Mother was buried the Oldeners' way. Stretched out. If it was done our way, then you had to gut the corpse, bend the knees, tie the arms and legs together, make clay figures, and put them in the grave. Benedikt had never done this himself, people who like to do that sort of thing always came out of the woodwork and he only stood to the side, watching.

"Teterya!" he yelled out the door. "Come here."

The Degenerator ran willingly into the izba: it was warm inside.

"Teterya… This woman died. A co-worker… I came to visit a co-worker and she just up and died right this minute. What needs to be done? Huh?…"

"OK," said Teterya in a rush. "You have to put her hands on her chest in a cross… like that… Not that way!… Where is her chest?… Christ, who the hell knows… it should be lower than the head… Anyway, the arms crossed, an icon in the hands, of course. Close the eyes… Where are her eyes?… Oh, here's one! Spartak vs. Armenia, one to zero. Tie the jaw; where's her jaw! Where's… oh, forget it; just let her lie there like that. You, you're supposed to call people together, rustle up a lot of grub, bliny and stuff, and make sure there's a shitload of booze."

"All right, you can go, I know what to do from here."

"Beet and potato salad, the more the better! The red stuff, you know, with onion! Ah!"

"Out!" Benedikt screamed.

… He crossed her arms, if they were in fact her arms, closed her eye… Shouldn't he put a stone on it? But where could you find a rock in winter! Now. An icon? That's what they draw on birch bark? An idol?

A bluish mouse-oil candle trembled on the table; just moments ago Varvara lit that candle. He opened the stove damper, that's where the sticks were: the fire jumped back and forth, dancing. Varvara had just put the sticks in the stove. She stoked the fire-and now it was burning in the emptiness. She wasn't there anymore. He threw in a few more pieces so that the fire hummed and there'd be more light in the izba.

On the table there was a pile of birch sheets, a writing stick, and an ink pot: she boiled her own rusht for ink, sharpened her own sticks, she liked for everything to be orderly… Homemade was always better than official, she used to say. Come over for some soup, she used to say. How can you compare official soup to homemade? He didn't come. He was afraid of her cock's combs…

Oh, the moment, oh, the bitter fight.

Let the beer brew with the malt.

Life could have been pure flight,

But rain and cold streamed from the heavens' vault.

Benedikt started to cry. The tears burned his eyes, backed up quickly and overflowed the brim, pouring down into his beard. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. She was kind. She always gave you her own ink if yours ran out. She explained what words meant. A steed, she said, is not a mouse-truer words were never spoken. An idol in her hands…

Sniffling, Benedikt sat at the table, took a piece of birch bark, and turned it around. We need an idol… He squeezed the writing stick-he hadn't held it for so long-and dipped it in the ink. An idol. But how to draw one…

… He drew a bent head. Around the head-curls: scritch scratch, scritch scratch. Kind of like the letter S, technically, "Slovo." All right… A long nose. Straight. A face. Sideburns on the sides. Fill them in so they're thicker. Dot, dot-and you've got the eyes. The elbow goes here. Six fingers. Squiggle squaggle squiggle all around: that's supposed to be a caftan.

It looks like him.

He stuck the idol in her hands.

He stood there and looked at her.

Suddenly it was as if something broke through his chest, burst, exploded like a barrel of kvas: he started to sob, he shook, he gulped and gasped, he howled-was he remembering Mother? His life? Springtimes gone by? Islands in the sea? Un-traveled roads? A white bird? Nighttime dreams? Go on and ask, no one will answer!… He blew his nose and put on his hat.

Yes! That's right. So what did I come here for? Oh, the book!… Where does she have the book? Benedikt got down on all fours and looked under the bed, holding the candle. There's that box. He pulled it out and rifled around in it-women's junk, nothing valuable. No book. He looked some more-nothing, just the usual garbage. He put his hand under and felt around. Nothing.

He looked on the stove. Nothing…

Behind the stove. Nothing.

Under the stove. Nothing.

In the closet-he held the candle up-just rusht. With a deft hand he grabbed the hook-it's so much easier with a hook- and poked everything. Nothing.

Perhaps the table, a drawer of some kind-no, nothing. A stool-does it have a false bottom? No. He stood, looking over the izba with his eyes: the shed! He ran outside into the shed with the candle: nothing. She didn't have a bathhouse, there was no one to start the fire. He went back into the izba.

The mattress! He stuck his hands under Varvara. It was awkward, she got in the way. He felt the whole mattress, but she got in the way. He dragged her off onto the floor. He felt the mattress and pillow, poked them with the hook; he checked the blanket with hurried fingers, and the quilt of crow feathers. Nothing.

The attic!!! Where was the hatch? Over there. He climbed up on the stool. Hurrying, he bumped Varvara, and the idol fell out of her hands. He bent over, stuck it back somewhere in her middle.

There was nothing in the attic. Only torn strips of moonlight coming in through the dormer window.

It should be closed: it's a leap year, you never know…

The moon shone, the wind blew, the clouds scudded across the sky, the trees swayed. The air smelled of water. Spring again, was it? And the emptiness, the meaninglessness, and some kind of scurrying-sticks of hay fell from the ceiling, the roof was drying out. No, something else.

Ah-the mice. The mice were scurrying. She has mice in her izba. Hickory dickory dock. "Life, you're but a mouse's scurry…"

Who cares about her charming hands! Who needs her bed's warm heat Come on, brother, let's retreat, Let's soar above the sands!

… Benedikt returned to the sleigh. The Degenerator looked at him questioningly. Benedikt stuck out his leg and kicked him. He kicked Terenty Petrovich until his foot was numb.

ER

There's a good rule: Don't let a pig into the house, he'll get used to it. The dog in the yard likes the doghouse just fine. Let him stay there and guard his master.

If some Golubchik takes pity on him and lets him into the house for the winter-"Oh, the poor mutt is freezing," or something like that-the dog will never go back to the doghouse, it has already taken a fancy to life in the izba. As soon as you turn around, it will weasel its way back in.

It's a scientific rule, true for all creatures. The same for Degenerators. Where is the Degenerator's place? In the sty. Because he's a pig and swine should stay in the pigpen, the very name tells you that.

Take Teterya, for instance: he was let in people's houses a couple of times. First Nikita Ivanich got out of line, sat him down at the table, and asked his opinions about things. Then Benedikt had to call him in at Varvara's that time-out of spiritual distress, he forgot himself. So the Degenerator developed a taste for it, and now he rushed in whenever he could.

At first he looked for excuses to help carry something, open the door, pay Mother-in-law or Olenka compliments. Then he started coming to the kitchen with his advice. You know, he'd say, I have a first-class recipe for drying marshrooms. Marshrooms, no less! We've been drying marshrooms since the time of Tsar Gorokh, we're still drying them, and will be drying them until the Last Days come! You just string them up on a thread and dry them! Nothing science can add to it!

Then he pretended that he wanted to hear Father-in-law's instructions: how to put on the sleigh bells so that they ring louder, so that there was more sound from them when you ride. What songs it was best to sing along the way: merry or melancholy. Then, before you knew it, he was the senior Degenerator, and he started shouting out orders himself: Hey, clean up that dung over there. Next thing he was making himself at home in the house. All you heard was: Terenty Petrovich this, Terenty Petro-vich that.