The Slynx (32 page)

Benedikt looked into the darkness with eyes wide open. It was just darkness, there was nothing in it, right? But no, there was Yaroslav, and he'd gotten so stuck that he wouldn't come unstuck! You toss and turn on the pillows, or get up to smoke, or to go to the privy, or somewhere else--and there he is. Yaroslav, Yaroslav . . . You tell yourself: Don't think about Yaroslav! I don't know anything about him! But no, how can you say that, I mean, there's his back, there he is, rummaging ... You pass the night without sleep, you get up, gloomy as a storm cloud. Nothing at breakfast seems tasty, everything's wrong somehow... You take a bite and drop it: it's not right, not right... You blurt out: Maybe we should check Yaroslav? ... Father-in-law isn't pleased, he scrapes the floor, his eyes reproach you: always obsessed with trivia, son, always avoiding the most important things...

By summer Benedikt's hook flew like a bird. Yaroslav was

checked--and nothing was found; Rudolf, Myrtle, Cecilia Al-bertovna, Trofim, Shalva--nothing; Jacob, Vampire, Mikhail, another Mikhail, Lame Lyalya, Eustachius--nothing. He bought
Brades's Tables
at the market--just numbers. He'd like to catch that Brades, and stuff his head in a barrel.

No one around. Nothing. Only a leap year blizzard in his heart: it slips and sticks, sticks and slips, and the blizzard hums, like distant, unhappy voices--they wail softly, complain, but all without words. Or like in the steppe--hear it?--hands outstretched, they shuffle along on all sides. The Broken Ones shuffle along; there they are heading in all directions, though there aren't any directions for them; they've gone astray and there's no one to tell, and if there were, if they met a real live person, he wouldn't feel sorry for them, he doesn't need them. And they wouldn't recognize him, they don't even recognize themselves.

"Nikolai! ... We're going to the pushkin!"

A damp blizzard had thrown a heap of snow on the pushkin's hunched head and shoulders and the crook of his arm, as though he'd been crawling around other people's izbas, filching things from their closets, taking whatever he could find--and what he found was a sorry sight, all frayed, just rags--and he had crawled out of the room, clasping the rags to his chest. Molder-ing hay was falling from his head; it kept falling.

Well then, brother pushkin? You probably felt the same way, didn't you? You probably tossed and turned at night, walked with heavy legs over scraped floors, oppressed by your thoughts?

Did you, too, hitch the fastest steed to the sleigh and ride gloomily with no destination across the snowy fields, listening to the clatter of the lonely sleigh bells, the drawn-out song of the courier?

Did you, too, conjure the past, fear the future?

Did you rise higher than the column?--and while you rose, while you saw yourself weak and threatening, pitiful and triumphant, while you looked for what we are all looking for--the white bird, the main book, the road to the sea--did your dung heap Terenty Petrovich drop in on your wife, the bootlicker, mocker, helpful wheeler-dealer? Did his lewd, empty talk burble

through the rooms? Did he tempt with wondrous marvels? "You know, Olga Kudeyarovna, there's a place I know ... Underground guzzelean water ... Just toss in a match, and fuckin' A, we'll go up in smoke. Kaboom! Would you care to?" ... Let's soar above the sands!

Tell me, pushkin! How should I live? I hacked you out of a dumb log all by myself, bent your head, bent your elbow so you would cross your chest and listen to your heart: What has passed? What is yet to come? Without me you would be an eyeless chunk, an empty log, a nameless tree in the forest; you'd rustle in the wind in spring, drop your acorns in fall, creak in winter: no one would know about you! Without me--you wouldn't be here! "Who was it, with iniquitous power, called me forth from nothingness?" It was me, I called you! I did!

It's true, you came out a little crooked, the back of your head is flat, your fingers aren't quite right, and you don't have any legs. I can see that for myself, I understand carpentry.

But you're who you are, be patient, my child--you're the same as us, no different!

You're our be all and end all and we're yours, and there's no one else! No one! Help me!

YERY

"Give me the book," whined Benedikt. "Don't try to jew me out of it, give me the book!"

Nikita Ivanich looked at Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents. Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents looked out the window. It was a summer's eve, still light, the bladder off the window--you could see far, far away.

"It's too soon!" said Nikita Ivanich.

"Soon for what? The sun is already setting."

"Too early for you. You don't know the ABCs yet. You're uncivilized."

"Steppe and nothing else ... as far as the eye can see . . . And neither fish nor fowl..." said Lev Lvovich through his teeth.

