The Slynx (17 page)

"Who is Pushkin? From around here?"

"A genius. He died. Long ago."

"He ate something bad?"

"Good Lord Almighty! ... Lord forgive me, but what a dim-witted oaf you are, and Polina Mikhailovna's son to boot! How-over, I must take some of the blame, I should have taken you under my wing long ago. Well, now I'll have something to do in my old age. We'll fix everything. You have a good profession, no? You're well read, is that right?"

"I read well, Nikita Ivanich! I love to read. I love art. I adore music."

"Music. Hmm, yes. I loved Brahms."

"I love a good brahms too. That's for sure."

"How could you know?" asked the old man, surprised.

"What do you mean! Ha! Semyon, you see--you know Sem-yon, right? He has an izba on Rubbish Pond? Next to Ivan Bee-fich? Like this--Ivan Beefich's izba, and there's Semyon's, you know? On the right, where the big ditch is?"

"All right, all right, what about this Semyon?"

"Well, when he has his fill of kvas, he plays loud music. He turns buckets and pots upside down, and hits them with sticks-- broompah, broompah, broompah-pah, and then he hits the bottom of a barrel--whack--and it makes a big
brrrahms!"

"Right..." sighed Nikita Ivanich.

They sat in silence and smoked. It was nice to think about music. And singing . .. He should ask Semyon to the wedding. The wind gusted and blew down some more fine snow.

"Well, should we go, Nikita Ivanich? ... Or else my tail is gonna freeze stiff."

"What tail?"

"What do you mean, what tail? A plain old tail, the kind that grows on your backside."

NASH

How do you like that! Man proposes, God disposes. Halfway through my earthly life, I awoke in a twilit forest! Having strayed from the path in the darkness of the valley! There I was, living my life, enjoying the sun, gazing in sorrow at the stars, smelling the flowers, dreaming lovely dreams, and suddenly-- what a blow! What a drama! A crying shame and a drama--

nothing this really terrible has probably ever happened to anybody, not even the Gingerbread Man!

Benedikt had lived his whole life proudly: fine and fit as a fiddle he was. He knew it himself, and people said so. You can't see your own face, of course, unless you pour water in a bowl, light a candle, and look in. Then you can sort of see something. But his body was right there in plain sight. Arms, legs, belly button, nipples, private parts, here are all the fingers on his hands and there are the toes on his feet--and all without any defect. And what's in back? His backside, of course, and on his backside--a little tail. And now Nikita Ivanich says people don't and shouldn't have tails! What? What is it then, a Consequence?

Of course, there was a time when Benedikt didn't have a tail. In childhood his backside was smooth. But when he started growing and his male strength began to show, his tail began to grow too. Benedikt thought that was the way it should be. That's the difference between a man and a woman, that on him every-thing grows on the outside, and in her everything grows inside. His beard and the hair on his body didn't grow at first either, but then they came in real handsome.

He was proud of his tail! A well-formed little tail, white and strong, about as long as your palm or a little longer. If Benedikt was pleased, or feeling happy, it would wag back and forth. What else was it supposed to do? And if he felt a sudden fear or sadness come over him, then his tail would kind of lay low, flat down. You could always tell from your tail what mood you were in. And so how is it that now it turns out it's not normal? All wrong? Holy moly! Maybe his privates--his pudential, in book talk--are also wrong? Take a look, Nikita Ivanich!

Nikita Ivanich examined Benedikt and he looked kind of dejected. No, he said, your privates are just fine, handsome and healthy, there's only one set, and anybody would be happy to have one like that. But your tail is completely superfluous. I'm rather surprised that someone like you, a dreamer and a neu-rotic, didn't catch on earlier. I always told you not to eat so many mice! Let me amputate it for you right now. That means that I'll get an ax and chop it off. Whack!

No! It's too scary! What do you mean, chop it off? It's like a hand or a foot! No! Not for anything! Nikita Ivanich kept it up: Come on, come on, maybe all your nonsense and neuroses are caused by the tail! ... No, no! I won't give in!

But how could he get married now? How could he look Olenka, that radiant beauty, straight in the eye? After all, getting married isn't only pancakes and embroidery, or walking hand in hand in the orchard garden, it means pulling your britches down. And Olenka will look at it and take fright: What is that?! Won't she? But all the other women: Marfushka, Kapi-tolinka, Crooked Vera, Glashka-Kudlashka, and lots of others --they never said anything, they never fussed or griped. No siree. They always complimented him! Uneducated idiots! Don't know anything except the woman's business.

