"Probably… Papa was a dentist," sniffed Lev Lvovich one last time. "And on my mother's side I'm from the Kuban."
YER'
They say you can never have too much of a woman's body- and they're right. Olenka expanded sideways, forward, and backward. You couldn't have asked for anything more beautiful. Where once she had a dimpled chin there were now eight. She had six rows of tits. She had to sit on five stools, three weren't enough. Not long ago they widened the doorway, but they'd been stingy: it needed to be widened again. Any other husband would have been proud. But Benedikt looked at all this splendor without any excitement. He didn't feel like playing goats, or tickling and pinching her.
"Benedikt, you don't understand anything about female beauty. Terenty Petrovich, now, he appreciates… Go sleep in another room."
To hell with her, then. She might squash him at night, smother him. Benedikt made himself a pallet in the library. From there you could hardly hear her snoring. And that way the signal would come quicker.
He slept fully dressed, and stopped bathing: what a bore. Dirt collected behind his ears, all kinds of garbage. Creatures of some kind settled in: slow, with lots of legs; at night they moved from place to place, uneasy. Maybe they were lugging their nests somewhere, but you couldn't see who they were-they were behind the ears. His feet were sweaty and stuck together. It didn't matter. You lie there like a warm corpse: your ears don't hear, your eyes don't see. True, he did wash his hands; but he had to for his work.
… And where is that clearest of fires, and why does it not burn?
You get up, go to the kitchen, pluck a meat pattie out of a bowl with two fingers, with a third you scoop the jelly out of the bowl.
You eat it. No emotion. You eat it-that's all. Now what? Start dancing a jig?
You open the window bladder-a fine rain drizzles, needling the puddles; the clouds are low, the whole sky is covered, it's dark during the day, as if the sun had never risen. A serf crosses the yard-he covers his head from the rain and goes around the puddles, carrying a sack of hay to the Degenerators. A long time ago, oh, how long ago it was, in a former life!-you would have tried to guess: Will he slip or not? Will he fall? And now you look on sort of dumbly: Yeah, the serf slipped. Yeah, he fell. But there's no joy in it anymore.
… The lamplighter should have lit them, but sleeps. He sleeps, and I'm not to blame, my sweet…
From the bedroom came a clicking and clattering: Olenka and Terenty Petrovich were playing dominoes and laughing. Another time he would have burst into the room like a tornado and beat Terenty's mug black and blue, loosened a few teeth for him, and kicked him out of the family quarters! Olenka would have got what was coming to her as welclass="underline" he'd have grabbed her by the hair, by those bobbins of hers, and smashed her sour-creamed face against the wall. Again! Once more! Another time for good measure! He'd have stomped on her and given her a few in the ribs, in the ribs!
But now it didn't matter; they're playing and let them play.
You lie there. Just lie and lie there. "Ne'er a drop of divinity, nor single sigh of inspiration." No tears, no life, no love. For a month, perhaps a half a year. Suddenly: hark! Something blows in on the breeze. This is a signal.
You perk up right away, on guard. Has it come, or did you just imagine it? Seems like you imagined… No! There it is again! Clear as clear can be! You rise up on your elbow, cock your ear to one side, listening.
There's a faint light in your head-like a candle behind a door cracked open… Careful not to scare it off…
It's gotten a bit stronger now, that light, and you can see the room. In the middle there's nothing, and on that nothing- there's a book. The pages are turning… It seems to be coming closer and closer, you can almost make out what's written…
Then your mouth goes dry, your heart pounds, your eyes go blind: you just saw the book, and the pages were turning, they were turning! But you can't see what's going on around you, and if you do see it, it doesn't mean anything at all. The meaning is over there, in the book; the book is the only real, living thing. Your bed, stool, room, father- and mother-in-law, your wife and her lover-they aren't alive, they're like drawings! Moving shadows, like the cloud shadows running across the earth-and they're gone!
But what kind of book it is, where it is, why its pages are turning-and is someone turning them or is it moving on its own? That is a mystery.
One time he felt the pull-and rushed to check Konstantin Leontich. He was driving by, and suddenly he felt the pulclass="underline" What if he's got one? There wasn't anything there, just a string of worrums. Now that was a false signal.
There are true signals and then sometimes there are false ones: if the signal is for real, then the vision you see in your head gets stronger, thicker, so to speak; the book you see in your vision gets heavier and heavier. At first it's clear and watery, and then it thickens; you see its paper, white, oh, so white, or yellowed and rough, you can see every freckle and spot and scratch on it, like you were looking at skin close up. You look and you laugh from the joy of it, just like you were about to make love.
The letters too: at first they slip and jump around. Then they settle into even rows, nice and black, all whispering. Some are open wide like they were inviting you: Come on in!
Take the letter O for instance. It's a round window, like you're looking down from the attic at a burbling, chirping spring forest: you can see streams and fields far away, and if you're lucky and you squint your eyes, you might see the White Bird- tiny, distant, like a white speck. Or the letter [*], Pokoi. Well it's just a doorframe! And what's beyond that door? Who knows, maybe a completely new life no one ever imagined! One that's never happened before!
X, Kher, or [*], Zhivete, they block the way, they won't let you in, they crisscross and close off the passage: Stay out! Forget it!
[*], Tsi, and [*], Shcha, have tails, like Benedikt before his wedding.
[*], Cherv, is like an upside-down chair.
[*], Glagol, is shaped like a hook.
Now if the signal is really true, then it all comes together: the paper, the letters, the picture you can see through them, the whispering, and the hum, the wind from the turning pages-a dusty, warm wind-it all thickens in front of your eyes, floods you, washes over you in a kind of airy wave. Then you know. Yes! That's it! I'm coming!
And in a flash it falls away and leaves you, all the heaviness stays on the bed, all the dull daze, the thick, bodily, meaty heaving from side to side. Suddenly there's no confusion, no laziness, no sticky, slurping swampy bog in you. You rise in a single surge, taut like a thread pulled tight, light and resonant; there's a goal in your head, you know what to do, you're collected and cheerful!
All that sticky weight falls away-there's only the surge! The soul!
The robe wrapped itself around his shoulders like a magic skin. The hood, his reliable protector, leapt onto his head: I may not be seen, but I see through everyone! His strong weapon seemed to grow into his hand-his trusty hook, bent like the letter [*], Glagol! "With words to burn the hearts of men!" With a birdlike, lilting cry, with one sweep of the hand, I call my comrades. Always prepared!
Wondrous comrades, a flying division! You call from the yard or from the gallery-and there they are, as if they neither sleep nor eat, each dozen in harmony like a single being! Ready. Onward! Stern, shining warriors, we rise and fly, neither snow nor rain nor sleet shall stop us-we know no obstacle, and the people part like the sea before us.
We tear them away and take them; we save them. If the signal was really true, we take them and save them, because then there really was a Book there. It called, beckoned, cried out, came in a vision.
But if the signal is false-well, then there isn't anything. That's the way it was at Konstantin Leontich's. Nothing but garbage.