"That's right, but the irony is that-"

"The irony is that there isn't any West."

"What do you mean there isn't any West!" snapped Lev Lvovich. "There's always a West."

"But we don't know anything about it."

"No, no, no. Excuse me! You and I know. It's just that they don't know anything about us."

"And that's news to you?"

Lev Lvovich became even more gloomy and scraped at the table. "Right now the most important thing is a Xerox."

"But why, tell me why?!"

"Because it was said: be fruitful and multiply!" Lev Lvovich raised a long finger. "Multiply!"

"Well then, just how do you envision this?" Nikita Ivanich asked. "Let's just suppose, for the sake of argument, that you have your fax and your Xerox. Under current conditions. Let's just suppose. Although it's highly unlikely. What would you do with them? How to you intend to fight for freedom with a fax? Go on, tell me."

"My pleasure. It's quite simple. I take an album of Durer's work. That's just an example. Black and white, but that doesn't matter. I make a copy. I multiply it. I fax it to the West. They receive it and say: 'Wait a minute, what's going on here! That's our national treasure.' They fax me back: 'Return our national treasure immediately!' And I say to them: Come and get it. Take charge. Then you've got international contacts, diplomatic negotiations, everything you could hope for. Coffee. Paved roads. Nikita Ivanich, remember shirts with cuff links? Conferences…"

"Confrontations."

"Humanitarian rice."

"Porno films…"

"Jeans."

"Terrorists."

"Of course. Complaints to the UN. Political hunger strikes. The International Court in The Hague."

"The Hague doesn't exist anymore."

Lev Lvovich shook his head so hard the candle flame flickered: "Don't upset me, Nikita Ivanich. Don't say such terrible things. That's just nationalistic claptrap."

"There is no Hague, Golubchik. There never was."

Lev Lvovich started crying drunken tears and banged his fist on the table. The peas jumped on the plate. "It's not true, I don't believe it! The West will come to our aid!"

"We have to do it ourselves, all on our own."

"This is not the first time I've noticed your nationalistic tendencies! You're a Slavophile!"

"You know, I'm really-"

"A Slavophile, a Slavophile! Don't deny it."

"I hope for a spiritual renaissance."

"Samizdat is what we need."

"But Lev Lvovich! We have lots of samizdat, it's flourishing. If I'm not mistaken, you yourself used to insist it was the most important thing. And just look-no spiritual life. So apparently it's not the main thing."

Benedikt coughed politely to interrupt. "My life is spiritual."

"In what sense?"

"I don't eat mice."

"Well, and what else?"

"Not a single bite… Only birds. Meat. Pasties once in a while. Bliny. Marshrooms, of course. Nightingales dipped in batter, horsetail a la Savoy. Bullfinch stew. Fireling parfait a la Ly-onnaise. Then -cheese and fruit. That's it."

The Oldeners' eyes bugged out and they stared at him silently.

"And cigars?" Lev Lvovich finally asked, grinning.

"We go into another room to smoke. Near the stove. Fevro-nia, my mother-in-law, doesn't let us smoke at the table."

"I remember Pigronia," remarked Lev Lvovich. "I remember her father. An imbecile. And her grandfather. Another imbecile. Her great-grandfather too."

"That's right," affirmed Benedikt. "She's from one of the oldest families, of French origin."

"They were fruitful and multiplied," giggled tipsy Nikita Ivanich. "There you go! Hmm? Lev Lvovich!"

"And there's your spiritual renaissance for you, Nikita Ivanich!"

They poured some more rusht.

"All right, then… Here's to returning to sources, Lev Lvovich!"

"To our freedom!"

They drank. Benedikt drank too.

"Why is it," said Nikita Ivanich, "why is it that everything keeps mutating, everything? People, well, all right, but the language, concepts, meaning! Huh? Russia! Everything gets twisted up in knots."

"Not everything," argued Benedikt. "Now, if you eat cheese, then yes, your insides will mutiny, and your stomach'll get tied up in knots. But if you eat a pasty-it's all right… Nikita Ivanich!… I brought a present for you."

