The Slynx (11 page)

That really happens sometimes. A Golubchik might be feeling his way along in the dark to get his pay--and suddenly he falls in a ditch, or a branch pokes him in the eye, or he'll slip and break a leg, get lost, wander into a strange settlement where vicious dogs will tear him to shreds, or he'll trip and freeze to death in a snowdrift. Anything can happen.

But let's say he makes it where he's going, thank God. Good. He lines up. The first guy to get there is in the hall, or mud room. Whoever's at the end stands on the street, stomping his feet in the cold. Everyone is cursing or chatting, trying to guess whether the Paymaster Murza will come or whether he drank too much mead or kvas or hemp mash again the night before. Or they play pranks: if one of the Golubchiks in the hallway dozes off from the warmth and takes a nap, they'll pick the sleepyhead up carefully under the arms and carry him out to the end of the line. When the Golubchik wakes up, he can't figure out what

happened, where he is or why he's there. He rushes back to where he was and everyone says: Don't butt into the line! Go to the end! And he says: But I was first in line! And we say: Don't know what you're talking about! Then there's a lot of shouting and fisticuffs and injuries of all kinds.

It passes the time. The dawn comes up pink and hazy, the darkness moves over. Chigir, the morning star, shines with untold beauty, like a fueling up high. The cold seems stronger. The snow sparkles.

So we wait for the Murza. Will he come? If anyone sees snow-dust in the distance or catches a glimpse of a sleigh, the shout goes up: "He's coming! He's not coming! It's him, you can see his hat," and things like that. There's a real ruckus.

If he doesn't come by evening time, we go our own ways, but if he managed to unstick his eyelids the Golubchiks will get their

pay-So you stand and stand--and suddenly you make it to the window. You're the one who's lucky, it's your pay, so you're the one who has to bend over. And why do you have to bend over? Because the tiny, narrow little window is right smack at the level of your belly button. And that's because the Murza on the other side is sitting on a stool, to make it comfortable for him. He does it that way so we bow down to him, show our respect, so the body is humbled. After all, if you stand up straight when you're counting your chits, who knows what ideas you might get. Like, why so few? or why are they torn? or did he give me all of them? or did he keep a handful, the damned creep? and all kinds of Freethinking. But when you lean over at the waist, your head turned to the side so you can see what's going on, and your arm is stuck waaaayyy into the window slot--it's deep--and your fingers are spread out to grab the chits, and your shoulder aches --well, then you get a feeling for what government service means, its power and glory, and authority on earth, for all time, amen.

So if you're in luck again, you grab the chits. If you've got short arms, of course, or an ailment in your joints, then you'll never grab hold of 'em all. There's a wise proverb about that:

His arms are short. The other Golubchiks are pushing from behind, rushing you, shoving, they're plastered to your back, breathing down your neck. It's hard. Benedikt, now, he's young, he can fend for himself, hold his chits tight, and pull his arm back out of the window fast enough, only scraping his knuckles a bit, but that's nothing, it happens all the time. If you put a warm compress on at night and wrap the hand up, the blood will thicken. And by next payday, just wait and see, new skin will grow over it.

When you've grabbed your chits from the government, then you have to stand in another line to pay taxes. That's what they say, go stand in line, but who would do it of their own free will? So of course there's a guard with a poleax who herds the Golubchiks along into another hall, hup two, line up, one-two, left right, and stone chains block the way on every side: that's the way it's supposed to be.

The rest is all the same, only the Murza in the window isn't a paymaster, he's a tax collector, and the window is wide and spacious--a sleigh could get through.

Things go quicker here--you can finish in four hours. Count out six and a half chits to the Murza and hand them over. But you can't tear a chit in half, can you? Who needs it torn? So that means you hand over seven. By the end of the day these Murzas have thousands of extra chits. So they all take some for themselves, to buy some food, or to add a floor to the terem, or a balcony, or to get a fur coat, or a new sleigh.

That's why he's a Murza, the tax collector.

People who don't have any government know-how, just silly thoughts, like Nikita Ivanich, for instance, they say: Why can't one and the same Murza give you your salary and keep back the taxes? So things go faster.

Jeez, what idiots! You just have to laugh at them! Why? Because the Paymaster Murza is a Paymaster Murza, and the taxes are collected by the Tax Collector Murza! How could one Murza both give and take? Huh? Why would he even bother coming to work with that kind of money around? He could just lock himself in the house, eat and drink, or hop in his sleigh and head off hunting, and that'd be the last you'd see of him, right?

