The Slynx (14 page)

Just as Benedikt thought, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, was a real ladies' man. The women at work were happy: no one could

say a harsh word to them, or kick them, or pull their ears, or whack them upside the head, everyone congratulated them. Varvara Lukinishna wore beads around her neck. Olenka was all in ribbons. Even Ksenia the Orphan braided some kind of rose from rough threads and fastened it at her temple. They were all so beautified--you could just drop your britches and start the joking right now.

They thought up something else too: they picked willow branches and stuck them in a pot with water. It was warm in the izba and the leaves opened up. Maybe this was Freethinking, but it was their day, and that was it. They wanted to put a pot of branches on Jackal Demianich's table too, but he threw it on the floor: the Decree didn't say anything about willows.

Jackal Demianich knows all the decrees by heart and loves them. Even old ones, from ages ago: for instance, that Sunday is a day off. Everyone knows anyway that Sunday is Sunday and no Golubchik is going to work for love or money no matter what you do to him. You'd think: Why do you need a decree, why waste the bark? Noooo, that's not the governmental approach.

The governmental approach is to decree very strictly, so that God forbid the day off didn't fall on Saturday, nor, God forbid on Friday or Thursday, or Wednesday, or Tuesday, or Monday. They decree it and that's the way it will be, because that's what the state is for, that's its power and glory and authority on earth, for all time, amen.

No one likes Jackal Demianich much. Who could like a Murza? Maybe his woman and, well, maybe his little kids, but no one else. That's not what a Murza is there for, to like or not. He's there to keep things in order. To keep an eye on the lists of workers. To hand out ink. Yell. Dock you for absences, for drunkenness, or to give you a whipping--that's what he's for. You can't get by without a Murza, without him we'd get everything mixed up.

For example. If we're talking simple. The May Holiday--it happens in May, and so you'd think the October Holiday is in October. Right? Well, you're wrong! The October Holiday is in November! If we didn't have Murzas, you see, all the Golub-

chiks, all of Fyodor-Kuzmichsk, would be drunk and rolling around the whole month of October!

A lot of people can't understand: How come it's called the October Holiday if it's in November? They just don't understand the governmental approach! It's in November because in October the weather is usually good, there's no snow either. The air is strong, it smells of fallen leaves, the sun shines late, the sky is so blue. The Golubchiks, whichever ones can walk on two feet, go outside on their own without any Decrees. Some go off to gather rusht, some bring in brushwood from the forest, some dig up the last turnips. It's just beautiful. Nature is clear.

But in November the rains start falling and just keep on and on and on--
eeeeee!
Everything is murky between heaven and earth, and your soul is clouded over too! The roof leaks if it's thin; cold and damp blow in through the cracks. You cover the window with rags, you slump closer to the stove, or doze on the stove bed, and something inside cries, and just keeps on crying!

The beauty of summer has passed, you can't bring it back-- it's like life itself is gone, and joy has blown away with the dust rising from the road! You take the rag off the window to look-- and there's nothing, nothing at all, only rain running down and beating on the puddles. Torn bits of clouds. Even the dumbest Golubchiks won't stick their nose out the door of their own free will in that kind of weather. On that kind of day, when everyone's here, at home, no one's going anywhere, there's no one left in the forest, or in the fields--on a day like that they have the October Holiday. All the Golubchiks, healthy and crippled, are ordered to leave the house and go to the main square where the watchtower is, and march by it, six in a row, singing. The Murzas watch the Golubchiks from the watchtower and take a head count. Because we have to know how many people we have, and how many chits to cut out for payday and how much to give out on Warehouse Day, and how many people can be called for roadwork, if they aren't crippled. Stuff like that. As the saying goes: Count your chicks in autumn. And when you've counted them all, then of course you can go back home, drink and make merry, have a good time, do what you want, but within reason. That's the governmental approach for you.

But the bosses have to figure out exactly when the October Holiday should be--that's what bosses are for. They sit in the terems looking at the sky, observing the weather and discussing it. Yesterday, they say, was a bit early, but tomorrow--who knows, it might be late, whereas today, they say, is the very day. Get everybody out there for the count.

