"So, how about it, son, no thoughts popping up?"

"What thoughts?"

"All kinds of bad thoughts?"

"No, nothing popping up."

"Think about it carefully."

"I can't think. I'm stuffed."

"Maybe you feel like committing some villainy?"

"No, I don't."

"But if you think about it?"

"I still don't."

"Maybe you've planned some homicide?"

"No."

"But if you think about it?"

"No."

"If you're honest about it?"

"For heaven's sake, I told you. No!"

"No dreams of overthrowing the bosses?"

"Listen, I'm going to sleep! I can't take this!"

"And what if you have some murderous dreams?"

Benedikt gets up, goes to his room, slams the door and flops on the bed. Then the door opens noiselessly: Father-in-law pokes his head in.

He whispers, "Haven't thought up any malicious acts against the Big Murza, have you?"

Benedikt doesn't answer.

"Against the Murza, I said?"

Benedikt doesn't answer.

"Hey? No ideas? I'm asking. Son? Hello… son? Against the Murza, I'm asking you, have you dreamt up-"

"No! No! Close the door! I'm sleeping! Don't bother me, what is this? I want to sleep!"

"So, no ideas've popped up, is that it?"

That's how time passes. Eat, sleep, bicker with your relatives. And ride in the sleigh. Look out the window. Everything's just fine, all right-it doesn't get any better. But something is missing. Like you need something else. Only he forgot what.

After the marriage Benedikt didn't need anything at first. For about two weeks, maybe three. Well… four. Maybe five. While he got used to things, had a look around at this and that. But then-it felt like there was something-and it was gone.

SLOVO

At first Benedikt thought that he missed the sound of scurrying mice. After all, the mouse is our be all and end all. It's food, and clothes you can make from the pelts, and trading at the market for whatever you want. Remember how he'd caught two hundred of them at New Year's? His soul sang, people sang with him! He remembered how he walked along almost dancing, stomping on the collapsed snowdrifts, splashing his heels in puddles to make them spatter rainbows! Honest pay for an honest job. And how much he got when he traded all those mice! He and Nikita Ivanich ate that food for a whole week and they couldn't finish it. The old man baked sweet rolls… Somehow, they became friends over those sweet rolls. That is, if you could be friends with an Oldener. He's a bad cook compared to Mother-in-law. The sweet rolls came out lopsided-raw on one side, burned on the other, and in the middle not curds, but who knows what. Mother-in-law's sweet rolls just melt in your mouth. Then he thought maybe he missed his izba. Sometimes he dreamt he was walking around a house that seemed to be his father-in-law's, from one gallery to the next, from one floor to the next, and it was like the same house, but not the same: it was longer, sort of sideways, everything was warped sideways. He walked and walked and kept being surprised: there was no end to this house. He had to find one special door, so he opened all the doors. But what he needed behind that door wasn't clear. He opened one door and there was his izba, but it wasn't quite the same either, it had gotten bigger: the ceiling went way up into the darkness, you couldn't see it. A bit of dry hay fell from the ceiling with a whoosh and a crackle. He stood and looked at that hay, and he was full of fear, as if someone had grabbed his heart with a paw, then let it go again. He would find out something any minute now. He was just about to find out. Then Olenka walked by and seemed to be lugging a log. She was unfriendly, sort of dry. Where are you lugging that log to, Olenka, why aren't you friendly anymore? And she laughed nastily and said, "Olenka? I'm not Olenka…" He looked again: and it really wasn't Olenka, but someone else…

… When you wake up from a dream like that, your mouth's dry and your heart goes boom-boom, boom-boom. You can't understand where you are. You touch yourself: Is this me? And the moon shines through the bladder window, bright and horrible. And the lunar path on the floor has stretched out. Some people walk in their sleep when the moon's full: they call them lunatics. The moon speaks to them, or so they say. We don't know why they stretch their arms out. It looks like they're asking for handouts or some kind of help, but if you take them by the hand, they flinch. They look surprised. And they listen: heads cocked, they listen. Their eyes are open but they don't see us. Golubchiks like that get up out of bed, go out in the yard, wander around, and then scramble up on the roof, one-two-three like it was stairs. They get right up on the roof, at the very tippy top, and walk back and forth. It's closer to the moon up there. They stare at the moon and she stares back at them: you can see a face on the moon, and that face is crying: it looks at us, at our life, and it cries.

That's what it is, Benedikt thought, he missed his izba. He even rode over to take a look: he hitched up Teterya and rode to his native settlement. But no, it wasn't that. He looked at his izba, at the straw roof: it had completely dried out. The door was open, there was burdock growing in the yard, which hadn't been weeded since springtime, and grabble grass, and biteweed, and some other strange weed with long black stems and withered leaves. The first snowflakes were whirling about, falling, indifferent to everything. He stood there awhile, took off his hat like he was standing by a grave. Everything was probably torn up inside. It was kind of a pity, but not really: his heart didn't care. It had broken away. But he shouldn't have taken the sleigh: after that trip Teterya got completely out of hand and lost all respect for Benedikt. While Benedikt stood at the fence, that furry pig stood by and smoked, he even spat on the ground, and then said, "Ha! I had a dive in Sviblovo that was better than that place."

"Teterya, watch how you talk to your betters! Your place is in the bridle!"

"And yours is-you know where… I had a mirrored buffet. And a color TV with an Italian tube… My brother-in-law managed to get a hold of a Yugoslav cabinet set, I had a separate bathroom and toilet, Golden Autumn wallpaper."

"Talking again! Go on, bridle up!"

"The kitchen was linoleum, but the rest was parquet tiles. I had a three-burner stove."

"Teterya! Who am I talking to!"

"A fridge with a freezer, beer in cans… lemon vodka, nice and cold…"

And he stands there, the rodent, on his hind legs like he was an equal, leaning on the fence, chatting, and there's a dream in his eyes, and it's clear as day he doesn't think of Benedikt as his master at all! He's lost in memories!

"Tomatoes from Kuban, Estonian cucumbers with bumps… We ate pressed black caviar and thought the regular stuff was shit… There was dark rye bread for twelve kopecks… Herring with onion… Tea with lemon… Pink and white meringues… Cherries in liqueur from Kuibyshev… Samarkand melon…"

Once he got started, he just kept on, who was there to stop him! Nikita Ivanich is right when he says there should be respect for people, and justice too! But this swine doesn't respect people, he doesn't give a fig for them! Benedikt got mad and beat him on the sides with the whip, slapped him on the ears and kicked him good and hard. And his father-in-law says Terenty's the calm one, it's Potap that's skittish! What's Potap like, then, if this one is obedient?… After that trip, you gotta call him Ter-enty Petrovich, like he was some kind of Murza. Yeah, sure.

Then he had another thought. Maybe he missed his tail? He'd had a tail a long time, he'd wagged it, enjoyed it. When you wag your tail sometimes it makes your ears tickle. It was a good tail, smooth, white, and strong. Sure, it's embarrassing to have a tail when others don't, but it wasn't a bad tail. That's a fact. And now Nikita Ivanich had gone and chopped it off, almost to the very root-jeez it was scary. Nikita Ivanich crossed himself: God bless me! And… whack… but it didn't hurt as much as he'd feared. And that's because it's all cartilage, says Nikita Ivanich. Not bone. "Congratulations," he said to Benedikt, "on the occasion of your partial humanization." That was probably a joke. "Maybe you'll get smarter," he joked again.