Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

"Woodsucker!" Benedikt called. "Come out!"

It didn't come out.

"Come out of there, you bitch!"

It didn't want to. Terenty pulled up, smirking. "Shout louder."

He shouted louder.

"Even louder."

"Woodsuuuuuuccker!!"

It won't come, what's going on!

"Shout like your guts are gonna split. She'll come out. From the gut."

Benedikt looked at him doubtfully: the pig is laughing, happy: "Ha ha! You ate it already!"

"Did we? Then what the hell are you…"

Idiotic jokes… You could ruin your voice in a frost like this. Benedikt checked out the cage. All the weaker birds were in the hollow. The blindlie had hidden his head under his wing. The shitbirds had flocked together and were warming each other. They were suffering! There you go! That'll teach you to shit on people's heads! What a trashy bird! And its meat is rubbish- stringy, tough, they only feed it to Degenerators, but people don't eat it. And it doesn't want to live in the forest, only in town.

In the farthest cage, where the bare tree and branch stood, you couldn't see anyone. Who knows who lived there. Whatever it was, it was in the hollow. Or maybe there wasn't anyone: the cage was clean, no droppings, no feathers. Maybe they ate it already.

Jeez, they ate the woodsucker. And he hadn't even noticed, he was so busy reading. He never got a good look at it. Who knows when they'd catch another one. They don't just come and fly into your hand, woodsuckers.

"Let's go," Teterya hurried him. "I'm freezing."

"Don't give me orders, you pig. If you have to-you'll freeze!"

He kicked the louse in his side, sat down in the sleigh, and covered himself with a bear skin. "Off with you! At a gallop- and I want songs!"

… Nikita Ivanich and another Oldener, Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents, were sitting at the table drinking rusht. They'd been drinking awhile and were feeling fine: their faces were red, and they were mumbling a lot of nonsense.

Benedikt took off his hat. "And a good day to you."

"Benya? Benya! Is it really you?" Nikita Ivanich was pleased. "It's been so long! How long has it been? A year, two?… Extraordinary… Do you know each other? Benedikt Kar-pov, our sculptor, the people's Opekushin."

Lev Lvovich looked at him skeptically, as though he didn't recognize him, as if he hadn't helped to carry the pushkin himself. He made a face. "Kudeyarov's son-in-law?"

"That's right."

"I heard about it, I heard about your mesalliance."

"Thank you," said Benedikt, feeling touched. So they had heard about his marriage.

He sat down and the Oldeners moved over. It was crowded, of course. The izba seemed smaller than the last time he'd been there. The candle smoked and dripped, shadows danced. The walls were black with soot. Poverty showed on the table too: a jug, a couple of mugs, a plate of peas. They poured some rusht for Benedikt.

"So what are you up to? How are you? Just think… Here we were, sitting, drinking… talking about life… about the past… That is, we were talking about the future too, of course… About our Pushkin… How we sculpted him, hey? How we erected him! What an event! A milestone! The resuscitation of the saints! An historical landmark! Now he's with us again. And Pushkin, you know, Benya, Pushkin is our be all and end all! He's everything to us. You just think about it, remember, and assimilate it… But what a pity… can you imagine? He already requires restoration…"

"What does he require?" asked Benedikt, standing up.

"Fixing, Benya, he needs fixing! The rain, the snow, the birds… they've all taken their toll. If he were only made of stone! I won't even mention bronze, we're nowhere near having bronze. And then there's the people-people are utter savages: they tie a rope around him, and hang their laundry on freedom's bard! Underwear and pillowcases-barbarians!"

"But Nikita Ivanich, you were the one who always said the people's path to him should never be overgrown. And now you're complaining."

"Oh, Lord… Benya… That was a figure of speech."

"All right, we can put that figure wherever you want. I'll send some serfs. We could use the sleigh too."

"O Lord in Heaven, help us."

"We need a Xerox," said Lev Lvovich gloomily.

"It was only about a hundred years ago that you said we needed a fax. That the West would come to our aid," replied Nikita Ivanich.

"That's right, but the irony is that-"

"The irony is that there isn't any West."

"What do you mean there isn't any West!" snapped Lev Lvovich. "There's always a West."

"But we don't know anything about it."

"No, no, no. Excuse me! You and I know. It's just that they don't know anything about us."

"And that's news to you?"

Lev Lvovich became even more gloomy and scraped at the table. "Right now the most important thing is a Xerox."

"But why, tell me why?!"

"Because it was said: be fruitful and multiply!" Lev Lvovich raised a long finger. "Multiply!"

"Well then, just how do you envision this?" Nikita Ivanich asked. "Let's just suppose, for the sake of argument, that you have your fax and your Xerox. Under current conditions. Let's just suppose. Although it's highly unlikely. What would you do with them? How to you intend to fight for freedom with a fax? Go on, tell me."

"My pleasure. It's quite simple. I take an album of Durer's work. That's just an example. Black and white, but that doesn't matter. I make a copy. I multiply it. I fax it to the West. They receive it and say: 'Wait a minute, what's going on here! That's our national treasure.' They fax me back: 'Return our national treasure immediately!' And I say to them: Come and get it. Take charge. Then you've got international contacts, diplomatic negotiations, everything you could hope for. Coffee. Paved roads. Nikita Ivanich, remember shirts with cuff links? Conferences…"

"Confrontations."

"Humanitarian rice."

"Porno films…"

"Jeans."

"Terrorists."

"Of course. Complaints to the UN. Political hunger strikes. The International Court in The Hague."

"The Hague doesn't exist anymore."

Lev Lvovich shook his head so hard the candle flame flickered: "Don't upset me, Nikita Ivanich. Don't say such terrible things. That's just nationalistic claptrap."

"There is no Hague, Golubchik. There never was."

Lev Lvovich started crying drunken tears and banged his fist on the table. The peas jumped on the plate. "It's not true, I don't believe it! The West will come to our aid!"

"We have to do it ourselves, all on our own."

"This is not the first time I've noticed your nationalistic tendencies! You're a Slavophile!"

"You know, I'm really-"

"A Slavophile, a Slavophile! Don't deny it."

"I hope for a spiritual renaissance."

"Samizdat is what we need."

"But Lev Lvovich! We have lots of samizdat, it's flourishing. If I'm not mistaken, you yourself used to insist it was the most important thing. And just look-no spiritual life. So apparently it's not the main thing."

Benedikt coughed politely to interrupt. "My life is spiritual."

"In what sense?"

"I don't eat mice."

"Well, and what else?"

"Not a single bite… Only birds. Meat. Pasties once in a while. Bliny. Marshrooms, of course. Nightingales dipped in batter, horsetail a la Savoy. Bullfinch stew. Fireling parfait a la Ly-onnaise. Then -cheese and fruit. That's it."

The Oldeners' eyes bugged out and they stared at him silently.

"And cigars?" Lev Lvovich finally asked, grinning.

"We go into another room to smoke. Near the stove. Fevro-nia, my mother-in-law, doesn't let us smoke at the table."

"I remember Pigronia," remarked Lev Lvovich. "I remember her father. An imbecile. And her grandfather. Another imbecile. Her great-grandfather too."