by V. Kaselnikov
translated and edited by David Williams
Chapter Six
Grandfather was in a very good mood that night. Vanya, that old viper, had arrived at around nine, bearing three bottles of Lithuanian vodka, a case of French cigarettes, and some fine dark bread, the spoils from an early evening bout with the dice. The promise of tobacco and good vodka actually got the old man out of his bed, and he managed to work his bent and withered body into the only comfortable chair in the apartment. Grandfather didn't move that often, but a visit from his friend always got his blood moving just a little.
They started in on the bottle immediately, and the room filled with the sweet pungency of decent tobacco. They pressured me into joining them, but the day at the plant hadn't been an easy one. and I was in no mood to share in their poison. Anyway, Marina would have killed me if she'd gotten home from her shift to find all of us drunk, with no one to mind the children. She was strange that way, and when it came to Liza and Mikhael, she could burn like the fires of hell. So I demurred. In no mood for weakness or excuses, Vanya taunted me mercilessly.
"So, Kolya," he said to Grandfather, flicking his gaze at me, his tongue tightly between his teeth, "did you say you had raised a son? Or do you own a frightened little cat? Puss puss puss." I shook my head. He made a show of picking his teeth, making sure I could see each of them as he cleaned and scraped, his mouth contorted. They were fine, strong teeth, and white, and oddly pointed. "Boy," he hissed, as Grandfather grinned approvingly. "You won't share a drink with your comrade? Why make us feel out of sorts? Why be such an unfriendly creature? That plump little bitch of yours must have you under her spell. She's got you hooked, that one. She .... ·
"Enough," barked Grandfather, his eyes glistening with a rheumy intensity. "That wench gave me the little ones. Flesh of my flesh she bore and suckled. She's one of us, Vanya, you know what I mean, so leave her alone. Useless old sot." He grinned, and downed a glass of vodka. "You can mock my boy .. .it's good for him. But leave the little mother alone. She works to feed me. She's washed me and wiped my ass during this sickness ... remember?"
"Papa!" I groaned.
Vanya nodded in grudging surrender. '"Yah, Kolya, you old fool. She's got you too."
Grandfather's thin smile cut across his face. "Oh yes. Oh yes. A miracle that this boy could find such a proud hellcat." He grinned mischievously at me. "She's got a strong heart, boy. Reminds me of your mother. Reminds me ... " He paused, and let out a halting breath, almost a sob. Then he coughed, again and again, and his face grew red, and his eyes watered. I placed my hand on his shoulder, holding his wasted, bony frame until the fit passed. He finally stopped, and looked at me with a tight, defiant glare.
"Vanya," croaked Grandfather, weakly. He extended his arm. With a ritual intensity, the vodka exchanged hands, and then returned, and then back again. We sat in silence for several long minutes, and then the first bottle was dry.
Vanya had just finished belching when little Liza opened the door to the room where the four of us slept. She came through the door, stopped, and turned to wait for her younger brother. Mikhael followed a few moments later, nervously taking Liza's outstretched hand, his big dark eyes showing a mix of fear and fatigue. Together they walked up to our little group.
"Hello, Grandfather," said Liza matter-of-factly. "Are you alright?" Her eyes narrowed. and a slight smile crossed her pale face. She could seem oddly wise, disconcertingly so for an eight-year old.
Grandfather's face, ruddy from the vodka and the coughing spasm, came alive with drunken intensity. "Sweet little Liza! My little Mika! Beloved jewels! I feel wonderful. And do you know why?"
"Why, Grandfather?" asked Liza softly, as Mikhael peered around her.
"Because you are my joy, little Liza. You too, Mika. You both bring a bit of wonder to this old corpse." He reached out a hand and touched her plump cheek with two fingers. then placed his hand softly on Mika's head. "I could not possibly be happier than when you two are here. Do you know that?"
"Yes, Grandfather," said Liza, her strange aloofness gone. Mika ran around her, placed his little head against Grandfather's prematurely gnarled leg, then looked sweetly up at him, flashing a smile full of little nub teeth. "Can you tell us a story?" he whispered. "We will have to go to bed soon, so can you tell us a story before bed? Please can we have a story? Please can we?"
Vanya sat back, his drawn face gleaming with a sharp, hungry smile. He opened the second bottle, and passed it to Grandfather. "Tell us a story, old one," he purred. "Oh, we do want a story."