Anyone would do the same.

If the Tax Murza weren't sitting in his izba collecting money, would the Paymaster ever stick his nose out the door? Of course not, the drunken bastard, he'd never remember that the twentieth is payday or that the fifth is advance day!

The Tax Murza's probably been bugging him since last night: Where are the chits? Did he spend them all? Have my interests been harmed? Are the baskets tied tight, did the mice get in them? That happens too, then they don't pay us. They just say: they're all gone, we don't know where they got to, wait till next time. And we wait.

But let's say everything goes all right, you get your pay, you've got your chits in hand. With these chits, which some people call "rubles," or "greenbarks," or "cash," you can't buy a darned thing, of course. If there were a lot of them, then maybe. Then you could buy something. But you can't. Only lunch if you're lucky.

Mice are a whole different story. There are lots of them, they're fresh every day, you can catch them if you've got the time, and trade them as much as you like, help yourself. No one will say a word. Of course, there's a tax on mice too, or duty-- and there's a house tax, pillow tax, stove tax, so many you can't count them all, but that's another story.

Benedikt had his chits in hand, so he was halfway there. Now he had an idea: buy lunch in the Food Izba with those chits, but don't eat the bread, save it, take it home and feed the mice. Crumble up a little piece for them every day--scads of the lovely little critters will come running.

And this time everything worked out! The plan worked! All night Benedikt caught mice and by morning two hundred seventy-two of them dangled from his string--careful don't break it--gray, chubby cheeks, silky fur! Well, maybe not two hundred seventy-two, but one hundred fifty-six! A lot! He lost track counting. And why such success?--because everything was thought through ahead of time, everything was planned carefully, with real smarts.

Goodness gracious! How marvelous is the mind of man! Who could sing a song to it, a loud, happy song with hoots and

hollers, the kind of song where you go out on a hummock or a hill, plant your feet firm, spread your arms wide, and stomp! -- taking care not to fall, of course--stomp, I say! With a hey and a ho! And a fee-fi-fiddle-dee-dee! There was a tailor had a mouse, hi diddle um cum fee-doe. They lived together in one house, hi diddle um cum tarum tantrum, hi diddle um cum over the lee. And the greengrass grows all around all around, and the green-grass grows all around!

Not quite like that, but something rakish, joyous, so that the song jumps from your breast, so that your head fills with happiness, so that the happiness bubbles between your ears like soup in a pot and tickles the nape of your neck. And a knickknack paddiwack, give the mouse a crumb! This Golubchik will have some fun. So that the whole settlement, the whole world can hear: Praise be to the reason, the season, the reckoning and the beckoning of man. Hooray for the head! Hooray!!

Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, probably never saw such a bunch of mice in his life, and isn't he the greatest hunting master of all? Isn't he a poet, a real buff, a gourmand?

Three blind mice, three blind mice. See how they run, see how they run. They all run after Fyodor Kuzmich Who cut off their tails without a hitch.

Benedikt didn't sleep all night. He was so happy he couldn't sleep. His knees felt a little weak and his back ached a bit. But otherwise--he wasn't the least bit sleepy. Now it was time to take his riches to market.

The market is wonderful in the morning. A fairer sight you never did see! The snow is cleared with shovels, flattened down like a floor. If it's very, very cold, then the snow is all blue, it sparkles. Of course, once the Golubchiks run in they'll mess it up, ruin it, toss their butts on it, but it's still beautiful. If the weather's getting warmer, if there's a bit of a thaw--then it's like an ice clearing underfoot and the snowdrifts next to the fence are sunken and black, spongy, with toothy crusts. It smells of spring.

What a crowd--ooooo--eeee! It's packed to the gills. Everyone wants to trade something. Everyone's lugging goods.

There are rows of salted and pickled food: all the stands are packed with barrels, clay pots, buckets, and tubs, taste if you like, but don't grab too much, or you'll get your ears boxed. If the past summer's harvest was good, the stands sometimes reach to the horizon, and the last far-off Golubchik looks like a bug in the forest: distant, teeny tiny, waving his arms, shouting, hawking his marshrooms. He thinks he's a big shot too, but from this end it looks like you could smush him with your foot.

