The Slynx (36 page)

The trepidation of life, of all the centuries and races, Lives in you. Always. Right now. In all your hidden places.

Poems. He clapped the book shut and looked at another.

He who draws the darkest lot of chance Is not subject to the dance; Like a star drowned in the skies, In his place, a new star will arise.

More poems! Lord and Saints Almighty. How much there is to read! He opened a third book:

What kind of East do you favor?

The East of Xerxes, or of Christ the Savior?

A fourth book:

Is all quiet among our fair people? No. The Emperor's murdered, cast down. And there's someone now talking of freedom, On the square of the town.

It was all sort of about the same thing. The tyrant must have been putting a little collection together for himself. Benedikt opened the fifth book, the one from which Father-in-law tore a portrait that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, ruined:

Man suits all elements, every season. Tyrant, traitor, or the prison.

Father-in-law tore the book away from Benedikt and tossed it aside.

"Stop that nonsense! Now it's time to think about the State!"

"About the State? What about it?"

"What? You and I have carried out a coup, that's what. And he says: What about it? We have to put things in order."

Benedikt looked around the room: true, everything was topsy-turvy, the stools were upside down, the tables were all over, books lay every which way, having fallen off shelves while he and Father-in-law chased the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live. Everything was dusty.

"So what? Send over a bunch of serfs and they'll clean up."

"Now that just shows you're a real dimwit! Spiritual, spiritual order is what we need! And you keep fretting about earthly stuff! We have to write a decree. When you carry out a coup d'etat you always have to write a decree. Come on now, find me some clean bark. There ought to be some around here."

Benedikt rummaged around on the table, moving the books. He found a scroll that was nearly clean. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had only begun to write on it.

DECREE Since I am Fyodor Kuzmich Kablukov, Glory-to-me, the Greatest Murza, Long May I Live, and Seckletary, Academ-ishun, and Hero and Ship Captain and Handyman, and since I am constantly thinking day and night about the people, I decree:

--
Now I've got a couple of free minutes, but the whole day was nonstop.
--
This is what else I thought up for the people's goo...

And then there were a bunch of lines and blotches: that's where he got scared.

"All right, then. Come on, let's get on with it. What have we got here? ... Cross all that out. You write, your handwriting is better: Decree Number One."

DECREE NUMBER ONE 1. I am going to be the Boss now.

2. My title will be General Saniturion.

3.
I
will live in the Red Terem with twice as many guards.

4. Don't come any closer than one hundred yards, 'cause whoever does will get the hook right away no questions asked.

Kudeyarov

PS.

Henceforth and forever more the city will be called Kudeyar-

Kudeyarichsk. Learn it by heart.

Kudeyarov

Benedikt wrote it down.

"OK. Show me how it came out. 'Kudeyarov' needs to be bigger and with a curlicue. Cross it out. Rewrite it, so that the last name is in big letters, as big as a toenail. After the V twist it around in circles left and right, kind of like loops. There you go. That's it."

Father-in-law blew on the bark so it would dry; then he admired it.

"All right. What else should we do? ... Write: Decree Number Two."

"Kudeyar Kudeyarich! You should decree more holidays."

"Ay ay ay! Your approach is so ungovernmental," said Father-in-law testily. "Has the decree been signed? It has! Did it take effect? It did! So you call me General Saniturion. Talk to me like you're supposed to. Who do you think you are?"

"And the extras? The attributes?"

"Ah, the attributes ... attributes ... Hmm .. . How about: 'Life, Health, Strength.' General Saniturion, Life, Health, Strength. Write it in there. All right. You need a title too ... How about Deputy for Defense?"

"I want to be General Deputy for Defense."

"What's this now, already trying to oust me?" cried Father-in-law. "You want to oust me, is that it?"

"What does it have to do with ... You're always going on like ... like I don't know what! No ousting, it just sounds nice: General!"

"Of course it sounds nice! But two can't have it at the same time! There's never more than one General! If you want, you can be Deputy for Defense and Marine Affairs."

