Benedikt was furious. He stomped, he pleaded, he shamed, he argued, he threatened, he dragged Teterya around by the sleeve. No, Benya, leave him be, what would we do without Terenty Petrovich? He fetches, and carries, and entertains, and whips up a great potato casserole, and compliments rosy cheeks and white face paint too.

He'd see Olenka in her curlers, slathered in sour cream, and would say, as if to himself, like he couldn't help it: "Holy Toledo! What a beautiful woman!"

He'd drive the sleigh with a whistle and a song; he braided the reins, decorated the harness strap with birch pictures; he fastened a picture of an idol right in the middle-a fellow with mustaches on both sides; to the right a naked woman with tits, to the left a sign: "Terenty Petrovich Golovatykh: at your service." He invited Olenka to admire it, and Olenka immediately said: "That's it, Benedikt. This is my sleigh! You take another one." Benedikt spat, but he gave her the sleigh and Teterya with it-he was so mad he didn't even feel like kicking him.

Benedikt was given a Degenerator named Joachim, an old man who wheezed and coughed: everything in his chest squealed and bleated, rattled and whistled; he could barely drag his legs along. He'd drive the length of two fences and stop: "Oh, Lord Almighty, heavenly queen… Our sins weigh heavy… If only the Lord would call me to him…"

And he'd cough… with a rattle, a wet cough; then he'd clear his throat and spit; not even the whip could get him going until he'd spat out everything.

"Heavenly mother… and the forty sainted martyrs… you've forgotten me… Oh, saint Nikolai… for my terrible sins…"

"Come on, Grandpa, get a move on! You can spit at home!"

"Oh, why won't death come?… the Lord is wrathful…"

"Let's have a song! A spirited one!"

"Chriiiiist is riiiiisen from the deeeeeeead…"

It was embarrassing: What if someone he knew saw him? Would he start to grin? Hey, looky there, look at Benedikt! What kind of old nag has he got? Where do they find them like that? Or even worse they'd give him a nickname!

And just as he'd feared, that's what happened. He was driving Joachim past the pushkin-he wanted to see how it was holding up-and right at that very moment Nikita Ivanich was climbing up on our be all and end all and untying another laundry line from his neck. He saw the whole shameful thing and sure enough, he shouted: "Benedikt, you should be ashamed of yourself!!! To drive an old man like that!! Just remember whose son you are!!! Polina Mikhailovna's!!! What on earth are you thinking of? You'll get there faster on foot!!!"

It was so humiliating, Benedikt turned away and pretended that he didn't see, didn't hear, and complained to Father-in-law when he got home. Oldeners are pointing at me, I should be going along at a good clip, I'll shame my mother's memory! Give Teterya back, to hell with him! But Teterya was already busy with other work. He'd been promoted to kitchen help; he was cleaning turnips, plucking chickens, and making beet salad.

So they gave Benedikt the most plain, ordinary sort of De-generator: no peculiarities. His name was Nikolai.

Olenka stuffed the pillows with white fluff; it was much softer to lie on. He didn't have to work at all: no chopping, no hewing. He didn't have to walk either-I'll take the sleigh. Food? Eat whenever you please. So Benedikt filled out, he bloated, his features swam. He grew heavier. Not even so much from food as from heavy thoughts. It was like his soul had been stuffed with rags, snippets of cloth and lint: it was hot, itchy, and stifling. Lie down or stand up, no peace to be found.

There must be some books somewhere. There must be.

He went out into the yard, on the greengrass-it had only just begun to push up through the snow-to give his arms a workout. That way, if they had to confiscate something, his hands and arms would be light, deft, and agile. The hook wouldn't stick, it would fly, and he wouldn't be able to tell where his arm ended and the hook began.

Father-in-law kept reproaching him, saying Benedikt was clumsy, that he'd done that Golubchik in. Father-in-law would meet him in the hallway and shake his head regretfully: ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay…

"I mean, why is it a hook? It's a hook because it isn't a spear! It has a certain line, my dear boy, see? It curves! And why? Because humane treatment is important to us in our profession. A long time ago, of course, the regime was stricter. The least little thing, a short conversation and then pop! That was the end of it. In those days, needless to say, a spear was handier. But now we take a different approach: a little crookedness, a little bending, because we don't kill them, we treat them. There's a lot of backwardness in society-I explained it all to you, remember? Art is being destroyed. If not for you and me, who would stand up for art? Who? Well, there you go."

"But Papa, art requires sacrifices," Olenka would say, standing up for Benedikt.

"The first blin is always lumpy," Mother-in-law comforted.

"There you go, talking about bliny again! How come you only talk about one thing: bliny and more bliny!…" Benedikt wasn't listening, he walked out, turning over the heavy thoughts in his head. Whistling to Nikolai, he plopped into the sleigh like a sack of potatoes: "To the market!" he said, leaving his robe on, just pushing the hood back. Red, bulky, gloomy, he wandered past the booths where the Lesser Murzas displayed their birch books, their clumsy, messy homemade booklets. People fell silent, terrified when Benedikt tromped through with a heavy step and heavy thoughts on his brow, dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights, overfed jowls and a strangling collar. He knew he was scary-so be it. He took a booklet and flipped the pages disdainfully-the Murza started to say he had to pay first but Benedikt gave him such a look that he didn't open his mouth again.

He'd read it. And this one? What was this? He'd read it, the whole thing, not excerpts like here.

"Where's the whole text? The whole story should be here, thieves!" he screeched at a Murza who sat there like a shriveled old sparrow. He poked his fat finger at the bark. "Even here you stole something, what kind of people are you! Here you leave out a chapter, there you break off mid-word, and in another place you mix up the lines!"

"The government doesn't have enough bark," muttered one frightened Murza, "there's not enough people to do the work-"

"Quiiiiii-et!"

Sometimes he would find something he hadn't read: rusty looking scribbles, bent lines, mistakes on every page. Reading something like that was like eating dirt and rocks. He took it. It made him feel sick, he despised himself, but he took it.

In the evening, leaning over, running his finger over the potholes and ruts of the bark, moving his lips, he made out the words; his eyes had grown unaccustomed to script, he stumbled sometimes. His eyes wanted the straight, fleet, clear, clean black-and-white page of Oldenprint books. A careless Scribe, it seems, had copied out this one-there were blotches and smudges. If he could find out who it was he'd have their head in a barrel!

Our eyes were glued to the tribune, (blotch) Our ears discerned amid the silence of the state, The final, equitable weighing of the summary Where all divisions add up to the century!

Blotch…

Blotch… and cannot lock our feelings up, remote. Conferred upon us by Party Card and heart, (blotch) Is the decisive power of the vote!

Well? The poetry was worth a mouse and a half, maximum, and they get twelve. There's thievery here too. True, Benedikt didn't pay. They just gave it to him.

He tried rereading the old books, but it wasn't the same. No emotion, no trembling or anticipation of things to come. You always knew what happened next; if a book is new, unread, you break into a sweat just wondering: Will he catch up or not? What will her answer be? Will he find the treasure or will thieves get it first? But the second time around your eyes pass lamely over the lines. You know: he'll find it; he'll catch him; they'll get married; he'll strangle her. Whatever.