Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

The bastard pushed him to make a choice. For instance, Nikita Ivanich had agreed to burn on the "Nikita's Gate" pillar, but the family wouldn't hear of it. Let him burn on the pushkin. It was as clear as a bump on a log that this was what you call Terenty Petrovich's doing, or, to put it scientifically, the result of palace intrigues. It was just to make Benedikt do the deciding: if you want to preserve art, then say goodbye to the pushkin. Either or.

But Benedikt's spirits rose and his head cleared, he looked at things with greater calm, so he made this choice immediately too, without looking back: Art was more precious.

But you couldn't exactly control the tears, they flowed by themselves.

Nikita Ivanich stood on the firewood fit to be tied, shouting a tirade and cursing the whole world. Well, he was anxious, you could understand. A lot of people had gathered for the death by execution.

There were some people Benedikt knew, though not many- most were being treated. He could see Lev Lvovich making faces, and Poltorak shoving Golubchiks along with his third leg. Ivan Beefich's friend had brought him on piggyback.

Olenka and Fevronia sat in summer carriages under lace parasols, all fancy and so fat the axles had bowed under them, and the wheels were turning into squares.

Kudeyar Kudeyarich personally placed rusht under the brushwood and straightened the logs. "That's it! Out of propeller range!"

"What do propellers have to do with it?" Nikita Ivanich argued irritably. "You haven't invented the propeller yet, you frigging mutants! Ignorance, self-importance, stagnation!"

"Shut up, Oldener," Father-in-law interrupted. "The General Saniturion himself, Life, Health, Strength, is assisting you with his own personal hands! And he could have stayed at home in the warmth! You should say thank you!"

"Stoker Nikita, don't get uppity, just do your job and burn!" came the weak voice of the aging veteran Jackal Demianich, God knows from where.

"Now listen here, Jackal, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, don't get familiar with me," said Nikita Ivanich, stomping his foot. "And don't give me orders! I'm going on my fourth century now! I'd already had it up to here with your nasti-ness before the Blast! Be so good as to have a little respect for the individual!"

"What are they scorching him for?" people in the crowd asked.

"He fornicated with a mermaid."

Father-in-law gave a wave of his hand, aimed the rays from his eyes, and gritted his teeth.

"Papa, Papa, careful now, you'll overdo it," Olenka worried.

Kudeyar Kudeyarich crossed his eyes, guided the rays into one point on the rusht, and tensed his neck. A little bit of white, acrid smoke rose, but there were no flames: the rain-soaked logs wouldn't catch.

"Splash a little guzzelean," the crowd muttered, "it needs a little guzzelean."

"Gas-o-line," shouted an angry Nikita Ivanich from above, "how many times do you have to be told, to be taught: GAS-O-line, or, as it is occasionally referred to, petrol, or benzine, that's B-E-N-zine, you blockheads!"

Benedikt, rubbing his eyes with his fist, flinched, like he'd been called by name. "It doesn't matter, Nikita Ivanich… What's the difference?"

"Yes, it does! It does matter! Is it really all that difficult to assimilate orthoepy?"

Terenty Petrovich rolled out a little barrel of guzzelean.

"We'll show you… Now we'll have a real bang-up fart! Regards from the Sixth Taxi Fleet!"

The crowd pushed forward, shouting, stepping on each other's feet, shoving. Benedikt leaned forward and saw the Minister break off a piece of the swollen lid. He's going to pour the water on the kindling, Benedikt guessed. But why? How could water and fire mix? Benedikt had lived a whole life-and he still didn't understand. And there was something else he didn't understand. There was something important…

"Nikita Ivanich!!"-Benedikt leapt up-"I completely forgot! I could have gone and missed it! I've got a head full of holes! Where do I look for that book?"

"What book?"

"That one. Where they tell you everything!"

"Out of propeller range!" Father-in-law cried out again.

"The one you told me about. Where is it hidden? What's the point now? Admit it! Where it says how to live!"

The rainbow water splashed, drenching the brushwood, and running down. The foul smell filled the air. People rushed off in all directions, spreading the guzzelean with their lapty. A crowd of Golubchiks grabbed Benedikt against his will and carried him away from the pushkin into the streets.

"Nikita Ivaaaaanich! Grandfather! Where is the booook! Tell me quiiiiick!"

"Study your letters! The ABCs! I've told you a hundred times! You can't read it without your letters! Farewell! Take ca-a-aaaa-re!"

Turning his head, Benedikt saw Nikita Ivanich inhale deeply and open his mouth; he saw Terenty Petrovich jump back from the pillar, but too late. Whooooosh! A rolling ball of fire, like some jeopard tree gone berserk in spring, covered the pushkin, and the crowd, and the carriage with Olenka, and breathed its heat straight in Benedikt's face, spreading out like a red wing, like some bird of vengeance or a harpy, over the amazed, fleeing crowd.

Boom! Baboom! The sound hit his back. Turning as he ran, Benedikt saw the fireball rise up and charge down the streets, exploding extra barrels of guzzelean, swallowing up whole izbas in one gulp, throwing itself like a red yoke from house to house, licking the palings and fences, heading in one direction as though following a thread-right to the Red Terem.

Then he fell in a grassy ditch, covered his face with his cap, and didn't look again.

Toward evening Benedikt lifted the cap off his face and looked around with dull, empty eyes. The plain still smoldered with gray pockets of smoke, but the fire had had its fill and settled down. In some places the charred skeleton of an izba stuck out, in others an entire street was untouched amid grass yellowed and curled by the heat. But there, in the distance, where the red towers had always risen with their carved fripperies and decorative frilleries, nothing could be seen and nothing rose at all.

My steppe is burned, the grass is felled No fire, no star, no road, I'm not to blame for kissing, Forgive me, my betrothed…

What was once the pushkin stood above the yellow, burned field like a black boil. Beriawood is a sturdy wood, we know our carpentry. Benedikt made his way to the poet's remains and looked up at what had been his features, now blistered and blurred by the heat. His sideburns and face had baked into a single blob. On the swell of his elbow lay a pile of white ash with flickering coals, but all six fingers had fallen off.

At the base of the pedestal a scorched corpse was doubled up. Benedikt looked and poked it with his foot-Terenty Yep, those were his teeth.

It smelled of burning. Life was over. Behind the idol's back someone spat and moved.

"Give me a hand, I'll get down. It's too high for me," croaked Nikita Ivanich.

As black as the pushkin, just the whites of his eyes red from the fumes, hairless and beardless, creaking and still smoking, Nikita Ivanich leaned on Benedikt's numb hand and climbed down from the crumbling, seared braces. He spat out some coals.

"Life is over, Nikita Ivanich," said Benedikt in a voice that was not his own. The words resounded in his head, as though spoken in an empty stone bucket or a well.

"It's over… so we'll start another one," the old man grumbled in reply. "You could at least tear me off a piece of your shirt, to cover my privates. Can't you see? I'm naked. What are young people coming to nowadays?"

Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents wandered among the ashes, clutching his shaggy hair with both hands, looking for something in the grass that was no longer there.