Another guy over there is bragging about his pickled reeds, shouting, screeching--and there are marinated ferns, cookies, and other things.

There are pickled nuts, cloth with plain threads, colored threads, bunches of lapty tied in pairs; rabbit hides or goat wool: buy it and boil yourself some boots, or knit a pair of socks if you know how; there are bone needles, stone knives, stone buckets and wooden ones, tongs, poleaxes, brooms--whatever you fancy.

And there's a whole row of flreling peddlers: these traders are important, silent, they stand with their arms folded on their stomachs, looking out from under their eyebrows, their faces all red. They're mysterious. They don't talk. And why are they so quiet? It's their habit. You have to be quiet to pick firelings, so they're used to it. You stand, look the goods over. You feel small and timid, but oh how you want to eat those firelings! You ask the trader: "How much?"

He doesn't answer, just chews on his lip. Then he says: "These, five each. These--seven."

Jeez, expensive!...

"They're not fakes?"

Again, he doesn't answer right away. "People've bought them, they're still alive."

Should you believe him or not? You just don't know. You shuffle around... You count out five mice. You take one fireling. Put it in your cheek. So sweet! Maybe you won't croak from just one. Maybe you'll just vomit. Or your hair will fall out. Or your neck will swell up. Or maybe you'll live. What did

Mother die from? She ate a whole bowl at one sitting. Nikita Ivanich always told her: "Polina Mikhailovna, why such lack of restraint?! Don't eat those figs! They're radioactive!" But would she listen? No, she stuffed herself.

Right now Benedikt didn't want to start thinking about anything sad. Spring was running in from the south like the Gingerbread Man. The New Year was bringing it! A Holiday was around the corner. Jokes and laughter. The blind men were there too. They crowded around the fence--some played on spoons, others tooted on whistles--and they sang:

For we are jolly good fellows, For we are jolly good fellows ...

They feel spring coming too. Their guide is also full of vinegar, he keeps an eagle eye out, watches the Golubchiks sternly: Come on now, who's listening to the song? Pay up, don't pass by! There's plenty of you who listen and don't pay. Blind people are blind because they can't see a darn thing. They sing and sing, sing their hearts out, and sometimes a Golubchik will listen, grab his pleasure and run off without paying. How can the blind catch him? They can't! They're in the dark. Even a midsummer's day is dark for them. If not for the guide, they'd die of hunger. Benedikt adored folk songs. Especially in a chorus. Or when they were real lively. Now the blind people belted out:

The heart of a beauty!

Is wont to betray!

It's ever as fickle,

As the warm winds of May!

Your feet just can't keep still, they start dancing on their own. There are other good ones. Black Eyes. The Outlaw Stenka Razin. I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Down by the Riverside. And many more.

But this morning Benedikt felt a new feeling. He felt smart and rich. Rich because he was smart. Look how he planned everything--and it all worked. He tied the mice up in bunches-- five in each; braided their tails, strung them on a rope and belted

it around his waist. He was walking tall. Things were great. And kind of different for a change.

Usually you shuffle along, looking around: are there any bosses in sight? If they're riding in sleighs, you jump to the side of the road, take your hat off and bow. You slap a sweet smile on your face. Then you crinkle up your eyes like you're bursting with joy. You look like you're all surprised--how is it that you, a simple Golubchik, are lucky enough to get to see a Murza? Even if you bump into the same creep forty or fifty times a day, just look surprised, like he wasn't a Murza, but Grandma come visiting with a basket of goodies.

You bow, of course, depending on the rank. If it's a Lesser Murza, you put your hand on your stomach and lower your head.

If it's a Greater Murza, you bow at the waist; your hair should touch the snow or the dust, and your arm should arch back.

If it's a red sleigh ... God forbid ... No. No. No. Knock on wood, knock knock, knock. No. No.

The Murza will drive past, cover you with dust and dirt-- then you can put your hat back on, wipe your face with your sleeve--and you're free at last. You can wear your plain, mean, everyday face, you can spit, cuss a bit, throw some insult after him--it's up to you. Or you might just grumble: "Sitting pretty are you... ?" But what for? He can't exactly stand up in a sleigh, can he? Or you might say something a bit longer: "Riding, they're always riding and riding, who the hell knows where they're going." That's just to let off steam: the Murza probably knows where he's going.