The Slynx (38 page)

IZHITSA

The dill had been weeded out hither and yon, the square raked clear, the pushkin's pedestal was surrounded with brushwood and rusht, and they'd tucked logs in and around it. Up high, Nikita Ivanich was bound with rope to our be all and end all, back to back. After the downpour the air was clean and it was easy to breathe. That is, it would have been easy if not for the tears.

Benedikt stood in the front of the crowd with his hat off. A breeze played with the remains of his hair and blew the moisture from his eyes. He felt sorry for both of them--Nikita Ivanich and the pushkin. But the old man went and offered himself up voluntarily, so to speak. Almost completely voluntarily. He displayed an understanding of the moment. Of course, Benedikt had explained everything to him straight and clear: You have to. You have to, Nikita Ivanich. Art is in peril, it's perishing all around us. The honor of sacrifice, so to speak, has fallen to you, Nikita Ivanich. You always wanted to preserve all facets of the past? Well then, be a dear and show everyone an example of how it's done.

Of course, no one's forcing you, you know. You don't have to go. But then the decree will be signed and go into effect, because as soon as a decree is signed, there's no way around it. And there'll be a section reserved for art.

It was an unpleasant conversation. Unpleasant. Of course, Nikita Ivanich could go on living his life. How long he had been allotted couldn't be known. But life requires choices. Are you for art or against it, life asks, and that's it. The time has come to answer. That's the way the cookie crumbles.

Having cried his eyes out on the hill amid the horsetail, having talked it through with himself--just like someone else was there, but that was just a regular sort of illusion--Benedikt's spirits rose and his head cleared. Or his reason. He observed everything with much greater calm--and in books they write that's a sign of maturity. He used to want everything himself! Himself! To be higher than the Alexander column! The second man in the government! I sign decrees! Decrees are all fine and well, but somehow, in the shadow of the table, or maybe the bed, Petro-vich-san grew unnoticed, that scum, that stinking animal. Before they could turn around he was in charge of everything. How did that happen? Why? Benedikt used to have a close relationship with Papa, that is, Father-in-law. They worked and played together. They swore an oath. Now Petrovich-san had all the keys, all the chits, the guzzelean, and now he had art too. And he gave you that rotten look, and smiled with those shiny yellow teeth, not like other people's; and he's even proud of those teeth and

says: "I put the yellow stuff in ages ago, and it's still there."

The bastard pushed him to make a choice. For instance, Nikita Ivanich had agreed to burn on the "Nikita's Gate" pillar, but the family wouldn't hear of it. Let him burn on the pushkin. It was as clear as a bump on a log that this was what you call Terenty Petrovich's doing, or, to put it scientifically, the result of palace intrigues. It was just to make Benedikt do the deciding: if you want to preserve art, then say goodbye to the pushkin. Either or.

But Benedikt's spirits rose and his head cleared, he looked at things with greater calm, so he made this choice immediately too, without looking back: Art was more precious.

But you couldn't exactly control the tears, they flowed by themselves.

Nikita Ivanich stood on the firewood fit to be tied, shouting a tirade and cursing the whole world. Well, he was anxious, you could understand. A lot of people had gathered for the death by execution.

There were some people Benedikt knew, though not many-- most were being treated. He could see Lev Lvovich making faces, and Poltorak shoving Golubchiks along with his third leg. Ivan Beefich's friend had brought him on piggyback.

Olenka and Fevronia sat in summer carriages under lace parasols, all fancy and so fat the axles had bowed under them, and the wheels were turning into squares.

Kudeyar Kudeyarich personally placed rusht under the brushwood and straightened the logs. "That's it! Out of propeller range!"

"What do propellers have to do with it?" Nikita Ivanich argued irritably. "You haven't invented the propeller yet, you frigging mutants! Ignorance, self-importance, stagnation!"

"Shut up, Oldener," Father-in-law interrupted. "The General Saniturion himself, Life, Health, Strength, is assisting you with his own personal hands! And he could have stayed at home in the warmth! You should say thank you!"

"Stoker Nikita, don't get uppity, just do your job and burn!" came the weak voice of the aging veteran Jackal Demianich, God knows from where.

