What would he carry out if, God forbid, there was a fire? Rusht? What for? You can always get some more. His new bowl? He could make another one. He'd miss the chair a bit, the chair was very old.

"I'd take the chair," said Benedikt.

"Really?" said Nikita Ivanich, surprised. "Why?"

"It was Mother's."

"Yes, of course. Sentimental value. But what about books? Aren't books important to you?"

"I love reading, Nikita Ivanich, but so what? If I have to, I can always make some new booklets. Or trade mice for them. And if there's a fire, God forbid, Nikita Ivanich, they'll be the first thing to burn. Puff! They're gone. Bark just doesn't hold up."

"But the words inscribed in them are harder than copper and more enduring than the pyramids. Isn't that right? Do you deny it?" Nikita Ivanich chuckled and patted Benedikt on the back like he was coughing. "You too, young man, are a participant! A participant!-you've no business being such a scatterbrain, such an ignoramus, a spiritual Neanderthal, a depressed Cro-Magnon! I detect a spark of humanity even in you! I do. I harbor some hope for you! Your little brain is smoldering," said Nikita Ivanich, continuing to insult him. "Your soul is not devoid of impulses… 'You're destined to know a noble impulse / but won't accomplish anything at all,'" sang Nikita Ivanich in a ghastly voice, like a goat bleating. "But you and I will create something fine, something edifying. You do have a certain creative streak, I think…"

"Nikita Ivanich," Benedikt sniveled, offended. "Why all these words!… You might as well just kick me, I swear, why are you calling me names?"

"Right, then. So, as I said," the old man went on, "I don't have his portrait, but I'll assist you. He wasn't very tall."

"But you said he was a giant," muttered Benedikt, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

"A giant of the spirit. 'His proud head rose higher than…'"

"'… the Alexander column.' I know, I copied it. But we don't know how many yards tall that column was, Nikita Ivanich."

"It doesn't matter, not one little bit! Now, we'll extract him from this log-sorry, but we haven't got any others. The most important thing to me is the bowed head and the arm. Like this." The Stoker showed him. "Look at me. Carve a curly head, a straight nose, and a thoughtful face."

"Was his beard long?"

"No beard."

"None at all?"

"Just on the side, like that. Sideburns."

"Like Pakhom has?"

"Good heavens, no. Fifty times smaller. So: the head, the neck, the shoulders, arms, hands, the arms are the most important. Understood? Bend the elbow."

Benedikt tapped the log with his boot. It rang; the wood was good, light. Dense and dry. Good material.

"Beriawood?"

"What? Who?!?!"

The old man cursed, spat, and sparks flew from his eyes; he didn't explain what enraged him. He turned red and puffed up like a beetroot:

"It's Pushkin! Pushkin! The future Pushkin!"

So who's the real Cro-Magnon? Who's got a newrottick now? You can't do anything with them, these Oldeners. They start shouting at the wrong time, swear in strange words, and push you around for who knows what reason. They're always unhappy: they don't understand a good joke, they don't like our dances or games, they never have a good time like people are supposed to, they're no fun, and all you hear from them is "Oh, horrors!" when there's nothing horrible happening at all.

What's really horrible? Horrible is when the Red Sleigh rides, knock, knock, knock on wood, no, no, no. Not me, don't take me. Or when you think about the Slynx, now that's horror, because then you're alone. Completely alone, there's no one. And it's heading toward you… No!!!-I don't even want to think about it… But what's so horrible about dancing and singing together, or playing leapfrog?

