The Slynx (16 page)

One of their old ladies died recently. Nikita Ivanich dropped by to see Benedikt, all gloomy: he was unhappy that an Oldener lady died.

"Benya, our Anna Petrovna has gone to meet her maker. Please, as a friend, do me a favor and help us carry the coffin. The thaw has made all the roads muddy. We won't be able to manage it."

What else could he do. He went to help. It was even interesting to see how they did things different than other people.

The crowd was small, about a dozen. Most of the people were elderly. No cussing, nothing. Just quiet talk. They all looked upset.

"Who's the master of ceremonies?"

"Viktor Ivanich."

"Viktor Ivanich again?"

"Who else? He's very experienced."

"But he couldn't arrange any transportation."

"They wouldn't give him any. Said the garage was closed for inclement weather."

"They always have excuses."

"As if you didn't know."

"They're just mocking us."

"Not as though you haven't had time to get accustomed to it."

Viktor Ivanich, their master of ceremonies, was fairly young. He had short, blond hair, combed to the side. He looked annoyed. Red threads were wound round his sleeve so you could see him from far away. Not a Murza, but sort of like one, so just in case, Benedikt bowed to him. His eyebrows twitched: he accepted the bow. He said to Benedikt: "Don't crowd around."

They put the coffin on the ground next to the hole. Someone put a stool nearby and placed a pillow on it. They stood by in a sparse half circle and took off their hats. Viktor Ivanich chose two of them and pointed.

"You and you. Please. Form the honor guard."

He looked over the heads of the crowd and raised his voice sternly.

"I declare the civil memorial service open. I shall begin!"

The Oldeners said to him: "Begin, begin, Viktor Ivanich. It's cold."

Viktor Ivanich raised his voice and began: "Are there any relatives, close friends? Move up front, please!"

No one stepped forward. That means she didn't have any relations, just like me, Benedikt thought. It means she caught her own mice.

"Co-workers?"

No one. One Golubushka stepped up: "I'm her neighbor. I looked after her."

Viktor Ivanich spoke to her angrily, in his everyday voice: "Don't get ahead of things! I haven't called you yet."

"But I'm freezing. Hurry up."

"If you are going to be obstreperous, I'll have to ask you to leave the premises!" said Viktor Ivanich rudely. "Order must be observed!"

"That's right!" a few shouted from the crowd. "Order has to

be observed, so let's observe it! Or it'll be a disaster. As always. We're just wasting time!"

Viktor Ivanich used his other voice: elevated and sort of ringing, as if he were calling out to someone in the forest: "Neighbors, housekeepers? ... Take your place in the first row ..."

The neighbor lady who'd made the fuss ran forward. Viktor Ivanich gave his expression a little more warmth: he pinched his mouth up like a chicken's rump and sort of wrinkled his eyes. He squeezed the woman's elbow and said: "Chin up."

The woman burst into tears. Viktor Ivanich again intoned: "Are there any military awards, commendations, orders? Government tributes, testimonials? Diplomas from state institutions? Medals of honor, pins? Epaulettes? ..."

Nothing.

"Party cards, Komsomol or trade union ID? . .. State lottery tickets? Domestic loan bonds? Employment records? Writers or Artists Union cards? No? Drivers' licenses of any sort? Trucks? Passenger vehicles? Tractor trailers? No? Leases? Subscription forms? Gas or telephone bills? Collective antenna registration documents? Receipts for overpayment?"

All these words were so funny, total gibberish. Benedikt couldn't stop himself, he giggled, and turned to look at the crowd: they were probably cracking up too. No, they were all crying, tears streaming from their eyes. They all looked like they were staring at something very far away. One woman was wringing her hands, whispering: "We never appreciated ... never appreciated ..." Tears were welling in Nikita Ivanich's eyes too. Benedikt whispered to him: "What's wrong, Nikita Ivanich? You feel sorry for the old lady?"

"Quiet, Benya! Quiet. Please. This was our whole life ... Lord ... There you have it... A whole way of life ..."

He trembled, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Viktor Ivanich continued: "Instructions for using household appliances? No? A television? A gas or electric range? A microwave? Kerosene stove? No? Vacuum cleaner? Floor polisher? Washing machine? Sewing machine? Kitchen appliances?"

"Yes, yes! There are instructions!" someone cried out.

"Very good! Please come up front! What kind of instructions?"

"It's for a meat grinder. With attachments."

"Put it right here. Here. On the pillow."

