Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

“’Round here somewheres…” Crouper turned his head this way and that, utterly bewildered.

“Why did you drive to the cemetery?” the doctor shouted angrily.

“Just did, yur ’onor, that’s all…” The driver frowned.

“Haven’t you been here before, you idiot?!” shouted the doctor, and began to cough.

“Sure enough I been here!” Crouper shouted, taking no offense. “Only it was summer.”

“Then why the hell…” The doctor began to talk but the snow flew into his mouth.

“I been here, yes I have.” Crouper turned his head back and forth like a magpie. “But I don’t know ’bout the cem’tery, cain’t ’member it at all.”

“Drive, drive! Why did you stop?” the doctor shouted, and began coughing.

“Ain’t sure which’s the right way.”

“Cemeteries are never far from the village,” the doctor suddenly screamed, so loud that he scared himself.

Crouper paid no attention to the shout. He thought a moment longer, turning his head from side to side, then led the sled decisively to the left of the cemetery, into the field.

“If’n the fork was Old Market one way, and the meadows t’other, and the cem’tery’s close by Old Market, then I went true. The fork musta been here but we missed it. Now Old Market’ll be left, and then the meadows.”

Having calmed down and recovered from his own shouting, the doctor didn’t even ask why Crouper hadn’t retraced his steps but had turned the sled left and was crossing the field.

“It’s all right, it’ll be all right,” the doctor muttered, trying to cheer himself. “There are a lot of idiots in the world. And even more assholes.”

Dragging himself through the deep snow, Crouper led the sled into the field. He was so certain of the direction that he didn’t pay much heed to the gathering snowy gloom that parted reluctantly ahead of him. The sled moved along heavily and the horses pulled grudgingly, but Crouper just kept walking alongside, letting the steering rod go and lightly nudging the sled; he walked with such certainty that gradually the doctor, too, was affected.

“We’ll be there any minute…,” Crouper mumbled to himself, still smiling.

And indeed—the contours of a building soon appeared ahead of them in the whirling snow.

“We made it, doctor, sir!” The driver winked at his passenger.

Upon seeing the approaching house, the doctor was suddenly dying for a smoke. He also wanted to cast off his heavy coat and leaden hat, remove his wet boots, and sit down in front of a fire.

Crouper desperately wanted a drink of kvass. He blew his nose into his sleeve and walked along calmly, letting the sled move ahead of him.

“Who lives on the outskirts?” Crouper tried to remember, though there was no point in it since the only Old Marketers he knew were Matryona, her husband, Mikolai, and old Fat Ass. “Matryona’s house is the third on the right, and Fat Ass’s is next door to Matryona’s…”

He glanced at the approaching building from under his hat, and his heart skipped a beat: this wasn’t an izba . It wasn’t even a drying barn or a hayloft. It didn’t look like a bathhouse either.

The sled drove up to a dark-gray tent with a pointed top. On the surface of the tent was the image of a living , slowly blinking eye, an image familiar to both the driver and the passenger.

“Mindaminters!” exclaimed Crouper.

“Vitaminders!” said the doctor.

The sled arrived at the tent and stopped.

Crouper followed it. The doctor turned, stepped down, and shook off the snow. The wind carried the faint odor of exhaust. Then they heard an expensive gasoline generator at work inside the tent.

“So where’s your Old Market?” the doctor asked, without anger this time, because he was happy that the lifeless white expanse had finally afforded him an encounter with civilization.

“Roundabout near here somewhere…,” Crouper muttered, looking at the smooth, taut, zoogenous felt of the tent.

He noticed a felt door, and knocked on it with his mitten. Inside, an iridescent signal floated up immediately. A felt window opened in the door and a narrow-eyed face and chewing mouth appeared:

“Whaddya want?”

“We got lost. We’re lookin’ fer Old Market.”

“Who?”

“Me, and the doctor here. We’re on our way to Dolgoye.”

The face disappeared and the window closed.

“Vitaminders,” said the doctor, shaking his head, with a tired chuckle. “Just our luck to meet up with them.”

But he was pleased: the smooth, sturdy tent, standing firm in the wind, evinced the victory of humanity over the blind elements.

A few long minutes passed and the door finally opened.

“Please enter.”

A thickset Kazakh gestured invitingly. It was obvious that they’d interrupted his meal, though, and that he wasn’t very happy about it.

The doctor and Crouper entered a space that was dimly lit by electric lights and well heated. Two enormous violet Great Danes with sparkling bells on their collars immediately rose from their beds and moved toward them, growling. The dogs’ violet eyes stared at the newcomers, and white teeth sparkled in their snarling pink mouths.

“Shoo!” the Kazakh shouted at the dogs, as he closed the door.

With low growls, the dogs went back to their beds. Nearby were two large gasoline snowmobiles, clothes hung on hooks, and numerous pairs of shoes in neat rows. This was the entryway of the tent. The smell of expensive, precious gasoline, the two snowmobiles, and the two sleek Great Danes had a calming effect upon the doctor, but Crouper felt intimidated. “Take your coats off, make yourselves at home.” The Kazakh bowed slightly to the doctor.

The doctor began undressing and the Kazakh set about helping him.

“My littl’uns need to warm up a tetch.” Crouper took off his hat timidly and smoothed down his soaking-wet hair.

“I’ll ask the bosses in a minute,” replied the Kazakh unflappably, as he continued assisting the doctor.

He helped the doctor pull off his boots and gave him a pair of felt slippers. A Kazakh servant girl wearing a long, brightly colored dress and an embroidered skullcap entered, pulled back a thick curtain with her thin hand, and gestured for the doctor to enter:

“Please, this way.”

The doctor stepped through the opening. Crouper remained standing near the door, hat in hand.

It was brighter and even warmer inside the tent. The large round space with gray walls of the same zoogenous felt gave off a feeling of nomadic comfort as well as the sharp aroma of eastern incense. In the center of the tent, right under the roof vent, three men held court at the traditional low black square table of the Vitaminders. The fourth side of the table was empty. Seven servant girls sat along the wall to one side. The eighth, who had invited the doctor into the tent, quietly took her place with them.

The three men looked at the doctor.

“District doctor, Garin,” said Platon Ilich, nodding at them.

“Bedight, Lull Abai, Slumber,” the Vitaminders introduced themselves, bowing their shaved heads in turn.

Bedight and Slumber had European faces, but Lull Abai was distinctly Asian looking.

“You’ve appeared like an angel from heaven.” The thin, narrow-cheeked Bedight smiled.

“In what sense?” The doctor smiled, wiping his foggy pince-nez.

“We are in desperate need of your help,” Bedight continued.

“Is someone ill?” asked Platon Ilich, casting his gaze about.

“Ill.” Slumber, who had a strong, thickset body, and a simple, almost peasant face, nodded.

“Who is it?”

“Over there.” Bedight nodded. “Our friend Drowsy.”

The doctor turned around. Something lay wrapped in a rug between two of the girls. The girls unfolded the rug and the doctor saw a fourth Vitaminder: he wore a gold collar inset with sparkling superconductors, and his head was shaved. Drowsy’s skull showed numerous abrasions and bruises, and his face was slightly swollen.