"Now listen here, Jackal, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, don't get familiar with me," said Nikita Ivanich, stomping his foot. "And don't give me orders! I'm going on my fourth century now! I'd already had it up to here with your nasti-ness before the Blast! Be so good as to have a little respect for the individual!"

"What are they scorching him for?" people in the crowd asked.

"He fornicated with a mermaid."

Father-in-law gave a wave of his hand, aimed the rays from his eyes, and gritted his teeth.

"Papa, Papa, careful now, you'll overdo it," Olenka worried.

Kudeyar Kudeyarich crossed his eyes, guided the rays into one point on the rusht, and tensed his neck. A little bit of white, acrid smoke rose, but there were no flames: the rain-soaked logs wouldn't catch.

"Splash a little guzzelean," the crowd muttered, "it needs a little guzzelean."

"Gas-o-line,"
shouted an angry Nikita Ivanich from above, "how many times do you have to be told, to be taught: GAS-O-line, or, as it is occasionally referred to, petrol, or benzine, that's B-E-N-zine, you blockheads!"

Benedikt, rubbing his eyes with his fist, flinched, like he'd been called by name. "It doesn't matter, Nikita Ivanich... What's the difference?"

"Yes, it does! It does matter! Is it really all that difficult to assimilate orthoepy?"

Terenty Petrovich rolled out a little barrel of guzzelean.

"We'll show you ... Now we'll have a real bang-up fart! Regards from the Sixth Taxi Fleet!"

The crowd pushed forward, shouting, stepping on each other's feet, shoving. Benedikt leaned forward and saw the Minister break off a piece of the swollen lid. He's going to pour the water on the kindling, Benedikt guessed. But why? How could water and fire mix? Benedikt had lived a whole life--and he still didn't understand. And there was something else he didn't understand. There was something important...

"Nikita Ivanich!!"--Benedikt leapt up--"I completely forgot! I could have gone and missed it! I've got a head full of holes! Where do I look for that book?"

"What book?"

"That one. Where they tell you everything!"

"Out of propeller range!" Father-in-law cried out again.

"The one you told me about. Where is it hidden? What's the point now? Admit it! Where it says how to live!"

The rainbow water splashed, drenching the brushwood, and running down. The foul smell filled the air. People rushed off in all directions, spreading the guzzelean with their lapty. A crowd of Golubchiks grabbed Benedikt against his will and carried him away from the pushkin into the streets.

"Nikita Ivaaaaanich! Grandfather! Where is the booook! Tell me quiiiiick!"

"Study your letters! The ABCs! I've told you a hundred times! You can't read it without your letters! Farewell! Take ca-a-aaaa-re!"

Turning his head, Benedikt saw Nikita Ivanich inhale deeply and open his mouth; he saw Terenty Petrovich jump back from the pillar, but too late.
Whooooosh!
A rolling ball of fire, like some jeopard tree gone berserk in spring, covered the pushkin, and the crowd, and the carriage with Olenka, and breathed its heat straight in Benedikt's face, spreading out like a red wing, like some bird of vengeance or a harpy, over the amazed, fleeing crowd.

Boom! Baboom! The sound hit his back. Turning as he ran, Benedikt saw the fireball rise up and charge down the streets, exploding extra barrels of guzzelean, swallowing up whole izbas in one gulp, throwing itself like a red yoke from house to house, licking the palings and fences, heading in one direction as though following a thread--right to the Red Terem.

Then he fell in a grassy ditch, covered his face with his cap, and didn't look again.

Toward evening Benedikt lifted the cap off his face and looked around with dull, empty eyes. The plain still smoldered with gray pockets of smoke, but the fire had had its fill and set-

tled down. In some places the charred skeleton of an izba stuck out, in others an entire street was untouched amid grass yellowed and curled by the heat. But there, in the distance, where the red towers had always risen with their carved fripperies and decorative frilleries, nothing could be seen and nothing rose at all.

My steppe is burned, the grass is felled No fire, no star, no road, I'm not to blame for kissing, Forgive me, my betrothed ...

