The Slynx (30 page)

Now he's saying: guzzelean. It's water but it burns. Just where has anyone ever seen water burning? That's never happened and it never will. Water and fire don't mix, they can't. Except, of course, when people stand watching a fire and the flames lap in their eyes like in water, reflected; and the people stand there like pillars, frozen, like they were under a spell--well then, yes; but that's just a mirage, just illusion and nothing else. Nothing in nature says for water to burn. Unless the Last Days are coming? ... But that can't be. I don't even want to think about it... On the other hand, it's a leap year, so that means bad omens, and the blizzard is sort of sticky, and there's a buzz in the air.

He yanked the swollen door. It smacked like a kiss. Behind it was a second door: she had a mud room between the two. He stood for a while, leaning against the second door, listening. He didn't bother to put on the robe, although he was supposed to: he allowed a little Freethinking. It's government service, of course, but every job lets you bend the rules a little for your friends or relatives.

He hesitated. Should he leave the hook in the mud room or take it with him right off? If he takes the hook with him, the sick Golubchik guesses and starts shouting right away; and where there's shouting, there's a commotion. Some of them bang their heads on the table or the stool or the stove; the place is crowded, you can't move around much, so your hand doesn't have the same flair, the same freedom. It's all well and fine to go polishing your art outdoors, training, that is. How do they teach the Sani-turions? They make big dolls, huge idols, from rags and cloth; and you work on technique on the greengrass: thrusting from the shoulder, catching with a turn, pulling, or whatever. Outdoors it's easy, but in the izba, in real life, so to speak, it doesn't work that way. Nope, it doesn't.

First of all, there's the doll: it doesn't run around the izba,

does it? It doesn't let out bloodcurdling screams, does it? It doesn't grab the table or chair for dear life, does it? One whack and it just lies there quiet, not feeling anything, just like the instructions say. But a Golubchik--he's alive, he makes a racket.

That's one problem. And the other, of course, is that it's always crowded. That's really an oversight. Yep. Needs more work.

So you can't always follow all the government rules; that's where the bending comes in. Some might argue with that, but "theory is dry, my friend, and the tree of life grows green and full."

Benedikt thought about it and left the hook in the mud room. He opened the second door, and stuck his head in: "Peek-a-boo! Who came to see you?"

Not a sound.

"Varvara!"

"Who's there?" came a quiet whisper.

"The Big Bad Wolf," Benedikt joked.

There was no reaction, just some rustling. Benedikt moved into the room and looked around: what was she doing? She lay on the bed, wrapped in tatters and rags, but you could hardly tell it was Varvara Lukinishna: one eye was visible through the rags, and the rest was all cock's combs--and more combs, combs, combs, combs. It seemed that since Benedikt had last seen her, she'd sprouted cock's combs all over.

"Oh, is it really you? Come for a visit?" she said. "And here I am, a little sick . .. I'm not working these days .. ."

"What?" said Benedikt, worried. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Golubchik. Some kind of weakness ... I can hardly see, everything's dark ... I can barely walk ... Please sit down! I'm so happy you're here! Only I'm afraid I've nothing to offer you."

Benedikt didn't have anything with him either. You're not supposed to go visiting without a gift, it's true, but he couldn't come up with anything to give. A book was out of the question, better to die than give away a book. Like an idiot he went and gave the Head Stoker the one with "Slitherum Slatherum," and then he was sorry, so sorry! He kept imagining what a good book

it was, how beautifully it stood on the shelf--clean and warm, and how, poor thing, it was probably lying around at the Stoker's somewhere now in a messy, gloomy, smoky izba. Maybe it fell on the floor and the old man didn't notice with his bad eyesight; maybe there was nothing to cover the soup with, and he ... Or maybe Lev Lvovich, the lecher, asked to borrow it and took it home, hid himself away from everyone, put out the candle, and xeroxed it: I want to multiply, he said! There are insatiable rakes like that, women aren't enough for them! They fool around with goats and dogs, Lord forgive me, and even with felt boots! He felt so bad he banged his head against the wall, wrung his hands, and bit his fingernails; no, he'd never give another book to anyone.

Flowers--now Golubchiks do give flowers sometimes when they go visiting women. They pick a bunch of real bright ones in the garden or, so they smell good, put a lot of them together-- and you've got a bouquet. They give the woman the bouquet: you're so beautiful, so to speak, you're a regular bouquet yourself. And you don't smell too bad either. Hold it tight and we'll mess around. But what flowers could you find in winter?

