Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

"Help yourself to more," said the mother. "Our family likes to eat a lot."

"One of the oldest families, descended from the French," affirmed the father.

"Have some more noodles."

"Thank you kindly."

"Now, you aren't having any bad thoughts, are you?" asked the father.

"What kind of thoughts?"

"All kinds of bad thoughts-Freethinking or malice aforethought of any kind…"

"I don't have any thoughts like that," said Benedikt in a fright.

"How about murder most foul?"

"What kind of murder?"

"Who knows… Maybe you're thinking: I'll marry, get my father- and mother-in-law out of the way, and take all their property for myself?"

"Goodness, how could you-"

"No? You aren't thinking: If I could just do away with them and take their place, I could feast my fill day in and day out?"

"What are you talking about?… Why?… Kudeyar Kudeyarich! Why, I-"

"Papa," said Olenka again, "control yourself."

Once again there was a scratching sound under the table- this time right nearby. Benedikt couldn't help himself, he knocked a piece of bread off the table on purpose with his elbow and bent down as though to pick it up. Under the table he saw the father's feet in their lapty. And through the lapty he saw claws. Long ones, gray and sharp. Olenka's father was scraping the floor with those claws and had already scraped up a huge pile of shavings-they lay there like hair or light-colored, curly straw. Benedikt looked and saw that the mother had claws. Olenka too. But hers were smaller. There was a small pile of scrapings under her.

Benedikt didn't say anything-what could you say? He tore off another piece of goat for himself. And gulped down a lot more horsetail. A lot more.

"But tell me," the father continued, "don't you sometimes think: We aren't doing things right, our life is all wrong?"

"No, I don't."

"Don't you sometimes think thoughts like: We should figure out who's to blame, and crush him or stick his head in a barrel?"

"No, I don't."

"Or break his back, or throw him off a tower?"

"No, no!"

"What's that tapping?" the mother suddenly spoke. "Sounds like someone's knocking."

Benedikt quickly stuck his hand under him to hold his tail still.

"And don't you have thoughts like: The Murzas are to blame for everything, they should be overthrown?"

"No!!!"

"You never thought of overthrowing the Greatest Murza?"

"Goodness, no!! No!!! I don't understand what you're talking about!!!"

"What do you mean you don't understand? The Greatest Murza, I mean Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. You never dreamed of overthrowing him?"

"Kudeyar Kudeyarich, how could you?"

"Control yourself, Papa…"

"Oh, all right… Let me show you something…"

The father got up from the table, went into another room, and returned with a book. An Oldenprint book. Benedikt sat on both hands and held his tail tight.

"I'll show you… Ever seen one of these?"

"Never!"

"You know what it is?"

"No!"

"Think about it a minute."

"I don't know anything, I've never seen anything. Never heard anything. I don't understand anything, don't want anything, haven't dreamt anything."

The father laid the book on his lap, shone his light on it, and turned the pages.

"Do you want one of these? Should I give it to you? It's a good one!…"

"I don't want anything!!!"

"Don't even want to get married, then?"

Get married! Benedikt had almost forgotten-from fear and longing, from the incredible, unending shame of what was held tight in his hands under his body-that he was supposed to get married. Married! How could he ever have gotten that idea in his head? Got too big for his britches, the knucklehead, the mongrel stray! Wasn't enough for him to have Marfushka, Kapi-tolinka, Crooked Vera, Glashka-Kudlashka, and all the others! Had to try for a girl like this: meek eyes, a white face, a braid five yards long, a chin with a dimple, and claws on her feet! Run! That's right, run-toss a knapsack over your shoulder and run as far as you can, toward the sunrise, or the south, no looking back, to the Ocean-Sea itself, to the blue expanses, to the white sands!

But Olenka raised her eyes, turned on the light in them, a reddish light, faint like a fake fireling on a dark trunk. She raised her eyebrows right up to her ribbon, laughed with her red mouth, straightened the white blouse on her breasts, and wiggled her shoulders. "Papa, you're such an incorrigible rascal. We've already settled everything. Embrace your son-in-law."

"So… It's all settled, is it? Made up your minds behind Papa's back. Papa works day in and day out, without a moment's rest… Wants what's best… I see right through all of you…!" the father suddenly shouted.

"Papa, you're not the only one who-"

"He's not one of us!" shouted the father.

"Papa, you're not at work!"

"What kind of work does he do?" whispered Benedikt.

"What do you mean, what kind of work?" asked the mother in surprise. "Don't you know? Kudeyar Kudeyarich is the Head Saniturion."

Benedikt stopped going to work. Why bother? He was a goner however you looked at it. Luckily for him, summer had arrived and the Scribes were on vacation. Otherwise he would have been pressed into roadwork as an idler. It was time to plant turnips, but he was overcome with such heartache that he didn't have the usual stomach for turnips. He went to the far settlement and bought some bog bilberry from the Golubchiks there. He snorted it. It didn't help much. He lay on his bed. Cried.

He went to see Nikita Ivanich, and worked on carving the pushkin from the log, bit by bit. The idol's head was already big and round, like a cauldron. Dejected looking. His nose hung on the chest. The elbow stuck out, as requested.

"Nikita Ivanich. What did you call my tail?"

"An atavism."

"What other kinds of atavisms are there?"

"Hmmm. Hairy women."

"How about claws?"

"I haven't heard of that. No, probably not."

He thought of going to see Marfushka. Decided not to. He didn't feel like joking, and he wasn't so interested in her squeals or pancakes anymore.

He went to the house where Varvara Lukinishna lived. Looked through the fence. There was underwear hanging on ropes. Yellers were blooming in the yard. He didn't go in.

He drank about three barrels of rusht. He wanted to forget everything. The rusht didn't go to his head, it just made his stomach bloat. He felt slightly deaf and his vision was dimmer too. But there was an unbearable clarity in his head, or rather, an expanse, and the expanse was empty. The steppes.

He wanted to take his sack and head south. To carve a big stick-for fighting off Chechens-and head for the sea. And which sea it is-who knows? You can imagine whatever you like. Three years to get there on foot, they say. Benedikt imagined it this way: he climbed a tall mountain, and from the top you could see forever. He looked down and there was the sea: a big body of water, warm and blue, and it plashed, the water played and plashed! A small wave ran along it, a curly wave, coiled white. There were islands everywhere in the sea-poking up like pointed hats. All of them were green, seething with green. Amid that green, unimaginable colored gardens grew. The lilac tree that Mother told him about grew there too. The flowers of the lilac were a blue froth of bell-like flowers hanging to the ground and fluttering in the wind. On the very tippy top of those islands were towns. White stone walls encircled them. The walls had gates, and behind the gates were cobbled roads. If you walked along the road up the mountain there would be a terem, and in the terem a golden bed. On that bed there was a girl braiding her hair, one gold hair, the next silver, one gold, one silver… Her feet had claws… She hooked you with her claw… with her claws…