Free The Slynx by Tatyana Tolstaya Page B

as rain! You hit the nail on the head! You're right on target, you hit the bull's eye! That's it, that's how things are!"
    "What are paintings?" Olenka spoke up.
    Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, turned again, and looked at her.
    "You just wait and see. I have a surprise for you. It's sort of like a drawing, but painted. I thought up one funny picture, hilariously funny. One Golubchik is eating a mouse, and another, you see, is walking into the izba. And the one who's eating, he hides the mouse so that the other guy doesn't steal it, yes siree. I'll call it The Aristocrat's Breakfast, that's it. I thought up another one too. I painted one painting, I called it The Demon, but it didn't turn out too well, so I brushed over it with a lot of blue paint, yes siree, I did ... So I'm thinking of giving it to you here in the Work Izba. You can hang it up somewhere, why should it lake up space at my house." And he waved his hand at the servants: "Bring it here."
    One of them fumbled under his coat and brought out a birch-bark box. He took a cloth out of the box and unfolded it--it was kind of like a scroll--maybe birch bark, maybe not, a bit whiter. Very, very thin. Folded in fours. He unfolded it, and there, bright as could be, was the picture; they looked at it and you couldn't tell what it was painted with, and sure enough it was all blue. They handed it to Fyodor Kuzmich; he smoothed it out with his enormous hands and gave it back: "Who's in charge here? Hang it on the wall."
    Konstantin Leontich had just taken the gag out of his mouth
    --he'd almost come to his senses. He shouted "Thank you" louder than anyone, in a high voice like a goat, very loud and right in Benedikt's ear, downright deafening, dammit. Benedikt didn't know what to think: the first fresh fear had receded, and in its place he felt glum. He should feel more awe, he thought, but somehow he didn't. Everything felt all wrong. Now, if he prostrated himself on the ground, stood on all fours, his knees bent and his hands stretched out in front and to the sides, and beat his forehead on the floor--that would be better. That's why they thought it up. When you do that, the awe just spurts out of you like a burp; like what happens sometimes if you eat too much marinated horsetail--your stomach burns and grabs you, and from inside your throat bubbles keep bubbling up. But what thrill could there be sitting on a stool? You're on the same level with the Greatest Murza. He seems just like you, a simple Gol-ubchik: you sit there, and he sits there; he says something, you say something. That's no way to go about things. A kind of insolence and envy get born inside you: Hey, Murza, what are you doing sitting on Olenka's lap? Go on, get off. Or else I'll let you have it. You start thinking thoughts like that and it's downright scary! What on earth was he thinking just now about Fyodor Kuzmich? What's happening?
    Then Varvara Lukinishna spoke up timidly. "Fyodor Kuzmich, I wanted to ask ... In your poetry, the image of the steed frequently appears. Can you please explain what a steed is?"
    "Hunh?" asked Fyodor Kuzmich.
    "A steed ..."
    Fyodor Kuzmich smiled and shook his head. "So you can't do it yourself. .. Can't figure it out. Hmmm ... Come on, now, who wants to take a guess?"
    "A mouse," Benedikt said hoarsely, although he had sworn he'd be quiet: he felt all mixed up inside.
    "There you go, Golubushka. You see? The Golubchik here managed to do it."
    "And a winged steed?" Varvara Lukinishna asked in a worried voice.
    Fyodor Kuzmich frowned and shook his arms. "A bat."
    "And how to understand: 'He brushed the steed with a curry'?"
    "Well, now, Golubushka, you wouldn't eat a mouse raw, would you? You'd skin him, isn't that right? If you wanted to whip up a souffle or a blancmange, you'd clean him, right? If, for example, you got it into your head to make the mouse into petit-fri a la mode with nut mousse, or to bake it in a bechamel sauce with croutons. Or you might catch a lot of