Jackal knows all this business, that's his job.

He told Benedikt about the Decree: "Congratulations."

Benedikt memorized the congratulations: he read them, and then reread them; he repeated them gazing at the ceiling; then he checked against the bark, then he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered them again, so he'd know them for sure. He congratulated Varvara Lukinishna politely: "I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, and a peaceful sky over your head."

Vasiuk the Earful spread his elbows and listened alertly from his corner to make sure Benedikt was saying everything right, like it was in the Decree.

Varvara Lukinishna blushed red all over: she liked hearing those words. "Oh, thank you, my dear. Come by and visit me this evening: I've made soup."

"Today? I don't know..."

"There are still some nuts . .. I'll bake a mouse."

"Well, I'm not sure ..."

"The mouse is fresh as can be."

Benedikt hesitated.

"Do come ... I'll show you something ... in secret."

What an insistent woman. She's looks enough of a fright in a dress, but if she took off her clothes and showed her secret, it'd probably be really scary: grab your hat and run for the door. But it's tempting, of course. Who knows ...

"Please, do come by ... We'll talk about art... I know that you are capable of delicate feelings ... I think your potential is enormous."

She batted her lone eye. My oh my, what a ... Benedikt even started sweating. What suggestive conversations ... and right at work...

"Well, it's not too small... No complaints in that department

... And I do feel everything ... How do you know? What kind of pudential did you say I have?"

"Now then, you can't hide that sort of thing ..."

"Someone blabbed?"

"Well, we often talk about your... in our circle, you know ... we have our opinions . . . Everyone agrees: you are developing in a marvelous direction ..."

"Oh!"

"That's right. We expect a lot from you."

"Hmm . .. What kind of circle is this of yours?"

"Our own close group of... like minds. You and a number of acquaintances."

That's just what he thought. Women! ... They sit down in a circle and gab about the woman's business. Who, with whom, and when. And they talked about Benedikt! They praised him!

"... We tell each other our little secrets," Varvara Lukinishna whispered. "We share."

?!?! Whoa! So that's what they're up to! Sure . .. What can you do, they're lonely ...

"Are there a lot of you? In the circle, that is?"

"Oh, a small group, maybe six people . .. We don't manage to get together very often, but the conversation is very intense, we're so close ..."

"With six of you it would be close ... Are you all on the floor or what?"

"Why, everyone's where they like."

"Then how do you ..."

"How do we fit? Well, my izba is miniscule, to be sure. I can't deny it, it's true. When everyone gets together, as you might expect, we're sometimes literally sitting on top of one another!"

"Uh huh ... I'll come," Benedikt said quickly. "I'll come, wait for me."

So! . .. He had to get home right away and heat up the bath, wash, and then grab a jug of rusht--he couldn't go visiting with empty hands. Then ... then he'd see. Oy, what were they going to do! Now he had to congratulate everyone and head home; Jackal wouldn't say anything--it was decreed: work, but take it easy. Benedikt bowed to Ksenia the Orphan:

"I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, a peaceful sky over your head."

She was thrilled.

"I've heard it so many times today already, but it's so nice! Every day should be like this!"

Jackal raised an eyebrow at her from his corner: that was Freethinking, that was. But he couldn't object: today they were only supposed to congratulate, not insult or anything. He'd probably let her have it tomorrow.

"Come for some of my pancakes this evening."

"I'm busy."

"Oh, what a pity. My pancakes are so fluffy!"

"I'm sure they are."

And that was a hint too. Her pancakes, she says, are so fluffy! ... What if he went to both places? ... Burn the candle at both ends? Olenka was looking at him from her stool... He should congratulate Olenka. With the others it was easy, but he was sort of scared with Olenka: he felt all shy and weak in the knees. He sat down next to Olenka and muttered: "I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, a peaceful sky over your head."

But Olenka laughed softly. "I'm not your wife, am I? ..."

"But in the decree ..."

"And without the decree? ..."

Benedikt started sweating again: here it was, Women's Day, Woman's Holiday, that's what it was all about. .. Oh, that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe ... Just wait, next thing she'd be inviting him for bliny ...

