The Slynx

by Tatyana Tolstaya

Give black rabbit meat a good soaking, bring it to boil seven times, set it in the sun for a week or two, then steam it in the oven—and it won’t kill you. That is, if you catch a female. Because the male, boiled or not, it doesn’t matter. People didn’t used to know this, they were hungry and ate the males too. But now they know: if you eat the males you’ll be stuck with a wheezing and a gurgling in your chest the rest of your life. Your legs will wither. Thick black hairs will grow like crazy out of your ears and you’ll stink to high heaven.

Well this book is going to be uncomfortable

Now the whole settlement locked their doors with sticks. It might be Freethinking.

When you go to the Warehouse your eyes nearly pop out of your head from looking at who got what, how much, and why not me?

Mother picked some fakes and poisoned herself. Or else she’d be alive right now. Two hundred and thirty-three years Mother lived on this earth. And she didn’t grow old. They laid her in the grave just as black-haired and pink-cheeked as ever. That’s the way it is: whoever didn’t croak when the Blast happened, doesn’t grow old after that. That’s the Consequence they have. Like something in them got stuck. But you can count them on the fingers of one hand. They’re all in the wet ground: some ruined by the Slynx, some poisoned by rabbits, Mother here, by firelings . . .

Benedikt sometimes asked Mother: How come the Blast happened? She didn’t really know. It seems like people were playing around and played too hard with someone’s arms.

Who thought up sleighs? Fyodor Kuzmich. Who got the idea to carve wheels out of wood? Fyodor Kuzmich. He taught us to make stone pots, catch mice and make soup. He gave us counting and writing, letters big and small, taught us to tear off bark, sew booklets together, boil ink from swamp rusht, split sticks for writing and dip them in the ink.

Nikita Ivanich goes on the same way: he doesn’t get it, but sure knows how to talk. Once he said: There isn’t any Slynx, it’s nothing but human ignorance. How d’ya like that? And who rips people’s veins out? Who sucks the lifeblood out of the neck? Tell me! And if you don’t know, then shut your trap.

So sometimes you have a good fight, even to the death, or you just break a few arms and legs, punch out an eye or something. Because it’s your neighbor.

“Just try it. You people eat mice and worms, and then you’re surprised to see so many mutants.”

Everything you could want. Everything. And still, something’s missing. Something gnaws, gnaws at you. . . . Is it riches I covet? . . . Or freedom? Or I’m scared of death? Where is it I want to go?

And why is the Slynx scarier than dying? Because if you die, well, that’s it—you’re dead. You’re gone. But if the Slynx spoils you—you have to go on living with it. But how? What do they think about, the Spoiled Ones? What do they feel inside? Hunh?

Just as Benedikt thought, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, was a real ladies’ man. The women at work were happy: no one could say a harsh word to them, or kick them, or pull their ears, or whack them upside the head, everyone congratulated them.

“And what now?” “Now? Nothing, simply now you know.” “What for?” “Well, I mean, I thought . . .” “Why think? I want to live.”

Important

And Nikita Ivanich said: You’re right, young fellow, those are the words of a real man, not a boy. But what I mean is that I hope for the resurrection of the spiritual! It’s time! I hope for brotherhood, love, beauty. Justice. Mutual respect. Lofty aspirations. I want thoughtful, honest labor, hand in hand, to replace brawls and altercations. I want the fire of love for one’s fellow man to burn in the soul.

Of course, if someone hurts me or my body, it’s not funny. I get mad, no kidding. But that’s if it’s me. If it’s someone else, it’s funny. Why? Because me—that’s me; and him—that’s not me, it’s him. But the Oldeners say: Oh, horrors! How could you! And they don’t understand that if everything went their way, no one would ever laugh or have any fun, we’d all just sit at home all gloom and doom and there wouldn’t be any adventures, or dancing, or squealing women.

Under the table he saw the father’s feet in their lapty. And through the lapty he saw claws. Long ones, gray and sharp. Olenka’s father was scraping the floor with those claws and had already scraped up a huge pile of shavings—they lay there like hair or light-colored, curly straw. Benedikt looked and saw that the mother had claws. Olenka too. But hers were smaller. There was a small pile of scrapings under her.

Benedikt just wanted to take the book away. Because society is backward, the people live in the darkness of ignorance, they’re superstitious, they keep books under the bed, or even bury them in damp holes. You can destroy a book this way.

“That’s right, but the irony is that —” “The irony is that there isn’t any West.” “What do you mean there isn’t any West!” snapped Lev Lvovich. “There’s always a West.” “But we don’t know anything about it.” “No, no, no. Excuse me! You and I know. It’s just that they don’t know anything about us.”

What do you mean, don’t? It says: Books shouldn’t be kept at home, and whoever keeps them shouldn’t hide them, and whoever hides them should be treated.

“Even if it’s a thousand, it hardly matters. You don’t really know how to read, books are of no use to you. They’re just empty page-turning, a collection of letters. You haven’t learned the alphabet of life. Of life, do you hear me?”

And why is it that spiritual life is called a higher life? It’s because you put books up as high as you can, on the top floor, on a shelf, so that if misfortune strikes and the vermin get into the house, the treasure will be safer. That’s why!

“An oath?” “Yep. For eternal friendship.” “Well . . . all right.” “I gave you everything. I gave you my daughter—if you want, I’ll let you have my wife.” “Uh, that won’t be n-n-n-necessary. We need Kant in our hearts and a peaceful sky above our heads. There’s a law like that,” Benedikt remembered.

This step father story is out there

“Why tremble?” asked Fyodor Kuzmich, as he realized what was happening. He screwed up his face and began to cry. “What are you going to do to me?” “Your unjust rule has ended! You tormented the people—and that’s enough of that! Now we’ll give you a taste of the hook!” “I don’t want the hook, I don’t. It huuurts!”

Lol

“Because! That’s how revolution is always done: first the tyrant is overthrown, then the new Boss of everything is named, and then come civil liberties.”

“Of the People!” came the cry from the entryway. It seemed to be Lev Lvovich shouting. They’d barely had time to overthrow the tyrant and here petitioners were already besieging them. The rumor must’ve got around. That’s the people for you! Won’t give you a minute of peace!

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 .