"For Marine and Oceanic."

"Whatever you like. Let's keep going. Decree Number Two."

"Holidays, more holidays."

"There you go again with an ungovernmental approach! First and foremost are civil liberties, not holidays."

"Why? What does it matter?"

"Because! That's how revolution is always done: first the tyrant is overthrown, then the new Boss of everything is named, and then come civil liberties."

They sat down to write, shuffling the bark. Light began to appear in the window. Beyond the doors you could hear a murmuring and a muttering, whispered negotiations, a commotion. There was a knock at the door.

"Who's trying to get in? What do you want?"

A serf stumbled in with a bow.

"There's a, um... a delegation of representatives asking: What's up?"

"What representatives?"

"What representatives?" shouted the serf, turning back toward the entrance.

"Of the People!" came the cry from the entryway. It seemed to be Lev Lvovich shouting. They'd barely had time to overthrow the tyrant and here petitioners were already besieging them. The rumor must've got around. That's the people for you! Won't give you a minute of peace!

"Some Representatives of the People."

"Tell them the revolution was successful, the tyrant has been deposed, we're working on a decree about civil liberties, don't bother us, disperse and go home."

"Don't forget about the Xeroxes!" came the cry from the en-tryway.

"Now he's telling me what to do! Who's the liberator here? Me! Kick him out," said Father-in-law angrily. "Close the door and don't let anyone in. We're writing fateful papers here, and he's hanging around bugging us. Come on, Deputy. Write: Decree Number Two."

"I wrote that."

"All right, then ... Liberties ... I've got it written down here somewhere ... a list... I can't make it out. Your eyes are younger, read it to me."

"Ay ... What bad handwriting ... Who wrote it?"

"Who wrote it? I wrote it. I copied it from a book. I consulted the literature so everything would be scientific. Go on, read it."

"Hmm ... freedom of the ... left or maybe it's life and ... I can't figure it out."

"Skip it, read on."

"Freedom ... of ass-Ocean, is that it?"

"Let me see. That seems right... Yes, that's it. OK, so that when people get together, they can move around freely. Or else they'll just clump up and crowd into one place and there won't be any room to move. They'll smoke the place up, then they'll get headaches and they'll be bad workers. Write: No more than three can gather."

"And what if it's a holiday?"

"Doesn't matter."

"And what if there are six people in a family? Or seven?"

Father-in-law spat. "What's all this dialecticals you're coming up with? Then let them fill out a form, pay a fine, and get permission. Write!"

Benedikt wrote: "No more than three for heaven's sake can gather at a time."

"Now: freedom of the printing press."

"What's that for?"

"It has to be there, so that people can read Oldenprint books." Father-in-law thought a minute. "All right. To hell with them. It doesn't matter anymore. Let them read."

Benedikt wrote: "The reading of Oldenprint books is permitted." He thought a minute and added: "but within reason." That's what Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, always decreed. He thought some more. No, what'll that lead to? Anybody can just take books and read them? Free to take them out of the larder and lay them out on the table? What if that table's got something spilled on it or it's dirty? When it's forbidden to read books everybody takes care of them, they wrap them in a clean cloth and are afraid to breathe on them. But when reading is permitted, then they'll probably break the spines or rip out pages! They'll get it into their heads to throw books. No! You can't trust people. But what's the big deal? Just take them away and that's it. Comb the city, settlement after settlement, house by house, shake down everyone, confiscate the books, and lock them up behind seven bolts. That's all there is to it.

Suddenly he felt: I understand the governmental approach!!! All by myself, without any decree--I understand!!! Hurray! So that's what happens when you sit in the Red Terem! Benedikt straightened his shoulders, laughed, stuck out the end of his tongue, and carefully wrote in the word "not" between "is" and "permitted."

"Now ... Freedom of re, relig ... religion."

Father-in-law yawned. "I'm sick of this. That's enough liberties."

"There's just a little more here."

"That's enough. Not too much of the good stuff. Let's do defense. Write: Decree Number Three."

