The Slynx by Tatyana Tolstaya Page A
Authors: Tatyana Tolstaya
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fantasy, Classics, Literary Criticism, Russian & Former Soviet Union
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turning, and the sun shines, plays tricks on you, blinds you, gets in the way of seeing, and in the distance something sparkles. Is it the Ocean-Sea they sing about in songs? Or islands in magic waters, islands with white cities, gardens, and towers? Or a strange, lost kingdom? Or another life ... ?
There you go, your head fills with all sorts of ideas--and you fall asleep.
Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, doesn't write about anything like that in his shoppinghower, and, to tell the truth, it's a yawn, Lord knows. But people bought all the copies anyway, that is, they traded for it, and so now somewhere someone must be reading the thing, spitting as he goes. People love to read; on weekends at the market they always go to trade mice for booklets. The Lesser Murzas come out, set up the governmental stalls along the fence, set out birch-bark booklets, a tag stuck in each of
them that says how much they'll take for it. The prices are different: five mice, ten, twenty, or if it's really interesting or has pictures, it can go as high as fifty. The Golubchiks crowd around, checking prices, discussing whether to buy or not to buy, what the book is about, what's the story, are there a lot of pictures? But you can't look inside: pay up first, then look as much as you like. The Lesser Murzas stomp their boots in the cold, slap their sleeves, hawk their goods.
"A new one, who wants a new one? The Eternal Call! A hu-mongous novel!"
"Who'll take The Fundamentals of Differential Calculus, a popular brochure, incredibly interesting!"
Another one will put his hands to his mouth like a cup so the sound's louder and cry out: " The Three Billy Goats Gruff! Last Copy! A thrilling Epic! This is the last copy, come and get it!"
He does that on purpose, but he's really lying, he has another dozen under his counter. That's just how he gets the Golubchiks interested, so a crowd gathers: if it's the last one they don't want to miss it. If someone has a passion for trading books, he'll pay. "What? They're all sold?" And the Murza, pretending to hesitate: "Well, there is one ... I put it aside for myself... I don't know..."
The Golubchik says: "Maybe you'll let me have it? I'll throw in a couple of extra mice . .. What do you say?"
And the Murza says: "I don't know... I wanted to read it myself... But I guess if you throw in another five ..."
"Five? Come on, now! My mice are fat, each is worth a mouse and a half!"
"Well, let me take a look." They bargain, and it's all gravy for the Murza. That's why their faces are fatter and their izbas are taller.
But Benedikt's face is ordinary, not too big, and his izba is tiny.
I DESIATERICHNOE
Benedikt spent the whole night catching mice.
Easy to say: catching mice. Not so simple. Like everything, you have to know how. You think: Here I am and here's the mouse, I'll just grab him. Noooo.
He caught them with a noose, of course. But if the space under the floor was empty, the mouse would run over to someone richer, and then you could wiggle the noose till you were blue in the face and you wouldn't catch anything. You have to feed a mouse. That means you have to think things out ahead of time.
He got paid on the twentieth. Fifty chits. All right. The tax on them was 13 percent. That means six and a half chits of tax. Early in the morning the Golubchiks stood in line at the Payday Izba. It wasn't dawn yet. It's dark in winter--like someone poked your eyes out.
That really happens sometimes. A Golubchik might be feeling his way along in the dark to get his pay--and suddenly he falls in a ditch, or a branch pokes him in the eye, or he'll slip and break a leg, get lost, wander into a strange settlement where vicious dogs will tear him to shreds, or he'll trip and freeze to death in a snowdrift. Anything can happen.
But let's say he makes it where he's going, thank God. Good. He lines up. The first guy to get there is in the hall, or mud room. Whoever's at the end stands on the street, stomping his feet in the
There you go, your head fills with all sorts of ideas--and you fall asleep.
Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, doesn't write about anything like that in his shoppinghower, and, to tell the truth, it's a yawn, Lord knows. But people bought all the copies anyway, that is, they traded for it, and so now somewhere someone must be reading the thing, spitting as he goes. People love to read; on weekends at the market they always go to trade mice for booklets. The Lesser Murzas come out, set up the governmental stalls along the fence, set out birch-bark booklets, a tag stuck in each of
them that says how much they'll take for it. The prices are different: five mice, ten, twenty, or if it's really interesting or has pictures, it can go as high as fifty. The Golubchiks crowd around, checking prices, discussing whether to buy or not to buy, what the book is about, what's the story, are there a lot of pictures? But you can't look inside: pay up first, then look as much as you like. The Lesser Murzas stomp their boots in the cold, slap their sleeves, hawk their goods.
"A new one, who wants a new one? The Eternal Call! A hu-mongous novel!"
"Who'll take The Fundamentals of Differential Calculus, a popular brochure, incredibly interesting!"
Another one will put his hands to his mouth like a cup so the sound's louder and cry out: " The Three Billy Goats Gruff! Last Copy! A thrilling Epic! This is the last copy, come and get it!"
He does that on purpose, but he's really lying, he has another dozen under his counter. That's just how he gets the Golubchiks interested, so a crowd gathers: if it's the last one they don't want to miss it. If someone has a passion for trading books, he'll pay. "What? They're all sold?" And the Murza, pretending to hesitate: "Well, there is one ... I put it aside for myself... I don't know..."
The Golubchik says: "Maybe you'll let me have it? I'll throw in a couple of extra mice . .. What do you say?"
And the Murza says: "I don't know... I wanted to read it myself... But I guess if you throw in another five ..."
"Five? Come on, now! My mice are fat, each is worth a mouse and a half!"
"Well, let me take a look." They bargain, and it's all gravy for the Murza. That's why their faces are fatter and their izbas are taller.
But Benedikt's face is ordinary, not too big, and his izba is tiny.
I DESIATERICHNOE
Benedikt spent the whole night catching mice.
Easy to say: catching mice. Not so simple. Like everything, you have to know how. You think: Here I am and here's the mouse, I'll just grab him. Noooo.
He caught them with a noose, of course. But if the space under the floor was empty, the mouse would run over to someone richer, and then you could wiggle the noose till you were blue in the face and you wouldn't catch anything. You have to feed a mouse. That means you have to think things out ahead of time.
He got paid on the twentieth. Fifty chits. All right. The tax on them was 13 percent. That means six and a half chits of tax. Early in the morning the Golubchiks stood in line at the Payday Izba. It wasn't dawn yet. It's dark in winter--like someone poked your eyes out.
That really happens sometimes. A Golubchik might be feeling his way along in the dark to get his pay--and suddenly he falls in a ditch, or a branch pokes him in the eye, or he'll slip and break a leg, get lost, wander into a strange settlement where vicious dogs will tear him to shreds, or he'll trip and freeze to death in a snowdrift. Anything can happen.
But let's say he makes it where he's going, thank God. Good. He lines up. The first guy to get there is in the hall, or mud room. Whoever's at the end stands on the street, stomping his feet in the
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