"... And without the Decree you mean there's no happiness in life?"

"Olenka ... Olenka, I want happiness in life without the decree ..."

"Well then?"

"I offer you my hand, heart, and pudendal," whispered Benedikt. He didn't expect such fine, frightening words from himself: they just leapt out of him.

"I accept," whispered Olenka.

"You accept?!"

"I accept... I accept it all..."

They sat in silence for a moment... What else was there to say... His heart was jumping ... Oy, he did it! . .. He did it! What a day!

Glorybe to Fyodor Kuzmich!

So it's farewell to the bachelor life! You didn't sow your wild oats for very long, Benedikt Karpich! But that's just fine! Time to settle down. Benedikt ran home: it was still early, the coals in the stove hadn't gone out, he had to collect them and fire up the bath ... Whew! He hadn't bathed since last year! In the new style, that is. January first used to be the New Year, but now they'd moved it, it turns out... He ran, nodded to women he met along the way--not his habit, but today you had to. He shouted out congratulations. He wished them all happiness in life. Nikita Ivanich trundled by, lugging a log--and Benedikt shouted to him, jokingly: "A peaceful sky above your head, Nikita Ivanich! No rain, nothing!" The old man jerked, turned around, and spat on the ground. Aha, he's thinking Benedikt took him for a woman! .. . But it was just a joke!

Olenka lives in a different settlement... not in ours ... We're way over here, and she's right there. They agreed that he'd visit her on the May Holiday to meet her parents. Let's hope the weather will be good, bright... A peaceful sky overhead! . .. Not like today: lots of mud and a freezing rain ...

He ran past a sleigh stuck in the mud: hopeless to travel in this weather. Three furry Degenerators stood on the roadside: a troika. They were resting with their boots off, smoking rusht, grinning at the Golubchiks. When they saw Benedikt they burst into laughter. "Running away from a heart attack, are you? ..."

"If he don't catch up, at least he'll warm up!"

"Faster, faster, they'll close the garage!"

Shameless beasts. They harass people. But it's not worth paying them back in kind: they swear a sight better than we do. No one gets involved with them, not with Degenerators.

From hill to hill, along the lanes, sometimes through gardens,

scrambling under a fence for a shortcut, Benedikt ran all the way home, threw open the bolts, rushed into the izba, flung open the stove damper: the coals are smoldering! Smoldering, Golubchik! He made it in time! Put in a little rusht, some firewood, bark chips; blow on the fire, let it play for a while; and as soon as it catches, take it to the bathhouse. Haul the water, find the branches from last year that were in the shed somewhere. There ought to be a brand-new washcloth ... it was here ... Now if he were married, he'd run home from work--and everything would be ready, the spiders swept away, the branches steamed up. Yes, but married men can't really go visiting women... "Where are you going, Benedikt? It's nighttime." "Well, you see ... I have to ... to talk about art..." "We know your art! ... Huh! A real artful one you are." And she'd take the branches and thrash him six ways from Sunday ... Would he and Olenka really fight like that? Nooo. Everything would be fine between them--otherwise, what was the point?

You'd get home--everything's ready, only you wouldn't have the same freedom. Well, so what. But his wife was a real beauty! And freedom--well, what's freedom ... Right now he was free, but he couldn't find the washcloth--could they really have pinched it? No, he was in luck again: he found the cloth in the bathhouse under a stone; a little moldy, but he found it. What a day today: everything is working out.

He sat and enjoyed the steam, rubbed himself all over with the washcloth, beat himself red with the branches, and inspected his body from every angle his eyes could reach: gorgeous! If a neighbor glanced in the window right now, he'd be envious. Benedikt even envied himself. No wonder the women praised him: "Marvelously developed, we expect a lot from you!" Just wait, I'll dry off and--I'm all yours. Would all six be there, or what? Never mind, God willing, I'll manage! They sit on top of each other ... whew!

He scraped the coals in a pile: maybe they'd last longer that way. Probably not till morning, though. He could get some coals from Varvara. But why? In the morning he had to go to work, anyway. Oh, what a lot of fuss and bother! Benedikt scattered