Benedikt fumbled inside his coat and pulled out the book with "Slitherum Slatherum" wrapped in a clean cloth. He really didn't want to give it up, but it wouldn't work without a sacrifice.

"Here. It's for you. A book."

Nikita Ivanich was taken aback. Lev Lvovich ruffled: "It's a provocation!… Careful, Nikita Ivanich!"

"It's a poem," explained Benedikt. "Everything about our life is all written down here in poems. You're arguing, next thing you'll start fighting-but why don't you read it instead. I learned it by heart." Benedikt looked up into a dark corner of the ceiling-it was always easier to remember things that way, when nothing distracted you. "Hickory dickory six and seven. Alabone, Crackabone-"

"That's enough," said Lev Lvovich.

"You like to read to yourself? I do too, with my eyes. When there's no one to bother me… I just pour myself a cup of compote- and read!"

"Where did you get it?" asked Nikita Ivanich.

Benedikt's face expressed a certain vagueness: he stuck his jaw out, screwed up his mouth, as if ready to kiss someone, raised his eyebrows as high as he could, looked over his shoulder, and flapped his hands around in different directions.

"I got it… well, I just got it. We have a big library at home."

They poured some more rusht. The Oldeners didn't look at Benedikt, and they didn't look at each other. They stared at the table.

"Special Reserves," said Lev Lvovich.

"A spiritual treasure trove," corrected Nikita Ivanich.

"But I've already read everything," said Benedikt. "I, well, I have a favor to ask. Maybe you have something to read, no? I'll be careful… no spots, nothing. I respect books."

"I don't have any books," replied Nikita Ivanich. "I truly don't. Would I lie?"

"I could give you mine, for a little while… Kind of like an exchange. If you'll be careful… Wrap them in something… a cloth or rags… I have good books, they don't have any Illness or anything…"

"Interlibrary with Leviathan. I wouldn't get involved."

"You're in a conspiratorial phase… Where are your democratic values?"

"We shouldn't cooperate with a totalitarian regime…"

Benedikt waited for the Oldeners to stop their gibberish. "What do you think, Nikita Ivanich?"

Nikita Ivanich waved his hands around like he hadn't heard the question. He poured some more mead. It went down smoothly…

"I have interesting books," Benedikt tempted them. "About women, and nature, and science too… they tell you all sorts of things… You were talking about freedom-well, I've got one about freedom too, about everything. It teaches how to make freedom. Should I bring it? Only you have to be careful."

"Really?" Lev Lvovich said with interest. "Whose book?"

"Mine."

"The author, who's the author?"

Benedikt thought.

"I can't remember right off. I think It starts with Pl."

"Plekhanov?"

"No…"

"It couldn't be Plevier?"

"No, no… Don't interrupt… Aha! It's Plaiting and Knitting Jackets. 'When knitting the armhole we cast on two extra loops for freedom of movement. We slip them on the right needle, taking care not to tighten them excessively.'"

"We've always known how to tighten things excessively around here…" said Lev Lvovich with a grin.

"So should I bring it? It's all right?" said Benedikt, rising.

"Don't bother, young man."

Benedikt had been sly: he himself didn't like Plaiting very much-it was a boring sort of essay; but he thought maybe it would do for Oldeners-who knows what they like? He himself liked Embraces better. Since he'd already gotten up, Benedikt pushed the door open to let in some of the blizzardy air-they'd smoked up the place something fierce. He wanted to keep an eye on Teterya: Had he gone and committed Freethinking, and crawled up into the sleigh? There was a bear skin there, and sometimes the stinking scum did that: he'd get up under the skin to get warm, and after that just try airing it out! Degenerators have a strong smell: dung, straw, unwashed feet. No, he hadn't crawled in, but what was he doing? He was standing on his legs. He'd taken the felt boots off his hands and was scratching swear words onto the pillar that said "Nikitsky Gates."