"Alright," said Grandfather, sipping from his full glass. "But I need to know what kind of story you want to hear. A good story should answer a question. Do you have any questions?" He looked blearily at Liza.
Vanya's smile turned wicked, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Grandfather flashed him a dangerous glare, and Vanya held his tongue. Liza thought for a moment.
"Grandfather," she said. tilting her head to one side. "Why is the Neva brown? Isn't water supposed to be clear? Why does it smell so horrible?"
"Ah," Grandfather exhaled slowly. "Ah." His eyes closed, and his head rolled slowly back. He opened his mouth slowly, sensually, and poured the rest of the vodka in his glass down his throat. He lowered his head, and opened his eyes to gaze upon his grandchildren. "That, my sweet little ones, is an old story. A terrible, terrible tale of horror and revenge," He shook his head sadly, but a teasing look was in his eye. "I don't know if you're old enough to hear it. You might not understand it, or if you do, it might give you nightmares. I know your mother would not approve." With that, he winked slyly at me. "I shouldn't tell it to you ... no, I really shouldn't."
There would be no stopping him.
"Please. Grandfather,” begged Liza. "I'm a big girl. I'll understand, and I won't be afraid."
"Me too,” chimed Mika. "I won't be afraid."
"Ah." Grandfather looked at the little round faces and the big pleading eyes, and, with a show of mock reluctance, caved to their demands. "Alright. I'll tell you the story of Prince Vol and the poor cook." He extended his empty glass to Vanya. "Some fuel for the fire, brother?" Vanya obliged him, and Grandfather began.
"It was many, many years ago, in the time of the Tsars. Not far from Saint Petersburg there lived a Prince named Volodnya Ivanovich, who was the Tsar's third cousin. Prince Vol lived alone, with a hundred servants, in a small estate 10 kilometers from the summer palace, right on the Neva, just a couple of miles past the monastery.
He loved to eat. He ate constantly. He was always hungry. He'd eat ten eggs for breakfast, with bacon and sausage and potatoes. For lunch, he would eat pheasant and chicken, and for dinner rich roast beef and sweet desserts. He kept ten cooks working night and day in the huge kitchens on his estate, just to feed him and the nobles he invited to his house every night. At that time, there were many peasants in the villages nearby who went hungry every night, many little children whose bellies growled through the night so they couldn't sleep.
The Prince didn't care about any of them. When his feasts and banquets were over, he would throw the scraps .. enough to feed a village, sometimes ... he would throw some of the scraps to his dogs. He'd have his servants bury the rest, for he only fed his dogs just enough to keep them alive. The prince kept a huge pack of 40 wolfhounds for when he went hunting, and to keep them mean, he would starve them and beat them, until they were so hungry and angry that they would attack anything that moved. At night, their howls could be heard far and wide.
Strangely, though, he was a tall, skinny, skeleton of a man. Although he ate enough every day to feed ten working men for a week, he never gained weight, or grew strong. He was pale and weak. The old women in a nearby village said that he had made a pact with the Devil to keep himself from becoming huge and fat like a cow.
Prince Vol also needed to be clean all of the time. He hated anything even a little bit dirty. Now, its good not to smell, and to make sure your hands are clean before you eat. But for the prince, any dirt at all made him crazy. Every day, he took five baths. He dressed all in white, and wore white gloves, which he checked constantly for dirt. When a tiny speck of dirt got on his clothes, he'd change at once, and have the clothes burnt. He kept his servants cleaning and scrubbing and dusting night and day. If he found even a speck of dust on the floor, or a leaf blown in by the wind, he would fly into a rage. Almost every day, he would beat some poor servant girl for having missed some tiny corner of a room."
"That's terrible," said Liza with an angry frown. "What a terrible thing!"
"It is, my little one," whispered Grandfather. "It is. Prince Vol was a terrible man. Now, in the service of the prince was a poor young cook named Mika. Mika was a very talented man, and he was known as the best cook for a hundred kilometers around. He was so good that he could make a boiled potato taste wonderful. He was a genius. Still, there was little work for a man of his talents, so he had to work in the kitchens of the prince. The prince paid his servants very little, so Mika, the great cook, had to struggle and work all day long just to buy dry, stale bread and yams for his small family.
