"What, again?"

"Yes, yes! We're all so upset… They let us go home early."

"Why?" worried Benedikt. "They didn't give any reason?"

"We don't know anything yet… I'm in a hurry, Golubchik, forgive me. My wife doesn't know yet. Our livestock is still in the yard, the attic window has to be closed shut, you know how it is…"

So that's it… leap year: await misfortune! Furry stars, a bad harvest, hungry livestock. Grain comes up withered in the fields, if there's a drought. If there's a flood and storms, on the other hand, horsetail will take over like it's swelled with water, it'll grow higher than the trees, its roots will dig down into the clay on which the city stands: it will bring on mudslides and carve out new ravines. The woods will be sprinkled with fake firelings. If you don't watch out the Chechens will attack, and what an affliction that will be! And if the summer turns out to be cold and stormy, with winds, nothing good'll come of it, and the harpies will awake! God forbid!

Why is it that some years are leap years and others are just plain years? Who knows! What can you do? Nothing at all, you just have to put up with it!

But the people get anxious. Hostility and dissatisfaction rise. Why? Because a bad year is never shorter, just the opposite: they deliberately mock us, they make it longer. They add an extra day: here you go, all yours! And an extra day means extra work, extra taxes, all kinds of human vexation-you could just cry! And they put that day in February. There's a poem that goes:

February! Grab the inks and cry!

Well, that's what the Scribes do. So do cooks and woodcutters, not to mention the people who get called up for roadwork.

Some say: Well, it's extra work, but it means you live longer, right? You get an extra day on earth, get to eat an extra pancake or pie! Is that so bad? You think you're about to die-but no, there's another dawn to greet, another sun to shine, and in the evening you can dance and drink! Though it would be better if this day wasn't added in winter, when life seems dreary, but in the summer, in the good weather.

Yeah, sure! Don't hold your breath! Good weather. If they wanted to make things easier for people, they wouldn't add this day to a leap year but to a regular year, and not just one day, but two or three, or a whole week, and make it a holiday!

Meanwhile, they'd arrived at the izba where Varvara Lukinishna lived.

"Wait here."

Teterya grunted under the gag and rolled his eyes.

"I said: Wait and be quiet."

No, there he goes, moaning again, waving his felt boot.

"So what is it now? What is it?"

He took off his boot, freed his hand, untied the gag, and spit with a hiss.

"… I said, I know this place."

"So what? So do I."

"You know how to get your rocks off, but I know that there used to be a gas station here."

"Who cares what was where."

"And a gas station means fuel. Underground. Throw a match in, and boom-we all go up in a puff of smoke."

Benedikt thought a moment. "What for?"

"Not what for but where to. To hell and gone."

Benedikt opened his mouth to remind him: shut your trap, your place is in the bridle. But he knew what the answer would be and decided not to go asking for the rude cracks; his foot already had a callus from kicking, and you could kick the pig as much as you liked-he didn't care. So Benedikt didn't say anything, he just opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Gasoline, I tell you. Up to your ass in gas. Gasoline, gasoline, capish? It's like water, but it burns." Tetery laughed. "Tiger, tiger, burning bright, don't forget to leave the light… Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a tiger by the toe… Gimme a cigar while you're in there doing your business."

"What'll it be next?"

"Then screw you. Fascist!"

Worse than dogs, those Degenerators. You swear at a dog and it can't talk back. Woof, woof, that's all; you can put up with it. But Degenerators never shut up, they keep bugging you… As soon as you sit down in the sleigh it starts: he doesn't like the route, and that's the wrong lane, and that road is blocked, and the government doesn't run things right, and he don't like the way the Murzas look, and you better believe what he'd do to them you just wait give him his way and you'll see, and who's to blame, and how in the Oldener days he drank with his cousins, and what they drank, and how they pigged out, and what he bought, and where he went on vacation, and how he caught fish at his mother's in the country, and what a good place she had: her own milk, her own eggs, what else do you need; and all the cats he ran over, the nasty pests should all be drowned so they know their place. And what women he fooled around with, and how there was one lady General couldn't live without him and he told her: Tough luck, sweetheart, love has flown the coop, don't get your hopes up, don't wait, and she said: No, my heart will break, I'll give you whatever you want. And what cost how much when, and to hear him tell it was all cheap, just take what you want and be gone. He shouts at passersby, and screams obscenities at women and girls, and after all that it turns out that he can't even go straight where he's going, he always has to take a roundabout way.

Now he's saying: guzzelean. It's water but it burns. Just where has anyone ever seen water burning? That's never happened and it never will. Water and fire don't mix, they can't. Except, of course, when people stand watching a fire and the flames lap in their eyes like in water, reflected; and the people stand there like pillars, frozen, like they were under a spell-well then, yes; but that's just a mirage, just illusion and nothing else. Nothing in nature says for water to burn. Unless the Last Days are coming?… But that can't be. I don't even want to think about it… On the other hand, it's a leap year, so that means bad omens, and the blizzard is sort of sticky, and there's a buzz in the air.

He yanked the swollen door. It smacked like a kiss. Behind it was a second door: she had a mud room between the two. He stood for a while, leaning against the second door, listening. He didn't bother to put on the robe, although he was supposed to: he allowed a little Freethinking. It's government service, of course, but every job lets you bend the rules a little for your friends or relatives.

He hesitated. Should he leave the hook in the mud room or take it with him right off? If he takes the hook with him, the sick Golubchik guesses and starts shouting right away; and where there's shouting, there's a commotion. Some of them bang their heads on the table or the stool or the stove; the place is crowded, you can't move around much, so your hand doesn't have the same flair, the same freedom. It's all well and fine to go polishing your art outdoors, training, that is. How do they teach the Sani-turions? They make big dolls, huge idols, from rags and cloth; and you work on technique on the greengrass: thrusting from the shoulder, catching with a turn, pulling, or whatever. Outdoors it's easy, but in the izba, in real life, so to speak, it doesn't work that way. Nope, it doesn't.

First of all, there's the doll: it doesn't run around the izba, does it? It doesn't let out bloodcurdling screams, does it? It doesn't grab the table or chair for dear life, does it? One whack and it just lies there quiet, not feeling anything, just like the instructions say. But a Golubchik-he's alive, he makes a racket.

That's one problem. And the other, of course, is that it's always crowded. That's really an oversight. Yep. Needs more work.

So you can't always follow all the government rules; that's where the bending comes in. Some might argue with that, but "theory is dry, my friend, and the tree of life grows green and full."

Benedikt thought about it and left the hook in the mud room. He opened the second door, and stuck his head in: "Peek-a-boo! Who came to see you?"