you can till the spit dries out. Then you spit on your finger again and start over.

What else? You squat, put your elbows against your knees grab your beard with your fists and rock: back and forth. Back and forth.

Or you stick out your lower lip and flap it with your finger. It makes a funny noise, bub bub bub.

Or you sit on a stool or a bench and rock back and forth, stick out your tongue, close one eye, and look at your tongue with the other one. You can see part of your nose, and the tip of your tongue. But only just.

Or else you pull the skin around your eyes back till they're skinny slits just to see what happens; and what happens is that you see everything, but kind of blurry.

You can hang your head between your knees to the floor, and wait until the blood rushes down. There'll be a roar in your

head, things'll go all foggy; and there'll be a buzzing and thumping in your ears.

You can weave your fingers together, one after the other, and then turn them inside out and wiggle them: here's the terem, here's the steeple, open the door, and there are the people. Or you can just wiggle your fingers. That's on your hands. But if you try it with your toes you'll get a cramp in your foot. Who can figure it? Your hands work this way and your feet that way. Well, hands are hands, and feet are feet. That's probably why.

Or you can just look at your fingernails.

And you don't see any visions: somehow they're all gone, the visions. Too bad. Benedikt used to see Olenka: beads, dimples, ribbons. And now what? Now there she is, Olenka herself. Right by your side. Dimples--she's got dimples over her whole body. Dimples so big you stick your finger in and it almost disappears. Stick your fingers in as much as you like. She won't get mad. You could even say she welcomes it: "You rapscallion, you. Why such a hurry?"

Only she used to kind of sparkle. Like a secret. And now there she is, sitting on the stool, her face spread thick with sour cream--to make it whiter; only the sour cream makes her look awful. She scratches her head. "Take a look, Benedikt. What is this here? Is it a rat's nest?"

There never used to be any rats' nests: her braid went all the way down to the ground. But now she's not supposed to wear a braid. Since she's a married Golubushka, Olenka has to have a woman's hairdo. And this is a lot of trouble. She divides her hair into locks, wets them down with water or rusht, and then starts winding the hair on wood bobbins. She wraps her whole head up this way and walks around with the bobbins rattling, knocking against each other all day long. She has to have curls, you see. And her face is smeared with sour cream: she looks like a real ghoul.

"Why did you wind all those things on yourself?"

"What do you mean? To be beautiful. It's for you."

She plops down on the bed. "Come here, Benedikt, let's make love."

"That's enough, enough."

"Just come here, come over here, don't talk."

"I feel sort of weak. I ate a bit too much."

"Don't make things up, you haven't eaten since breakfast."

"You'll scratch me."

"What do you mean, scratch you? Don't invent things."

"Your face is covered with sour cream."

"You've always got excuses! I'm sooo unhaaaappy ...!"

And she starts wailing. But then she stops.

"Benedikt! Come here. Something itches. Over there, right there, what is it? Did something pop up?"

"Nothing popped up."

"No, look again, you didn't look carefully. Carefully now! Something itches, it's tingling."

"There's nothing there."

"What's tingling then? It's not a carbuncle, is it?"

"No."

"Maybe a blister? Is it swollen?"

"No."

"Is it red?"

"No, no!"

"Then what is it? It keeps on itching and itching, and then it stings so bad! ... And over here? Benedikt! Pay attention! Right here--no, farther! Between the shoulder blades!"

"There isn't anything."

"Maybe scales?"

"No!"

"Some dandruff, then? It's itching. Brush it off me."

"It's all clear, I said! Don't invent things!"

"Maybe I broke out in freckles all over?"

"No!!!"

"Maybe it's a pimple or a wart! You have to be careful--they can pop up and that's it, you're dead!"

"Your back is fine, I tell you! You're imagining everything!"

"Of course, since I'm the one suffering, and not you, you don't care! But I've got an ache here under my arm, Benedikt."

"It'll stop."

"Other men would be sympathetic! ... If I raise my arm this

way and turn it that way, it starts aching! And if I lean over like that, and put my foot there, I get a stitch in my side right away, come on now, take a look, what's on my side, I can't see it!"

