Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

"Gracious, how far afield you range!"

"Yeah, well, but it's good rusht."

"I should do a bit of reconnoitering myself."

The women still hadn't come. Benedikt coughed politely into his hand.

"Will the guests be coming or not, then?"

"Well, I wasn't sure…"

"But they promised?"

"I thought… you see,… I thought that I'd better reveal my secret alone first… I don't know how you'll react… I'm a bit nervous…"

"Me too, a little."

"I don't know if you'll be able to appreciate…"

"I'm able," said Benedikt, though he wasn't sure that he was.

"Well, all right, then. But it's a secret. You won't tell, of course…"

"No, no, no."

"Well then, close your eyes."

Benedikt closed his eyes. Something rustled. There was a bump. More rustling. Benedikt peeked with one eye. But it didn't seem like anything was ready yet-he could only see shadows from the candles dancing on the beams-so he closed his eyes again.

"Ready or not-here I come," sang Benedikt.

"Just a moment… How impatient you are…"

"I can't wait," Benedikt lied, letting a hint of playfulness appear in his voice. "I just can't wait."

Something fell on his lap, something not very heavy that smelled of mold.

"Here it is. Take a look…"

"What is it?"

A box-but not a box, just something shaped like it. Inside were whitish pages that looked like fresh bark, but lighter; they were very, very thin, and they seemed to be covered with dust or poppyseed.

"What is it?"

"Look closely!"

He brought it to his eyes. The dust was fine and even… like spider webs… He stared, amazed… Suddenly it was as though the web fell from his eyes and it hit him: "and the candle by which Anna read a life full of alarm and deceit…" He gasped. Letters! They were letters! Written teeny tiny, but so carefully, and they weren't brown, they were black… He licked his finger and rubbed the bark: he rubbed a hole right in it. Gosh, how thin.

"Careful, you'll ruin it!"

"What is it?…"

"It's a book… an Oldenprint book."

"Ay!!!" Benedikt jumped from the stool and dropped the poison. "What are you doing? I'll get sick!"

"No! Wait! Just wait a minute!…"

"The Sickness!…"

"No!…"

"Let me out of here!…"

"Just sit down. Sit down! I'll explain everything. I promise." Varvara Lukinishna pried Benedikt's hands away from the bolts, her cock's combs trembling. "It's completely safe… Nikita Ivanich confirmed it."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"He knows! He gave it to me!"

Benedikt quieted down and sat on the stool, his knees weak. He wiped his nose with his sleeve to stop the trembling. Nikita Ivanich. One of the bosses. And he didn't get sick. He touched a book-and he didn't get sick…

"It's safe…" whispered Varvara. "You know, he's an extraordinary old man… so knowledgeable. He explained it to me: it's completely safe, it's just a superstition… You see, when the Blast occurred, everything was considered dangerous, because of the radiation… You've heard about it… That's why it was forbidden. The books were radioactive…"

"To hear the Oldeners tell it, everything is radioactive," said Benedikt, shaking. "No, this is something else…"

"But Nikita Ivanich knows… he has… If it was truly dangerous, he would have fallen ill long ago, but you can see that he's healthier than either of us…"

"Then why do they… Why are people taken away and treated… knock on wood?"

"It's a tradition, knock on wood…"

They both knocked on wood.

… God have mercy and protect me… I'm not sick, I'm not sick, I'm not sick, no, no, no. I won't get sick, I won't get sick, no, no, no. Don't come, don't, don't, don't. The red hoods don't need to come, knock on wood. I don't want to be hooked.

"Nikita Ivanich explained it to me… It was thought to be extremely dangerous because paper absorbs other substances… You and I copy things so that they're not dangerous to the people's health… But now it doesn't matter anymore, two hundred years have passed… You and I are copying old books, Benedikt…"

"What do you mean, old? Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, wrote all those booklets…"

"No, he didn't… Different people wrote them, but everyone thinks it was Fyodor Kuzmich. I felt there was something going on… You know, after I saw him, Fyodor Kuzmich, I couldn't sleep all night… I kept thinking, thinking… Then I made a decision, I worked up my nerve and went to see Nikita Ivanich. We talked for a long, long time…"

"He never told me anything…"

"Oh, Benedikt, he's an unusual man… We talked about you… He wanted to tell you, but not right away… He wanted to prepare you… I know it's a huge blow… but I think it's better to know the truth than to live life in darkness…"

Benedikt sat on the stool, hunched over. His thoughts strayed here and there, his head felt heavy. Maybe he went back to work too soon? Maybe he still had fever? He had the chills. Or was it just the bath?… Why did he have to bathe when there was no one to kiss?

"And what now?"

"Now? Nothing, simply now you know."

"What for?"

"Well, I mean, I thought…"

"Why think? I want to live."

"But what does that have… I want to, too… but I want to know the truth… if it's possible…"

"'For in much wisdom is much grief.' So you mean Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, didn't write that either?"

"Probably not."

"Then who?"

"I don't know… You'll have to ask the Oldeners."

Varvara Lukinishna picked the Oldenprint book up off the floor, placed it on the table, and stroked it with her hand. It was strange to see such a fearsome thing up close.

"Still… Why are you touching it?… If we are copying old books, then just wait till we're told to copy it… Then you can hold it…"

"But when will that be?… Maybe not soon enough. Life is so short, and I just adore art… And it's such an interesting book!…"

"What? You're reading it?"

"Why, of course… Benedikt, there are so many interesting books. I'll give it to you to read if you like."

"No!!!" said Benedikt, flinching.

"But why are you so afraid?"

"I have to go… My head is sort of-"

"Wait!…"

Benedikt tore himself away, staggered out on the porch, into the rain, into the early, raw dark. Out of sight, out of mind… His head really was sort of…

… The March wind groaned in the treetops, rattled the bare twigs and the rabbit nests, and something else unknown-who knows what's up there moaning, what awakes in spring? A gust of wind blows-it whispers, it whines in the trees, it scatters raindrops on your head. There might be a savage cry up above, from the branches: startled, you race for the closest fence… Maybe it's a woodsucker bird.

The bladders twinkle faintly in the windows, the Golubchiks have lighted their candles, they're slurping down soup… They exchange glances: maybe they too have Oldenprint books hidden under their beds… We'll lock the doors and take them out… Read a bit… Maybe everyone has one, who knows… In that izba… and this one… and in that one over there, where a pale light flickers-is it a candle smoking, or people pacing the rooms, blocking the feeble fire with their mortal bodies, trying the bolts to make sure they're firmly shut? Out from under the mattress, from under a moldy pile of rags, filthy human rags, they take a booklet… a book… a book… and he's the only one who's acting like a frightened fool… The only one in the whole town… The letters are so black, so teensy… it's scary even to think about it…

Up above everything roared and groaned. The wind flew into his sleeve, cutting straight through him. Benedikt stood at an unfamiliar fence, thinking. The baked mouse had only teased his appetite. He wanted to eat. But at home in his izba there was no fire: he'd put it out when he left to go visiting. He didn't think he'd need it. Should he go back and get some coals? She'd give them to him, she's kind… No. Go back? The squeaking door… the warmth… the white, happy pancake of her face, the trembling cock's combs, the hurried whisper: this way, this way, I have some art… One minute, I'll just wipe the mold off… And the candle by which… full of alarm and deceit! What incredible fear! "Fear, noose and ditch," Fyodor Kuzmich wrote… No, they say, not Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe… Full of alarm