The neighbor lady who'd made the fuss ran forward. Viktor Ivanich gave his expression a little more warmth: he pinched his mouth up like a chicken's rump and sort of wrinkled his eyes. He squeezed the woman's elbow and said: "Chin up."

The woman burst into tears. Viktor Ivanich again intoned: "Are there any military awards, commendations, orders? Government tributes, testimonials? Diplomas from state institutions? Medals of honor, pins? Epaulettes?…"

Nothing.

"Party cards, Komsomol or trade union ID?… State lottery tickets? Domestic loan bonds? Employment records? Writers or Artists Union cards? No? Drivers' licenses of any sort? Trucks? Passenger vehicles? Tractor trailers? No? Leases? Subscription forms? Gas or telephone bills? Collective antenna registration documents? Receipts for overpayment?"

All these words were so funny, total gibberish. Benedikt couldn't stop himself, he giggled, and turned to look at the crowd: they were probably cracking up too. No, they were all crying, tears streaming from their eyes. They all looked like they were staring at something very far away. One woman was wringing her hands, whispering: "We never appreciated… never appreciated…" Tears were welling in Nikita Ivanich's eyes too. Benedikt whispered to him: "What's wrong, Nikita Ivanich? You feel sorry for the old lady?"

"Quiet, Benya! Quiet. Please. This was our whole life… Lord… There you have it… A whole way of life…"

He trembled, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Viktor Ivanich continued: "Instructions for using household appliances? No? A television? A gas or electric range? A microwave? Kerosene stove? No? Vacuum cleaner? Floor polisher? Washing machine? Sewing machine? Kitchen appliances?"

"Yes, yes! There are instructions!" someone cried out.

"Very good! Please come up front! What kind of instructions?"

"It's for a meat grinder. With attachments."

"Put it right here. Here. On the pillow."

An old Golubchik approached and placed a tattered, soiled, frayed scrap of who-knows-what on the red pillow and put a stone on top of it so the wind wouldn't blow it away. All the women began sobbing; they howled like Spoiled Ones. One of them suddenly felt faint, so they held her up and fanned her face with their hands.

"Courage, comrades!" Viktor Ivanich intoned. "So! To continue. Who has any memorial objects? Relics? No? That's it? I'll move on to the second part. Comrades!" Viktor Ivanich spoke in such a hooting voice, just like some kind of blindlie bird, that Benedikt squatted down. He looked around. Jeez, the guy shouted like he wasn't talking to a dozen Golubchiks, but a whole thousand.

"Death has wrenched an irreplaceable laborer from our ranks," Viktor Ivanich went on. "A marvelous human being. A worthy citizen." Viktor Ivanich dropped his head on his chest and was silent for a time. Benedikt crouched and looked up at his face: Was he crying? No, he wasn't crying. He looked back at Benedikt angrily. He jerked his head up and continued. "It's sad, comrades. Immensely sad. On the eve of this glorious day, the two-hundredth anniversary of the Blast-"

"Viktor Ivanich, Viktor Ivanich!" cried the Oldeners. "You're talking about the wrong thing!"

"What do you mean? Oh, excuse me. I apologize. That's for a different occasion. I got them mixed up."

"You mustn't confuse things!"

"Don't interrupt! I'm being interrupted here," he said, squinting at Benedikt. "People are crowding around!"

"That's Polina Mikhailovna's boy!"

"Don't argue, ladies and gentlemen. Let's continue! On the eve…"

Viktor Ivanich collected himself, frowned, and stood at at-lention.

"On the eve of this mournful occasion, the two-hundredth anniversary of the Blast, which dispersed and then consolidated our ranks, a great, inspiring comrade, an irreplaceable citizen, a modest, inconspicuous toiler, has left us. An individual possessed of a grand soul. She has left us, but her cause is not dead. Though Anna Petrovna's contribution to the restoration of our Lofty Past may not have been large," said Viktor Ivanich, pointing to the pillow, "it is nonetheless weighty, tangible… Rest in peace, Anna Petrovna!… Who wants to speak on behalf of the settlement? You, Nikolai Maximich? Be my guest."

Another old Golubchik appeared, his hair blowing in the wind. His face was tear-stained and he blew his nose. "Anna Petrovna! You toiled in anonymity," he said, addressing the coffin directly. "How did it come to this, Anna Petrovna? Tell me! And what about us? We didn't appreciate you! We weren't interested! We thought-there's Anna Petrovna and there's Anna Petrovna again! Just another old lady. We thought you would always be with us. Why beat around the bush, we didn't give a fig about you! Who needs her, we thought, that little old mean-spirited, communal-apartment crone, she just gets underfoot like a poisonous mushroom, God forgive us!"

"Hey, watch it," the Golubchiks warned. "Go easy."

"De mortuis aut bene aut nihil!" someone cackled into Benedikt's ear.

"What did I do?" said Benedikt, startled. "What do I have to do with it?"

"It's not about you, Benya, nothing to do with you. Calm down," Nikita Ivanich said, tugging on Benedikt. "Stand still, don't fidget."

"Who, I repeat, needed you, Anna Petrovna? You were an invisible mosquito interested only in your kitchen, you never left the stove! Here's what remains of you: how to eat, and that's the sum total! But we are sorry for you, Anna Petrovna! Without you the people is not whole!"

Viktor Ivanich shook the Golubchik's hand and thanked him: "Well spoken, comrade. We thank you. On behalf of the Monument Preservation Society, Nikita Ivanich, please say a few words!"

Nikita Ivanich went up and also blew his nose. "Friends!" he began. "What does this memorial object tell us?" he asked, pointing to the pillow. "This priceless relic of a bygone era! What stories would it tell us if it could speak? Some might say: It's nothing but museum dust, the ashes of the centuries! Instructions for a meat grinder! Ha! However, my friends! However! As a former museum employee who has never relinquished his responsibilities, let me tell you something. In these difficult years-the Stone Age, the sunset of Europe, the death of the gods and everything else that you and I, friends, have lived through-at this time the instructions for a meat grinder are no less valuable than a papyrus from the library of Alexandria! A fragment of Noah's Ark! The tablets of Hammurabi. Moreover, friends, material culture is being restored hour by hour. The wheel has been reinvented, the yoke is returning to use, and the solar clock as well! We will soon learn to fire pottery! Isn't that correct, friends? The time of the meat grinder will come. Though at present it may seem as mysterious as the secrets of the pyramids-we don't even know whether they still stand, by the way-as incomprehensible to the mind as the canals of the planet Mars-the hour will come, friends, when it will start working! And Viktor Ivanich is right-it will rise before us, tangible and weighty, just as the aqueduct once devised by the slaves of Rome arrived in our former era. Unfortunately the aqueduct hasn't come back to our time yet, but even that is not far off! It will come, everything will come! The most important thing is to preserve our spiritual heritage! The object itself may not exist, but there are instructions for its use, we have its spiritual-no, I do not fear that word-will and testament, a missive from the past! And Anna Petrovna, a modest, entirely unremarkable grandmother, preserved this missive unto her deathbed! A keeper of the hearth, the cornerstone, the pillar of the whole world. It's a lesson to us all, friends. As our great poet wrote: 'O monument untouched by human hands! Harder than copper, older than the pyramids!' I salute you, Anna Petrovna, you are a saintly soul!"