"So what is it now? What is it?"
He took off his boot, freed his hand, untied the gag, and spit with a hiss.
"… I said, I know this place."
"So what? So do I."
"You know how to get your rocks off, but I know that there used to be a gas station here."
"Who cares what was where."
"And a gas station means fuel. Underground. Throw a match in, and boom-we all go up in a puff of smoke."
Benedikt thought a moment. "What for?"
"Not what for but where to. To hell and gone."
Benedikt opened his mouth to remind him: shut your trap, your place is in the bridle. But he knew what the answer would be and decided not to go asking for the rude cracks; his foot already had a callus from kicking, and you could kick the pig as much as you liked-he didn't care. So Benedikt didn't say anything, he just opened his mouth and shut it again.
"Gasoline, I tell you. Up to your ass in gas. Gasoline, gasoline, capish? It's like water, but it burns." Tetery laughed. "Tiger, tiger, burning bright, don't forget to leave the light… Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a tiger by the toe… Gimme a cigar while you're in there doing your business."
"What'll it be next?"
"Then screw you. Fascist!"
Worse than dogs, those Degenerators. You swear at a dog and it can't talk back. Woof, woof, that's all; you can put up with it. But Degenerators never shut up, they keep bugging you… As soon as you sit down in the sleigh it starts: he doesn't like the route, and that's the wrong lane, and that road is blocked, and the government doesn't run things right, and he don't like the way the Murzas look, and you better believe what he'd do to them you just wait give him his way and you'll see, and who's to blame, and how in the Oldener days he drank with his cousins, and what they drank, and how they pigged out, and what he bought, and where he went on vacation, and how he caught fish at his mother's in the country, and what a good place she had: her own milk, her own eggs, what else do you need; and all the cats he ran over, the nasty pests should all be drowned so they know their place. And what women he fooled around with, and how there was one lady General couldn't live without him and he told her: Tough luck, sweetheart, love has flown the coop, don't get your hopes up, don't wait, and she said: No, my heart will break, I'll give you whatever you want. And what cost how much when, and to hear him tell it was all cheap, just take what you want and be gone. He shouts at passersby, and screams obscenities at women and girls, and after all that it turns out that he can't even go straight where he's going, he always has to take a roundabout way.
Now he's saying: guzzelean. It's water but it burns. Just where has anyone ever seen water burning? That's never happened and it never will. Water and fire don't mix, they can't. Except, of course, when people stand watching a fire and the flames lap in their eyes like in water, reflected; and the people stand there like pillars, frozen, like they were under a spell-well then, yes; but that's just a mirage, just illusion and nothing else. Nothing in nature says for water to burn. Unless the Last Days are coming?… But that can't be. I don't even want to think about it… On the other hand, it's a leap year, so that means bad omens, and the blizzard is sort of sticky, and there's a buzz in the air.
He yanked the swollen door. It smacked like a kiss. Behind it was a second door: she had a mud room between the two. He stood for a while, leaning against the second door, listening. He didn't bother to put on the robe, although he was supposed to: he allowed a little Freethinking. It's government service, of course, but every job lets you bend the rules a little for your friends or relatives.
He hesitated. Should he leave the hook in the mud room or take it with him right off? If he takes the hook with him, the sick Golubchik guesses and starts shouting right away; and where there's shouting, there's a commotion. Some of them bang their heads on the table or the stool or the stove; the place is crowded, you can't move around much, so your hand doesn't have the same flair, the same freedom. It's all well and fine to go polishing your art outdoors, training, that is. How do they teach the Sani-turions? They make big dolls, huge idols, from rags and cloth; and you work on technique on the greengrass: thrusting from the shoulder, catching with a turn, pulling, or whatever. Outdoors it's easy, but in the izba, in real life, so to speak, it doesn't work that way. Nope, it doesn't.
First of all, there's the dolclass="underline" it doesn't run around the izba, does it? It doesn't let out bloodcurdling screams, does it? It doesn't grab the table or chair for dear life, does it? One whack and it just lies there quiet, not feeling anything, just like the instructions say. But a Golubchik-he's alive, he makes a racket.
That's one problem. And the other, of course, is that it's always crowded. That's really an oversight. Yep. Needs more work.
So you can't always follow all the government rules; that's where the bending comes in. Some might argue with that, but "theory is dry, my friend, and the tree of life grows green and full."
Benedikt thought about it and left the hook in the mud room. He opened the second door, and stuck his head in: "Peek-a-boo! Who came to see you?"
Not a sound.
"Varvara!"
"Who's there?" came a quiet whisper.
"The Big Bad Wolf," Benedikt joked.
There was no reaction, just some rustling. Benedikt moved into the room and looked around: what was she doing? She lay on the bed, wrapped in tatters and rags, but you could hardly tell it was Varvara Lukinishna: one eye was visible through the rags, and the rest was all cock's combs-and more combs, combs, combs, combs. It seemed that since Benedikt had last seen her, she'd sprouted cock's combs all over.
"Oh, is it really you? Come for a visit?" she said. "And here I am, a little sick… I'm not working these days…"
"What?" said Benedikt, worried. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know, Golubchik. Some kind of weakness… I can hardly see, everything's dark… I can barely walk… Please sit down! I'm so happy you're here! Only I'm afraid I've nothing to offer you."
Benedikt didn't have anything with him either. You're not supposed to go visiting without a gift, it's true, but he couldn't come up with anything to give. A book was out of the question, better to die than give away a book. Like an idiot he went and gave the Head Stoker the one with "Slitherum Slatherum," and then he was sorry, so sorry! He kept imagining what a good book it was, how beautifully it stood on the shelf-clean and warm, and how, poor thing, it was probably lying around at the Stoker's somewhere now in a messy, gloomy, smoky izba. Maybe it fell on the floor and the old man didn't notice with his bad eyesight; maybe there was nothing to cover the soup with, and he… Or maybe Lev Lvovich, the lecher, asked to borrow it and took it home, hid himself away from everyone, put out the candle, and xeroxed it: I want to multiply, he said! There are insatiable rakes like that, women aren't enough for them! They fool around with goats and dogs, Lord forgive me, and even with felt boots! He felt so bad he banged his head against the wall, wrung his hands, and bit his fingernails; no, he'd never give another book to anyone.
Flowers-now Golubchiks do give flowers sometimes when they go visiting women. They pick a bunch of real bright ones in the garden or, so they smell good, put a lot of them together- and you've got a bouquet. They give the woman the bouquet: you're so beautiful, so to speak, you're a regular bouquet yourself. And you don't smell too bad either. Hold it tight and we'll mess around. But what flowers could you find in winter?
Most people bring rusht when they go visiting, or even better, mead brewed from rusht. Because you're going to want to drink some too, and that way you don't have to think about it.