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. "We didn't have time to catch our breath," she would say. And she'd cry. "We lived better back then." And the old man-he was born after the Blast-would blow up at her: "Cut out all that Oldener Times stuff! The way we live is the way we live! It's none of our beeswax."

Mother would say: "Neanderthal! Stone Age brute!"

Then he'd grab her by the hair. She'd scream, call on the neighbors, but you wouldn't hear a peep out of them: it's just a husband teaching his wife a lesson. None of our business. A broken dish has two lives. And why did he get mad at her? Well, she was still young and looking younger all the time, and he was fading; he started limping, and he said his eyes saw everything like it was in dark water.

Mother would say to him: "Don't you dare lay a finger on me! I have a university education!"

And he'd answer: "I'll give you an ejucayshin! I'll beat you to a pulp. Gave our son a dog's name, you did, so the whole settlement would talk about him!"

And such a cussing would go on, such a squabbling-he wouldn't shut up till his whole beard was in a slobber. He was a hard one, the old man. He'd bark, and then he'd get tuckered; he'd pour himself a bucket of hooch and drink himself senseless. And Mother would smooth her hair, straighten her hem, take Benedikt by the hand, and lead him to the high hill over the river; he already knew that was where she used to live, before the Blast. Mother's five-story izba stood there, and Mother would tell about how there were higher mansions, there weren't enough fingers to count them.