Its claws itch, it's itching to… But you can't see it, you can't see it… He began to beat his head against the wall so stars would glitter in his eyes, so that some sort of light would break the darkness. Eyes are tricky, though: you squeeze them shut tight, yet something creeps into the reddish gloom under your eyelids, flashes across it: from left to right little hairs flit by or there's a shimmering you can't get rid of, or some uninvited object will run out and seem to laugh at you and then, poof!-it melts. He squeezed his eyes and opened them again: red and yellow rings whirled, his head spun, and there it was, he could see it with eyes wide open. It champed and grimaced.
He began stomping his feet: boom, boom, boom! He waved his arms about, and then grabbed his hair and pulled! Again! Heyyyy!! he cried. Heeeeyyyyy! In the city of Delhi there lived a wealthy water-bearer, and his name was Kandarpaketu!!! There lived a wealthy water-bearer, lived a wealthy water-bearer! Lived-lived, lived-lived, lived a wealthy water-bearer! With a hi and ho and a derry down-o! Through the town of Ramsey… And a twee dum fiddle dee dee! A wealthy water-bearer, don't you know, a rich and wealthy water-bearer!
He felt like slugging someone to dispel the fear and rage; maybe he should go and wallop Olga-here's for your bobbins! Or run and kick Mother-in-law in the ass; let her wibble-wobble for a couple of hours…
He ran down the stairs recklessly, knocked over a flowerpot, ran into his father-in-law, and shouted:
"There's no more books! Let's go, dammit!"
"Let's go!!!" replied Father-in-law like an echo. His eyes blazed, he stomped and thrust a double-edged hook-who knows from where-into Benedikt's hand. He threw open the door of the closet and tossed a robe to Benedikt; it blinded Benedikt for a moment, but the slits settled right over his eyes. He could see everything through this crevice, all human affairs, trivial, cowardly, fussy: all people want is a bit of soup and to bed, but the wind howls, the snowstorm shrieks, and the Slynx is in flight; it soars, triumphant, over the city. "Art is in danger!" shouted Father-in-law as the sleigh swerved and screeched at the bend in the road. Our robes gleam with red light in the blizzard wail-watch out!-the storm's red cavalry flies across the city, and two pillars of light, a bright force, shine from Father-in-law's eyes, illuminating the path: our hope, protection, force-the Slynx withdraws, we won't surrender, we are legion!-forward, Saniturions, else art will perish! The white pancakes of frightened faces appear in the open door of an izba-"Ha, ha, so scared you're pissing in your pants, are you? The book! Give us the book!" The Golubchik squeals, shields it with his elbow, braces his foot, the shadows romp. "Hold him!!! He's stuffing it in the stove!!! Aha, you want to burn art, do you? Get him with the hook, the hook. Turn it!" comes Father-in-law's savage cry, or someone else's, you can't tell under the robes. "Turn the hook, for crying out loud." He turned it, yanked, something burst and streamed out, there were shouts and cries, he grabbed the book, pressed it to his heart, trembling-I'm alive! He pushed something away with his foot and leapt out into the blizzard.
… Benedikt lay in bed and sobbed. The tears flowed and flowed. Mother-in-law changed the pillows, Father-in-law ordered the women to walk on tiptoe, speak in whispers, and not worry the patient with troubling questions. He himself sat on the edge of Benedikt's bed, gave him warm drinks, hung right over him, shaking his head, sympathizing, consoling him.
"Now, how did that happen, tell me? How come you were so clumsy?… I told you to turn the hook carefully, gently… From the shoulder, the shoulder… And you go and: whack! That's what did it."
Benedikt choked on his tears. He wailed softly, delicately, his weakened fingers trembled; he could feel the cold and the slippery turn of the hook although he no longer held any hook, only a mug with compote.
It didn't happen-and yet it had happened. His arm could still feel the crunch up to the elbow, the way you squash a beetle: instead of just grabbing the book, jerking it, tearing it away, he caught the Golubchik right on the neck, on the vein, and since he whirled the hook with unpracticed fingers, the vein snapped and something streamed out, something black. The head flopped to one side, the eyes dimmed, and vomit gushed from the mouth.
Benedikt had never killed anyone, that is, Golubchiks, and it had never even occurred to him. He might hit someone or knock him around, but that was different, just ordinary, everyday stuff. You get him, he gets you, and you're quits. A bruise here, a sprain there-the usual. And before hitting a Golubchik you have to get yourself worked up against him, store up a gloomy weight in your heart. The bruises or sprains balance out this gloominess like weights on scales: goods on one side, weights on the other. Then you belt him one-and it's justified.
But he'd never even met this Golubchik, the one he crushed. He'd never even seen him, wasn't worked up against him, didn't have a grudge against him-he was living and let him go on living, planting turnips, talking to his woman, bouncing his little kids on his knee.
Benedikt just wanted to take the book away. Because society is backward, the people live in the darkness of ignorance, they're superstitious, they keep books under the bed, or even bury them in damp holes. You can destroy a book this way. It rots, falls apart, gets covered in green mildew, gets worm holes. Books have to be protected, they belong in a dry, bright place, they have to be cherished and cradled, preserved and kissed. No one else will bother, there's no one else to take care of them, the ancient people who wrote these books have turned to dust, they've died out, not a shadow remains. They won't return, they'll never come back! They don't exist anymore!
But our ignorant Golubchiks-just look at them-they won't admit to themselves or others that they've hidden books. Books are rotting, being lost forever, and they'll never admit they've hidden one. They're backward and afraid of Illness, and Illness has nothing to do with it. Benedikt has read a thousand books and he's just fine.
But he hadn't gotten mad at that Golubchik, it was all the fault of the water-bearer from Delhi, whose name was Kandar-paketu, it was all his father-in-law's fault-he handed him the hook at the wrong time, when his heart was blinded, when the snow raged, and that distant wail deprived him of reason!… Look, just look what it does with people: flushes the reason clear out of them, flies through the storm, hungry, pale, and you can't hear yourself think. You see rings of stars in your eyes, and your hand turns the wrong way. Crunch!-and everything flows out.
… But he saved the book. The book! My precious treasure! Life, the road, the sea's expanses, fanned by the wind, the golden cloud, the blue wave! The gloom parts, you can see far away, the wide open spaces unfold, and those spaces hold bright forests with sun filtering through them and glades splattered with tulips. The spring wind Zephyr rocks the branches, waves like white lace, and the lace turns, spreads open like a fan, and in it, as in a decorated cup, is the white Princess Bird, with her red, innocent mouth. The Princess Bird doesn't eat or drink, it lives only by air and kisses, never harms anyone, and never brings sorrow. And when the Princess Bird smiles with her tulip mouth, she raises her bright eyes to the heights-she always thinks luminous thoughts about herself; she lowers her eyes and admires herself. When she sees Benedikt, she'll say: Come here, Benedikt, it's always spring here with me, I always have love…
"My dear sweet boy… you've got a heart of gold…" His father-in-law lamented, "I taught you, didn't I, I taught you… Ay, my boy… Turn it, I said, the hook, turn it… Didn't I tell you? I told you! And you?… What have you gone and done?"