Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

O world, roll up into a single block, A cracked and broken sidewalk, A fouled and filthy warehouse, The burrow of a mouse!

A thin strip of horrible yellow sunset filled the western window, and the evening star Alatyr twinkled in the sunset. The pushkin stuck out like a small black stick in the confusion of streets, and from that height the rope looped around the poet's neck and hung with laundry looked like a fine thread.

The sunrise lay hidden in a dark-blue blanket in the other window, covering the woods, rivers, more woods, and secret fields where red tulips sleep under the snow, where Benedikt's eternal bride hibernates, dressed in frosty lace, inside an icy, decorated egg, with a smile on her luminous face, my unfound love, the Princess Bird, and she dreams of kisses, of silky grass, golden flies, and mirrored waters where her unspeakable beauty is reflected, shimmers, ruffles, multiplies. In her sleep the Princess Bird sighs a happy sigh and dreams of her beautiful self.

To the south, lit by a terrible double light-the yellow from the west and the dark blue from the sunrise side-in the south, blocking the impassable snowy steppe with its whistling whirlwinds and stormy columns, in the south, which runs, runs ever onward toward the dark blue, windy Ocean-Sea, in the south, beyond the ravine, beyond the triple moat, covering the whole width of the window, spread the red, adorned, embellished, ornamented, painted, many-towered, many-storied terem of Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live.

"Ha!" laughed Benedikt.

Joy spurted from him like foamy, sparkling kvas.

Joy, thou beauteous godly lightning, Daughter of Elysium.

Suddenly, everything became as limpid as a spring brook. It was all right in front of him, clear as day. That's what it was! There!… There, right before him, unspoiled, unspent, a treasure trove full to the brim, a magical garden blooming and fruitful in its pink-white froth, a garden flowing with the sweetest juice, like a billion blind firelings! There, packed tight from its sonorous cellars to its aromatic attics, was the pleasure palace! Ali Baba's cave! The Taj Mahal, for cryin' out loud!

Of course! In the south, that's right! So the west did help! The light was from the west, the star was a beacon. It illuminated everything! He guessed, he figured it out, he understood the clues, he understood the fable-and everything fit together!

He squinted from happiness, squeezed his eyelids tight, and shook his head. He stuck his head through the window slit to feel it better; he inhaled the aroma of frost and wood, the sweet smoke curling up from the chimneys of the Red Terem. He seemed to see things better with his eyelids closed, he heard more clearly, and felt more acutely; there, there, right nearby, very close, just beyond the gully, beyond the ditch, behind the triple wall, beyond the high pike fence-but you can jump over a wall and slip under a pike fence. If only he could jump from the tower right this minute, softly softly, unheard and unseen, and be swept away in the blizzard's whirlwind, carried like weightless dust across the gully, like a snowspout right into the attic window! Crawling and leaping, limber and long, but just so he didn't miss it, didn't lose the trail; closer, still closer to the terem, without leaving traces on the snow, scaring dogs in the yard, or disturbing any creatures in the house!

And then to drink, drink his fill, drink in the letters, words, and pages with their sweet, dusty, acrid, inimitable smell! O my beauteous poppies! O my imperishable, ever-shining gold!

"Oooooooh!" Benedikt squealed blissfully.

"So, son, are you ready now?" came a quiet laugh behind him, just above his ear. Benedikt started and opened his eyes.

"Goodness gracious, Papa! You scared me!"

Father-in-law stole up quietly, the floorboards didn't even tremble. You could tell he'd pulled his claws in. He, too, wore a red robe and hood over his head, but by the voice and the smell you could tell that yes, it was Father-in-law, Kudeyar Kudeyarich.

"So what now?" whispered Father-in-law. "Shall we do a bit of tumbling?"

"I don't understand."

"Feel like doing a bit of overturning? Fyodor Kuzmich, that is, Glorybe? Ready to knock off the evil tormentor? That damned dwarf?"

"I'm ready," Benedikt whispered with conviction. "Papa! I'd do it with my own hands!"

"Oh, heart of mine!…" said Father-in-law joyfully. "Well? Finally!… Finally! Let me hug you!"

Benedikt and Kudeyar Kudeyarich embraced and stood looking down on the city from the heights. Bluish lights began to flicker in the izbas, the sunset went out, the stars emerged.

"Let's swear an oath to each other," said Kudeyar Kudeyarich.

"An oath?"

"Yep. For eternal friendship."

"Well… all right."

"I gave you everything. I gave you my daughter-if you want, I'll let you have my wife."

"Uh, that won't be n-n-n-necessary. We need Kant in our hearts and a peaceful sky above our heads. There's a law like that," Benedikt remembered.

"True enough. And it's us against the tyrants. Agreed?"

"Of course."

"We'll ravage the oppressor's nest, okey dokey?"

"Oh, Papa, he's got books piled high as the snow!"

"Aaah, my dear, even higher. And he tears pictures out of them."

"Quiet, I don't want to know," said Benedikt, gritting his teeth.

"I can't be quiet! Art is in peril!" Father-in-law exclaimed sternly. "There is no worse enemy than indifference! All evil in fact comes from the silent acquiescence of the indifferent. You read Mumu, didn't you? Did you understand the moral? How he kept silent all the time, and the dog died."

"Papa, but how-"

"Know-how, that's how. I've thought the whole thing through. We'll make a revolution. I've just been waiting for you. We'll go in at night, he doesn't sleep at night, but the guards will be tired. Okey-dokey?"

"At night, how can we do it at night? It's dark!"

"And what am I here for? Aren't I a torch-bearer?"

Father-in-law's eyes gave off a ray of light, and he laughed contentedly.

Clear and simple. The soul was icy clean. No neuroses now.

The red terem had a moldy smell-a familiar, exciting smell… Unmistakable. Old paper, the leather of ancient bindings, traces of gold dust, sweet glue. Benedikt felt a bit weak in the knees, like he was on his way to a woman for the first time. Women!… What did he need Marfushkas or Olenkas for now, when all the women of the ages, the Isoldes, the Rosamunds, the Juliets, with their combs and silks, their daggers and caprices, would be his any minute, now and forever more… When he was just about to become the owner of the untold, the unimaginable… the Shah of Shahs, the Emir, the Sultan, the Sun King, Head of the Housing Committee, Chairman of the Earth, Head Clerk, Archimandrite, Pope of Rome, Boyars' Council Scribe, the Collegiate Assessor, King Solomon… He, Benedikt, he would be all of these…

Father-in-law illuminated the path with his eyes. Two strong, moon-white rays searched the hallways. Dust swam in the beams of light, disappearing for a moment when Father-in-law blinked. Benedikt's head spun from the frequent flares, the fragrance of nearby book bindings, and the sweetish stench coming from Father-in-law's mouth-Father-in-law kept jerking his head, as though his collar was strangling him. Shadows danced along the walls like gigantic letters: [*]-Glagol of the hook, [*]- Liudi of Benedikt's peaked hood, [*]-Zhivete of the cautious fingers splayed to feel their way along the walls, to search for hidden doors. Father-in-law ordered him to step softly, not to shuffle his feet.

"Listen to the revolution, dammit!"

The revolutionaries crept through the corridors, turned corners, stopped, looked around, listened. Somewhere back there near the entrance lay the pitiful guards, no longer breathing: what can a poleax or a halberd do against a double-edged hook, swift as a bird?