An old Golubchik approached and placed a tattered, soiled, frayed scrap of who-knows-what on the red pillow and put a stone on top of it so the wind wouldn't blow it away. All the women began sobbing; they howled like Spoiled Ones. One of them suddenly felt faint, so they held her up and fanned her face with their hands.

"Courage, comrades!" Viktor Ivanich intoned. "So! To continue. Who has any memorial objects? Relics? No? That's it? I'll move on to the second part.
Comrades!"
Viktor Ivanich spoke in such a hooting voice, just like some kind of blindlie bird, that Benedikt squatted down. He looked around. Jeez, the guy shouted like he wasn't talking to a dozen Golubchiks, but a whole thousand.

"Death has wrenched an irreplaceable laborer from our ranks," Viktor Ivanich went on. "A marvelous human being. A worthy citizen." Viktor Ivanich dropped his head on his chest and was silent for a time. Benedikt crouched and looked up at his face: Was he crying? No, he wasn't crying. He looked back at Benedikt angrily. He jerked his head up and continued. "It's sad, comrades. Immensely sad. On the eve of this glorious day, the two-hundredth anniversary of the Blast--"

"Viktor Ivanich, Viktor Ivanich!" cried the Oldeners. "You're talking about the wrong thing!"

"What do you mean? Oh, excuse me. I apologize. That's for a different occasion. I got them mixed up."

"You mustn't confuse things!"

"Don't interrupt! I'm being interrupted here," he said, squinting at Benedikt. "People are crowding around!"

"That's Polina Mikhailovna's boy!"

"Don't argue, ladies and gentlemen. Let's continue! On the eve ..."

Viktor Ivanich collected himself, frowned, and stood at at-lention.

"On the eve of this mournful occasion, the two-hundredth anniversary of the Blast, which dispersed and then consolidated our ranks, a great, inspiring comrade, an irreplaceable citizen, a modest, inconspicuous toiler, has left us. An individual possessed of a grand soul. She has left us, but her cause is not dead. Though Anna Petrovna's contribution to the restoration of our Lofty Past may not have been large," said Viktor Ivanich, pointing to the pillow, "it is nonetheless weighty, tangible . .. Rest in peace, Anna Petrovna! ... Who wants to speak on behalf of the settlement? You, Nikolai Maximich? Be my guest."

Another old Golubchik appeared, his hair blowing in the wind. His face was tear-stained and he blew his nose. "Anna Petrovna! You toiled in anonymity," he said, addressing the coffin directly. "How did it come to this, Anna Petrovna? Tell me! And what about us? We didn't appreciate you! We weren't interested! We thought--there's Anna Petrovna and there's Anna Petrovna again! Just another old lady. We thought you would always be with us. Why beat around the bush, we didn't give a fig about you! Who needs her, we thought, that little old mean-spirited, communal-apartment crone, she just gets underfoot like a poisonous mushroom, God forgive us!"

"Hey, watch it," the Golubchiks warned. "Go easy."

"De mortuis aut bene aut nihil!" someone cackled into Benedikt's ear.

"What did I do?" said Benedikt, startled. "What do I have to do with it?"

"It's not about you, Benya, nothing to do with you. Calm down," Nikita Ivanich said, tugging on Benedikt. "Stand still, don't fidget."

"Who, I repeat, needed you, Anna Petrovna? You were an invisible mosquito interested only in your kitchen, you never left the stove! Here's what remains of you: how to eat, and that's the sum total! But we are sorry for you, Anna Petrovna! Without you the people is not whole!"

Viktor Ivanich shook the Golubchik's hand and thanked him: "Well spoken, comrade. We thank you. On behalf of the Monument Preservation Society, Nikita Ivanich, please say a few words!"

