"Jeez!… And you, Papa, you just plain stink!"

"Oh, so that's it, is it? Come on, then," Father-in-law jumped across the table in one leap, knocking over the dishes. He grabbed Benedikt by the neck with his strong, cold hands. "Come on, let me hear that again! Say it again-again I say! I'll teach you to-"

And, squinting his eyes, he began to burn Benedikt with a chill, yellow, scratching sort of flame.

"Enough of this outrageous behavior! And in front of the children!" Mother-in-law cried out.

"Control yourself, Papa!"

"What are you?… You're just a…a…a… you're the Slynx, that's who you are!!!" cried Benedikt, scaring himself- words just fly out of your mouth and then you can't catch them. He was scared, but he shouted, "Slynx, Slynx!"

"Me? Me?" laughed Father-in-law, suddenly loosening his fingers and letting go. "Nanny nanny foo foo, you got it wrong. You're the one who's the Slynx."

"Me?!?!?"

"Who else? Pushkin? You! You're the one and only…" Father-in-law laughed, shook his head, stretched his stiff fingers, and put out the light in his eyes-only reddish glints flickered in the round eyeballs. "Go take a look at yourself in the water… in the water… hee, hee, hee… Yes, the Slynx, that's just who you are… No need to be frightened… no need… We're among friends…"

Mother-in-law laughed too, Olenka giggled, and Terenty

Petrovich-san grinned. The children stopped scratching the floor, raised their flat heads, and shrieked.

"Just look at yourself in the water…"

He ran out of the room. The family's laughter followed him.

What are they saying! What did they mean! Here's the storehouse, here's a barrel of water. Blocking the light with his hands, he looked into the dark, slimy-smelling water. No, it was all lies. Lies!!! It was hard to see, but you could tell: his head was round, though his hair had thinned; his ears were in place, his beard, nose, eyes. No, I'm a human! A human is what I am!… That's right! To hell with you!

He rinsed his face in the barrel: the skin smarted where Father-in-law had burned it with his rays, and it felt rough to the touch, like it was covered with tiny blisters or a rash. He suddenly felt nauseated, as though he'd eaten cheese. He ran to the door and vomited his guts out. Something yellow. Must be the canaries. He'd eaten too many canaries. Ugh, he felt weak.

… He should take a walk, no? Get some fresh air. He hadn't walked anywhere in ages. From the city gates. Hiss to the guard. Walk to the hills. To the river. Over the bridge-into the forest, and farther, farther, till he was up to his knees, waist, shoulders in grass, to the place where there are flowers and flies, a hidden glade, and a honey-sweet wind, and the white bird… That's right, just wait…

He trudged on, shuffling along in his lapty on weakened, sickly feet. He suddenly understood clearly that it was all in vain. There isn't any glade or any bird. The glade was trampled, the tulips torn up, and the Princess Bird, well, she was caught long ago in the snare and ground into meat patties. He ate them himself. He himself slept on pillows of snowy, lacy feathers.

He knew, but he walked on, almost indifferently, like just before death, or just after death-when everything has already happened and you can't fix anything. He plodded past fields planted with bluish turnips, along ravines with their piles of red clay, across canals and pools with worrums. He climbed up the hills with difficulty, slipping on overgrown marshrooms. From the hills you could see far, far away: fields and then more fields, with weeded and unweeded turnips, and new ravines, and dark patches of woods where the blindlie bird hides, and the unbelievably far-off oak groves with their firelings, and then more fields as far as the eye could see. The wind of his homeland blew brisk and warm, grayish clouds turned the heavenly vaults murky, and on the horizon, like a deep blue wall, stood dark clouds ready to sob with summer downpours.

In thickets of brittle August horsetail he found a mirror of dark water, and took another good look at his reflection. He touched his ears. Regular ears. The family's talking nonsense. Nonsense. He patted his cheeks-his palms were covered with pus from the burst blisters. His palms were normal too, rough; across his entire palm and his fingers was a wide callus from the hook. He took off one of his lapty and checked his feet. His feet were just plain feet too: white on top and dark underneath from the dirt, that's what a foot is for. He checked his stomach. Rear end. No tail or…

Wait. Just a minute. The tail. There had been a tail. Jeez, there was a tail. But people weren't supposed to have… So what did that?…

He vomited again, more canaries. No, I'm not the Slynx. No!!!

