"Olenka!" said Benedikt in amazement. "Is that really you? How beautiful you've become! When did this happen? My forest rose! My Siren!"
"Control yourself," said Olenka, heaving and jiggling. But her eyes didn't leave him for a moment.
Benedikt didn't try to control himself, and Olenka was just saying that out of habit, just for appearances, as they say. For three days running, or maybe it was four, or five, or perhaps six… why beat around the bush-for an entire week Benedikt and Olenka frolicked and capered every which way as if in some sort of daze-and, well, you couldn't keep track of what they did. Seeing what was going on, Mother-in-law rolled a barrel of egg kvas out of the granary, strong stuff, take a gulp-you gasp- and tears spring to your eyes; it's good kvas. They romped and rollicked royally-got up to all sorts of antics, and played leapfrog. They ran around on all fours, Olenka in her birthday suit. Benedikt had a sudden hankering to wear Olenka's headdress and rattle her beads, and where his tail used to be he tied her bobbins on so there'd be more of a clatter-you tie on a string, thread the bobbins on it and it makes a regular racket-my oh my, like a thunderstorm at the beginning of May. Then he'd start bleating like a goat.
But after a while-how to put it? There was a pause. A kind of grimness set in.
SHCHA
"In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer. His name was Kandarpaketu…" Already read it.
What to do now? What to live for? Once again, he had a feeling of alarm, as if he'd lost himself, but where and when-he hadn't noticed. It was frightening… Just recently he'd thought: I'm a rich man. But then he caught himself-all his wealth was now behind him, it had leaked out like water. Ahead lay a great drought, a desert. In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer…
He looked around. Silence. No mice scurrying. Quiet. Then sounds began to come through: the regular click-clack of a knife. Someone was chopping meat for dumplings; over there he heard a smooth, womblike sound-someone was rolling dough. Outside the window nature fussed and complained. It droned and squeaked; it would suddenly send the wind wailing, blizzarding, hurling snow at the windows; then it began to drone again; it droned and droned, on and on in the tops of trees, rocking the nests, tossing the tree crests. Dense, heavy snows surrounded the terem, swept over the three fences, through the sty and the warehouses, everything was engulfed in a swift, nocturnal burst of snow. There's no heart in it, in the snow, and if there is, it's mean, blind. The snow billows like great sleeves, sweeps up to the roof, throws itself across the fences, courses through the settlement, along the lanes, through the plaited fences, the thin roofs, to the outskirts, across the fields, to the impenetrable woods. Trees fall there, dead and white, like human bones; the northern juniper bush spreads its needles to prick pedestrians and sleigh riders. The paths wind like nooses and grab you by the legs, swaddling you in snow; branches knock your hat off; prickly vines have hung themselves up to rip at your collar. The snow will pound your back, ensnare you, knock you down, string you up on a branch; you'll jerk and struggle. But the Slynx has already sensed you, the Slynx knows you're there…
Benedikt flinched, shook his head to get rid of the thoughts, squeezed his eyes shut, plugged his ears with his fingers and bit his tongue to chase the Slynx from his thoughts, chase it, get rid of it! Its body is long and supple, its head flat and its ears flattened back… Shoo! The Slynx is pale, muscular, colorless- like the twilight or like a fish, or like the skin on Kitty's stomach, between the legs… No, no!… No!!!
Its claws itch, it's itching to… But you can't see it, you can't see it… He began to beat his head against the wall so stars would glitter in his eyes, so that some sort of light would break the darkness. Eyes are tricky, though: you squeeze them shut tight, yet something creeps into the reddish gloom under your eyelids, flashes across it: from left to right little hairs flit by or there's a shimmering you can't get rid of, or some uninvited object will run out and seem to laugh at you and then, poof!-it melts. He squeezed his eyes and opened them again: red and yellow rings whirled, his head spun, and there it was, he could see it with eyes wide open. It champed and grimaced.
He began stomping his feet: boom, boom, boom! He waved his arms about, and then grabbed his hair and pulled! Again! Heyyyy!! he cried. Heeeeyyyyy! In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer, and his name was Kandarpaketu!!! There lived a wealthy water-bearer, lived a wealthy water-bearer! Lived-lived, lived-lived, lived a wealthy water-bearer! With a hi and ho and a derry down-o! Through the town of Ramsey… And a twee dum fiddle dee dee! A wealthy water-bearer, don't you know, a rich and wealthy water-bearer!
He felt like slugging someone to dispel the fear and rage; maybe he should go and wallop Olga-here's for your bobbins! Or run and kick Mother-in-law in the ass; let her wibble-wobble for a couple of hours…
He ran down the stairs recklessly, knocked over a flowerpot, ran into his father-in-law, and shouted:
"There's no more books! Let's go, dammit!"
"Let's go!!!" replied Father-in-law like an echo. His eyes blazed, he stomped and thrust a double-edged hook-who knows from where-into Benedikt's hand. He threw open the door of the closet and tossed a robe to Benedikt; it blinded Benedikt for a moment, but the slits settled right over his eyes. He could see everything through this crevice, all human affairs, trivial, cowardly, fussy: all people want is a bit of soup and to bed, but the wind howls, the snowstorm shrieks, and the Slynx is in flight; it soars, triumphant, over the city. "Art is in danger!" shouted Father-in-law as the sleigh swerved and screeched at the bend in the road. Our robes gleam with red light in the blizzard wail-watch out!-the storm's red cavalry flies across the city, and two pillars of light, a bright force, shine from Father-in-law's eyes, illuminating the path: our hope, protection, force-the Slynx withdraws, we won't surrender, we are legion!-forward, Saniturions, else art will perish! The white pancakes of frightened faces appear in the open door of an izba-"Ha, ha, so scared you're pissing in your pants, are you? The book! Give us the book!" The Golubchik squeals, shields it with his elbow, braces his foot, the shadows romp. "Hold him!!! He's stuffing it in the stove!!! Aha, you want to burn art, do you? Get him with the hook, the hook. Turn it!" comes Father-in-law's savage cry, or someone else's, you can't tell under the robes. "Turn the hook, for crying out loud." He turned it, yanked, something burst and streamed out, there were shouts and cries, he grabbed the book, pressed it to his heart, trembling-I'm alive! He pushed something away with his foot and leapt out into the blizzard.
… Benedikt lay in bed and sobbed. The tears flowed and flowed. Mother-in-law changed the pillows, Father-in-law ordered the women to walk on tiptoe, speak in whispers, and not worry the patient with troubling questions. He himself sat on the edge of Benedikt's bed, gave him warm drinks, hung right over him, shaking his head, sympathizing, consoling him.
"Now, how did that happen, tell me? How come you were so clumsy?… I told you to turn the hook carefully, gently… From the shoulder, the shoulder… And you go and: whack! That's what did it."
Benedikt choked on his tears. He wailed softly, delicately, his weakened fingers trembled; he could feel the cold and the slippery turn of the hook although he no longer held any hook, only a mug with compote.