The Slynx (24 page)

You dream the strangest things, but who knows what to think about all these dreams? When he'd looked at all the books with pictures, he started on the others. In the beginning his eyes couldn't follow the Oldenprint letters, they jumped around. Then they got used to it, like it was the way things ought to be. As if Benedikt had been reading forbidden books his whole life! At first he grabbed anything and everything, but then he decided to put them in order. To count up everything. He piled all the books on the floor and rearranged them his own way. At first he arranged them by color: yellow books in this corner, red books in that corner. That wasn't quite right. Then he organized them by size: big ones over there, little ones over here. He didn't like that either. Why? Because every book said who wrote it on the cover. Jules Verne, for instance. He wrote a big brown book,

and a little blue one. How can you stick them in different corners? They should be together. Then he tripped up: there are books called journals, and more than one Golubchik wrote in them, maybe ten of them, and each wrote something different. These journals need to be together too, by numbers: first number one, then two, then--but what's this?--it should be number three, but there isn't any three, the next one is seven. What happened? It's gone! That's upsetting. Maybe it's around here somewhere, he'll find it later. There's all kinds of journals, and they have wonderful names. Some make sense and others don't. Take
Star,
for instance, that's clear. You'd have to be a complete idiot not to understand that one. But then there's
Cadries,
and what is "Cadries"? It must be a mistake, it should probably be "Cadres." That's what Teterya calls girls he meets on the street. Benedikt brewed some ink from rusht, whittled himself a writing stick, and fixed everything. There was a lot about girls written in that journal, it was true.

Then there's
Questions of Literature.
Benedikt took a look at it: no questions at all, only answers. The issue with questions must have got lost. Too bad.

There's a journal called
Potatoes and Vegetables,
with pictures. And there's
At the Wheel. Siberian Lights.
There's one called
Syntaxis,
which seems like a bad word, but who knows what it means. It must be a cuss word. Benedikt skimmed it: there you go, there are cuss words in it. He put it to one side: interesting. He'd have to read it before going to bed.

There's
Heartfelt Words; European Herald; Scales.
These are sort of different, they smell moldy. That doesn't matter, but some letters, a couple in almost every word, are strange, different. Benedikt thought that maybe it wasn't in his language, but in Cockynork instead. Once he got used to reading it, though, it wasn't so bad. He stopped paying attention to the extra letters, like they weren't there.

Some Golubchiks tried real hard, they wrote neat little books the same size and color, called "collected works." There was Zola, for instance. Or Antonina Koptiaeva. The collecteds also had a portrait of the Golubchik who wrote them drawn right in

the book. Such funny portraits, unbelievable. Take Golubchik Sergei Sartakov: such an awful-looking face, if you met him on the street, you'd jump. But he sat around writing things. He wrote a lot.

Some books are worn and dirty, pages fall out of them. Some are so neat and clean, seems like they were made yesterday. A real pleasure to look at. Take Anton Chekhov. His book was so worn! Seems he was all thumbs, a real loser. Maybe a little blind. Look at his face, he's got a Consequence on his eyes: two shiny circles and a string hanging down. Now Koptiaeva, you see, is a clean woman, she takes care of herself. Her book looks untouched. He set Koptiaeva aside to read before bed too.

Father-in-law came by, watched Benedikt rearranging everything and said approvingly, "I see you love culture."

"I adore culture."

"It's good stuff. We like to read too. Sometimes we sit in a circle and read."

"Hmmm."

"But there are some people who don't respect culture, who ruin it."

"Hmm."

"They tear pages out, turn the pages with dirty hands."

"Oh no ... Who?"

"They're all around."

Father-in-law stood there for a while, breathing heavily-- the whole room smelled terrible--and then he left.

First thing in the morning, without eating or drinking, Benedikt splashed water on his face and began reading. He'd be called to lunch--too bad, they interrupted the most interesting part! At first he'd run in quickly, grab a bite, and go back to the books. Then he realized that he could read at the table. The food tasted better and you didn't lose time that way. The family was insulted, of course. Mother-in-law was hurt that Benedikt didn't praise her cooking that much, Olenka thought he was reading about women, and she's sitting right there like some kind of fool. Father-in-law stood up for him: Leave him alone, this is art.