Mika had a lovely young wife, and two pretty little daughters, Natasha and Trinka. Natasha, the oldest, a sweet innocent girl, would come and visit her father at the prince's estate, and would watch him cook wonderful delicacies for the prince's parties. Natasha was a delicate creature. with little white hands like nesting doves. The other cooks and kitchen staff loved the girl, for she was so full of joy and laughter. Whenever Natasha came to visit, Mika warned her not to touch or eat any of the food, for the prince had a terrible temper, and would not let any of the servants share in his feasts. Natasha was a good daughter, and she always obeyed her father.
That year, there was a terrible winter, one of the worst that anyone could remember. The crops and the stores were all used up, and many poor people were starving. The prince decided to have a great banquet for all of his rich friends. He had great delicacies brought in from foreign lands, and for three days, his cooks and chefs prepared the feast. Mika cooked and cooked and cooked until he was so tired that he could hardly stand, and finally the feast was prepared.
In the great dining hall, table after table was heaped with food, roast goose and ducklings, rich sweet cakes and breads, an entire boar on a spit, stuffed with peppers and spices. There were plates of sweet corn brought all the way from America, and exotic curries and spices from India. Thirty casks of wine and wooden kegs full of dark, foaming beer lined the walls of the hall. Every table was set with gleaming silver, and the finest bone china. The guests would soon arrive, and all was perfectly prepared. Mika, exhausted and hungry, sat half-asleep in a chair. The prince had warned the cooks and the maids that anyone eating the food would be severely punished, and placed guards at the doors to the hall to make sure that no-one could sneak in.
Natasha came that day to bring some old bread to her father, since he couldn't eat the prince's food. When she arrived and found Mika half-asleep, she left the bread by his feet, and turned to walk the four kilometers back to their little home. Just as she was about to leave, the sweet, rich smells of the feast filled her nostrils. Drawn by the scents, she walked to the dining hall door, and peeked inside. Her eyes grew wide.
Now, little Natasha was a very good girl, but she hadn't eaten anything but bread and thistle soup for the last week. She knew that her daddy had told her not to ever take food from the prince's table, but she was so hungry, and there was so much food. Surely the prince wouldn't notice if she took just a tiny piece of sweetbread from the overflowing tables? Slowly, silently, she crept to the nearest table. The guards were talking to one another about a recent hunt, and they did not notice as the little girl crawled past them. Carefully, carefully, she moved closer to the table. Crouching low, she lifted her delicate hand to the table, and took a piece of sweetbread no bigger than my thumb. She turned to sneak away.
Suddenly, there was a shrill, angry cry. 'Thief! Thief!' The prince had been watching from a secret place, and he sprang out, waggling his bony, gloved finger at Natasha. 'Seize her!' Natasha, trembling, stood confused at two huge guards gently held her arms. 'Whose little brat is this,' hissed the prince. 'Who has disobeyed my orders? Look, look at this,’ he cried, pointing to the tiny piece of missing sweetbread. 'My feast is ruined, absolutely ruined! You've put your filthy, diseased hands all over my lovely food! You will pay for this, you little wretch!' His eyes grew wild with insane rage. The prince grabbed the little girl by the arm, pulled her away from the guards, and dragged her out of the room.
One of the chambermaids, who had overheard the whole thing, ran to get Mika. 'Come quick, Mika,' she cried, waking him from his exhausted slumber. 'The prince has caught your little girl stealing food--I'm afraid he'll do something terrible! Come quick, come quick!' Mika, the chambermaid right behind him, ran through the great house, calling his daughters name. He cried out for her again and again, but she was nowhere to be found. More servants joined the search, until there were dozens scurrying about the house, calling out, 'Natasha, Natasha!'
A manservant rushed up. 'Outside. Mika! He's taken her outside--to the kennels! Hurry!' With that, Mika and the others rushed out the front door.
Then, suddenly, from the kennels, there came the sound of the wolfhounds barking and snarling, and for an instant, the high desperate scream of a child. Then there was just a horrid tearing sound that wouldn't stop. Mika stopped in his tracks, and at that moment, his heart broke. He fell to the ground in a dead faint.
The prince and his guards came out from the kennels, where the dogs were going about their terrible hungry business. The prince looked at one of the manservants, who was staring at him in horror.