"What do you mean, I don't know them?" answered Benedikt in amazement. "Me? Why, I... I.. . Why ... Do you know how many books I've read? How many I've copied?"

"It doesn't matter if it's a thousand."

"It's more than that!"

"Even if it's a thousand, it hardly matters. You don't really know how to read, books are of no use to you. They're just empty page-turning, a collection of letters. You haven't learned the alphabet of life. Of life, do you hear me?"

Benedikt was flabbergasted. He didn't know what to say. To be told such a bold-faced lie straight out like that. Nikita Ivanich might as well have said: You're not you, you're not Benedikt, and you aren't living on this earth, and ... and ... and I don't know what.

"You already said that... What do you mean I don't know? The alphabet... There's Az ... Slovo ... Myslete ... Fert."

"There's Fert, but there's Theta, and Yat, and Izhitsa, there are concepts inaccessible to you: sensitivity, compassion, generosity ..."

"The rights of individuals," piped up Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents.

"Honesty, justice, spiritual insight.. ."

"Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association," added Lev Lvovich.

"Mutual assistance, respect for others ... self-sacrifice . . ."

"Now that's a lot of stinking mystical blather," shouted Lev Lvovich, wagging his finger. "This isn't the first time I've noticed where you're heading with all that monument preservation! This smacks of nationalistic mysticism. It downright stinks."

It did smell bad in the izba. Lev Lvovich sure got that one right.

"There isn't any Theta," objected Benedikt. In his head he went through the entire alphabet, afraid that perhaps he'd let something slip--but no, he hadn't forgotten anything, he knew the alphabet by heart, backward and forward, and he'd never

had cause to complain about his memory. "There's no Theta, and after Fert comes Kher, and that's that. There isn't anything else."

"And don't hold your breath, there isn't going to be any," said Lev Lvovich, getting worked up once again, "You, Nikita Ivanich, you've got no business sowing obscurantism and superstition. Social protest is what's needed now, not Tolstoyism. This isn't the first time I've observed this in you. You're a Tolstoyan."

"A Tolstoyan, a Tolstoyan! Don't argue with me!"

"But--"

"On this point, old man, you and I are on different sides of the barricades. You are dragging society backward. 'To a cell in a shell.' You are a socially pernicious element. Mysticism! Right now the most important thing is protest. It's crucial to say: No! Do you remember--now when was that?--remember when I was called up for roadwork?"

"And--"

"I said: No! You must remember, you were around then."

"And you didn't go?"

"No, no, why do you say that? I went. They forced me. But I said: No!"

"Who did you say it to?"

"To you, I told you, you must remember. I believe it's very important to say no at the right moment. To say: I protest!"

"You protested, but you went anyway?"

"Have you ever met anyone who didn't go?"

"Forgive me, but what's the point... if no one hears--"

"And what's the point of your ... what shall I call them ... activities? All those posts?"

"What do you mean? Memory, of course!"

"Of what? Whose memory? It's just empty noise! Hot air! Now, here we've got a young man," said Lev Lvovich, looking at Benedikt with distaste. "Let this young man tell us, since he knows his letters so well, precisely what is inscribed on the pillar standing in the burdock and nettle patch next to your izba, and why is it there."

"It's grabweed," Benedikt corrected.

"It doesn't matter, I'm used to calling it nettle."

"Call it a pot if you like. It's grabweed."

"What does it matter?"

"Stick your hand in and you'll find out."

"Lev Lvovich," remarked Nikita Ivanich, "it's possible that the young man is right. Nowadays they differentiate nettle from grabweed. You and I don't, but they can tell the difference."

"No, no, no. Excuse me," said Lev Lvovich stubbornly, "I'm not yet blind, and let's not have any mysticism here: I see nettle and I insist that it is nettle."

"Crikey, Lev Lvovich, nettle is nettle!" Benedikt said. "And grabweed is grabweed. If it grabs you, you'll know it. You can make soup from nettle. It's not very good, but you can do it. But just try making soup from grabweed. No way you can make soup of it! No, no, no-o-o-o," Benedikt said with a laugh, "you'll never make soup of grabweed. Yeah, sure, nettle! It's not nettle. I swear. It's grabweed. That's it. Grabweed and nothing but."

"All right, all right," Lev Lvovich stopped him. "So what is written on the post?"

