Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

“Here’s to you, Mr. Doctor! To our dear guest! And against any sort of scummy riffraff.”

The doctor chewed, watching the miller silently. The miller’s wife again filled his glass. The doctor clinked glasses with each of them. They all drank: the doctor downed his glass just as quickly and quietly; Taisia Markovna drank slowly, with a sigh, her large bosom heaving; and the miller drank with a tormented backward toss of his head.

“Whew!” The miller’s wife exhaled, pursing her small lips like a straw. She sighed, adjusted the shawl on her shoulders, crossed her plump hands on her high bosom, and examined the doctor.

“Whoa!” the miller grunted. He banged his empty thimble on the little table, grabbed his crumbs, held them to his nose, and sniffed loudly.

“How did you come to break down?” the miller’s wife asked. “Or did you hit a tree stump?”

“That’s about what happened,” the doctor agreed, and stuffed a piece of ham in his mouth, as he had no desire to tell the bizarre story of the pyramid.

“What do you expect from Crouper? He’s an asshole!” the miller squawked.

“Oh, you think everybody’s an asshole. Let me talk with the man. Where did it happen?”

“About three versts from here.”

“Must have been in the ravine.” The miller picked up a little knife and stumbled over to the pickles, speared one, and cut off a piece like a wedge of watermelon. He stuffed it in his mouth and crunched noisily.

“No, it was before the ravine.”

“Before?” Taisia Markovna caught her breath. “But the road’s wide, even though it goes through forest.”

“Huh, that half-wit drove off the road, hmmm, and straight into a birch tree…” The miller nodded, still chewing on his pickle.

“We hit something hard. Bad luck. But my driver’s good.”

“He’s good,” the miller’s wife agreed. “Markich here just doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like anyone.”

“I like … Don’t tell lies…,” said the miller with his mouth full.

Suddenly he spit out the chewed-up pickle with a snort and stamped his foot:

“I like you, stupid! Don’t argue with me.”

“Who’s arguing?” His wife laughed, looking at the doctor. “And where are you going, from Repishnaya?”

“To Dolgoye.”

“To Dolgoye?!” She stopped smiling and her face looked shocked.

“To Dolgoye?!” the miller screeched and stood stock-still.

“To Dolgoye,” the doctor repeated.

The miller and his wife looked at each other.

“They’ve got the black plague, we saw it on the radio,” said Taisia Markovna, raising her black eyebrows in surprise.

“I saw it on the radio this morning!” The miller nodded his head. “They’ve got the black plague!”

“Yes. The black sickness.” The doctor nodded as he finished chewing and leaned against the back of the chair.

His large nose had turned red and sweaty from the vodka and food. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

“They’ve … The … There’s troops on the outskirts. Where do you think you’re going?” The miller staggered back and stumbled.

“I’m bringing the vaccine.”

“Vaccine? To inoculate them?” the miller’s wife asked.

“That’s right. To vaccinate the ones who are left.”

“The ones that d-d-didn’t get bit yet?” Stepping back once more, the miller reclined on the pickle.

It was clear that the last thimbleful had knocked him off his feet.

“Yes. The ones that haven’t been bitten yet.”

The doctor retrieved a cigarette from his case and lit up with the satisfied sigh of a man who has assuaged his hunger.

“Aren’t you afraid to go there?” asked the miller’s wife, her bosom heaving.

“That’s the nature of my job. And what’s to be afraid of? The troops are there.”

“But they … mmm … Those … They’re … quick ones,” she said, her plump hand spinning her empty glass in worry.

“They! The-e-y! Oh, they’re quick ones, they are! They are so qui-i-i-ck!” shouted the miller, holding on to a bump on the pickle, and shaking his head, as though offended.

“They can tunnel underground.” She licked her lips.

“Tunnel! That’s right! They tunnel under!”

“And they can come out anywhere at all.”

“And they c-c-can … They c-can! Those dirty…”

“They can, of course,” agreed the doctor. “Even in winter they have no trouble digging their way through frozen earth.”

“Lord Almighty,” said the miller’s wife, crossing herself. “Are you armed?”

“Of course.” The doctor puffed on his papirosa .

He liked the miller’s wife. There was something maternal, kind, and cozily caring about her that brought back memories of childhood, when his mother was still alive. The miller’s wife wasn’t beautiful, but her femininity was winning. Talking to her was a pleasure.

“That drunkard got lucky,” the doctor thought, looking at her plump hands and her smooth, pudgy fingers, with their tiny nails, which were spinning the drinking glass.

The door opened and Crouper entered.

“Oho! It’s Iva-an Susanin!” The miller burst out laughing, holding on to the pickle. “What were you doing, running into a birch tree? A birdbrain, that’s what you are.”

“Really, it’s true—a birdbrain,” the doctor agreed silently. He looked at Crouper.

“Greetings!” Crouper took off his hat, bowed, crossed himself in front of the icon, and began to remove his snowy clothes.

“Who said you could do that?” the miller objected. “Asshole!”

“Stop cursing, Senya.” The miller’s wife slapped her heavy hand on the table.

“You’re an enemy of the s-s-state. Got it? A s-s-sa-saboteur!” The miller, staggering around the hors d’oeuvres, crossed the table toward Crouper. “They should sh-sh-ut you up for it!”

He tripped and planted himself on the lard.

“Just sit there!” grinned the miller’s wife. “Come in, Kozma. Have a seat.”

Crouper smoothed his red, sweaty hair and sat down at the table.

“All those scummy bums should be locked up … You’re a fucking asshole!” the miller screeched, staring nastily at Crouper.

“Now, now…” Losing patience, the miller’s wife scooped up her husband and put him on her bosom, pressing him tightly. “Sit!”

Holding on to her husband with one hand, she poured some vodka into a tea glass for Crouper:

“Drink,” she said. “It will warm you up.”

“Thank you, Taisia Markovna.”

Crouper sat down at the table, picked up a glass with his clawlike hand, leaned over it, opened his magpie mouth, and began slowly sucking in the moonshine, straightening up as he drank.

When he finished, he exhaled, frowned, took a piece of bread, sniffed it, and put it on the table.

“Have a bite, Kozma, don’t be shy.”

“Go on, stuff your face!” the miller chortled.

And then the miller began to sing in a tremulous voice:

There was an old woman from Tula,

Said, “I’m off to the States to make moolah.”

“You stupid old cunt,” her old man did swear,

“They ain’t got no trains that go there.”

“Now you stop that!” The wife poked the miller.

He laughed tipsily.

Crouper stuck a piece of lard in his mouth, bit off some bread, and chewed rapidly. He’d just swallowed when the doctor asked him:

“What about the sled?”

“The steering rod? Pulled it out, nailed it back.”

“Does it work?”

“Yup.”

“Then let’s get going.”

“You’re going to travel? To Dolgoye?” The miller’s wife smiled grimly.

“They’re waiting for me.”

“Ah, go on … Let that rag pile go. The doctor can stay!” The miller shook his fist at Crouper.