'A stupid little peasant girl was teasing the dogs,' he said, in a voice cold as ice. 'I'm afraid they've torn her to pieces. I tried to stop them, of course, but it was too late. Go in and clean up what's left after the party.' The prince glared at the little crowd of frightened maids, cooks, and servants. 'Now get back to work! The guests will be arriving shortly, and we must be ready!' With that, the servants picked up the cook's limp, unconscious body, and dragged him back into the great house."
The old man paused, cleared his throat, and finished his glass.
Liza looked at Grandfather angrily. "I don't like this story." Mika trembled next to her, his face buried in her side. "You were going to tell us why the river is brown, and you haven't. And it's horrible. And you've scared Mika."
Grandfather nodded grimly. "I don't like it either. Sometimes stories can be no fun at all." He looked over at Vanya, and held out his glass like a beggar. "But this is not where it ends, little one. Trust me." His glass refilled, he turned to Vanya for an instant. "What good story ends without justice?" Vanya exhaled softly, and nodded, glancing with uncharacteristic tenderness at little Liza.
"But back to the tale," whispered Grandfather, his glass again full. "After the party was over, the lords and aristocrats settled into their gluttonous, drunken slumber. A maid and a stablehand went to the kennels to look for the body of poor little Natasha, but the starving hounds had eaten her up almost completely. All they found was a little torn swath of faded blue linen from her dress, and one of her tiny, perfect little hands. The stablehand wrapped the hand up in a the strip of ragged, bloody cloth, and brought it back to the cook's home for burial.
But Mika had gone mad with grief and rage, and could do nothing. They had to carry him back to his home. For days the poor cook could not eat, could not sleep, and just lay in bed weeping, or trembling with fury. His wife, struggling with her own sorrow, found the strength to stay beside him. After five days, he grew quiet, darkly thoughtful. Occasionally, he would laugh, a laugh that made his wife and daughter leave the house in fear.
After seven days, the young cook rose from his bed in the morning, took his old horse and rode to Prince Vol's estate. In his rucksack he carried sweet Natasha's hand, still wrapped in the cloth of her favorite blue dress. When he reached the great house, he did not enter, but spoke softly and intently with the manservant who had brought him back to his home the morning after Natasha's death. They argued quietly for a few moments, but Mika would not be denied. The servant went into the house, and was gone for nearly an hour. When he returned, he brought with him a little package wrapped in oilcloth, which Mika put into his rucksack. Having gotten what he came for, Mika started off on his journey, pointing his horse south.
For five days he rode. day and night, through deep melting snow, cold, bitter rain and driving wind. He rode until he reached a great dark forest, the home of the great volshebnitza [ed.-in Russian folklore, a female shaman] Zhidrova. Zhidrova was the cousin of the famous Baba Yaga, and was a beautiful, pale, and very dangerous woman. She was nearly two hundred years old, and kept her youth by eating young soldiers and adventurers who made the mistake of wandering into her woods. Mika's greatgrandmother had told him tales of her when he was a little boy, and the cook knew that she was the only one who could provide him with the vengeance he sought. For long ago, when Zhidrova was young, her lover, the dashing Prince Vorotynski, had been tortured to death by the Tsar. Since then, legend had it that she was always seeking revenge against anyone who was part of the Tsar's house.
He left his horse at the edge of the woods, for they were far too treacherous for his old nag. He looked into the dark, menacing woods, took a deep breath, and set out on foot. For the longest time he wandered, through tearing vines and tangled roots, calling out the name of Zhidrova as his great-grandmother had taught him. Finally, he stumbled into a clearing.
In the clearing sat a neat little white house, made entirely of polished human bones. The house was surrounded by dozens of scarecrows dressed in the uniforms of the tsar's army. Their unfortunate owners had been meals for the beautiful, hungry volshebnitza, and their bones now were part of her gleaming white cottage. The cook cleared his throat nervously.
'Zhidrova! I come seeking vengeance against the house of the Tsar!'
There was silence. He tried again. 'Sweet Zhidrova! The cousin of the Tsar has killed my beloved child! In the name of your beloved prince, who died at the hands of Tsar Ivan, aid me!' There was no motion from the hut, and the cook took a reluctant step forward.
