Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

"We're happy to meet you, Fyodor Kuzmich! Long May You Live!" said the Golubchiks. "You deserve it! Thanks be to you!"

"Thank you, Fyodor Kuzmich, for your art!" cried Vasiuk the Earful.

"Thank you for being! Thank you," added the women.

"I'm always glad to meet with the intelligentsia, don't you know," Fyodor Kuzmich said, turning his head and looking up at Olenka's face from below. "Especially when you've got such sweetie pies to hold me under the arms. Only no tickling, now."

"That's right, Fyodor Kuzmich," replied the Golubchiks.

"I'm thinking of painting a lot of paintings," said Fyodor Kuzmich. "If, of course, there's enough rusht."

Everyone had a good laugh; whatever you said, there was always enough rusht to go around.

"I'll build an enormous-humongous izba, make a lot of paintings, and hang them on the walls with nails," Fyodor Kuzmich told them. "And I'll name it after myself: Kablukov Gallery. In case you don't know, Kablukov is my last name."

Everyone chuckled: Who doesn't know that?

"Do you have any questions? Maybe I said something you didn't understand, you just ask me. No harm in asking, isn't that right?"

"That's right! Oh, that's so right, Fyodor Kuzmich, Long May You Live!" cried the Golubchiks. "Right as rain! You hit the nail on the head! You're right on target, you hit the bull's eye! That's it, that's how things are!"

"What are paintings?" Olenka spoke up.

Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, turned again, and looked at her.

"You just wait and see. I have a surprise for you. It's sort of like a drawing, but painted. I thought up one funny picture, hilariously funny. One Golubchik is eating a mouse, and another, you see, is walking into the izba. And the one who's eating, he hides the mouse so that the other guy doesn't steal it, yes siree. I'll call it The Aristocrat's Breakfast, that's it. I thought up another one too. I painted one painting, I called it The Demon, but it didn't turn out too well, so I brushed over it with a lot of blue paint, yes siree, I did… So I'm thinking of giving it to you here in the Work Izba. You can hang it up somewhere, why should it lake up space at my house." And he waved his hand at the servants: "Bring it here."

One of them fumbled under his coat and brought out a birch-bark box. He took a cloth out of the box and unfolded it-it was kind of like a scroll-maybe birch bark, maybe not, a bit whiter. Very, very thin. Folded in fours. He unfolded it, and there, bright as could be, was the picture; they looked at it and you couldn't tell what it was painted with, and sure enough it was all blue. They handed it to Fyodor Kuzmich; he smoothed it out with his enormous hands and gave it back: "Who's in charge here? Hang it on the wall."

Konstantin Leontich had just taken the gag out of his mouth

– he'd almost come to his senses. He shouted "Thank you" louder than anyone, in a high voice like a goat, very loud and right in Benedikt's ear, downright deafening, dammit. Benedikt didn't know what to think: the first fresh fear had receded, and in its place he felt glum. He should feel more awe, he thought, but somehow he didn't. Everything felt all wrong. Now, if he prostrated himself on the ground, stood on all fours, his knees bent and his hands stretched out in front and to the sides, and beat his forehead on the floor-that would be better. That's why they thought it up. When you do that, the awe just spurts out of you like a burp; like what happens sometimes if you eat too much marinated horsetail-your stomach burns and grabs you, and from inside your throat bubbles keep bubbling up. But what thrill could there be sitting on a stool? You're on the same level with the Greatest Murza. He seems just like you, a simple Gol-ubchik: you sit there, and he sits there; he says something, you say something. That's no way to go about things. A kind of insolence and envy get born inside you: Hey, Murza, what are you doing sitting on Olenka's lap? Go on, get off. Or else I'll let you have it. You start thinking thoughts like that and it's downright scary! What on earth was he thinking just now about Fyodor Kuzmich? What's happening?

Then Varvara Lukinishna spoke up timidly. "Fyodor Kuzmich, I wanted to ask… In your poetry, the image of the steed frequently appears. Can you please explain what a steed is?"

"Hunh?" asked Fyodor Kuzmich.

"A steed…"

Fyodor Kuzmich smiled and shook his head. "So you can't do it yourself… Can't figure it out. Hmmm… Come on, now, who wants to take a guess?"

"A mouse," Benedikt said hoarsely, although he had sworn he'd be quiet: he felt all mixed up inside.

"There you go, Golubushka. You see? The Golubchik here managed to do it."

"And a winged steed?" Varvara Lukinishna asked in a worried voice.

Fyodor Kuzmich frowned and shook his arms. "A bat."

"And how to understand: 'He brushed the steed with a curry'?"

"Well, now, Golubushka, you wouldn't eat a mouse raw, would you? You'd skin him, isn't that right? If you wanted to whip up a souffle or a blancmange, you'd clean him, right? If, for example, you got it into your head to make the mouse into petit-fri a la mode with nut mousse, or to bake it in a bechamel sauce with croutons. Or you might catch a lot of mouselings and make yourself a schnitzel wrapped in pancakes or flaky pastry. Wouldn't you clean them first?" Fyodor Kuzmich chortled and turned his head. "How now? What can I teach you? Do you think it's easy for me to compose? 'A thousand tons of linguistic ore I mine for the sake of a single word,' you know. Have you forgotten? I composed something about that. 'Artist, do not ever slumber. Do not give yourself to dreams.' And besides art there's plenty to do: day in and day out you invent things, figuring, figuring, thinking so hard your brain swells up. The whole state is on my shoulders. No time to sit down. I just composed a Decree, you'll get it soon. A good one, yes siree, real interesting. You'll thank me for it."

"Glory to Fyodor Kuzmich! Long May He Live! We're grateful in advance!" cried the Golubchiks.

Then the doors opened and Nikita Ivanich walked in. Everyone turned to look at him. Fyodor Kuzmich too. He walked in like he was at home, all grumpy, unkempt, rusht stuck in his beard, his hat still on. He didn't fall down on his knees, didn't roll his eyes back up under his forehead. Didn't even blink.

"Good morning, citizens." He was irritated. "I've implored you on more than one occasion: Take precautions with the stoves. You have to keep them under constant observation. You're always working this old man to the bone."

"Stoker Nikita, know your place, light the stove!" shouted Jackal Demianich in a terrible, sonorous voice.

"Now you listen to me, Jackal, don't be so familiar," said Nikita Ivanich in a huff. "And don't tell me what to do! I'm three hundred years old, and I saw enough bureaucratic nastiness in the Oldener Times to suffice! You have a job, an elementary responsibility to maintain a minimum level of order! You allow your colleagues to become inebriated, and you have the gall to badger me with trifles. The mass alcoholism we are experiencing, Jackal, is partly your fault. That's right! This isn't the first time I've brought this issue to your attention! You are not inclined to respect the individual human being. Like many people, for that matter. And your veteran status"-Nikita Ivanich raised his voice and tapped on the table with a crooked finger- "please don't interrupt me! Your veteran status does not give you the right to harass me!! I am a Homo sapiens, a citizen and mutant, like you! Like all these citizens!" he said, gesturing broadly with his hand.

Everyone knows that there's no point in listening to Nikita Ivanich: he just rambles on, probably doesn't understand half the words he says himself.