What was once the pushkin stood above the yellow, burned field like a black boil. Beriawood is a sturdy wood, we know our carpentry. Benedikt made his way to the poet's remains and looked up at what had been his features, now blistered and blurred by the heat. His sideburns and face had baked into a single blob. On the swell of his elbow lay a pile of white ash with flickering coals, but all six fingers had fallen off.

At the base of the pedestal a scorched corpse was doubled up. Benedikt looked and poked it with his foot--Terenty Yep, those were his teeth.

It smelled of burning. Life was over. Behind the idol's back someone spat and moved.

"Give me a hand, I'll get down. It's too high for me," croaked Nikita Ivanich.

As black as the pushkin, just the whites of his eyes red from the fumes, hairless and beardless, creaking and still smoking, Nikita Ivanich leaned on Benedikt's numb hand and climbed down from the crumbling, seared braces. He spat out some coals.

"Life is over, Nikita Ivanich," said Benedikt in a voice that was not his own. The words resounded in his head, as though spoken in an empty stone bucket or a well.

"It's over ... so we'll start another one," the old man grumbled in reply. "You could at least tear me off a piece of your shirt, to cover my privates. Can't you see? I'm naked. What are young people coming to nowadays?"

Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents wandered among the ashes,

clutching his shaggy hair with both hands, looking for something in the grass that was no longer there.

"Lyovushka! Come over here. So, where were we?" asked Nikita Ivanich, wrapping his loins in a piece of Benedikt's vest. "I could use a clothespin. What lazy people ... Can't even invent clothespins."

"A safety pin!" said Lev Lvovich reproachfully, running over. "I always said: a safety pin! A marvelous, civilized invention."

"There's no civilization, Golubchik. We have to do it ourselves, with our wood one."

"Now that's nationalist claptrap," cried Lev Lvovich. "That stinks of the newspaper
Tomorrow.
Vulgar spiritualism! It's not the first time I've noticed! It stinks!"

"Listen, Lyovushka, knock it off, will you? Let's retreat, let's soar above the sands. Shall we?"

"Let's!"

The Oldeners bent their knees, held hands, and began to rise in the air. They were both laughing--Lev Lvovich shrieked a bit, as though he were afraid to swim in cold water, and Nikita Ivanich laughed in a deep voice: ho-ho-ho. Nikita Ivanich brushed the soot from his feet--foot against foot, quickly--and dropped a little of it on Benedikt's face.

"Hey, What're you up to?" cried Benedikt, rubbing his eye.

"Nothing!" they answered from above.

"Why didn't you burn up?"

"Didn't feel like it! Just didn't feeeeel like it!"

"So you mean you didn't die? Huh? Or did you?"

"Figure it out as best you can!"

O joyless, painless moment!

The spirit rises, beggarly and bright,

A stubborn wind blows hard, and hastens

The cooling ash that follows it in flight.

Moscow, Princeton, Oxford, Tyree, Athens, Panormo, Fyodor-Kuzmichsk, Moscow

1986-2000

POETRY QUOTED IN

The Slynx
Translations by Jamey Gambrell. Most of the poems are untitled.

PAGE

16
Mountain summits:
Mikhail Lermontov, translation from

Goethe
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails:
Osip Mandelstam, "Insomnia"

17
Spikenard, cinnamon, and aloe:
Alexander Pushkin
O spring without end or borders!:
Alexander Blok

25
Hiccup, Hiccup:
based on Russian folk nonsense rhymes

27
On the black sky
--
words are inscribed:
Marina Tsvetaeva

32
Life, you're but a mouse's scurry:
Alexander Pushkin

33
The reed pipe sings upon the bridge:
Alexander Blok

In the district where no feet have passed:
Boris Pasternak 39
From the dawn a luxurious cold:
Yakov Polonsky 63
Winter shows its anger still:
Fyodor Tiutchev 76
The heart of a beauty!:
Verdi, "La donna e mobile," from
Rigoletto

86
Not because she shines so bright:
Innokenty Annensky

87
The flame's ablaze, it doesn't smoke:
Bulat Okudzhava

I want to be bold, I want to be a scoffer:
Konstantin Balmont