The Slynx by Tatyana Tolstaya Page B

get him. Usually in the evening. Es-
    pecially in autumn, and almost every day in winter. But it happens in summer too.
    In the evening, when the sun starts to set beyond the wavy fields, beyond the blue mountains, beyond the far woods where no one walks--as soon as the long shadows fall and the silence comes down, that's when it happens. You're sitting on the porch, smoking, arguing with your neighbors. Gnats are swarming in the air. All the birds, all the forest scaries have settled down. Like someone walked by and wagged a finger at them. Then they start up again suddenly, but with different voices, night voices. From the groves you hear a rustling, a coo-booing, a squelching, and sometimes something whirtles or meows in a nasty way.
    The neighbors say: "It's a mermaid, damn it."
    And others: "Yeah, sure. It's a woodsucker, she has a nest over there."
    Then some stupid woman will croak: "Maybe it's a blindlie bird."
    Everyone yells at her: "What an idiot! A blindlie. A blindlie doesn't have a voice, that's why he's a blindlie!"
    The silly woman opens her mouth again: "Maybe he's blind, but he has a voice like a horn, I can hear it, I'm not deaf."
    Everyone: "He can see blind better than you can! He sees what he needs to see! His claws are where he's strong, not his voice!"
    The man of the house--the woman's husband--says to her: "All right, woman, you've had your gabble--go on, now. Go cook something. You've started thinking too much."
    Everything's like always: people are chattering, speaking their minds, discussifying about nature. And Benedikt suddenly feels queasy. Like somewhere here, in the middle, heartburn is fixing to bubble up hot. Around it, like a ring, there's a kind of cold. And there's an unease in his back. And a pulling on his ears. And his spit's bitter.
    If you complain, they say: "That's the Slynx staring at your back."
    No. Not likely. Couldn't be. It's something slinking around on the inside, or maybe, like Nikita Ivanich says, it's feelosophy.
    You look at people--men, women--like you're seeing them for the first time, like you're a different creature, or you just came out of the forest, or the other way around, you just walked into the forest. And everything seems strange, sad and strange. Take that woman. You think: What's she for? She's got cheeks, a stomach, she bats her eyes, she's talking about something. Turning her head, smacking her lips, and what's inside her? A meaty darkness, squeaking bones, strings of guts, and nothing else. She laughs, she's scared, she frowns--but does she really have any feelings? Thoughts? What if she's just pretending to be a woman and she's really a swamp monster? Like the ones that hoot in the bushes, crackle the old leaves, creak the branches, but never show themselves. What if you went over to check? You could set your fingers like horns and poke her in the eyes. What would happen? Plunk. She'd fall, right?
    You wouldn't get away without a fuss, the men would give you a thrashing, they wouldn't care that you're a government Scribe, an official Golubchik--they'd beat you black and blue, and if some Lesser Murza started asking questions, they'd swear up and down that that's how you were, that your blue face was just a plain old Consequence, that your parents had the same ugly mugs, and your grandmother too.
    Today, for instance, toward evening, right at work, who knows why, feelosophy suddenly churned up inside Benedikt. Dimly, like a shadow under the water, something in his heart started to turn, to torment and call him. But where? Hard to say. There was a tingling in his back, and he felt tears rise. It was either like you were fixing to get good and mad, or wanted to fly. Or get married.
    He couldn't get the Gingerbread Man out of his head. What a scary story. He sang and sang ... He ran and he ran and he ran . .. You can't catch him, he's the Gingerbread Man ... And then he got caught. Snap.
    It was Varvara Lukinishna with all her vague talk too. She's gotta