Again, toward evening, when the sunset grew yellow and went out, when the fog gathered in the lowlands and the first star came out in the sky, the woodsucker began yowling in the grove. Benedikt began imagining Olenka again. Here he was, sitting on the porch, smoking, watching the sky go out; the air was about to turn blue and cold. Silence. Near the ground everything was blue as blue could be, and up above, the sky shone even and yellow, smoldering its last; every now and then a swipe of pink would tint the yellow, or a gray cloud would stretch like a spindle, hang there a bit until its top would stain raspberry, flare, and be gone. Like someone was rubbing the sunset, smearing it with his fingers.

Once again, Olenka would emerge from the twilight, as though she were painted on the air. She glistened like a fueling, but you could see through her, faintly, dimly. Her hair was combed smooth, her part shone. Olenka's face was white as the moon, and it didn't budge; her neck was veiled in a dozen rows of beads, up to the very dimple in her chin. On her forehead and her ears there were beads and more beads, and little tassels. Her eyes took up half her face, from under the eyebrows to the temples on the sides, dark eyes, but they sparkled like water in a barrel at midnight. And she looks straight through you with those eyes, looks like she wants to say something but never will, not for anything. She never takes her eyes off you, seems like she's going to laugh, or is waiting for a question, or like she'll start singing with her mouth closed. Olenka's mouth is red and she's white, and this vision is fearsome, like it wasn't Olenka, but the Princess Bird herself, only not kind and good, but like she killed someone and was happy about it…

And Benedikt fell into such a daze, he felt like he'd snorted a lot of bog bilberry. His legs and seat had goosebumps and there seemed to be a ringing in his fingers. In his chest, or rather, his stomach, there was a ringing too, a dull one, like someone had stuck an empty stone bucket inside him. This daze, which looked like Olenka, would blink its eyelashes and stare at him again. Its eyes got even bigger and its black eyebrows ran straight across, and between the eyebrows was a little stone, like a moon teardrop.

What the hell does she want from him?

Old pushkin-mushkin probably didn't want to get married either, was probably dead set against it, cried, resisted, but then married-and it was all right. Right? His proud head rose higher than the Alexander column. He rode in sleighs. Was bothered by mice. Ran around with girls, got his rocks off. He was famous: now we're carving a pinocchio of him.

We're just as good as him. Isn't that right? Or is it?

"I'll have you know that Immanuel Kant," the Head Stoker instructed him, "and by the way, since you're so inclined to philosophizing, you'd do well to remember that name. Now, as I was saying. Two things surprised Kant: the moral law inside man and the starry heaven above our heads. How do we interpret this? Well, it means that man is the crossroads of two abysses, equally bottomless and equally inaccessible: the outer and inner worlds. And just as the stars, planets, comets, nebula, and other heavenly bodies move according to laws that we understand but poorly, though they are strictly preordained-are you listening to me, Benedikt?-so it is that moral law, all our imperfections notwithstanding, is preordained, etched with a diamond blade on the tablets of the conscience! Inscribed in fiery letters in the Book of Being. And even if this book is hidden from our myopic eyes, even if it is hidden in the valley of mists, behind seven gates, even if its pages are mixed up, its alphabet barbaric and indecipherable, it still exists, young man! It shines even at night! Our life, young man, consists of the search for this book. It is a sleepless path through the dense forest, groping our way, an unexpected acquisition! Our poet-the one to whom you and I are erecting a modest altar-our poet knew this, young man! He knew everything! Pushkin is our be all and end all-the starry sky above and the law in our heart!"

"All right, all right," said Benedikt. He tossed his butt and stamped it out with his shoe. "To hell with it, Nikita Ivanich. Go on and cut off my tail."

And he lay down across the bench.

RTSY

Father-in-law has a huge menagerie, almost a whole street, cages and pens running down both sides. First there's a big shed, and in that shed a stable, and in the stable Degenerators. Hairy, black-yikes. All the fur on their sides is matted. Nasty faces. Some scratch their sides on the fence branches, some guzzle swill from jugs, others chew hay, some sleep, and three in the corner play birch cards and quarrel.

"Are you bonkers, lead with a diamond?"

"You shut up!"

"Oh, so that's it. Here's a stud fer ya."

Father-in-law didn't like it, he scratched the floor.

"Card games again, is it? And the stalls haven't been cleaned!"

The Degenerators don't give a hoot.

"Don't freak, boss. Everything's hunky-dory. Ycur play, Val-era."

"Ha. Trump you."

Father-in-law swore and led Benedikt further on.

"Swine… Lazy so and sos… I'll give you Terenty, son, he'll be quieter. Only watch out, don't overfeed him. I wanted to give you Potap, but he's skittish. Chews on the bit, insults you… So… Here are the goats. I keep these for meat. Those are for wool. They make a fine jersey, very warm. Women like them."

"What's a jersey?"

"A knitted thing. Here are our chickens. I built an outdoor cage here, I keep rabbits."

"How about that!"

Benedikt craned his neck. There it was: a cage of woven sticks, tall as could be. A whole tree grew in the cage and on the very top was a nest, and in the nest, there they were, rabbits. One stuck his tail out and wagged it like he was teasing. Benedikt didn't have anything to wag anymore. And his sitting bone ached… On and on, cages and more cages… His father-in-law walked along, pointing left and right.

"Here we got some curiosities. All kinds of animals. We don't go hungry here. I got bird catchers sitting in the forest all day long, they bring back full snares. Sparrows and nightingales are good in pies. My wife, Fevronia, she fancies them. You can't eat every single kind of bird, of course. First we try 'em out on the serfs. One time they caught a tiny little bird, red, beady eyes; it smelled good and had a pretty voice. We wanted to marinate it, but then had second thoughts: Let's feed it to a serf, we decided. He took one bite, fell down on the floor, and kicked the bucket. We laughed so hard! What if it'd been us? Well, there you go! You have to keep an eye on nature."

There's another cage and there's a moss-covered tree in it too, with a hollow.

"What's here? I can't see anything."

"Ah… Here I got a woodsucker."

"You caught a woodsucker?"

"Uh huh. It's in the tree hollow."

"Wow…"

Father-in-law raised the whip he used to keep the Degenerators in line, stuck it through the branches, and knocked on the trunk.

"Woodsucker! Come out! Come out, listen up!"

Silence. It didn't want to come out.

"Come out, you bitch!!" Father-in-law poked the tree hollow with the whip.

And sure enough-it darted out like a shadow, and then hid its head.

"You see it?" said Father-in-law, happy.

"Amazing…" Benedikt said in wonder.

"That's right. We want to use this one for soup. Let's see… What else do we have here?"

In the cages and wicker sheds everything whistled, cackled, and ruffled like some kind of jungle. Over there on a branch a dozen nightingales were lined up like mice. A blue feather flashed by over there, and in the far cages there was another tree, bare, gnawed, with no bark. Something white and rumpled, like a worn sheet with holes in it, hung on a limb of that tree.