Olenka wailed: "He just reads books and doesn't pay any attention to me!"

Father-in-law defended him: "It's none of your business. Shut up! If he's reading, that means he needs to read ..."

"What is he reading all the time? He's reading about women! And he won't look at his own wife! I'm going to tear up all those books of yours!"

"There's nothing here about women! Here, look, it says: 'Roger pulled out a pistol and listened. A door creaked.' No women."

"You see, no girls there!"

"Yeah, sure! No women! Why'd he pull his pissdoll out then, the filthy old man?"

"Because now Mister Blake will go inside, and he'll hit him on the head with a pistol--Roger will. He's hiding behind the portier. Leave me alone," said Benedikt.

"What Mister Blake?"

"The family notary. Don't bother me."

"Why is he pulling out his pissdoll in front of a family man? Get your own family and show it to them!"

"Well, that just shows to go what an idiot you are," Father-in-law said to her. "Family is family, but you've got to realize there's such a thing as research. Your husband isn't here just for fun and games, he's a citizen of society, a breadwinner and protector. All you wanna do is giggle, but he needs to study. Son!"

"Hmm?"

"Have you read
Hamlet
yet?"

"Not yet."

"Read it. Mustn't allow gaps in your education ... you have
to read Hamlet."

"All right, I'll read it."

"Macbeth
too. Oh, now that's a good book, very useful..."

"All right."

"Mumu
is a must. Very exciting story. By a fellow called Turgenev. They put a stone around the dog's neck and throw her in the water .. .
The Gingerbread Man
is good too."

"I read
The Gingerbread Man.
"

"You've read it? Great, isn't it?"

"Uh huh."

"That fox really gives it to him ... Snap! Yes, brother, that fox, you know ... That's a real fox for you ... Snap!"

"It's kinda sad ..."

"What do you mean, sad! ... It's art! It's not sad, it's a hint ... You have to know how to read between the lines ... You read Krylov's
Fables?"

"I started them."

"There are some good ones... 'The Wolf and the Lamb.' That's good. 'It's your fault that I'm hungry!' Pure poetry."

"I like adventure stories better."

"Ah, I see, you mean so they draw it out, don't do it all at once ... That yellow one,
The Head Hunters,
you have to read that one too."

"Listen, leave me alone! I'll read it! You're bothering me! Let me read in peace."

"That's it, that's it! Not another word!" Father-in-law put his finger to his lips. "Go on, do your work, study in peace. Not another word, not another word."

FERT

Spring had come with its huge flowers. Beyond the window everything was bright blue--but Benedikt noticed only because light poured in and it was easier to read. He pulled aside the bladder covering the window--there it was! All the meadows and glades had long been covered with greengrass, the little azure flowers were wilting, the yellow ones were coming in. Honey waves of wind blew, calling stout hearts to set off for faraway lands, to explore wondrous kingdoms, launch dugouts on clean rivers and hold course for the Ocean-Sea. But Benedikt didn't need any of this. He had everything in books, rolled up,

buried in little secret boxes: sea and meadow, deep blue and sandy winds, foul winds and snow, and the wind they call Zephyr. Starless nights and nights of passion, velvety nights and sleepless nights! Southern, white, pink, sweet as could be, dreamy, draining nights! Golden and silver stars, blue and green as sea salt, shooting and falling stars, foreboding stars, glittering diamond and lone stars, stars that herald woe, and stars that shine like beacons--there you go, beacons! All the vessels on all the seas, all the kisses, islands, roads and all the cities those roads lead to, all the city gates, nooks, crannies, dungeons and tunnels, towers, flags, all the golden curls and jet black braids, the thunder and clash of arms, the clouds, the steppes, and again the wind, sea, and stars! He didn't need anything else, it was all here!

A rich man--that's who he was. Rich as rich could be! Benedikt thought about himself. I'm rich, he thought, and he laughed. He even yelped. I'm my own Murza! My own Sultan! Everyone's in the palm of my hand, in little letters: the bounty of boundless nature and the lives of countless people! Old-timers, youngsters, and indescribable beauties!