Most people bring rusht when they go visiting, or even better, mead brewed from rusht. Because you're going to want to drink some too, and that way you don't have to think about it.

Mead is good for two reasons: you can drink it right away without waiting for anyone to brew, steep, filter, and clarify it, or cool it down and then filter it again! It's all ready, help yourself and drink.

Second, it's good because if you came visiting, and the guests didn't get along--say you argue with the Golubchik who invited you, or fight, or spit at someone, or they spit at you, or something else--well, you think, at least I had a drink, it wasn't a complete waste.

But Benedikt hadn't done his own housekeeping for a long time, he didn't have his own mead, and the Kudeyarovs, well, as soon as you started making some . .. no, better not to have anyone asking questions. So he came empty-handed. And left the hook in the mud room. He pulled up a stool and sat down next

to the bed, put an expression of sympathy on his face: he cocked his eyebrows up, turned his mouth down. No smile.

"How are you?" said Varvara in a weak voice. "I heard that you married. Congratulations. A wonderful event."

"Yes, a real mesalliance," Benedikt bragged.

"How lovely it must be ... I always dreamed ... Tell me ... tell me something moving and exciting."

"Hmm. Oh, they announced that we're having another leap year."

Varvara Lukinishna burst into tears. Well, no doubt about it, nothing happy in that news.

Benedikt shifted his weight and cleared his throat, not knowing what else to say. The book was hidden somewhere. Under the bed? He stretched out his leg, real casual, stuck it under the bed and felt around with his foot. There seemed to be a box.

"You know, you read in books: fleur d'orange, fate ... flowers pinned at the waist, filigree lace ..."

"Yep, they all start with the letter Fert," said Benedikt. "With Fert I noticed you can hardly ever make any sense of the words." Through his felt boots it was hard to feel what kind of box it was and where the top was. There you go: without a hook you might as well be missing your hands.

Varvara Lukinishna's one eye filled with tears.

"... the altar ... the choir ... the incense ... dearly beloved ... the veil.. . the garter ..."

"Just what I said, can't make sense of it!"

Benedikt stuck his second leg under the bed, pulled his boot down on his heel, and pulled his foot out. The foot wrapping got stuck--it must have been poorly wound. No, better to take off both boots. But how hard it was with no hands! What now? To take the first boot off, you have hold down the heel with the second, but to take the second one off, you have to press it down with the first one. But if you've gone and taken off the first one, then it will be off, won't it? How are you supposed to hold the other one? Now there's a scientific question they don't answer in books. And if you try to learn by watching nature, then you have to move your legs like a fly--quick quick rub them against each

other. Then the legs get kind of mixed up, you can't tell which is first and which is second: but all of a sudden the boots fly off.

"... and my youth flew by without love!" Varvara Lukinishna cried.

"Yes, yes!" agreed Benedikt. Now he had to unwind the foot wrappings: they got in the way.

"Take my hand, dear friend!"

Benedikt guessed more or less where Varvara Lukinishna's hand must be, took it, and held it. Now his hands were occupied, there was nothing to help his feet. That meant he had to keep turning his foot around and around, so the wrapping would unwind, and had to hold it to one side with his second foot. You could get downright bushed and work up a real sweat that way.

"Don't tremble so, my friend! It's too late! Fate did not deign to let our paths cross! ..."

"Yes, yes, that's true. I noticed that myself."

A bare foot is so much more agile than a foot in a shoe! Almost like it had eyes on the soles! There's the wall of the box, fuzzy, but with no splinters: birch doesn't splinter, it's not like pulpwood. And not every bark works for a box: thin bark is used more for letters, and thick bark, that's for baskets: we know our carpentry. Here's the top. Now he had to raise the top with his toes...

"You're equally distraught? Dear heart! Could it be ... is it true? ..."

Benedikt grabbed Varvara Lukinishna's hand, or whatever it was, even harder, for support. He spread his toes, stretched out his big toe, and flipped the top. Aha! Got it!

Suddenly his eyes squeezed shut, he jerked upward and then fell, grabbing on to something. A damned cramp! He forgot that feet don't work like hands, that's for sure!!!