He was sure of it. If only he could lie around now with a book! Snow was falling softly in the yard, logs were crackling in the stove--it was the perfect time to lie in bed with a book. Put a bowl of firelings or something else delicious nearby, to stick behind your cheek, and let yourself go ... into the book ... Right now it's winter outside, for instance, and there it's summer. Here it's daytime and there it's evening. And they'll describe that summer for you and pretty it up, and tell you what kind of evening it is, who went where, what they were wearing, who sat on which bench by the river, who they're waiting for--it's always a lover--what birds are singing in the sky, how the sun goes down, how the gnats swarm ... And you can hear something beyond the river, a song of some sort. And everything will be in the book: how there was a noise in the bushes--the lover arrived for the tryst. What they said to each other, what they settled on ... Or who built a big ship and sailed it on the Ocean-Sea, and how many people crowded on that boat, and where they set sail for, and how the boat works, they'll tell you about everything. And about how the voyage goes, who argued about what with whom, about the chip one guy had on his shoulder, how he grew blacker than a storm cloud and got all sorts of ideas in his head ... and who realized it and said, Ay, why is he looking at us like a stray dog that wants to bite, let's set him down on a desert island ...

You read, move your lips, figure out the words, and it's like you're in two places at the same time: you're sitting or lying with your legs curled up, your hand groping in the bowl, but you can see different worlds, far-off worlds that maybe never existed but still seem real. You run or sail or race in a sleigh--you're running away from someone, or you yourself have decided to attack --your heart thumps, life flies by, and it's wondrous: you can live as many different lives as there are books to read. Like a werewolf or something: you're a man, and all of a sudden--you're a

woman, or an old man, or a small child, or a whole battalion on guard, or I don't know what. And if it's true that it wasn't Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, who wrote all those books, well, who cares? Then it means there were other Fyodor Kuzmiches, ancient people, who sat, and wrote, and saw visions. Why not?

And just about now, the candles have probably been lighted in the Work Izba, the scrolls rolled up, Jackal Demianich is looking watchfully around. Konstantin Leontich is writing fast as can be, copying, from time to time he tosses down his writing stick, claps his hands and cries out! He always gets very worked up about what happens in books. And then he grabs his writing stick again, and goes on ... And Varvara Lukinishna bends her head, her combs tremble, she's thinking about something... maybe that at home she has a book hidden? There was something there about a candle, about deceit... But neither Benedikt nor Olenka are in the Work Izba anymore . .. Olenka lies on the bed whining, covered in sour cream, and Benedikt is rocking on the stool. If only he could catch some mice right now, and trade them at the market for a book. Only there aren't any mice in the house.

What sort of book was it that Father-in-law shoved at Benedikt? Should he go and ask? Since Father-in-law didn't get sick, knock, knock, knock on wood, then it was true: you can touch them.

TVERDO

Father-in-law sat down right next to him again, opened his mouth, and asked: "Haven't been having any bad thoughts, have you?"

Benedikt answered boldly: "Yep. I have."

Father-in-law was overjoyed. "Come on, come on, let's hear them!"

"What sort of book did you show me a long time ago? When I came courting?"

"How do you know it's a book?"

"I just know."

"Where from? Someone showed you one?"

"Maybe someone did."

"Who was it?"

"What sort of book was it?"

"No, who showed you?"

Benedikt thought about telling him, but thought better of it: who knows what...

"Don't ask a lot of questions, just let me read it."

"Then you tell me who showed it to you."

"We had one at our house," said Benedikt, and he wasn't even lying.

"Where is it?"

"They burned it. My old man burned it."

"Why?"

"So no one would get the Illness, knock on wood."

Father-in-law thought for a moment, his eyes blazed, and his feet scraped. "You people are so backward. A backward people ..."

"Why are we backward? ... We obey the Decrees. We adopt all the scientific achievements: the yoke, the sun clock. Nails."

"You're backward because you can't see past your own noses," Father-in-law explained, "and you don't understand the governmental approach to social questions."

Benedikt's spirits fell. It was true, he had a hard time with the governmental approach to things. Until the explanations came in Decrees, he didn't get the governmental, state approach, he understood things the simple way. When they'd explained it all, then, of course, he understood. But the governmental approach was never straightforward. You think this is the way things should go, but no, it's like this, not like that. No way you could guess for yourself.