It's a fun game. You invite guests, then you clean up the izba. You scrape the crumbs off the table with your elbow: Hey, mice, come on over here! You push the trash that's piled up in the house under the bed with your boot, and cover it so it doesn't stick out. You smooth the bedclothes, straighten the sheet or blanket or whatever. If the sheet is really dirty, then you wash it. If not-well, it'll do. If there's an embroidered dust ruffle lying around, or a bed curtain, you shake them and lay them out pretty on the stove like they were always there. You light candles all over the place, and don't be stingy, so everything's bright and festive. You rustle up a mountain of hot snacks, and put eve-rvthing out on the table in rows. You set out a jug of mead on the table and put some more at the ready out in the cold pantry. The guests will bring something too, no one goes visiting empty- handed, unless he's a miserable midget or some kind of freakin' nincompoop. You have to bring a gift to the house. So everyone is all clean, combed, and dressed in fresh clothes, whoever has them. Jokes, laughter. First you sit at the table. The table's a sight to behold! Baked mice, poached mice, mice in sauce. Marinated mouse tails, mouse-eye caviar. Pickled mouse tripe also goes well with kvas. Goosefoot rolls. Marshrooms, if they're in season. If a Golubchik is richer, then there's bliny. Really rich tables have sweet rolls. Everyone sits down, says thanks, the mead is poured, the first round is gulped down right away. Now to the second. It goes to your head, starts getting to you. That's right! If it's good rusht, choice rusht, you'll never notice that there's not a lot of food. You've eaten, already put away the third and the fourth-you've forgotten when that was, we're already on the tenth. We smoke, laugh. Gossip some gossip, who was with whom, tell a few shaggy dog stories. If there are women we flirt with them: pinch them, or grab them, have a little feel. We stomp our feet and sing in unison:

Pease porridge hot! Pease porridge cold! Pease porridge in the pot! Nine days old! Some like it hot! Some like it cold! Some like it in the pot! Nine days old!

And then we start to play. Leapfrog is a good game, lots of fun. It goes like this. We put out the candles so it's dark. You sit or stand wherever you want, and one guy gets up on the stove. He sits there, sits, and then-bam, he jumps down with an ear-splitting yell! If he lands on one of the guests, he'll always knock him over, give him a bruising or pull an arm out of joint or something. If he misses-then he'll hurt himself: his head, or his knee, or elbow, or maybe he'll break a rib: the stove is high. You can hit the stool in the dark-ouch! Or hit your head on the table. If he doesn't crash, he gets back up on the stove. If he's out of the game, the others are impatient: my turn, my turn, I get to jump this time! The squeals, shouts, laughing-you could piss in your pants it's so much fun. Then you light the candles and take a look at the damage. There's even more laughter then: just a few minutes ago Zinovy had an eye-now he doesn't! Gurian over there broke his arm, it's hanging down like a loose strap, what kind of work can he do now?

Of course, if someone hurts me or my body, it's not funny. I get mad, no kidding. But that's if it's me. If it's someone else, it's funny. Why? Because me-that's me; and him-that's not me, it's him. But the Oldeners say: Oh, horrors! How could you! And they don't understand that if everything went their way, no one would ever laugh or have any fun, we'd all just sit at home all gloom and doom and there wouldn't be any adventures, or dancing, or squealing women.

We also play smothers, and that's fun too: you stuff a pillow in someone's face and smother him, and he flails and splutters and when he gets away, he's all red and sweaty, and his hair's sticking out like a harpy's. People rarely die, our guys are strong, they fight, there's a lot of strength in their muscles. Why? Because they work a lot, they plant turnips in the fields, crack stones, gather sheaves, chop trees into logs. There's no need to go insulting us, to say that there's still some brains smoldering in us: our brains are smart enough. We aren't quick, but we figure things out. We've figured out that the beriawood tree is a good tree for pinocchios and buckets, and it makes fine barrels. The elfir is also a wonderful tree, just right for bathhouse switches, and its nuts are tasty, and a lot of other things, but you can't carve a symbol from it because it's got too much resin, it bleeds all sticky. Birch, now, it's nice to look at, but the trunk is thin and crooked, it's hard to carve. The jeopard tree is even thinner, all knots and bumps, in a word: the jeopard tree. The willow won't do, the beantree is stringy, and the grab tree is wet year-round. There are a lot of other kinds when you count them, and we know them all. So now we'll strip the bark, mark the holes with a stone chisel… and whip up an idol before the wedding.