When you get to work congratulate every Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls with International Women's Day.

Say: "Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls I wish you happiness in life, success in work, and a peaceful sky over your head."

And every woman you meet, even your Neighborlady, say the same polite words.

Later on, drink and make merry, eat what you want, have a good time, but within reason.

Kablukov

Just as Benedikt thought, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, was a real ladies' man. The women at work were happy: no one could say a harsh word to them, or kick them, or pull their ears, or whack them upside the head, everyone congratulated them. Varvara Lukinishna wore beads around her neck. Olenka was all in ribbons. Even Ksenia the Orphan braided some kind of rose from rough threads and fastened it at her temple. They were all so beautified-you could just drop your britches and start the joking right now.

They thought up something else too: they picked willow branches and stuck them in a pot with water. It was warm in the izba and the leaves opened up. Maybe this was Freethinking, but it was their day, and that was it. They wanted to put a pot of branches on Jackal Demianich's table too, but he threw it on the floor: the Decree didn't say anything about willows.

Jackal Demianich knows all the decrees by heart and loves them. Even old ones, from ages ago: for instance, that Sunday is a day off. Everyone knows anyway that Sunday is Sunday and no Golubchik is going to work for love or money no matter what you do to him. You'd think: Why do you need a decree, why waste the bark? Noooo, that's not the governmental approach.

The governmental approach is to decree very strictly, so that God forbid the day off didn't fall on Saturday, nor, God forbid on Friday or Thursday, or Wednesday, or Tuesday, or Monday. They decree it and that's the way it will be, because that's what the state is for, that's its power and glory and authority on earth, for all time, amen.

No one likes Jackal Demianich much. Who could like a Murza? Maybe his woman and, well, maybe his little kids, but no one else. That's not what a Murza is there for, to like or not. He's there to keep things in order. To keep an eye on the lists of workers. To hand out ink. Yell. Dock you for absences, for drunkenness, or to give you a whipping-that's what he's for. You can't get by without a Murza, without him we'd get everything mixed up.

For example. If we're talking simple. The May Holiday-it happens in May, and so you'd think the October Holiday is in October. Right? Well, you're wrong! The October Holiday is in November! If we didn't have Murzas, you see, all the Golubchiks, all of Fyodor-Kuzmichsk, would be drunk and rolling around the whole month of October!

A lot of people can't understand: How come it's called the October Holiday if it's in November? They just don't understand the governmental approach! It's in November because in October the weather is usually good, there's no snow either. The air is strong, it smells of fallen leaves, the sun shines late, the sky is so blue. The Golubchiks, whichever ones can walk on two feet, go outside on their own without any Decrees. Some go off to gather rusht, some bring in brushwood from the forest, some dig up the last turnips. It's just beautiful. Nature is clear.

But in November the rains start falling and just keep on and on and on-eeeeee! Everything is murky between heaven and earth, and your soul is clouded over too! The roof leaks if it's thin; cold and damp blow in through the cracks. You cover the window with rags, you slump closer to the stove, or doze on the stove bed, and something inside cries, and just keeps on crying!

The beauty of summer has passed, you can't bring it back- it's like life itself is gone, and joy has blown away with the dust rising from the road! You take the rag off the window to look- and there's nothing, nothing at all, only rain running down and beating on the puddles. Torn bits of clouds. Even the dumbest Golubchiks won't stick their nose out the door of their own free will in that kind of weather. On that kind of day, when everyone's here, at home, no one's going anywhere, there's no one left in the forest, or in the fields-on a day like that they have the October Holiday. All the Golubchiks, healthy and crippled, are ordered to leave the house and go to the main square where the watchtower is, and march by it, six in a row, singing. The Murzas watch the Golubchiks from the watchtower and take a head count. Because we have to know how many people we have, and how many chits to cut out for payday and how much to give out on Warehouse Day, and how many people can be called for roadwork, if they aren't crippled. Stuff like that. As the saying goes: Count your chicks in autumn. And when you've counted them all, then of course you can go back home, drink and make merry, have a good time, do what you want, but within reason. That's the governmental approach for you.

But the bosses have to figure out exactly when the October Holiday should be-that's what bosses are for. They sit in the terems looking at the sky, observing the weather and discussing it. Yesterday, they say, was a bit early, but tomorrow-who knows, it might be late, whereas today, they say, is the very day. Get everybody out there for the count.

Jackal knows all this business, that's his job.

He told Benedikt about the Decree: "Congratulations."

Benedikt memorized the congratulations: he read them, and then reread them; he repeated them gazing at the ceiling; then he checked against the bark, then he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered them again, so he'd know them for sure. He congratulated Varvara Lukinishna politely: "I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, and a peaceful sky over your head."

Vasiuk the Earful spread his elbows and listened alertly from his corner to make sure Benedikt was saying everything right, like it was in the Decree.

Varvara Lukinishna blushed red all over: she liked hearing those words. "Oh, thank you, my dear. Come by and visit me this evening: I've made soup."

"Today? I don't know…"

"There are still some nuts… I'll bake a mouse."

"Well, I'm not sure…"

"The mouse is fresh as can be."

Benedikt hesitated.

"Do come… I'll show you something… in secret."

What an insistent woman. She's looks enough of a fright in a dress, but if she took off her clothes and showed her secret, it'd probably be really scary: grab your hat and run for the door. But it's tempting, of course. Who knows…

"Please, do come by… We'll talk about art… I know that you are capable of delicate feelings… I think your potential is enormous."

She batted her lone eye. My oh my, what a… Benedikt even started sweating. What suggestive conversations… and right at work…

"Well, it's not too small… No complaints in that department

… And I do feel everything… How do you know? What kind of pudential did you say I have?"

"Now then, you can't hide that sort of thing…"

"Someone blabbed?"

"Well, we often talk about your… in our circle, you know… we have our opinions… Everyone agrees: you are developing in a marvelous direction…"

"Oh!"

"That's right. We expect a lot from you."

"Hmm… What kind of circle is this of yours?"

"Our own close group of… like minds. You and a number of acquaintances."

That's just what he thought. Women!… They sit down in a circle and gab about the woman's business. Who, with whom, and when. And they talked about Benedikt! They praised him!

"… We tell each other our little secrets," Varvara Lukinishna whispered. "We share."

?!?! Whoa! So that's what they're up to! Sure… What can you do, they're lonely…