Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

"Yes, yes."

"They poke holes in them, tear out pages, roll them up like cigars…"

"That's horrible, I can't even listen!"

"They use them as tops on soup pots…"

"Don't make me sick! I can't stand it!"

"Or they stick them in a dormer window and when it rains, the pages slip and you end up with mush… Or they use them in the stove-what do you get? Smoke, soot, and then poof-it burns up… There are people who don't want to waste firewood, and they just heat the stove with books…"

"Stop, please, I can't stand it!"

"And then-do you hear me, son?-there are people who tear out the pages and use them in the privy, hang them on a nail for nature's calls… And we know what that means…"

Benedikt couldn't take any more. He jumped up from the stool. Running his hands through his hair, he paced the room: there was a tight knot in his heart, his soul was dazed and dizzy as though he were on a steep incline, as though the floor under his feet were tilting like in a dream and any minute now everything would roll off it into a bottomless pit, into a well, who knows where. Here we are sitting around, or lying on the bed in a warm terem, everything is clean and civilized, you can smell bliny cooking in the kitchen, our women are decent, they're white, rosy, steamed in the bath; all decked out with beads, headdresses, sarafans, first, second, and third petticoats with ribbons, and they also thought up wearing shawls that swish, with clean, lacy, patterned feathers. But down there in town are Golubchiks in unswept izbas, living in constant soot and filth, with black and blue faces, dimwitted gazes, they grab books without wiping their hands; they crack the spines, tear out pages crosswise and top to bottom; they tear off the legs of steeds, the heads of beauties. They crumple the Ocean-Sea's wine-dark waves and chuck them into the greedy fire; they roll white roads into cigars and squeeze them: blue-gray smoke winds around the paths, the flowering bushes crackle and go up in flames. Cut down at the root, the lilac tree falls with a moan, the golden birch topples and the tulip is trampled, the secret glade is soiled. With a fierce cry, her mouth torn, Princess Bird tumbles from her branch, her legs upside down, her head smashed against a stone!

What's burned can't be returned, what's dead can't be fed. And what would you take out of a burning house?… Me? You don't know? And you call yourself a Stoker! You asked the riddle, what you call a dilemma. If you had to choose, what would you take: a pussy cat or a painting? a Golubchik or a book? Questions! And he worried about it, wallowed in doubt, shook his head, twisted his beard!… "I can't decide, I've been thinking about it for three hundred years…" Really now, a pussy! A cat, to be scientific, his job is to hunt, to fly like spit on the wind, stay out from underfoot, to know his business-catching mice! Pussy cat pussy cat what did you there? And not paintings! Golubchiks? Golubchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they'll all return to clay. They're full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.

You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call-

O tender specter, happy chance, Again I heed the ancient lore, Again with beauty rare in stance, You beckon from the distant shore!

You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet-but you laugh, shout, and sing; you're obedient-but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings! Sometimes a kind of wordless feeling tosses and turns in the chest, pounds its fists on the door, the walls: I'm suffocating! Let me out! How can you let that feeling out, all fuzzy and naked? What words can you dress it in? We don't have any words, we don't know! Just like wild animals, or a blindlie bird, or a mermaid- no words, just a bellowing. But you open a book-and there they are, fabulous, flying words:

O city! O wind! O snowstorms and blizzards!

O azure abyss all raveled and tattered!

Here am I! I'm blameless! I'm with you forever…

… Or there's bile and sadness and bitterness. The emptiness dries your eyes out and you search for the words, and here they are:

But is the world not all alike? From the Cabbala of Chaldaic signs Throughout the ages, now and ever more, To the sky where the even star shines.

The same old wisdom-born of ashes, And in that wisdom, like our twin, The face of longing, frailty, fear, and sin, Stares straight across the ages at us.

Benedikt ran out onto the gallery, looked at the settlement from the heights, at the city, its hills and valleys, the paths worn between the fences, the snow-covered streets. Snow blew and swirled all around, it slid with a swish from the roof beyond the gates. He stood there, his neck craned, turning his head this way and that, staring hard, blinking away the frost: Who was hiding them? Who had them wrapped in a cloth on the stove, in a box under the bed, in an earthen pit, in a birch chest-who? If only he knew! There are books out there! I know there are, I can sense them, I can smell them: they're there! Only where? Squinting, he gazed into the blind gloom: it was twilight, lights were coming on in the izbas; little people below were hurrying, running, rushing to the stove warmth, to their benches, to their soup, their thin mouse stew… How do they eat that slop, isn't it disgusting?… A murky water… like when you wash your feet, the same color… Bits of flesh settle on the bottom, spiced salty worrums. The people's anchovies… That was what Nikita Ivanich called worrums… Was the old man still alive? It would be good to see him… Maybe he has a book? Maybe he'd let him read it? And he wouldn't need to be treated, he'd hand it over himself… If I had my way-I'd turn the whole city upside down. Hand over those books, right now! But Father-in-law won't allow it, he holds back, all in good measure, son, if we take them all off for treatment-who's going to work? Who'll clear the roads, plant the turnips, weave the baskets? That's not the governmental approach: all in a rush. In one fell swoop! Right away! Really, now! You'd only scare people, they'd run off! You caught mice? You know the science? Well, there you go!…

It's true, he used to catch mice. He'd feed them first. That's right. He was even rich for a whole hour. And then? It all disappeared, like it was never there! All that was left of his riches was some sweet rolls-and they were burnt!

He needed to stretch his legs. He went into the stalls. No culture… A heavy animal smell. The goats are bleating. Teterya and his pals, as always, are playing cards: "Here's a jack for you!"

"We'll play a ten."

"Are you nuts?"

"It's trump!"

"So what if it's trump?? The ten takes it. He dropped a ten! He's cheating, guys!"

As always-they haven't mucked out the stables or anything.

"Teterya! Over here. Bridle up."

"Wait a minute, we're not finished."

"What do you mean, wait? You've had enough rest."

"So, no… then… A dame, and another dame! There you go!"

"Teterya!"

"I'm between shifts. You'll take it? Here's a jack for change."

"Teterya!!!" Benedikt shouted, stamping his foot.

"Now, now, there he goes, shouting up a storm. The sleigh runners are bent."

"Don't lie! It's always the same old thing! Get your boots on, I'm going for a ride. You've got five minutes to tack up!…"

Benedikt walked along the cages. Here were the sparrows. A small bird, like a mouse, but tasty. Only it has a lot of bones. There were nightingales in this cage. They ate them, need to catch some new ones. In springtime. Right now they're all hiding. Here-what's this? Here's the woodsucker.