Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

It's not like he ended up with an amazing Consequence like Nikita Ivanich got: breathing fire! Nice and clean: people are scared, they respect you. You are our Head Stoker, they say. But about Benedikt they'd say: Mongrel! You're a stray mutt, a streetwalker! That's what they always say to dogs. For that matter, any Golubchik who sees a dog wants to crush it or kick it, throw a stick at it or poke it with something, or just swear at it, not mean-like, no, meanness is for people-but with a kind of disgust.

Nikita Ivanich said: Well, on the other hand, the tail is an original characteristic of primates. Long, long ago, when humans had not yet fully evolved, tails were normal phenomena and surprised no one; they clearly began to disappear when man began using sticks and tools. Nowadays a tail is an atavism. But what concerns me is the sudden reappearance of this specific appendage. What could the reason be? After all, we're in the Neolithic period, and not some savage animal kingdom. What could it mean?

With a tear in his eye, Benedikt said: All fine and well for you to talk and use all kinds of big words, Nikita Ivanich. You're always wanting to restore the past, to put up posts and pillars, carve pushkins out of wood, but you don't care about the past hanging off my backside and I have to get married! All you Oldeners are the same: "We'll re-create the lofty past in full measure." Well, here's your full measure! Take it! And since you love the past so much, why don't you go running around with a tail? I don't need one! I want to live!

And Nikita Ivanich said: You're right, young fellow, those are the words of a real man, not a boy. But what I mean is that I hope for the resurrection of the spiritual! It's time! I hope for brotherhood, love, beauty. Justice. Mutual respect. Lofty aspirations. I want thoughtful, honest labor, hand in hand, to replace brawls and altercations. I want the fire of love for one's fellow man to burn in the soul.

Benedikt said: Sure, right away. Easy for you to talk, you've got your own fire. Everyone bows to you, kisses your feet, they probably bring you surprises in baskets: bliny or noodles! And if things don't go your way-you can just huff and puff and burn your mortal enemy down, turn him to ash! But what can the simple folk do?

Nikita Ivanich said: No, now just a minute, young man, hold your horses, you misunderstood me again. I have no intention of burning anyone up, I merely help as best I can. Of course, I have an unusual Consequence, a rather convenient one-I can have a smoke any time I like. But I too may not be immortal-look at Anna Petrovna, she left us for a better world, where there is no sorrow or lamentation. It's time for you, my good people, to cease relying on this old man and display a little-just a little- initiative. It's time to make fire yourselves!

And Benedikt said: Good Lord Almighty, Nikita Ivanich, are you crazy? Where would we get fire from? It's a mystery! It can't be known! Where does it come from? If an izba burns down, everybody will come running and grab some coals for their pot. Then, of course. But if all the stoves in the town went out? Hunh? What're we supposed to do, wait for lightning storms? We'd all croak in the meantime!

Nikita Ivanich said: Think friction, young man, friction. Try it. I'd be happy to, but I'm too old. I can't.

Benedikt said: Oh, come on now, Nikita Ivanich. You talk about how old you are, but there you go being bawdy again.

"Unfortunately," said Nikita Ivanich, "I don't have his portrait, a fact which is a constant source of grief and regret to me. I didn't manage to save it. What does one take out of a burning house? What would we want with us on an uninhabited island? The eternal question! At one time my friends and I squabbled for hours on end on summer verandahs, in winter kitchens, or with fellow travelers we chanced to meet on the train. Which three books are the most valuable in the world? Which are dearest to our hearts? Tell me, young man, what would you carry out of a burning house?"

Benedikt thought long and hard. He imagined his izba.

When you go in, on the right-hand side, there's a table with a stool. The table is pushed up to the window so there's more light. There's a candle on the table and next to the table there's a stool. One of its legs rotted, and he had never got around to fixing it. Farther along the wall there's another chair. Mother used to sit in it, but now no one sits in it, though Benedikt sometimes hangs his jacket there or throws his clothes over it. There's nothing else. The other wall goes out from that corner, and that's where the bed is. There's rags on the bed, of course. Over the bed, on the wall, there's a shelf, and there are some booklets on the shelf if the thieves haven't stolen them. Under the bed, like everyone else, he has a box for all kinds of junk, the junk you hate to throw out-tools, wooden nails and stuff. At the head of the bed there's another corner. On the third wall, the one facing you when you enter, is the stove. What about the stove? A stove's a stove. No secret there. On top of it there's also a bed if you like the warmth, and in the bottom part you cook food. Plugs, latches, chokers, dampers, handle turns, hiding pockets- everything's part of the stove. It's wrapped all around in ropes and string so you can hang things to dry, or just for decoration. And it's so wide, so fat-assed, that there's no room for anything else on the fourth wall: just a couple of hooks to hang a hat or a towel on, and that's it. Then there's the door to the pantry, where rusht and dried marshrooms are stored.

What would he carry out if, God forbid, there was a fire? Rusht? What for? You can always get some more. His new bowl? He could make another one. He'd miss the chair a bit, the chair was very old.

"I'd take the chair," said Benedikt.

"Really?" said Nikita Ivanich, surprised. "Why?"

"It was Mother's."

"Yes, of course. Sentimental value. But what about books? Aren't books important to you?"

"I love reading, Nikita Ivanich, but so what? If I have to, I can always make some new booklets. Or trade mice for them. And if there's a fire, God forbid, Nikita Ivanich, they'll be the first thing to burn. Puff! They're gone. Bark just doesn't hold up."

"But the words inscribed in them are harder than copper and more enduring than the pyramids. Isn't that right? Do you deny it?" Nikita Ivanich chuckled and patted Benedikt on the back like he was coughing. "You too, young man, are a participant! A participant!-you've no business being such a scatterbrain, such an ignoramus, a spiritual Neanderthal, a depressed Cro-Magnon! I detect a spark of humanity even in you! I do. I harbor some hope for you! Your little brain is smoldering," said Nikita Ivanich, continuing to insult him. "Your soul is not devoid of impulses… 'You're destined to know a noble impulse / but won't accomplish anything at all,'" sang Nikita Ivanich in a ghastly voice, like a goat bleating. "But you and I will create something fine, something edifying. You do have a certain creative streak, I think…"

"Nikita Ivanich," Benedikt sniveled, offended. "Why all these words!… You might as well just kick me, I swear, why are you calling me names?"

"Right, then. So, as I said," the old man went on, "I don't have his portrait, but I'll assist you. He wasn't very tall."

"But you said he was a giant," muttered Benedikt, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

"A giant of the spirit. 'His proud head rose higher than…'"

"'… the Alexander column.' I know, I copied it. But we don't know how many yards tall that column was, Nikita Ivanich."

"It doesn't matter, not one little bit! Now, we'll extract him from this log-sorry, but we haven't got any others. The most important thing to me is the bowed head and the arm. Like this." The Stoker showed him. "Look at me. Carve a curly head, a straight nose, and a thoughtful face."