A pale, plump hand touched him softly on his shoulder, and he leapt forward with an undignified yelp. Spinning around, he saw Zhidrova. She was as beautiful as the stories told. Her hair was chestnut fire, her lips rubies, her eyes deep and dark like the black pits of hell. She was tall, much taller than Mika. She smiled softly, cocked her head, and put her hands on her plump, perfect hips. Her great bushy tail, like that of a wolf, flitted hungrily to and fro.
'So,' she growled through sharp white teeth. 'The little monkey wants revenge.' She stepped closer, until her face was within an inch of the cook's. Her breath was hot like fire, and smelled of rotting meat. "And why, silly little man, should I not simply skewer you on a spit and have you for dinner? Why should I help you?"
Mika gathered up his courage and reached into his pack. 'Here, great one. Here is why.' He opened a tiny, tightly wrapped package of blue cloth, and showed her the perfect hand of his beloved Natasha. 'Prince Volodnya Ivanovich had my sweet child torn limb from limb for stealing a piece of sweetbread. The cruelty of the Tsars and their children has caused so much suffering. I seek justice, pure justice. I can offer you no payment, for nothing in my poor house would be sufficient. I offer you only the sweet taste of justice done, of righteous anger fulfilled."
The great witch thought for a moment, and then smiled unpleasantly. 'Prince Volodnya Ivanovich, eh? Ivanovich... Yes, little man. Such payment will suffice. I will assist you. Have you brought me what I will need?'
Mika nodded, and handed her the packet that the servant had given him at Prince Vol's estate. She opened it with a long. perfectly manicured nail. In the packet were locks of Prince Volodnya's hair, twisted together into an intricate knot. Clippings from his finger and toenails were also in the package, as was a tiny clump of dirt from the sole of prince's boot. The witch nodded approvingly.
'So, tasty little man, tell me of this Prince, so that I might make the punishment ... appropriate.' And with that, Mika told her of the Prince's love for food, and his obsession with cleanliness. After he was done, she rolled her eyes back into her head, stuck out her tongue, and held her forehead tightly with a pale hand. For a few moments she stood there, rocking and mumbling. Then from her mouth came hideous rasping laughter.
'Yes! Yes! I have it!' Seizing the packet of hair, nails and din, and little Natasha's hand, she rushed past Mika and into the little bone house. From the house came strange and unpleasant scents, and the sound of terrible, foreign incantations. Mika waited for her for 7 hours and 7 minutes. and it grew dark.
Finally, Zhidrova returned, holding in her left hand a tiny brown pellet. She handed the pellet to Mika with a wink. 'Put this in his food,' she whispered. 'It will do what needs to be done. Now leave me. Do not speak, or look back, but leave my woods forever. If you look back, or utter a sound that disturbs the stillness, I shall gobble you up. Now go!'
With that Mika fled the woods in silence, and did not utter a sound until he had reached his faithful horse, which was waiting for him just where he had left it. He rode for five days again, without stopping. Late on the evening of the fifth day, he and his horse arrived at the gates of the great estate. Mika dismounted, and his old horse, its heart broken from the long journey, collapsed and died. Mika shook his head in exhausted sadness, and walked toward the Prince's home, where the preparations for dinner were underway. He walked directly to the great kitchens, where his fellow cooks greeted him with silence and fearful looks.
For the little cook had the look of madness about him. His clothes were filthy and ragged from the journey, and deep dark circles framed his eyes. The other cooks and kitchen help parted before him as he strode intently to the great pot where the soup was still cooking. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the tiny brown pellet. and dropped it into the soup in front of everyone. The soup bubbled and jumped, and a strange hissing noise filled the kitchen. After a minute, the soup grew still, and the noise faded away. A thin, weak smile crossed Mika's lips. Then his eyes closed, and he fell like a toppled tree.
Before anyone could move to help him, a servant girl rushed into the kitchen. 'The prince is demanding that the soup be brought out. Is it ready?'
The cooks and kitchen helpers looked at one another. Then one of them, a friend of Mika's, nodded solemnly. 'It is now.' The others nodded, and with that, the soup was ladled into a huge golden serving bowl and brought out to the party.
Now, the prince was a man with many enemies, and he had a taster, a young man named Vodovich. It was young Vodovich's job to die in the place of the prince should any of his food be poisoned. Before the soup reached the table, Vodovich took his silver spoon, dipped it into the serving bowl, and tasted it. He waited for several minutes, but nothing happened. Vodovich nodded, to show that the soup could be eaten, and it was placed before the prince at the great table."
