Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

The doctor set the candle on the table, closed the door, and began to undress.

“Beddy-bye, the calf’s asleep.” Noticing a clay cow on the windowsill, he remembered the children’s rhyme.

“What a strange family … Though perhaps it isn’t strange, but quite normal for the times. And they live well, prosperously … For how long? How old is she, I wonder … thirty?”

He recalled her calm hands, the ring on her pinky finger, and the look of her dark-brown eyes.

“ Guten Abend, schöne Müllerin …,” he said aloud, recalling Nadine’s beloved Schubert. He took off his shirt.

“One should never abandon one’s principles. As in chess, one should not stoop lower than the floor and make forced moves. Coercion is not the way to live—the palliatives of work are more than enough. Life offers choice: one should always choose what comes naturally, what will not cause you to regret your own lack of willpower later in life. Only epidemics leave you no choice.”

Remaining in his underclothes, he removed his pince-nez, placed it on the table, blew out the candle, and climbed into the cold bed. Upstairs, as always, it was chilly.

“A good night’s sleep.” The doctor pulled the blanket right up to his nose. “And leave bright and early tomorrow. As early as possible.”

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Yes?” The doctor raised his head.

The door opened and a burning candle appeared. The doctor picked up the pince-nez from the table and put it to his eyes. The miller’s wife entered the room inaudibly, barefoot; she wore a long white nightgown and her colorful shawl around her shoulders. She held the burning candle in one hand and a cup in the other.

“Forgive me, I forgot to leave you water. Our ham’s so salty, you’ll be wanting a drink in the night.”

She leaned over, and her loose hair fell from her shoulders to her breasts as she set the cup on the table. Her eyes met the doctor’s, her face as calm as ever. She blew out the candle and straightened up. And remained.

The doctor tossed his pince-nez on the table, threw back the blanket in one movement, stood up, and embraced her warm, soft, large frame.

“There we go…,” she said softly, putting her hands on his shoulders.

He drew her toward the bed.

“I’ll close the door…,” she whispered in his ear, and his heart pounded like a hammer.

But he didn’t want to let her go. He pressed against her body and his lips found her neck. The woman smelled of sweat, vodka, and lavender oil. In one movement he tore off her nightgown and grabbed her by the butt.

Her bottom was big and plushy and cool.

“Oh…,” she murmured.

The doctor threw her back on the bed; trembling, he began tearing off his underclothes. But neither the clothes nor his hands would obey. “Damn…” He pulled hard and a button flew off and rolled across the floor.

Having managed to get one leg free of his hateful underwear, he fell on her and spread her smooth, plump legs roughly with his own. Her legs opened obediently and bent at the knees. In an instant, trembling and panting, he entered the substantial body, which gave itself to him. She moaned and embraced him.

He grabbed her by the round, sloping shoulders he had admired at the table, made a few spasmodic thrusts, and couldn’t contain himself: his seed flooded into her.

“Sweetheart.” She pressed her head to his with a calming movement.

But he could not calm down. He did not want to calm down. He squeezed her, and began to push, as though racing to catch up with the desired body slipping away from him. Her legs opened wider, letting him in, and her warm hand slid down his back and grabbed his rear. The doctor’s movements were brusque. He seized the woman in his arms and dug his fingers into her. His backside trembled and squeezed tight in time with his movement. As if to calm it, the woman’s hand began to press down gently. The doctor panted noisily into her neck, and his head shuddered.

“My sweetheart.”

She pushed down on his buttocks, sensing the fury of the contracting muscles.

“My sweet…”

Her hand soothed him, as if to say with its every move: there’s no hurry, I’m not going anywhere, I’m yours tonight.

He understood the language of that hand; the convulsions left his body and he began to move more slowly, rhythmically. With her left hand the woman lifted his hot head and brought her lips to his parched, open mouth. But he didn’t have the strength to respond to her kiss. He took intermittent, greedy breaths.

“My sweet…,” she exhaled into his mouth.

The doctor had her; trying to stretch out the pleasure, he obeyed her delicate feminine hand. Her body responded to him, her wide hips squeezed his legs in time with his movement: they opened and squeezed, opened and squeezed. Her ample chest rocked him.

“My sweet,” she exhaled into him once again. And her breath seemed to sober him up. He answered her kiss, their tongues meeting in the hot darkness of their bodies.

They kissed.

Her hand stroked and calmed him. Understanding that the man was ready to enjoy her for a long while, the woman gave herself to him utterly. A moan began in her large, heaving breast. And she allowed herself to be helpless. Her breasts and hips trembled.

“Plow me, my sweet … plow me,” she whispered into his cheek, and gripped him with both arms.

He swam in her body and the wave continued, rolling further and further, till it seemed it would never end.

But the wave suddenly surged; he understood his helplessness, and his body trembled in anticipation. Her hand once again touched his buttocks, but its touch was no longer gentle, it was forceful, commanding. The hand pushed and clutched him, and her fingers dug into him as though each one wore a thimble.

With a roar he spurted into the wave.

The woman moaned and cried out under him. He lay on top of her, exhaustedly breathing into her neck.

“Hot…,” she whispered, and stroked his head.

The doctor caught his breath, then turned over and lifted his head.

“Strong…,” she said.

He sat upon the edge of the bed and looked at the miller’s wife in the darkness. Her body took up the entire bed. The doctor put his hand on her chest. She immediately covered his hand with her palms: “Have a drink of water.”

The doctor remembered the cup, picked it up, and drank the water thirstily. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds and poured light in through the window. The doctor was able to locate his pince-nez, so he put it on. The miller’s wife lay with her chubby hands behind her head. The doctor stood and fumbled in his trouser pockets for his cigarette case and matches. He lit up, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“I didn’t think you’d come to me,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“But you wanted me to.” She smiled.

“I did,” he said with a doomed sort of nod.

“And I wanted to also.”

They gazed at each other silently. The doctor smoked, and the light of the papirosa was reflected in his pince-nez.

“Let me have a smoke, too.”

He handed her the papirosa . She inhaled, held the smoke for a while, then let it out carefully. The doctor watched. He suddenly realized he had absolutely no desire to talk to her.

“You’re a bachelor?” she asked, and returned the cigarette to him.

“You can tell?”

“Yes.”

He scratched his chest:

“My wife and I split up three years ago.”

“You left her?”

“She left me.”

“So that’s what happened,” she said respectfully.

They sat quietly.

“Any children?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“She couldn’t conceive.”