They worked on defense until noon. Mother-in-law sent someone to ask when they would be coming home. Dinner had grown cold. They ordered bliny and pies to be brought to the Red Terem with a barrel of kvas and some candles. Benedikt, as Deputy for Defense and Marine and Oceanic Affairs, got into the spirit of things--it was interesting. They decided to build three fences around the city so it would be easier to defend themselves against the Chechens. On top of the fence at all twenty-four corners, there would be booths with guards to watch with eagle eyes day and night in both directions. They decided to make plank gates on all four sides of the wall. If some-

one needs to go out into the fields--to plant turnips, or gather sheaves--he can get a pass in the office. In the morning you go out with a pass, in the evening you hand it back. Serfs will make a hole in the pass, or, as Father-in-law said, they can punch it and write in the name: so-and-so was let through, he paid ten chits. And also, Benedikt thought, this fence would be a defense against the Slynx. If you built it really really high, the Slynx would never get through it. Inside the fence you can go where you like and enjoy your freedom. Peace and Freewill. The pushkin wrote that too.

Yes! And then defend the pushkin from the people, so that they don't hang underwear on him. Make stone chains and put them on pillars on all four sides around him. Up above, over his head, a little parasol so that the shitbirds don't shit on him. And put serfs at all the corners, a night watch and especially a day watch. Add weeding the people's path to the list of roadwork. That way the path would be cleared during the winter, and in the summer you could plant bluebells around it. Forbid dill throughout the land, so you couldn't smell it anywhere anymore.

Benedikt sat a bit longer, thought a bit more, and got mad: the pushkin is our be all and end all! And moreover, Benedikt is deputy for Marine and Oceanics. Here's what needs to be done: carve out a huge kind of ship, with logs and boughs. Put it by the river. And put the pushkin up top, on the very tippy top. With a book in his hand. Higher than the Alexander column, with some to spare.

Let him stand there strong and safe, his legs in chains, his head in the clouds, his face to the south, to the endless steppe, to the far-off dark blue seas.

"I really love that pushkin so much," sighed Benedikt.

"More than me?" frowned Father-in-law. "Look here! Write: Decree Number Twenty-eight: On Fire Safety Measures."

THETA

"Papa complains you're always moving away from him at the table. You're hurting his feelings ..."

"He stinks, so I move over."

"Stinks? Picky, picky! And just what is it you smell?"

"He smells like a corpse."

"Well, what else? He's not going to smell like a tulip, is he?"

"It's disgusting."

"So what? That's his work!"

"Well, I don't like it. He shouldn't smell."

"Goodness gracious, aren't you the delicate one."

Benedikt answered distractedly, as usual, without looking up. He sat at a huge table in a bright room of the Red Terem. On the ceiling--he remembered without even looking--was a curly sort of mural with flowers and leaves. The ones that were outlined in rusht were brownish, the ones outlined with ground shells were green, and if they were outlined with a blue stone-- then they were blue! Gorgeous! The light came right in through the window grates, it was summer outside, there were grass and flowers, but on the ceiling it was always summer. Benedikt was eating jam cakes and reading
The Journal of Horse Breeding.
He read calmly, with pleasure: there was a whole hallway of these magazines, enough to last a century. He would read a bit from the journal, and then from
The Odyssey,
then some Yamamoto, or
Correspondence from Two Corners,
or poems, or
Care of Leather Footwear,
or a bit of Sartre. He read whatever he felt like reading, everything was at hand, it was all his. For all time to come, amen.

He didn't feel like working at governmental affairs at all: it was a big bore. They gave the Golubchiks liberties, they gave them Decrees--what else do they need? They even gave them Instructions, what more is there? Who wants to work?

Strengthen defense? They strengthened it: sapling fences, picket fences, pike fences--they fixed everything as best they could, they spackled and stuffed rags in the holes, using whatever was to hand. The enemy couldn't get through, except maybe through the Ekimansky Swamp, but that's why it's a swamp, so you can't get through. Who in their right mind would go through a swamp?