Benedikt stuck his head out of the window, squinted, and read everything that was on the post out loud to the Oldeners: "Nikita's Gates," seven swear words, an obscene picture, "Fedya and Klava," another five cuss words, "Vitya was here," "There is no heppinness in life," three swear words, "Zakhar is a dog," and one more obscene picture. He read everything aloud.

"There you've got it, the whole inscription, or text, exactly like it is. And there's no Theta there. Lots of the F letter, one, two... eight. No, nine, the ninth is in Fedya. But there's no Theta."

"Your Theta isn't there," Lev Lvovich confirmed.

"Yes, it is," cried the Stoker, beside himself. "Nikita's Gate is my Theta to you, to everyone! So that there's some memory of our glorious past! With hope for the future! We'll restore everything, everything, and we'll start with the small things! It's a whole layer of our history! Pushkin was here! He was married here!"

"The pushkin was here," Benedikt agreed. "Right here in the shed, that's where we started him. We chiseled his head out, his arm, everything was fine and dandy. You helped drag him yourself, Lev Lvovich, you forgot already? You have a bad memory! And Vitya was here."

"What Vitya?"

"I don't know, maybe it was Vitya the Fainter from Upper Maelstrom, maybe it was the Chuchin's Vitya--a big guy, a bit younger than I am. Or maybe it was Vitya Ringlegs. It's not likely, though--I don't think he could make it all the way here. No, he couldn't make it. His legs are kind of turned around, like his foot was on the inside ..."

"What are you talking about, what Vitya, what does Vitya have to do with anything?"

"There it is, over there on the post, on the post! 'Vitya was here!' I only just read it out loud to you!"

"But that's completely unimportant, whether he was or wasn't here, who knows . ..? I'm talking about memory . .."

"Well, he left a memory! He carved it! So that people would know, whoever walked by--so they'd remember: he was here!"

"When will you learn to differentiate!!" shouted Nikita Ivanich, who had puffed up, turned red, and begun gesticulating ... "It's a milestone, a historical landmark! Nikita's Gates stood here, do you understand that? You Neanderthal!!! A great city stood here! Pushkin was here!"

"Vitya was here," shouted Benedikt, becoming incensed himself. "Fedya and Klava were here! Klava, I don't know, maybe Klava was at home and just Fedya was here! He carved a memory! And it's all here! Aha! I've got it! I know which Vitya! It was Viktor Ivanich, who buried your old woman. The organizer. It must have been him. That Viktor Ivanich."

"Viktor Ivanich would never go around carving nonsense on posts," protested the Oldeners, "it's difficult to even imagine ... completely unthinkable ..."

"Why wouldn't he? How do you know? What, is he dumber than you? You carve things, and he can't carve anything, is that it? It's all right to carve something about some gates, go ahead, but about a real person--not on your life, is that it?"

All three of them sat in silence, breathing through their noses.

"All right," said Nikita Ivanich, spreading his hands. "Let's calm down. Right now--wait--now I'll concentrate and explain. Good. In some ways you're right. Human beings are important. But! What's the point of this?" Nikita Ivanich gathered his fingers together. "The point is, that this memory--pay attention Benedikt!--this memory can exist on different levels ..."

Benedikt spat.

"You think I'm an idiot! You're talking like I was a little baby!... If he's a big strapping nitwit, then of course he's at a different level! He'll do his carving right on the very top! If he's a pip-squeak--he won't be able to reach, so he'll say what he has to on the bottom! And this one's right in the middle, exactly Viktor Ivanich's height. He's the one that did it, and there's no doubt about it."

"Steppe and nothing else ..." Lev Lvovich suddenly started singing.

"As far as the eye can seeee ..." Benedikt chimed in joyfully. He liked this song, always ordered the Degenerators to sing it on the road. "Out on that lonesome steppe ..."

"A coachman called to meeeee!"

All three began singing, Benedikt sang the bass, Nikita Ivanich sort of croaked along, and Lev Lvovich sang in a high, beautiful, heartfelt voice with a tear in it. Even Nikolai out in the yard was surprised. He stopped munching grass and stared at the singers.

You, my oldest friend, Don't recall bad deeds, On this desolate steppe, Please do bury meeeeeee!

The singing went so well, such a languid lightness set in, such a sense of accord, such wings, it felt like the smoky izba wasn't an izba, but a meadow, like nature raised her head, turned to look, opened her mouth in surprise and listened, and tears kept on falling and falling from her eyes. Like the Princess Bird forgot her beautiful self for a minute and set her brilliant gaze on