There was another good thing about books, he thought. The beauties rustling their dresses between the pages, peering from behind shutters and from under lace curtains, the beauties wringing their white hands and throwing themselves with loosened hair under the hooves of steeds, their eyes sparking fiercely --she's crying and her waist is the size of an hourglass--beauties who lounge on divans with pounding hearts, and leap up to cast a wild gaze around the room; who step fearfully, lowering their dark blue eyes; who dance fiery dances with roses in their hair--these beauties never have to answer nature's call, they never have to bend over to pick things up, they never get gas, no pimples pop up on their faces, and their backs never hurt. Their golden hair never has any dandruff and lice never nest or lay eggs in it, they leave them alone. And those golden curls--they curl for days on end, and no one ever says anything about these beauties spending half the day with bobbins in their hair. They don't chomp, sneeze, or snore. Their cheeks don't squelch; no Is-abelle or Caroline ever wakes up puffy with sleep; their jaws don't clack when they yawn, they awake refreshed and toss back

the curtains. And they all throw themselves joyfully into the arms of their beloved. And just who is their beloved? Why, it's Benedikt, of course, whether he's called Don Pedro or Sysoy.

It's spring! Why does he need spring? Well, there's one good thing about it: there's more light for reading. The day is longer, and the letters are clearer.

In summer Benedikt had a hammock hung for him in the gallery. Above the hammock he hung a light sheet to protect him from the shitbirds. They have no shame, not the least bit: wherever they see a cornice, that's where they sit, cooing and shitting. It's not so bad if it falls on your hair, but what if it falls on a book? He had two serfs stand on either side of him to fan him and shoo away gnats and mosquitoes. He had a rocking girl sit there to rock the hammock ever so gently, not too hard, just a little bit. Another girl brought him cool drinks: she crushed dogwood berries, stewed compote from them, and added lots of chopped ice. The ice was left over from winter: all winter long workers chopped ice and stored it in cold cellars. And this compote was good to drink through a straw: they'd cut some grass, and if it wasn't poisonous they'd dry it, and inside there was a little hole, and you could drink through it.

The flies had grown mean and big, their wings shimmered blue, their eyes were rainbows. Two workers stood next to Benedikt fanning them away, while a third ran to help. It must be fall. He raised his eyes: it really was fall, rain was dripping from the clouds. God forbid a book should get wet. He moved back inside the house.

KHER

It was an ordinary day, Thursday. A bit of snow was falling, and nothing foretold anything. And that's the way it is in books: if nothing foretells anything they always tell you special. And if they tell you, hold on: birds will cackle, the wind will take to

howling, and the mirror will crack. A mirror is what people had in Oldener times, sort of like a board, and they looked at that board and could see themselves, like when we look in the water.

They all sat down to eat.

Benedikt opened issue number seven of the
Northern Herald.
It was a very strong book, sewn with threads and glued together; he cracked the spine so it wouldn't close, leaned on it with his elbow, and held it down with a bowl of soup.

Mother-in-law said: "Eat up, son, the meat patties are getting cold."

"Mmm ..."

"They're tasty, juicy."

"Mmm..."

"Steamed with marshrooms. Try them, they should be good, I steamed them in the oven for an hour."

Olenka said: "Mashed turnips are good with patties."

Father-in-law: "Puree goes good with everything."

"No, especially with meat patties."

"Well, that's for sure--it's not every day we steam patties."

"It sure isn't."

"....," Benedikt read, his eyes already accustomed to racing across the lines,"...."

"Last year, remember, we gathered biteweed and cooked up some macedoine with turnips."

"Uh huh."

"If you slopped some goat cheese into the macedoine for the taste, it would be even more delicious."

"That's right."

"And noodles are good too."

"How could they be bad?"

"It's really good when you put butter in the noodles, add some forest herbs, a bit of kvas, bake it and then let it simmer, and as soon as it sizzles, you serve it."

"With ground marshrooms on top."