Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

And the ideas come.

You might have an idea about Olenka, all decked out, white, immobile, enough to give you butterflies in your stomach; or about how you're flirting with a woman, or with a beautiful girl, you grab her, and she squeals, and you both have fun; or you're walking along the street and you find something valuable: a purse with chits or a basket of food. Or your dream might really take off and you go somewhere you've never been: along a path through the forest, toward the sunrise, and farther, into the glade, and even farther, to an unknown forest where bright streams burble, where the golden branches of the birch tree plash in a stream like long threads, like a girl's hair gleaming in the sun-they splash and play, curling in the warm wind; and under the birch tree there's greengrass, fancy ferns, beetles with shiny blue backs, and poppies-you pick them, breathe deep, and you feel sleepy, a far-off chime rings in your ears, and clouds are floating in your chest, and it's like you're on a mountain, and from the mountain you can see a white road, twisting and turning, and the sun shines, plays tricks on you, blinds you, gets in the way of seeing, and in the distance something sparkles. Is it the Ocean-Sea they sing about in songs? Or islands in magic waters, islands with white cities, gardens, and towers? Or a strange, lost kingdom? Or another life…?

There you go, your head fills with all sorts of ideas-and you fall asleep.

Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, doesn't write about anything like that in his shoppinghower, and, to tell the truth, it's a yawn, Lord knows. But people bought all the copies anyway, that is, they traded for it, and so now somewhere someone must be reading the thing, spitting as he goes. People love to read; on weekends at the market they always go to trade mice for booklets. The Lesser Murzas come out, set up the governmental stalls along the fence, set out birch-bark booklets, a tag stuck in each of them that says how much they'll take for it. The prices are different: five mice, ten, twenty, or if it's really interesting or has pictures, it can go as high as fifty. The Golubchiks crowd around, checking prices, discussing whether to buy or not to buy, what the book is about, what's the story, are there a lot of pictures? But you can't look inside: pay up first, then look as much as you like. The Lesser Murzas stomp their boots in the cold, slap their sleeves, hawk their goods.

"A new one, who wants a new one? The Eternal Call! A hu-mongous novel!"

"Who'll take The Fundamentals of Differential Calculus, a popular brochure, incredibly interesting!"

Another one will put his hands to his mouth like a cup so the sound's louder and cry out: " The Three Billy Goats Gruff! Last Copy! A thrilling Epic! This is the last copy, come and get it!"

He does that on purpose, but he's really lying, he has another dozen under his counter. That's just how he gets the Golubchiks interested, so a crowd gathers: if it's the last one they don't want to miss it. If someone has a passion for trading books, he'll pay. "What? They're all sold?" And the Murza, pretending to hesitate: "Well, there is one… I put it aside for myself… I don't know…"

The Golubchik says: "Maybe you'll let me have it? I'll throw in a couple of extra mice… What do you say?"

And the Murza says: "I don't know… I wanted to read it myself… But I guess if you throw in another five…"

"Five? Come on, now! My mice are fat, each is worth a mouse and a half!"

"Well, let me take a look." They bargain, and it's all gravy for the Murza. That's why their faces are fatter and their izbas are taller.

But Benedikt's face is ordinary, not too big, and his izba is tiny.

Benedikt spent the whole night catching mice.

Easy to say: catching mice. Not so simple. Like everything, you have to know how. You think: Here I am and here's the mouse, I'll just grab him. Noooo.

He caught them with a noose, of course. But if the space under the floor was empty, the mouse would run over to someone richer, and then you could wiggle the noose till you were blue in the face and you wouldn't catch anything. You have to feed a mouse. That means you have to think things out ahead of time.

He got paid on the twentieth. Fifty chits. All right. The tax on them was 13 percent. That means six and a half chits of tax. Early in the morning the Golubchiks stood in line at the Payday Izba. It wasn't dawn yet. It's dark in winter-like someone poked your eyes out.

That really happens sometimes. A Golubchik might be feeling his way along in the dark to get his pay-and suddenly he falls in a ditch, or a branch pokes him in the eye, or he'll slip and break a leg, get lost, wander into a strange settlement where vicious dogs will tear him to shreds, or he'll trip and freeze to death in a snowdrift. Anything can happen.

But let's say he makes it where he's going, thank God. Good. He lines up. The first guy to get there is in the hall, or mud room. Whoever's at the end stands on the street, stomping his feet in the cold. Everyone is cursing or chatting, trying to guess whether the Paymaster Murza will come or whether he drank too much mead or kvas or hemp mash again the night before. Or they play pranks: if one of the Golubchiks in the hallway dozes off from the warmth and takes a nap, they'll pick the sleepyhead up carefully under the arms and carry him out to the end of the line. When the Golubchik wakes up, he can't figure out what happened, where he is or why he's there. He rushes back to where he was and everyone says: Don't butt into the line! Go to the end! And he says: But I was first in line! And we say: Don't know what you're talking about! Then there's a lot of shouting and fisticuffs and injuries of all kinds.

It passes the time. The dawn comes up pink and hazy, the darkness moves over. Chigir, the morning star, shines with untold beauty, like a fueling up high. The cold seems stronger. The snow sparkles.

So we wait for the Murza. Will he come? If anyone sees snow-dust in the distance or catches a glimpse of a sleigh, the shout goes up: "He's coming! He's not coming! It's him, you can see his hat," and things like that. There's a real ruckus.

If he doesn't come by evening time, we go our own ways, but if he managed to unstick his eyelids the Golubchiks will get their pay-So you stand and stand-and suddenly you make it to the window. You're the one who's lucky, it's your pay, so you're the one who has to bend over. And why do you have to bend over? Because the tiny, narrow little window is right smack at the level of your belly button. And that's because the Murza on the other side is sitting on a stool, to make it comfortable for him. He does it that way so we bow down to him, show our respect, so the body is humbled. After all, if you stand up straight when you're counting your chits, who knows what ideas you might get. Like, why so few? or why are they torn? or did he give me all of them? or did he keep a handful, the damned creep? and all kinds of Freethinking. But when you lean over at the waist, your head turned to the side so you can see what's going on, and your arm is stuck waaaayyy into the window slot-it's deep-and your fingers are spread out to grab the chits, and your shoulder aches -well, then you get a feeling for what government service means, its power and glory, and authority on earth, for all time, amen.

So if you're in luck again, you grab the chits. If you've got short arms, of course, or an ailment in your joints, then you'll never grab hold of ' em all. There's a wise proverb about that:

His arms are short. The other Golubchiks are pushing from behind, rushing you, shoving, they're plastered to your back, breathing down your neck. It's hard. Benedikt, now, he's young, he can fend for himself, hold his chits tight, and pull his arm back out of the window fast enough, only scraping his knuckles a bit, but that's nothing, it happens all the time. If you put a warm compress on at night and wrap the hand up, the blood will thicken. And by next payday, just wait and see, new skin will grow over it.