All right, but what should he do now? He was halfway there, he'd already proposed and been invited to his in-laws. He'd already agreed with Olenka and set a day to visit their izba, to pay his respects and get acquainted! Hello, dear people, I want to marry your daughter! And who exactly are you and what do you have to show for yourself? I'm Benedikt Karpich, the late Karp Pudich's son, who was the son of Pud Christoforovich, who was the son of Christopher Matveich, and whose son that Matvei was and from where--we can't remember, it's been lost in the gloom of time. What I have to show for myself is that I'm young, healthy, good-looking, and I have a good clean job, you know that... "Aren't you lying to us, Benedikt Karpich?" "I'm not lying." "Then why do you have a dog's name, Benedikt? Maybe it's not a name but a nickname? ... Why would they give you a dog's name? What kind of Consequence do you have?"

That's the drama of it.

What do I care that other Golubchiks have Consequences: extra hair, rashes, blister bumps! Blisters are just water bubbles, they burst--and they're gone. Horns, ears, and cock's combs aren't comely, but what do I care? Your own bump's a proper lump, the other guy's--just a little itch! There's no secret to horns or ears, everything's in plain view, people are used to it. No one's gonna laugh and say: Hey, you over there, whatcha got horns for! They were always there, the horns, you don't even see

them anymore. But a tail--it's kind of a secret--all hidden, private. If everyone had one that would be all right. But if you're the only one--it's shameful.

It's not like he ended up with an amazing Consequence like Nikita Ivanich got: breathing fire! Nice and clean: people are scared, they respect you. You are our Head Stoker, they say. But about Benedikt they'd say: Mongrel! You're a stray mutt, a streetwalker! That's what they always say to dogs. For that matter, any Golubchik who sees a dog wants to crush it or kick it, throw a stick at it or poke it with something, or just swear at it, not mean-like, no, meanness is for people--but with a kind of disgust.

Nikita Ivanich said: Well, on the other hand, the tail is an original characteristic of primates. Long, long ago, when humans had not yet fully evolved, tails were normal phenomena and surprised no one; they clearly began to disappear when man began using sticks and tools. Nowadays a tail is an atavism. But what concerns me is the sudden reappearance of this specific appendage. What could the reason be? After all, we're in the Neolithic period, and not some savage animal kingdom. What could it mean?

With a tear in his eye, Benedikt said: All fine and well for you to talk and use all kinds of big words, Nikita Ivanich. You're always wanting to restore the past, to put up posts and pillars, carve pushkins out of wood, but you don't care about the past hanging off my backside and I have to get married! All you Oldeners are the same: "We'll re-create the lofty past in full measure." Well, here's your full measure! Take it! And since you love the past so much, why don't you go running around with a tail? I don't need one! I want to live!

And Nikita Ivanich said: You're right, young fellow, those are the words of a real man, not a boy. But what I mean is that I hope for the resurrection of the spiritual! It's time! I hope for brotherhood, love, beauty. Justice. Mutual respect. Lofty aspirations. I want thoughtful, honest labor, hand in hand, to replace brawls and altercations. I want the fire of love for one's fellow man to burn in the soul.

Benedikt said: Sure, right away. Easy for you to talk, you've

got your own fire. Everyone bows to you, kisses your feet, they probably bring you surprises in baskets: bliny or noodles! And if things don't go your way--you can just huff and puff and burn your mortal enemy down, turn him to ash! But what can the simple folk do?

Nikita Ivanich said: No, now just a minute, young man, hold your horses, you misunderstood me again. I have no intention of burning anyone up, I merely help as best I can. Of course, I have an unusual Consequence, a rather convenient one--I can have a smoke any time I like. But I too may not be immortal--look at Anna Petrovna, she left us for a better world, where there is no sorrow or lamentation. It's time for you, my good people, to cease relying on this old man and display a little--just a little-- initiative. It's time to make fire yourselves!

And Benedikt said: Good Lord Almighty, Nikita Ivanich, are you crazy? Where would we get fire from? It's a mystery! It can't be known! Where does it come from? If an izba burns down, everybody will come running and grab some coals for their pot. Then, of course. But if all the stoves in the town went out? Hunh? What're we supposed to do, wait for lightning storms? We'd all croak in the meantime!