It passed. Whew!

... Varvara Lukinishna lay there without moving, her eye open, staring at the ceiling. Benedikt was taken aback and looked closely. What was going on? His elbow had kind of pressed down on her somewhere... he couldn't figure out where. Did he bump her or something?

He sat and waited. "Hey," he called.

She didn't answer. She wasn't dead, was she? ... Ay, she was dead. Jeez! What from? It was kind of unpleasant... Dying sure wasn't fun, not like playing dead.

He sat on the stool, his head lowered. This was bad. They had worked together. He took off his hat. She wasn't an old woman, she could have gone on living and living. Copying books. Planting turnips.

She didn't really have any relatives--who was going to bury her? And how? Our way, or like the Oldeners do it?

Mother was buried the Oldeners' way. Stretched out. If it was done our way, then you had to gut the corpse, bend the knees, tie the arms and legs together, make clay figures, and put them in the grave. Benedikt had never done this himself, people who like to do that sort of thing always came out of the woodwork and he only stood to the side, watching.

"Teterya!" he yelled out the door. "Come here."

The Degenerator ran willingly into the izba: it was warm inside.

"Teterya ... This woman died. A co-worker ... I came to visit a co-worker and she just up and died right this minute. What needs to be done? Huh? ..."

"OK," said Teterya in a rush. "You have to put her hands on her chest in a cross ... like that... Not that way! ... Where is her chest? ... Christ, who the hell knows ... it should be lower than the head ... Anyway, the arms crossed, an icon in the hands, of course. Close the eyes ... Where are her eyes? ... Oh, here's one! Spartak vs. Armenia, one to zero. Tie the jaw; where's her jaw! Where's ... oh, forget it; just let her lie there like that. You, you're supposed to call people together, rustle up a lot of grub, bliny and stuff, and make sure there's a shitload of booze."

"All right, you can go, I know what to do from here."

"Beet and potato salad, the more the better! The red stuff, you know, with onion! Ah!"

"Out!" Benedikt screamed.

... He crossed her arms, if they were in fact her arms, closed

her eye ... Shouldn't he put a stone on it? But where could you find a rock in winter! Now. An icon? That's what they draw on birch bark? An idol?

A bluish mouse-oil candle trembled on the table; just moments ago Varvara lit that candle. He opened the stove damper, that's where the sticks were: the fire jumped back and forth, dancing. Varvara had just put the sticks in the stove. She stoked the fire--and now it was burning in the emptiness. She wasn't there anymore. He threw in a few more pieces so that the fire hummed and there'd be more light in the izba.

On the table there was a pile of birch sheets, a writing stick, and an ink pot: she boiled her own rusht for ink, sharpened her own sticks, she liked for everything to be orderly... Homemade was always better than official, she used to say. Come over for some soup, she used to say. How can you compare official soup to homemade? He didn't come. He was afraid of her cock's combs...

Oh, the moment, oh, the bitter fight.

Let the beer brew with the malt.

Life could have been pure flight,

But rain and cold streamed from the heavens' vault.

Benedikt started to cry. The tears burned his eyes, backed up quickly and overflowed the brim, pouring down into his beard. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. She was kind. She always gave you her own ink if yours ran out. She explained what words meant. A steed, she said, is not a mouse--truer words were never spoken. An idol in her hands ...

Sniffling, Benedikt sat at the table, took a piece of birch bark, and turned it around. We need an idol... He squeezed the writing stick--he hadn't held it for so long--and dipped it in the ink. An idol. But how to draw one ...

... He drew a bent head. Around the head--curls: scritch scratch, scritch scratch. Kind of like the letter S, technically, "Slovo." All right... A long nose. Straight. A face. Sideburns on the sides. Fill them in so they're thicker. Dot, dot--and you've

got the eyes. The elbow goes here. Six fingers. Squiggle squaggle squiggle all around: that's supposed to be a caftan.

It looks like him.

He stuck the idol in her hands.

He stood there and looked at her.

Suddenly it was as if something broke through his chest, burst, exploded like a barrel of kvas: he started to sob, he shook, he gulped and gasped, he howled--was he remembering Mother? His life? Springtimes gone by? Islands in the sea? Un-traveled roads? A white bird? Nighttime dreams? Go on and ask, no one will answer! ... He blew his nose and put on his hat.