Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

It's spring! Why does he need spring? Well, there's one good thing about it: there's more light for reading. The day is longer, and the letters are clearer.

In summer Benedikt had a hammock hung for him in the gallery. Above the hammock he hung a light sheet to protect him from the shitbirds. They have no shame, not the least bit: wherever they see a cornice, that's where they sit, cooing and shitting. It's not so bad if it falls on your hair, but what if it falls on a book? He had two serfs stand on either side of him to fan him and shoo away gnats and mosquitoes. He had a rocking girl sit there to rock the hammock ever so gently, not too hard, just a little bit. Another girl brought him cool drinks: she crushed dogwood berries, stewed compote from them, and added lots of chopped ice. The ice was left over from winter: all winter long workers chopped ice and stored it in cold cellars. And this compote was good to drink through a straw: they'd cut some grass, and if it wasn't poisonous they'd dry it, and inside there was a little hole, and you could drink through it.

The flies had grown mean and big, their wings shimmered blue, their eyes were rainbows. Two workers stood next to Benedikt fanning them away, while a third ran to help. It must be fall. He raised his eyes: it really was fall, rain was dripping from the clouds. God forbid a book should get wet. He moved back inside the house.

It was an ordinary day, Thursday. A bit of snow was falling, and nothing foretold anything. And that's the way it is in books: if nothing foretells anything they always tell you special. And if they tell you, hold on: birds will cackle, the wind will take to howling, and the mirror will crack. A mirror is what people had in Oldener times, sort of like a board, and they looked at that board and could see themselves, like when we look in the water.

They all sat down to eat.

Benedikt opened issue number seven of the Northern Herald. It was a very strong book, sewn with threads and glued together; he cracked the spine so it wouldn't close, leaned on it with his elbow, and held it down with a bowl of soup.

Mother-in-law said: "Eat up, son, the meat patties are getting cold."

"Mmm…"

"They're tasty, juicy."

"Mmm…"

"Steamed with marshrooms. Try them, they should be good, I steamed them in the oven for an hour."

Olenka said: "Mashed turnips are good with patties."

Father-in-law: "Puree goes good with everything."

"No, especially with meat patties."

"Well, that's for sure-it's not every day we steam patties."

"It sure isn't."

"…," Benedikt read, his eyes already accustomed to racing across the lines,"…"

"Last year, remember, we gathered biteweed and cooked up some macedoine with turnips."

"Uh huh."

"If you slopped some goat cheese into the macedoine for the taste, it would be even more delicious."

"That's right."

"And noodles are good too."

"How could they be bad?"

"It's really good when you put butter in the noodles, add some forest herbs, a bit of kvas, bake it and then let it simmer, and as soon as it sizzles, you serve it."

"With ground marshrooms on top."

"That's right."

"And a flaky roulette stuffed with nuts."

"And ferns."

"Ferns, yep."

"Then spice cookies. Braided ones."

"Why braided? Broiled are better."

"Yeah, sure, broiled. Broiled they come out a touch bitter."

"So? So what? That's good."

"What's good about it? Woven ones are way better. There's an egg in them."

"What do you know. Woven!… Next thing you'll be talking about bliny again."

"Bliny, so what? What about bliny?"

"What about, nothing about! Bliny! What'll it be next?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing! That's what!"

"Well, then, don't say nothing. But I say: bliny!"

"I'll give you bliny!"

"You're a real blin yourself."

"That's right, I'm a blin. So what does that make you?"

"Nothing!"

"Then shut up!"

"Shut up yourself!"

"I'll just shut up, then!"

"So just go ahead and shut up!"

"So there, I'll shut up! Bliny!"

"Then just shut up! Give us some peace and quiet!"

They shut up. Chewed. Benedikt turned the page, resettled his bowl, and held the journal down again.

"Eat your patties, son."

"I'm eating."

"Take some more. Olenka, serve him some more. Pour some sauce on them, for heaven's sake! There you go. Pour some more."

"Give him some marshrooms."

"And some fried steak."

They were silent again.

"Too bad Eudoxia croaked. She knew how to whip up the best nut souffle."

"You're not kidding."

"There was a kind of crust on top, but it was soft inside."

"That's right…"

"And her charlottes… Who can make a charlotte like that nowadays?"

"Which one? With turnips?"

"That's right, turnips."

"I know how to make one from turnips."

"Yeah, sure."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"You don't think I can?"

"Nope."

"Well, I can."

"You're lying."

"Oh, yes, I can. First you steam it, then you mash it. Then you add eggs, nuts, and goat milk and pop it in the oven. On a high heat. Like for bliny."

"There you go with your bliny again."

"What's wrong with bliny, you creep? Just wait, you'll be asking for them next thing you know!"

"Yes, I will! Puffy, flaky ones."

"To hell with you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said."

"Just you wait, I swear I'll smack you on the forehead with a ladle-then you'll have your bliny!"

Benedikt turned another page.

"Son!"

"Mmm…"

"Put the book down. As soon as you're at the table you've got your nose in a book. Can't sit with you or have a proper conversation."

"Mmm…"

"Son!"

"Mmm?"

"What're you reading there? Read it out loud."

"What? Art, that's what!"

"So go on and read it."

Olenka pursed her lips. "He's just reading about women. Wants an adventure."

"Fat chance you'll understand. Well, why not… Here goes: 'Liudmila wrapped her shivering body in the fluffy shawl, covering her thin, shaking shoulders. Her blushing cheeks blazed brightly with a crimson fire. Her starry eyes shot arrows of alarm at Vladimir. Under her silk blouse, her high breasts rose and fell like the ocean waves. "Vladimir," she whispered. "Vladimir…" Vladimir gritted his teeth. Stern muscles bulged under his tanned skin. He turned away. Liudmila's delicate fingers played nervously with the fringe of her shawl. "Vladimir!" she cried, reaching out with her palms…'"

Olenka frowned stubbornly. "And just how many hands does she have, that Liudmila?"

"Just the right number. Two!"

"Well, she's fiddling around like she's got six. Is that a Consequence or what?"

"Take a look at yourself!" said Benedikt angrily. "This is art."

Women-they're all the same. They'll go and spoil your whole dream. Just riles you. Benedikt turned some more pages. "'Liudmila rubbed her tired temples with delicate fingertips. "Never," she murmured, wringing her hands. A deathly pallor filled her face. She released herself from his embrace. "It's all over," muttered Vladimir. The stern line of his lips betrayed extreme emotion.'" Oh, jeez, it's true… Liudmila has a Consequence… Why didn't they say anything about this before? Benedikt turned the page. "To be continued…" Damn! In the most interesting place. He felt the journal, turned it over, thumbed through the pages: maybe he'd find the next part at the end-it happens sometimes. But it wasn't there. He pushed back the stool to go have a look in the storeroom.

"Where are you going? What about the meat patties?"

Benedikt had arranged all the shelves in the storeroom a long time ago: you could see right away what was where. Father-in-law had Gogol right next to Chekhov-you could look for a hundred years and you'd never rind it. Everything should have its own science, that is, its own system. So you don't have to fuss around here and there to no good end, instead you can just go and find what you need.