The Slynx (3 page)

mice and make soup. He gave us counting and writing, letters big and small, taught us to tear off bark, sew booklets together, boil ink from swamp rusht, split sticks for writing and dip them in the ink. He taught us how to make boats--scrape out logs and put them on the water--he taught us to hunt the bear with a spike, to take out the bladder, stretch it on spikes, and then cover the windows with it so there's light in the window even in winter.

Only don't try to take any bear skins or bear meat for yourself: the Lesser Murzas keep watch. A simple Golubchik has no business wearing bear skin. You have to understand: How can a Murza ride in a sleigh without a fur coat? He'd freeze solid. But we run around on foot, we're warm, if you don't watch out you'll go and unbutton your coat, you're so steamed up. But silly thoughts sometimes get stuck in your head and dig in. I'd like to have a sleigh too, and a fur coat, and ... And that's all Free-thinking.

Yes, Benedikt really wanted to try for the Stokers. But Mother was against it. It was the Scribes and nothing else for her. Father was pushing him toward timber, Mother pushed the Scribes, and he himself dreamed of swaggering down the middle of the street, his nose in the air, pulling a fire pot behind him on a string with sparks spilling from the holes. It wasn't heavy work: you get the coals from the Head Stoker, Nikita Ivanich, drag them home, light the stove, and then sit and stare out the window. In no time a neighboring Golubchik comes knocking, or someone from the Outskirts far off comes wandering by: "Father Stoker, Benedikt Karpich, let us have a bit of fire! That idiot over there wasn't watching, and my stove went out. And we were just about to fry up a batch of pancakes, what can you do..."

So you frown, grunt a bit like you just woke up, take your time tearing your rear end away from the bed or the stool, stretch out sweet-like--
stre-e-e-e-etch!
--scratch your head, spit, and pretend to be mad: "That's the way everything goes with you! Assholes. Can't tend a fire ... Can't keep enough coals around for all of you Golubchiks, you know that? Know

where you have to go for coals? ... Aha ... there you have it... These are my own two legs here. You people, you people. Someone else would just give up, wouldn't give you the time of day. You keep coming and coming. Don't have a clue yourselves, why it is you keep coming back .. . Well then, what is it you need? Coals?" You ask that way, as if you couldn't see for yourself what he needs, and you look stern, and you make a face, as if his breath stinks and you're about to puke. That is your job. That's what the job is.

The Golubchik starts whining again: "Benedikt Karpich, Faaaather, help us out, will you? I'll never forget it... Here, I .. . some hot pancakes ... I brought them ... they've only cooled off a little ... Forgive me, don't..."

At this point you need to growl under your breath, "Pancakes ..." but you don't take them yourself, God forbid--the Golubchik knows, he'll put everything quietly in a corner, and you keep on saying "Pancakes ... hmmph"--mean-like, but don't overdo it. So that the voice goes down, into a grumble. And then slowly, taking your sweet time, you scrape up some coals with a shovel and over your shoulder to the Golubchik you say, "Did you bring your pot?"

"Of course, of course, Father, you've really saved my skin," --and then you give him a little bit.

When you've got the governmental approach to things you get respect from people--what a strict Stoker, they say, that's our batiushka, our father, for you--and then there's always little surprises after people leave. As soon as the door closes, you check in the window: Is he gone? And go straight to the package. I wonder what he brought. It might really be pancakes. Maybe lard. A baked egg. Another guy, if he's poor, might have just picked some rusht. It comes in handy too.

Ay, gone off dreaming again! It all ended the way Mother wanted. She got stubborn: there were three generations of intel-lyjeanseeya in the family, she said, I won't allow trodishin to be stepped on. Ay, Mother! She would run to Nikita Ivanich to whisper, and she'd drag him by the arm to the izba so they could both work on Father together, and she'd wave her hands about

and set to screeching. Father gave up:
ayyy
... go to hell all of you, go on and do what you want... Only don't come complaining to me later.

So Benedikt now goes to work in the Work Izba. It's not bad work either. You come there and it's already warm, mouse-lard candles are already burning, the trash is swept away--heaven. They give him a bark notebook, a scroll to copy from, and they mark it: from here to here. You just sit tight in the warmth and make a clean copy. Only leave room for pictures. And that sweetie Olenka will draw the pictures in later with her white hand: a chicken or a bush. They don't much look like chickens or bushes, but still, they're nice to look at.

