Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

"That's right," affirmed Benedikt. "She's from one of the oldest families, of French origin."

"They were fruitful and multiplied," giggled tipsy Nikita Ivanich. "There you go! Hmm? Lev Lvovich!"

"And there's your spiritual renaissance for you, Nikita Ivanich!"

They poured some more rusht.

"All right, then… Here's to returning to sources, Lev Lvovich!"

"To our freedom!"

They drank. Benedikt drank too.

"Why is it," said Nikita Ivanich, "why is it that everything keeps mutating, everything? People, well, all right, but the language, concepts, meaning! Huh? Russia! Everything gets twisted up in knots."

"Not everything," argued Benedikt. "Now, if you eat cheese, then yes, your insides will mutiny, and your stomach'll get tied up in knots. But if you eat a pasty-it's all right… Nikita Ivanich!… I brought a present for you."

Benedikt fumbled inside his coat and pulled out the book with "Slitherum Slatherum" wrapped in a clean cloth. He really didn't want to give it up, but it wouldn't work without a sacrifice.

"Here. It's for you. A book."

Nikita Ivanich was taken aback. Lev Lvovich ruffled: "It's a provocation!… Careful, Nikita Ivanich!"

"It's a poem," explained Benedikt. "Everything about our life is all written down here in poems. You're arguing, next thing you'll start fighting-but why don't you read it instead. I learned it by heart." Benedikt looked up into a dark corner of the ceiling-it was always easier to remember things that way, when nothing distracted you. "Hickory dickory six and seven. Alabone, Crackabone-"

"That's enough," said Lev Lvovich.

"You like to read to yourself? I do too, with my eyes. When there's no one to bother me… I just pour myself a cup of compote- and read!"

"Where did you get it?" asked Nikita Ivanich.

Benedikt's face expressed a certain vagueness: he stuck his jaw out, screwed up his mouth, as if ready to kiss someone, raised his eyebrows as high as he could, looked over his shoulder, and flapped his hands around in different directions.

"I got it… well, I just got it. We have a big library at home."

They poured some more rusht. The Oldeners didn't look at Benedikt, and they didn't look at each other. They stared at the table.

"Special Reserves," said Lev Lvovich.

"A spiritual treasure trove," corrected Nikita Ivanich.

"But I've already read everything," said Benedikt. "I, well, I have a favor to ask. Maybe you have something to read, no? I'll be careful… no spots, nothing. I respect books."

"I don't have any books," replied Nikita Ivanich. "I truly don't. Would I lie?"

"I could give you mine, for a little while… Kind of like an exchange. If you'll be careful… Wrap them in something… a cloth or rags… I have good books, they don't have any Illness or anything…"

"Interlibrary with Leviathan. I wouldn't get involved."

"You're in a conspiratorial phase… Where are your democratic values?"

"We shouldn't cooperate with a totalitarian regime…"

Benedikt waited for the Oldeners to stop their gibberish. "What do you think, Nikita Ivanich?"

Nikita Ivanich waved his hands around like he hadn't heard the question. He poured some more mead. It went down smoothly…

"I have interesting books," Benedikt tempted them. "About women, and nature, and science too… they tell you all sorts of things… You were talking about freedom-well, I've got one about freedom too, about everything. It teaches how to make freedom. Should I bring it? Only you have to be careful."

"Really?" Lev Lvovich said with interest. "Whose book?"

"Mine."

"The author, who's the author?"

Benedikt thought.

"I can't remember right off. I think It starts with Pl."

"Plekhanov?"

"No…"

"It couldn't be Plevier?"

"No, no… Don't interrupt… Aha! It's Plaiting and Knitting Jackets. 'When knitting the armhole we cast on two extra loops for freedom of movement. We slip them on the right needle, taking care not to tighten them excessively.'"

"We've always known how to tighten things excessively around here…" said Lev Lvovich with a grin.

"So should I bring it? It's all right?" said Benedikt, rising.

"Don't bother, young man."

Benedikt had been sly: he himself didn't like Plaiting very much-it was a boring sort of essay; but he thought maybe it would do for Oldeners-who knows what they like? He himself liked Embraces better. Since he'd already gotten up, Benedikt pushed the door open to let in some of the blizzardy air-they'd smoked up the place something fierce. He wanted to keep an eye on Teterya: Had he gone and committed Freethinking, and crawled up into the sleigh? There was a bear skin there, and sometimes the stinking scum did that: he'd get up under the skin to get warm, and after that just try airing it out! Degenerators have a strong smell: dung, straw, unwashed feet. No, he hadn't crawled in, but what was he doing? He was standing on his legs. He'd taken the felt boots off his hands and was scratching swear words onto the pillar that said "Nikitsky Gates."

"Teterya!!!" Benedikt croaked. "You hairy rat! I see everything!"

He immediately darted back on all fours, as if he hadn't been doing anything, and raised his leg on the pillar as if to say, yeah? I'm just relieving myself, the way we do. I'm pissing.

"You pig…"

Nikita Ivanich looked out over Benedikt's shoulder. "Benya! Why don't you invite your comrade inside? Good Lord, he's outside and in such cold weather!"

"Comrade? Nikita Ivanich! That's a Degenerator! Don't tell me you haven't seen Degenerators before!"

Lev Lvovich hadn't taken a liking to Benedikt: he looked at him with disdain and kept his mouth squinched to one side. He also got up from the table, crowded behind the Stoker's back, and looked out. "Appalling exploitation…" he muttered.

"Call him, call him into the house! That's inhumane!"

"But he's not a human! Humans don't have felt boots on their hands!"

"You have to look at it more broadly! Even without him the people is incomplete!" Lev Lvovich instructed.

"We won't argue about definitions…" The old man wrapped a scarf around his neck… "Who are you and I…? Bipeds without feathers, with articulate speech… Let me out, I'll go and invite him… What's his name?"

"He answers to Teterya."

"But I can't speak to an adult like that… What's his patronymic?"

"Petrovich… Don't be crazy, Nikita Ivanich, watch out, for God's sake!!! Invite a Degenerator into the izba? He'll muck the whole place up. Wait!"

"Terenty Petrovich," the Stoker said, leaning over into the snowdrift, "kindly come in to the izba! Come sit at the table and warm up!"

The deranged Oldeners unhitched the Degenerator, took off his shaft, and led him into the izba. Benedikt spat.

"Please, let me have your reins, I'll help. Hang them on the nail."

"They'll filch the bear skin! No one's watching the hide," screamed Benedikt and ran to the sleigh. Just in time: two Golubchiks had already wrapped the bear skin in a rug and thrown it on their shoulder. Everyone would have done the same-why not? Who leaves goods like that in the middle of the street without an owner nearby! Seeing Benedikt, they ran into a lane with the rug. He caught up with them, gave them a thrashing, and recovered the goods, huffing and puffing. Oohh, what thievery!

"… I came home, everything was quite civilized, the floors were covered with goddamn Polish varnish!" cursed a soused Teterya. "I took off my shoes, put on my slippers, and there was figure skating on the tube. Irina Rodnina! A double lux… Maya Kristalinskaya was singing. She gets on your nerves, doesn't she?"

"I…" objected Lev Lvovich.

"I, I, I, it's always I. T is just a letter of the alphabet! Gone to seed under Kuzmich, Glorybe! He's let everyone go to pot, frigging dwarf! Reading books, all a bunch of smart alecs all of a sudden! Under Sergeich you wouldn't have done all that reading!"