Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

There's Heartfelt Words; European Herald; Scales. These are sort of different, they smell moldy. That doesn't matter, but some letters, a couple in almost every word, are strange, different. Benedikt thought that maybe it wasn't in his language, but in Cockynork instead. Once he got used to reading it, though, it wasn't so bad. He stopped paying attention to the extra letters, like they weren't there.

Some Golubchiks tried real hard, they wrote neat little books the same size and color, called "collected works." There was Zola, for instance. Or Antonina Koptiaeva. The collecteds also had a portrait of the Golubchik who wrote them drawn right in the book. Such funny portraits, unbelievable. Take Golubchik Sergei Sartakov: such an awful-looking face, if you met him on the street, you'd jump. But he sat around writing things. He wrote a lot.

Some books are worn and dirty, pages fall out of them. Some are so neat and clean, seems like they were made yesterday. A real pleasure to look at. Take Anton Chekhov. His book was so worn! Seems he was all thumbs, a real loser. Maybe a little blind. Look at his face, he's got a Consequence on his eyes: two shiny circles and a string hanging down. Now Koptiaeva, you see, is a clean woman, she takes care of herself. Her book looks untouched. He set Koptiaeva aside to read before bed too.

Father-in-law came by, watched Benedikt rearranging everything and said approvingly, "I see you love culture."

"I adore culture."

"It's good stuff. We like to read too. Sometimes we sit in a circle and read."

"Hmmm."

"But there are some people who don't respect culture, who ruin it."

"Hmm."

"They tear pages out, turn the pages with dirty hands."

"Oh no… Who?"

"They're all around."

Father-in-law stood there for a while, breathing heavily- the whole room smelled terrible-and then he left.

First thing in the morning, without eating or drinking, Benedikt splashed water on his face and began reading. He'd be called to lunch-too bad, they interrupted the most interesting part! At first he'd run in quickly, grab a bite, and go back to the books. Then he realized that he could read at the table. The food tasted better and you didn't lose time that way. The family was insulted, of course. Mother-in-law was hurt that Benedikt didn't praise her cooking that much, Olenka thought he was reading about women, and she's sitting right there like some kind of fool. Father-in-law stood up for him: Leave him alone, this is art.

Olenka wailed: "He just reads books and doesn't pay any attention to me!"

Father-in-law defended him: "It's none of your business. Shut up! If he's reading, that means he needs to read…"

"What is he reading all the time? He's reading about women! And he won't look at his own wife! I'm going to tear up all those books of yours!"

"There's nothing here about women! Here, look, it says: 'Roger pulled out a pistol and listened. A door creaked.' No women."

"You see, no girls there!"

"Yeah, sure! No women! Why'd he pull his pissdoll out then, the filthy old man?"

"Because now Mister Blake will go inside, and he'll hit him on the head with a pistol-Roger will. He's hiding behind the portier. Leave me alone," said Benedikt.

"What Mister Blake?"

"The family notary. Don't bother me."

"Why is he pulling out his pissdoll in front of a family man? Get your own family and show it to them!"

"Well, that just shows to go what an idiot you are," Father-in-law said to her. "Family is family, but you've got to realize there's such a thing as research. Your husband isn't here just for fun and games, he's a citizen of society, a breadwinner and protector. All you wanna do is giggle, but he needs to study. Son!"

"Hmm?"

"Have you read Hamlet yet?"

"Not yet."

"Read it. Mustn't allow gaps in your education… you have to read Hamlet."

"All right, I'll read it."

"Macbeth too. Oh, now that's a good book, very useful…"

"All right."

"Mumu is a must. Very exciting story. By a fellow called Turgenev. They put a stone around the dog's neck and throw her in the water… The Gingerbread Man is good too."

"I read The Gingerbread Man. "

"You've read it? Great, isn't it?"

"Uh huh."

"That fox really gives it to him… Snap! Yes, brother, that fox, you know… That's a real fox for you… Snap!"

"It's kinda sad…"

"What do you mean, sad!… It's art! It's not sad, it's a hint… You have to know how to read between the lines… You read Krylov's Fables?"

"I started them."

"There are some good ones… 'The Wolf and the Lamb.' That's good. 'It's your fault that I'm hungry!' Pure poetry."

"I like adventure stories better."

"Ah, I see, you mean so they draw it out, don't do it all at once… That yellow one, The Head Hunters, you have to read that one too."

"Listen, leave me alone! I'll read it! You're bothering me! Let me read in peace."

"That's it, that's it! Not another word!" Father-in-law put his finger to his lips. "Go on, do your work, study in peace. Not another word, not another word."

Spring had come with its huge flowers. Beyond the window everything was bright blue-but Benedikt noticed only because light poured in and it was easier to read. He pulled aside the bladder covering the window-there it was! All the meadows and glades had long been covered with greengrass, the little azure flowers were wilting, the yellow ones were coming in. Honey waves of wind blew, calling stout hearts to set off for faraway lands, to explore wondrous kingdoms, launch dugouts on clean rivers and hold course for the Ocean-Sea. But Benedikt didn't need any of this. He had everything in books, rolled up, buried in little secret boxes: sea and meadow, deep blue and sandy winds, foul winds and snow, and the wind they call Zephyr. Starless nights and nights of passion, velvety nights and sleepless nights! Southern, white, pink, sweet as could be, dreamy, draining nights! Golden and silver stars, blue and green as sea salt, shooting and falling stars, foreboding stars, glittering diamond and lone stars, stars that herald woe, and stars that shine like beacons-there you go, beacons! All the vessels on all the seas, all the kisses, islands, roads and all the cities those roads lead to, all the city gates, nooks, crannies, dungeons and tunnels, towers, flags, all the golden curls and jet black braids, the thunder and clash of arms, the clouds, the steppes, and again the wind, sea, and stars! He didn't need anything else, it was all here!

A rich man-that's who he was. Rich as rich could be! Benedikt thought about himself. I'm rich, he thought, and he laughed. He even yelped. I'm my own Murza! My own Sultan! Everyone's in the palm of my hand, in little letters: the bounty of boundless nature and the lives of countless people! Old-timers, youngsters, and indescribable beauties!

There was another good thing about books, he thought. The beauties rustling their dresses between the pages, peering from behind shutters and from under lace curtains, the beauties wringing their white hands and throwing themselves with loosened hair under the hooves of steeds, their eyes sparking fiercely -she's crying and her waist is the size of an hourglass-beauties who lounge on divans with pounding hearts, and leap up to cast a wild gaze around the room; who step fearfully, lowering their dark blue eyes; who dance fiery dances with roses in their hair-these beauties never have to answer nature's call, they never have to bend over to pick things up, they never get gas, no pimples pop up on their faces, and their backs never hurt. Their golden hair never has any dandruff and lice never nest or lay eggs in it, they leave them alone. And those golden curls-they curl for days on end, and no one ever says anything about these beauties spending half the day with bobbins in their hair. They don't chomp, sneeze, or snore. Their cheeks don't squelch; no Is-abelle or Caroline ever wakes up puffy with sleep; their jaws don't clack when they yawn, they awake refreshed and toss back the curtains. And they all throw themselves joyfully into the arms of their beloved. And just who is their beloved? Why, it's Benedikt, of course, whether he's called Don Pedro or Sysoy.