And Benedikt copies what Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, writes: fairy tales, or teachings, sometimes poems. Fyodor Kuzmich's poems turn out so good that sometimes your hand starts shaking, your eyes go all dark, and it's like you've just gone and floated off somewhere, or else like there's a knot in your throat and you can't swallow. Some poems make sense, every word of them, and some--you could get dizzy trying to figure them out. The other day, for instance, Benedikt copied this one:

The mountain crest

Slumbers in the night;

Quiet valleys

Are filled with fresh dark mist;

The road is free of dust,

And the leaves are still...

Just wait a bit,

And you too will rest.

Any idiot could understand that one. But:

Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails. I've read the list of ships halfway: That long brood, that train of cranes, That once arose over Hellas ...

You could only squawk and scratch your beard. And then this one:

Spikenard, cinnamon, and aloe Are rich in alluring fragrance: As soon as Aquilon does blow, They'll drip aromas of incense.

Yikes! Just go and figure out what'll drip where. Yes, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, knows all kinds of words. He's a poet, after all. Not easy work. "You may extract a single word from a thousand tons of linguistic ore," says Fyodor Kuzmich. He works himself to the bone for us. And he has oodles of other things to see to as well.

They say he thought up cutting a crooked stick from a piece of wood and bending it into a bow. We're supposed to call it a yoke. It's all the same to us, the boss is the boss, he can call it a yoke, the why and wherefore--it's none of our business. And you carry water jugs on this bow so your arms won't stretch out. Maybe they'll hand out some of these yokes at the Warehouse in the spring. First to the Saniturions, may their names not be spoken at night, then to the Murzas, and then, as soon as you know it, they'll come our way. And spring's already in the air. The streams will start running, the flowers will come out, the pretty girls will put on their dresses ... What a dream! Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, wrote:

O spring without end or borders! Dream without borders to yield!

I recognize you, life, I embrace you, And greet you with the ring of the shield!

Only why is it "the ring" of the shield? After all, the shield-- the one for announcing decrees--is made of wood. If you happen to get a roadwork notice, if someone takes it into his head to make his own sleigh or doesn't turn over enough mouse meat, for instance, or if they postpone Warehouse Day too many times, the shield doesn't ring, it makes a dull thud. But then, the law isn't written for Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. He has something to say about this, too. "Be proud," he says, "such art thou, poet, there is no law for thee." So it's not for us to tell him.

Other Scribes sit next to Benedikt in the Work Izba. That sweetheart Olenka draws drawings. A pretty girl: dark eyes, a gold braid, cheeks like the sky at sunset when the next day'll bring wind--all shiny. Bow-shaped eyebrows, or, like we're supposed to say now, yoke-shaped; a rabbit coat, felt boots with soles--must be from an important family. Olenka comes to work on a sleigh, the sleigh's waiting for her after work too, and it's not a plain one either: it's a troika. Under the harness the De-generators stomp their feet, the shaft Degenerator is skittish, watch out or he'll bite you, and the trace Degenerators are even worse. How can you approach Olenka? Benedikt only sighs and steals glances at her, and she already knows, the sweetheart: she'll blink her eyes at him or turn her head just so. A modest girl.

So Benedikt goes to work, looking all around him, bowing to the Stokers, watching out for the sleighs, breathing in the frosty air, enjoying the blue sky. He was staring at a beautiful girl mincing by, and boom--he ran straight into a post. Ooooh, may you all go to here and there and back again. Damn things are all over the place!

Ouch. Nikita Ivanich, the Head Stoker, put up these posts. An old friend of Mother's, may she rest in peace. Also one of the Oldeners. He's about three hundred years old, maybe older, who knows. Who counts time? Do we know? Winter, summer, winter, summer, but how many times? You'd lose count just thinking about it. There are ten fingers, and on the feet ten toes --though some people have as many as fifteen, it's true, and some have two, and Semyon, the one from Foul Ponds, has a lot of tiny fingers on one hand, just like little roots, and nothing at all on the other. That's the kind of Consequence he got.