… No, you're the Slynx.

No!

… Just think about it…

No! I don't want to! That's not the way things happen! I'll go back right now, I'll run home to my bed, to my rumpled warmth, to my beautiful books, to my books where there are roads, steeds, islands, conversations, children with sleds, verandahs of colored glass, beauties with clean hair, birds with pure eyes!

"Ah, Benedikt, why did you eat meat patties made from my white body?"

I didn't mean to, no, no, no, I didn't mean to, they just kept stuffing me, I only wanted spiritual food-they stuffed me full, caught me, confused me, stared at my back! It was all the… it never rests… It crept up behind me-and its ears were flattened, and it was crying, and it wrinkled up its pale face, and licked my neck with its cold lips, and searched with its claw, looking to hook the vein. Yes, it's the Slynx! It ruined me, aaa… aaa… aaa, ruined me! Maybe I'm only imagining, maybe I'm really lying in my own izba in a fever, in Mother's izba; maybe Mother is leaning over me, shaking me by the shoulder: wake up, wake up, you were screaming in your sleep, Good Lord, you're all wet, wake up, son!

I only wanted books-nothing more-only books, only words, it was never anything but words-give them to me, I don't have any! Look, see, I don't have any! Look, I'm naked, barefoot, I'm standing before you-nothing in my pants pockets, nothing under my shirt or under my arm! They're not stuck in my beard! Inside-look-there aren't any inside either- everything's been turned inside out, there's nothing there! Only guts! I'm hungry! I'm tormented!…

What do you mean there's nothing? Then how can you talk and cry, what words are you frightened with, which ones do you call out in your sleep? Don't nighttime cries roam inside you, a thudding twilight murmur, a fresh morning shriek? There they are, words-don't you recognize them? They're writhing inside you, trying to get out! There they are! They're yours! From wood, stone, roots, growing in strength, a dull mooing and whining in the gut is trying to get out; a piece of tongue curls, the torn nostrils swell in torment. That's how the bewitched, beaten, and twisted snuffle with a mangy wail, their boiled white eyes locked up in closets, their vein torn out, backbone gnawed; that's right, that's how your pushkin writhed, or mushkin-what is in my name for you?-pushkin-mushkin, flung upon the hillock like a shaggy black idol, forever flattened by fences, up to his ears in dill, the pushkin-stump, legless, six-fingered, biting his tongue, nose in his chest-and his head can't be raised! -pushkin, tearing off the poisoned shirt, ropes, chains, caftan, noose, that wooden heaviness: let me out, let me out! What is in my name for you? Why does the wind spin in the gully? How many roads must a man walk down? What do you want, old man? Why do you trouble me? My Lord, what is the matter? Ennui, oh, Nina! Grab the inks and cry! Open the dungeon wide! I'm here! I'm innocent! I'm with you! I'm with you!

Soaking wet from his head to his soggy shoes, Benedikt banged on the doors of the Red Terem, knowing they wouldn't let him in, that they'd deliberately bolted the doors, that they knew how to get to him. It was pouring, as it does only in August, in a stormy, foamy surge that washed the yards clean of trash, kindling, and peelings. The murky foam swirled with rags and carried them under the gates to the streets and out of the settlement. Way up high Olenka opened a window, screamed a curse, threw out a dozen books-there, go read!-and slammed the shutters. Benedikt rushed to save them, he picked them up and wiped them off-he ought to kill the bitch. But then another window opened and this time Terenty Petrovich, the Minister of Oil and Refineries, tossed out pristine white books with pictures bound with thin, delicate paper over them, the rarest of books… Benedikt couldn't grab them all and the treasures splatted into the swirl of rubbish, squelched, and floated off, spinning… and then Kudeyar Kudeyarich began to fling other incomparable items to their death from the top floor, one after the other. Benedikt didn't wait for the end, there was no end in sight; the flattened faces of Bubble and Concordia already hung out of the window, the children held packets of journals in their hands; Mother-in-law loomed behind them holding their sashes. He got it. He understood. It's a choice. Come on, now, who would you save from a burning building? He made his choice right away.