Nikita Ivanich said: Think friction, young man, friction. Try it. I'd be happy to, but I'm too old. I can't.

Benedikt said: Oh, come on now, Nikita Ivanich. You talk about how old you are, but there you go being bawdy again.

"Unfortunately," said Nikita Ivanich, "I don't have his portrait, a fact which is a constant source of grief and regret to me. I didn't manage to save it. What does one take out of a burning house? What would we want with us on an uninhabited island? The eternal question! At one time my friends and I squabbled for hours on end on summer verandahs, in winter kitchens, or with fellow travelers we chanced to meet on the train. Which three books are the most valuable in the world? Which are dearest to our hearts? Tell me, young man, what would you carry out of a burning house?"

Benedikt thought long and hard. He imagined his izba.

When you go in, on the right-hand side, there's a table with a stool. The table is pushed up to the window so there's more light. There's a candle on the table and next to the table there's a stool. One of its legs rotted, and he had never got around to fixing it. Farther along the wall there's another chair. Mother used to sit in it, but now no one sits in it, though Benedikt sometimes hangs his jacket there or throws his clothes over it. There's nothing else. The other wall goes out from that corner, and that's where the bed is. There's rags on the bed, of course. Over the bed, on the wall, there's a shelf, and there are some booklets on the shelf if the thieves haven't stolen them. Under the bed, like everyone else, he has a box for all kinds of junk, the junk you hate to throw out--tools, wooden nails and stuff. At the head of

the bed there's another corner. On the third wall, the one facing you when you enter, is the stove. What about the stove? A stove's a stove. No secret there. On top of it there's also a bed if you like the warmth, and in the bottom part you cook food. Plugs, latches, chokers, dampers, handle turns, hiding pockets-- everything's part of the stove. It's wrapped all around in ropes and string so you can hang things to dry, or just for decoration. And it's so wide, so fat-assed, that there's no room for anything else on the fourth wall: just a couple of hooks to hang a hat or a towel on, and that's it. Then there's the door to the pantry, where rusht and dried marshrooms are stored.

What would he carry out if, God forbid, there was a fire? Rusht? What for? You can always get some more. His new bowl? He could make another one. He'd miss the chair a bit, the chair was very old.

"I'd take the chair," said Benedikt.

"Really?" said Nikita Ivanich, surprised. "Why?"

"It was Mother's."

"Yes, of course. Sentimental value. But what about books? Aren't books important to you?"

"I love reading, Nikita Ivanich, but so what? If I have to, I can always make some new booklets. Or trade mice for them. And

if there's a fire, God forbid, Nikita Ivanich, they'll be the first thing to burn. Puff! They're gone. Bark just doesn't hold up."

"But the words inscribed in them are harder than copper and more enduring than the pyramids. Isn't that right? Do you deny it?" Nikita Ivanich chuckled and patted Benedikt on the back like he was coughing. "You too, young man, are a participant! A participant!--you've no business being such a scatterbrain, such an ignoramus, a spiritual Neanderthal, a depressed Cro-Magnon! I detect a spark of humanity even in you! I do. I harbor some hope for you! Your little brain is smoldering," said Nikita Ivanich, continuing to insult him. "Your soul is not devoid of impulses .. . 'You're destined to know a noble impulse / but won't accomplish anything at all,'" sang Nikita Ivanich in a ghastly voice, like a goat bleating. "But you and I will create something fine, something edifying. You do have a certain creative streak, I think..."

"Nikita Ivanich," Benedikt sniveled, offended. "Why all these words! ... You might as well just kick me, I swear, why are you calling me names?"

"Right, then. So, as I said," the old man went on, "I don't have his portrait, but I'll assist you. He wasn't very tall."

"But you said he was a giant," muttered Benedikt, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

"A giant of the spirit. 'His proud head rose higher than ...'"

"'... the Alexander column.' I know, I copied it. But we don't know how many yards tall that column was, Nikita Ivanich."

"It doesn't matter, not one little bit! Now, we'll extract him from this log--sorry, but we haven't got any others. The most important thing to me is the bowed head and the arm. Like this." The Stoker showed him. "Look at me. Carve a curly head, a straight nose, and a thoughtful face."