Nikita Ivanich would spend time with Mother. He'd come to the izba, wipe his feet off, "May I?" he'd say, and plop down on the stool and start talking about Oldener Times. "Polina Mik-hailovna, do you recall Kuzminsky? Ha, ha, ha. And how Vais-man used to drop by, do you remember? Oh ho ho. And Sidor-chuk, the son of a gun, remember, he was the one who concocted all those denunciations, and where are they now? Dust, it's all

dust! And how Lyalya made coffee! I wouldn't object to a cup of coffee right this minute ..." Mother would laugh or start sobbing, and the thought of deportmunt stores and booticks would drive her out of her mind. Or she'd suddenly ask, Where did all the lilac go? Lilac--that was flowers, they grew on trees, it's said, and had a wonderful smell. The old man couldn't stand these conversations, he'd run out into the yard and start chopping wood:
Whack! Hack! Smack! Crack!...
You could get mad all right, but how could you say a word to Nikita Ivanich? He's Head Stoker.

Benedikt is good with his hands, he can make anything, so can the other Golubchiks, but they can't make fire. It was Fyo-dor Kuzmich, Glorybe, brought fire to people. Only how it all happened, where he got the fire, we don't know. You could think on it for three days and you wouldn't figure it out, you'd just get a headache, like you'd drunk too much egg kvas. Some say it was from the sky, some say that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, stamped his foot and the earth flared up in a clear fire right then and there. Anything could be true.

And Nikita Ivanich tends the fire. All the Lesser Stokers go to him, they take their coals in stone pots to their izbas. What a good job! Oh, what a job! Sit at home, look out the window, and wait for Golubchiks to come by with surprises. During the daytime the Golubchiks are at work: some are wearing out holes in their chairs in the Work Izbas, some collect rusht in the swamp, some plant turnips in the fields, different things. A stove likes tender loving care; if you're late getting home--oops, it's out. Weren't paying attention--and the coals go cold. Just now, just now a little blue flame was running about and every bit of wood shone as if it were alive inside, red, clear, as if someone were breathing or wanted to say something--and that's that... Then it's quiet, gray, dull, like something died.

And it did die. The fire, that is. Ahh, hard to figure it all out. A mystery.

And where there's mystery--there's government service.

VEDI

Nikita ivanich was short, with a puny body, scruffy beard, and beady eyes like a chicken. But what a head of hair--yikes. In the Oldener Times, before the Blast, he was an old, old man who coughed and was about to die. He loved to tell Mother the story; if he told her once he told her a hundred times, like it made him proud. And then, he'd say, the whole shebang goes kaboom and blows to kingdom come--and here I am. I'm alive and well, he'd say, and haven't the slightest intention of dying, Golubchiks. And you needn't try to persuade me otherwise.

Mother didn't have an intention either, but those damned firelings tricked her. After Mother died, it wasn't like Nikita Ivanich changed, but he didn't talk so much, and he started to avoid people. It was easy to see why: you could count the Oldeners in a flash, there were hardly any left except for Degenerators, who aren't really people, and with today's Golubchiks, that is, with us, you can't talk the same way. When it comes down to it, the Oldeners don't understand our words, and we don't understand theirs.

Sometimes they babble and chatter such drivel, like little kids, I swear. When Mother and the old man were still alive, the housekeeping ran better. They kept fowl, put up powdered wor-rums, and there was Kitty to catch mice. Mother was lazy and slow. Summer was the time to put away eggs for kvas in winter. Everyone knows when fall comes the fowl head off south, but who knows if they'll come back? So you have to be on your toes.

But one time Mother said: Let's just lock them up so they'll stay at home and lay eggs for us year-round. Sure! Just try and hold them back! Grab them by the legs! They'll peck your eyes out in a thrice. Another time she said: What a pity they aren't edible--I would love to have a nice chicken dish. Father nearly keeled over laughing. What a dimwit, he said, what a dolt--

nothing but air between your ears. Klim Danilych ate chicken once--and where is he now? He not only kicked the bucket, first he turned all black, swelled up like a hollow log and burst; and that wasn't the end of it. Then the ground around his grave sank and caved in and wicked fires flicker there, cold they are, and it stinks so bad they sent people over twice to dump sand on the grave, and even that didn't help.

Nikita Ivanich goes on the same way: he doesn't get it, but sure knows how to talk. Once he said: There isn't any Slynx, it's nothing but human ignorance. How d'ya like that? And who rips people's veins out? Who sucks the lifeblood out of the neck? Tell me! And if you don't know, then shut your trap.