Nikita Ivanich went up and also blew his nose. "Friends!" he began. "What does this memorial object tell us?" he asked, pointing to the pillow. "This priceless relic of a bygone era! What stories would it tell us if it could speak? Some might say: It's nothing but museum dust, the ashes of the centuries! Instructions for a meat grinder! Ha! However, my friends! However! As a former museum employee who has never relinquished his responsibilities, let me tell you something. In these difficult years--the Stone Age, the sunset of Europe, the death of the gods and everything else that you and I, friends, have lived through--at this time the instructions for a meat grinder are no less valuable than a papyrus from the library of Alexandria! A fragment of Noah's Ark! The tablets of Hammurabi. Moreover, friends, material culture is being restored hour by hour. The wheel has been reinvented, the yoke is returning to use, and the solar clock as well! We will soon learn to fire pottery! Isn't that correct, friends? The time of the meat grinder will come. Though at present it may seem as mysterious as the secrets of the pyramids--we don't even know whether they still stand, by the way--as incomprehensible to the mind as the canals of the planet Mars--the hour will come, friends, when it will start working! And Viktor Ivanich is right--it will rise before us, tangible and weighty, just as the aqueduct once devised by the slaves of Rome arrived in our former era. Unfortunately the aqueduct hasn't come back to our time yet, but even that is not far off! It will come, everything will come! The most important thing is to preserve our spiritual heritage! The object itself may not exist, but there are instructions for its use, we have its spiritual--no, I do not fear that word--will and testament, a missive from the past! And Anna Petrovna, a modest, entirely unremarkable grandmother, preserved this missive unto her deathbed! A keeper of the hearth, the cornerstone, the pillar of the whole world. It's a lesson to us all, friends. As our great poet wrote: 'O monument untouched by human hands! Harder than copper, older than the pyramids!' I salute you, Anna Petrovna, you are a saintly soul!"

He burst into tears and moved aside.

"Very well put, Nikita Ivanich. We thank you. Lev Lvovich,

please step forward on behalf of the Dissidents," announced Viktor Ivanich.

A thin, curly-headed Golubchik stood up. He grimaced. Clasped his hands over his belly. Rocked gently from heel to toe. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is symbolic: the world may perish, but the meat grinder is indestructible. The meat grinder of history. And here I beg to differ with the representative from the Monument Preservation Society," he said, grimacing again. "A meat grinder, ladies and gentlemen. With attachments. The grinder hasn't changed. Only the attachments have changed. There was no freedom back then, nor is there now. And note the saddest thing, ladies and gentlemen. How deep rooted this is. In the people's mind. Instructions for tightening the screws. The eternal rotation of levers and blades. Let us remember Dostoevsky: 'The whole world may perish, but I want to drink tea.' Or grind meat. Cannon fodder, ladies and gentlemen. In this hour I have a bitter taste in my mouth. We have already been ground to bits. And they want to do it some more. I won't even mention the present economic situation: we're all freezing. I simply wish to draw your attention to this: yes, a meat grinder. Devised long ago by the slaves of the Third Rome. By slaves! And there are no Xeroxes!"

"Very well said, Lev Lvovich. We thank you. On behalf of the female community? ... Lily Pavlovna?"

Benedikt didn't bother to listen to the woman; he squatted on a mound and waited for them to finish. It started to freeze. The surface of the clay, stirred up by many feet, began to ice over, and a fine snow was blowing. Spring just wouldn't stick, just wouldn't hang on. It'd be nice to go into the warmth and stretch out on the bed. And for Olenka to bring him pancakes and hot kvas. Olenka! Indescribable beauty! A little scary to marry such beauty! Her braid is long. Her eyes are bright... Her little face is egg-shaped, like a triangle. Plump, but maybe that's all the warm clothes wrapped around her. Her fingers are thin. If only the May Holiday would come .. . She could sit at the window and embroider, and Benedikt would admire her all the livelong day.

Meanwhile, the Oldeners talked, cried, sang something melancholy, buried their old woman, and had begun to go their separate ways. Nikita Ivanich, sniffing, sat down next to Benedikt, opened his pouch, stuffed some rusht into a leaf and rolled it up, one for him, one for Benedikt. He puffed out a little flame and they lit up.

"What did she die of, Nikita Ivanich?"

"I don't know, Benya. Who can tell?"

"She ate something, or what?"

"Ah, Benya! ..."

"Nikita Ivanich, I'm thinking of getting married."

"That's good. But aren't you young to be getting married?"

"Nikita Ivanich! I'm in my third decade!"

"That's true ... But I wanted to get you involved in something ... As old friends ..."

"What is it? Putting up pillars and posts?"

"Even better... I want to erect another monument to Pushkin. On Strastnoi Boulevard. We buried Anna Petrovna, and I thought... by association, you know ... He had his Anna Petrovna, we had our Anna Petrovna ... A fleeting vision . . . Whatever passes shall be sweet... You have to help me."

"What kind of monument?"

"How can I explain it? We'll carve a figure out of wood, life size. A handsome fellow. Thoughtful. His head bowed, his hand on his heart."

"The way you bow to Murzas?"

"No ... The way you listen: What is in the offing? What has passed us by? Hand on heart. Like this. Is it beating? Yes? Then I here's life still there."