FERT

Spring had come with its huge flowers. Beyond the window everything was bright blue-but Benedikt noticed only because light poured in and it was easier to read. He pulled aside the bladder covering the window-there it was! All the meadows and glades had long been covered with greengrass, the little azure flowers were wilting, the yellow ones were coming in. Honey waves of wind blew, calling stout hearts to set off for faraway lands, to explore wondrous kingdoms, launch dugouts on clean rivers and hold course for the Ocean-Sea. But Benedikt didn't need any of this. He had everything in books, rolled up, buried in little secret boxes: sea and meadow, deep blue and sandy winds, foul winds and snow, and the wind they call Zephyr. Starless nights and nights of passion, velvety nights and sleepless nights! Southern, white, pink, sweet as could be, dreamy, draining nights! Golden and silver stars, blue and green as sea salt, shooting and falling stars, foreboding stars, glittering diamond and lone stars, stars that herald woe, and stars that shine like beacons-there you go, beacons! All the vessels on all the seas, all the kisses, islands, roads and all the cities those roads lead to, all the city gates, nooks, crannies, dungeons and tunnels, towers, flags, all the golden curls and jet black braids, the thunder and clash of arms, the clouds, the steppes, and again the wind, sea, and stars! He didn't need anything else, it was all here!

A rich man-that's who he was. Rich as rich could be! Benedikt thought about himself. I'm rich, he thought, and he laughed. He even yelped. I'm my own Murza! My own Sultan! Everyone's in the palm of my hand, in little letters: the bounty of boundless nature and the lives of countless people! Old-timers, youngsters, and indescribable beauties!

There was another good thing about books, he thought. The beauties rustling their dresses between the pages, peering from behind shutters and from under lace curtains, the beauties wringing their white hands and throwing themselves with loosened hair under the hooves of steeds, their eyes sparking fiercely -she's crying and her waist is the size of an hourglass-beauties who lounge on divans with pounding hearts, and leap up to cast a wild gaze around the room; who step fearfully, lowering their dark blue eyes; who dance fiery dances with roses in their hair-these beauties never have to answer nature's call, they never have to bend over to pick things up, they never get gas, no pimples pop up on their faces, and their backs never hurt. Their golden hair never has any dandruff and lice never nest or lay eggs in it, they leave them alone. And those golden curls-they curl for days on end, and no one ever says anything about these beauties spending half the day with bobbins in their hair. They don't chomp, sneeze, or snore. Their cheeks don't squelch; no Is-abelle or Caroline ever wakes up puffy with sleep; their jaws don't clack when they yawn, they awake refreshed and toss back the curtains. And they all throw themselves joyfully into the arms of their beloved. And just who is their beloved? Why, it's Benedikt, of course, whether he's called Don Pedro or Sysoy.

It's spring! Why does he need spring? Well, there's one good thing about it: there's more light for reading. The day is longer, and the letters are clearer.

In summer Benedikt had a hammock hung for him in the gallery. Above the hammock he hung a light sheet to protect him from the shitbirds. They have no shame, not the least bit: wherever they see a cornice, that's where they sit, cooing and shitting. It's not so bad if it falls on your hair, but what if it falls on a book? He had two serfs stand on either side of him to fan him and shoo away gnats and mosquitoes. He had a rocking girl sit there to rock the hammock ever so gently, not too hard, just a little bit. Another girl brought him cool drinks: she crushed dogwood berries, stewed compote from them, and added lots of chopped ice. The ice was left over from winter: all winter long workers chopped ice and stored it in cold cellars. And this compote was good to drink through a straw: they'd cut some grass, and if it wasn't poisonous they'd dry it, and inside there was a little hole, and you could drink through it.

The flies had grown mean and big, their wings shimmered blue, their eyes were rainbows. Two workers stood next to Benedikt fanning them away, while a third ran to help. It must be fall. He raised his eyes: it really was fall, rain was dripping from the clouds. God forbid a book should get wet. He moved back inside the house.

KHER

It was an ordinary day, Thursday. A bit of snow was falling, and nothing foretold anything. And that's the way it is in books: if nothing foretells anything they always tell you special. And if they tell you, hold on: birds will cackle, the wind will take to howling, and the mirror will crack. A mirror is what people had in Oldener times, sort of like a board, and they looked at that board and could see themselves, like when we look in the water.

They all sat down to eat.

Benedikt opened issue number seven of the Northern Herald. It was a very strong book, sewn with threads and glued together; he cracked the spine so it wouldn't close, leaned on it with his elbow, and held it down with a bowl of soup.

Mother-in-law said: "Eat up, son, the meat patties are getting cold."

"Mmm…"

"They're tasty, juicy."

"Mmm…"

"Steamed with marshrooms. Try them, they should be good, I steamed them in the oven for an hour."

Olenka said: "Mashed turnips are good with patties."

Father-in-law: "Puree goes good with everything."

"No, especially with meat patties."

"Well, that's for sure-it's not every day we steam patties."

"It sure isn't."

"…," Benedikt read, his eyes already accustomed to racing across the lines,"…"

"Last year, remember, we gathered biteweed and cooked up some macedoine with turnips."

"Uh huh."

"If you slopped some goat cheese into the macedoine for the taste, it would be even more delicious."

"That's right."

"And noodles are good too."

"How could they be bad?"

"It's really good when you put butter in the noodles, add some forest herbs, a bit of kvas, bake it and then let it simmer, and as soon as it sizzles, you serve it."

"With ground marshrooms on top."

"That's right."

"And a flaky roulette stuffed with nuts."

"And ferns."

"Ferns, yep."

"Then spice cookies. Braided ones."

"Why braided? Broiled are better."

"Yeah, sure, broiled. Broiled they come out a touch bitter."

"So? So what? That's good."

"What's good about it? Woven ones are way better. There's an egg in them."

"What do you know. Woven!… Next thing you'll be talking about bliny again."

"Bliny, so what? What about bliny?"

"What about, nothing about! Bliny! What'll it be next?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing! That's what!"

"Well, then, don't say nothing. But I say: bliny!"

"I'll give you bliny!"

"You're a real blin yourself."

"That's right, I'm a blin. So what does that make you?"

"Nothing!"

"Then shut up!"

"Shut up yourself!"

"I'll just shut up, then!"

"So just go ahead and shut up!"

"So there, I'll shut up! Bliny!"

"Then just shut up! Give us some peace and quiet!"

They shut up. Chewed. Benedikt turned the page, resettled his bowl, and held the journal down again.

"Eat your patties, son."

"I'm eating."

"Take some more. Olenka, serve him some more. Pour some sauce on them, for heaven's sake! There you go. Pour some more."

"Give him some marshrooms."

"And some fried steak."

They were silent again.

"Too bad Eudoxia croaked. She knew how to whip up the best nut souffle."