Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

… Benedikt lay in bed and sobbed. The tears flowed and flowed. Mother-in-law changed the pillows, Father-in-law ordered the women to walk on tiptoe, speak in whispers, and not worry the patient with troubling questions. He himself sat on the edge of Benedikt's bed, gave him warm drinks, hung right over him, shaking his head, sympathizing, consoling him.

"Now, how did that happen, tell me? How come you were so clumsy?… I told you to turn the hook carefully, gently… From the shoulder, the shoulder… And you go and: whack! That's what did it."

Benedikt choked on his tears. He wailed softly, delicately, his weakened fingers trembled; he could feel the cold and the slippery turn of the hook although he no longer held any hook, only a mug with compote.

It didn't happen-and yet it had happened. His arm could still feel the crunch up to the elbow, the way you squash a beetle: instead of just grabbing the book, jerking it, tearing it away, he caught the Golubchik right on the neck, on the vein, and since he whirled the hook with unpracticed fingers, the vein snapped and something streamed out, something black. The head flopped to one side, the eyes dimmed, and vomit gushed from the mouth.

Benedikt had never killed anyone, that is, Golubchiks, and it had never even occurred to him. He might hit someone or knock him around, but that was different, just ordinary, everyday stuff. You get him, he gets you, and you're quits. A bruise here, a sprain there-the usual. And before hitting a Golubchik you have to get yourself worked up against him, store up a gloomy weight in your heart. The bruises or sprains balance out this gloominess like weights on scales: goods on one side, weights on the other. Then you belt him one-and it's justified.

But he'd never even met this Golubchik, the one he crushed. He'd never even seen him, wasn't worked up against him, didn't have a grudge against him-he was living and let him go on living, planting turnips, talking to his woman, bouncing his little kids on his knee.

Benedikt just wanted to take the book away. Because society is backward, the people live in the darkness of ignorance, they're superstitious, they keep books under the bed, or even bury them in damp holes. You can destroy a book this way. It rots, falls apart, gets covered in green mildew, gets worm holes. Books have to be protected, they belong in a dry, bright place, they have to be cherished and cradled, preserved and kissed. No one else will bother, there's no one else to take care of them, the ancient people who wrote these books have turned to dust, they've died out, not a shadow remains. They won't return, they'll never come back! They don't exist anymore!

But our ignorant Golubchiks-just look at them-they won't admit to themselves or others that they've hidden books. Books are rotting, being lost forever, and they'll never admit they've hidden one. They're backward and afraid of Illness, and Illness has nothing to do with it. Benedikt has read a thousand books and he's just fine.

But he hadn't gotten mad at that Golubchik, it was all the fault of the water-bearer from Delhi, whose name was Kandar-paketu, it was all his father-in-law's fault-he handed him the hook at the wrong time, when his heart was blinded, when the snow raged, and that distant wail deprived him of reason!… Look, just look what it does with people: flushes the reason clear out of them, flies through the storm, hungry, pale, and you can't hear yourself think. You see rings of stars in your eyes, and your hand turns the wrong way. Crunch!-and everything flows out.

… But he saved the book. The book! My precious treasure! Life, the road, the sea's expanses, fanned by the wind, the golden cloud, the blue wave! The gloom parts, you can see far away, the wide open spaces unfold, and those spaces hold bright forests with sun filtering through them and glades splattered with tulips. The spring wind Zephyr rocks the branches, waves like white lace, and the lace turns, spreads open like a fan, and in it, as in a decorated cup, is the white Princess Bird, with her red, innocent mouth. The Princess Bird doesn't eat or drink, it lives only by air and kisses, never harms anyone, and never brings sorrow. And when the Princess Bird smiles with her tulip mouth, she raises her bright eyes to the heights-she always thinks luminous thoughts about herself; she lowers her eyes and admires herself. When she sees Benedikt, she'll say: Come here, Benedikt, it's always spring here with me, I always have love…

"My dear sweet boy… you've got a heart of gold…" His father-in-law lamented, "I taught you, didn't I, I taught you… Ay, my boy… Turn it, I said, the hook, turn it… Didn't I tell you? I told you! And you?… What have you gone and done?"

Father-in-law shook his head. He sat, dejected, leaning on his hand. He gazed reproachfully at Benedikt.

"In a hurry, were you? Well, you went too fast… you didn't protect life… Now he'll never be treated! I mean, how could we treat him now? Huh?" Father-in-law leaned over, shined his light into Benedikt's eyes, and his foul breath enveloped Benedikt.

"It was an accident!" Benedikt whined through his tears. The words came out in a squeak. "It scared me!"

"Who scared you?"

"The Slynx!… It scared me! And I missed!"

"Get out of here, women," said Father-in-law. "My son-in-law is upset, don't you see? What bad luck he's had. He'll survive. Don't get underfoot. Give him some more compote. Bring some soft white patties."

"I don't want any, noooo!"

"You must. You have to eat. Some broth too. Listen to your heart… it's beating so hard…" Father-in-law touched Benedikt's heart, feeling it with hard fingers.

"Don't touch me! Leave me alone!"

"What do you mean, leave you alone? I'm a medical worker. Am I supposed to know your condition? I am. Just look: you're shaking all over. Come on, now. Come on, like that. Eat up! Take some more."

"The book…"

"The one we confiscated?… Don't worry. I've got it."

"Give it…"

"You can't have it! Not now! What are you thinking of? Just lie down. You're very upset. How could you read yourself? I'll read it to you aloud. It's a good book… A book of the highest quality, my dear…"

Benedikt lay there wrapped in blankets, swallowing broth and tears, while Father-in-law, lighting the pages with his eyes, running his fingers under the lines, read in a thick, important voice:

Hickory, dickory, six and seven, Alabone, Crackabone, ten and eleven, Spin, spun, muskidun, Twiddle 'em, twaddle 'em, twenty-one…

A duck and a drake, And a half-penny cake,

With a penny to pay the old baker.

A hop and a scotch

Is another notch,

Slitherum, slatherum, take her.

They took one from Theofilactus, one from Boris, two from Eulalia. Klementy, Lavrenty, Osip, Zuzya, and Revolt were all a waste of time, they didn't find anything, just bits and pieces. Maliuta had three books buried in the barn, all covered with black spots so you couldn't make out a word. Vandalism pure and simple… Roach Efimich-who would have thought?- had a whole trunkful right out in the open, two dozen books, dry and clean. Only there wasn't one word in our language, all the letters were strange: hooks and bent nails. Ulyana only had ones with pictures. Methuselah and Churilo-the twins who lived behind the river and loaned mice for a living-had one tiny torn book. Akhmetka managed to burn his: they scared him… Zoya Gurevna burned hers. Avenir, Maccabe, Nelly the Harelip, Ulcer, Riurik, Ivan Pricklin, Sysoy had nothing. January used to have one, but he didn't know where it was, though his pantry walls were all hung with pictures, and there were indecent women on the pictures.

Gloom and doom.

"There's so much nastiness among the people," Father-in-law said, "just think. I mean, at one time they were told: Don't keep books at home! Were they told? Yes, they were. But no, they keep holding on to them. Everyone wants things their own way. The books rot, they get them dirty, they bury them in the front garden. Can you imagine?"