Grandfather paused to refill his glass, and Liza looked at him with intent, puzzled eyes. "But isn't the soup poison?" Grandfather shook his head, and coughed again, a rasping, nasty bark.
"The spoiling charm that Zhidrova made was for the prince, and the prince alone." He took a deep drink to ease his throat. "The prince, being a glutton, ate the soup all up, leaving not a drop. He did not collapse, or choke, or go into convulsions, and the cooks and maids thought for a while that Mika's pellet had not worked. The prince kept on eating, devouring a whole roast chicken, a dozen yams, three whole sweetbreads, and a rich cake filled with fruit. And then he stopped.
For the prince felt a strange pressure from deep in his bowels, an urgency that could not be denied. With a pained look on his face, he rose from the table, and walked hurriedly from the dining hall, followed by his guards and a chambermaid.
As the feeling in his bowels grew stronger and stronger, he broke into a run, and plunged into a washroom. He tore off his trousers, and squatted over a chamberpot. He farted, a long, deep rumbling like distant thunder. He farted again, an intense hissing like a great serpent. A third time he farted, and this time, it was like the great west wind blowing through the forest. Then his bowels moved, and the shit began."
"Papa,"' I cried, grasping his arm. "I don't think that this is something the children should be hearing." But the vodka and the story had him, and he went on like I hadn't spoken. Little Mika was giggling, and Liza seemed more enthralled than ever.
"Now this wasn't like the runs, not some watery loose nothing. This was good, firm stool, the kind of shit a man could be proud of. The prince' s eyes watered, and his knuckles whitened, and the shit kept coming, streaming from his ass like an endless brown sausage. In the blink of an eye, the chamberpot was full, and the crap began to pile on the floor. 'Get more chamberpots,' screamed the prince, his yoice straining with rage and his eyes white with fear. "NOW!" The chambermaid, retching, brought another chamberpot, and then a third, and a fourth, and kept bringing them until every chamberpot in the house was full of firm, light brown feces. And still the shit flowed, and the floor of the washroom was covered with it.
The prince, desperate, ran through the halls of his mansion, trailing poo behind him like an endless soft brown tail. He fled out into the night, to the cold outhouse that the servants had to use. He flung open the door, and squatted over the hole in the outhouse. Now, the prince despised anything dirty, and had had the outhouse pit dug twenty meters deep to keep the stench away from the house. For twenty minutes, forty minutes, an hour, the prince moaned and heaved in the outhouse, and the shit coursed from his body like a hard dark river. Servants and people from the nearby village began to gather around the outhouse, holding their noses, talking quietly among themselves. The prince's cries grew more and more desperate, but the flow of waste from his body only grew stronger. Another hour passed, and then two, and suddenly, the outhouse pit could hold no more.
The prince clawed desperately at the door, as the firm flow from his rectum began to fill up the little wooden outhouse. But the door was stuck, and the shit rose to his knees, and then his waist, and up to his chest. He cried out in horror, and pounded on the door, but it would not budge. As the stinky brown goo rose up over his head, he let out a wild shriek, and then there was silence.
The pressure of the prince's endless shit finally blew open the door to the outhouse, and he was deposited in a great mound of his own manure, gasping desperately for air, right in front of the gathered crowd of peasants and workers. But the flow from his butt had not ended, and the prince, covered in his own filth, ran screaming into the night, leaving a trail of good healthy shit behind him.
He ran and ran through the gardens and woods of his estate, chased by an endless dung serpent. Mad with horror and despair, he fled onwards, through the village and on, right up to the banks of the Neva. With a desperate cry, he ran out onto the thawing ice, and flung himself into the icy waters, where he promptly drowned.
The witches' spell did not end with his death. Even though he was dead, the curse of spoiling would not abate, and his body continued to produce an endless ribbon of poo. For a hundred years now, the corpse of evil Prince Volodnya Ivanovich has been lying on the bottom of the Neva, shitting. And that, my sweet little ones, is why the river is so brown and smelly."
Grandfather stopped, and raised his glass to Vanya. Vanya nodded back at him. and with one motion, they both finished their glasses, and the second bottle was gone.
Little Mika looked up at Grandfather with deep admiration, eyes bright. "Can we hear it again?"
