Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

“Schweinerei!” He spoke the German word aloud.

Crouper climbed up onto the seat and sat next to the doctor. He showed no bitterness or offense. There was just his swollen upper lip, which made his birdlike mouth look even funnier.

They sat that way for about ten minutes. The moon was still shining in the cleared sky, and the wind had died down. A frosty silence reigned. The only sound was that of the horses’ hooves stepping about cautiously inside the hood.

“Maybe a drink?” the doctor asked himself out loud.

Crouper just sighed.

“Just a swig apiece?” asked the doctor, turning toward him.

Crouper sniffed:

“We ain’t agin’ it, yur ’onor. It’s shiverin’ cold, so why not?”

“That’s true.” The doctor nodded. Leaning over, he opened his travel bag, rummaged around in it, grunting, and pulled out a round bottle that contained rubbing alcohol.

He pulled the rubber cork out, inhaled, and raised his arm, looking at the moon through the thick glass: “To our health.”

He took a large swig, placed his left hand to his lips, and slowly exhaled into the cold glove, which smelled of smoke from the fire. The alcohol burned as it moved down his throat, causing him to remember the copper kettle filled with boiling oil.

“ Va, pensiero …,” he muttered, exhausted, as he drew the freezing air in through his nose. Then he burst out laughing.

Crouper looked over at him.

“Here, drink.” The doctor handed him the bottle.

Crouper took it with both hands, leaned over, and slowly leaned back as he took a gulp. He held his breath for a moment, and sat stock-still. Then he grunted like a peasant, shook his head, and handed the bottle to the doctor.

“Good?” asked the doctor.

“Good,” Crouper replied, breathing through his nose noisily.

The doctor closed the bottle and put it away in his travel bag. He squeezed Crouper by the wrist.

“Don’t be mad.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’m just tired … Sick of everything.”

Crouper nodded. The doctor looked around glumly.

“You hurry up those horses of yours somehow, hear?”

“They’ll go on their own soon. It’s in the little ones’ blood, yur ’onor. They’re scared of dogs and wolves. And weasels.”

“But the wolf tracks are cold!” the doctor exclaimed with a hurt expression.

“That’s right, but the fright’s still there.”

“Not that much farther to go, anyway.”

“We’ll get there.”

“There are very sick patients waiting for me,” the doctor said without any hint of reproach. He retrieved his cigarettes.

Crouper raised the collar of his sheepskin coat, shivered, and grew quiet.

The doctor, on the contrary, felt a surge of energy and warmth after drinking the alcohol. It felt like a tropical flower had blossomed in his belly.

“Down to the last two!” He grinned as he showed Crouper his cigarette case.

Crouper didn’t move.

The doctor lit up. The irritability and impatience had left him. He smoked and squinted into the snowy plain. His eyes teared up, but he didn’t feel like moving and wiping them. He blinked, but the tears stayed in his eyes, making everything around him swim, and the corners of his eyes felt pleasantly cool.

“Why are we always hurrying somewhere?” he thought, inhaling the cigarette smoke and blowing it out again with pleasure. “I was in a hurry to get to Dolgoye. What would happen if I arrived tomorrow? Or the day after? Nothing at all. The people who’ve been infected and bitten will never be people again anyway. They’re doomed to be shot. And the ones who’ve barricaded themselves inside their izba s will wait for me one way or the other. They’ll be vaccinated. And they’ll no longer fear the Bolivian plague. Zilberstein won’t be happy, of course. He’s waiting for me, cursing me up and down. But it’s not in my power to overcome this cold, snowy expanse with a wave of my hand. I can’t fly over the snowdrifts…”

Finishing his papirosa slowly, he tossed the butt into the snow.

A cloud crawled over the moon, plunging the field into the dark of night.

“Sleeping?” The doctor poked the driver.

“Naw,” Crouper answered.

“Don’t sleep.”

“I ain’t sleepin’.”

The cloud moved past the moon. The field brightened again.

Crouper felt warm and calm after drinking the liquor. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, holding on to his sides, his hat practically down to his nose. He peeped out at the expanse of moonlit field. He no longer thought about his unheated house, he just sat there and looked. The doctor was on the verge of asking him about the horses, when and why they first became scared of wolves, how soon they’d come out of it and be ready to pull the sled, but he changed his mind. He, too, sat motionless, giving himself over to the absolute calm stretching all around him.

The wind had completely died down.

They sat like this for a while longer. Neither the doctor nor Crouper wanted to move. Tufts of cloud crawled across the moon and moved on, crawled across the moon and moved on. Crawled across the moon and moved on.

The doctor remembered that there was still a bit of alcohol left in the bottle. He took it out and took two large gulps with a pause between. He caught his breath and handed the bottle to Crouper:

“Drink up the rest.”

Crouper came out of his trance, took the bottle, drank the remainder obediently, and put his mitten to his mouth. Stashing the empty bottle in the travel bag, the doctor scooped some snow from the matting, put it into his mouth, and chewed on it. Warmth spread throughout his insides once again. He cheered up and felt a surge of energy. He wanted to move and do something.

“What do you say, my good fellow, let’s be off!” The doctor clapped Crouper on the shoulder. “Can’t stay here forever.”

Crouper got down, turned back the matting, and looked inside the hood. The horses looked at him.

“Let’s go,” Crouper said to them.

Hearing these familiar human words, the horses neighed discordantly. Nodding in approval, Crouper covered them, sat down, and tugged on the reins:

“Heigh-yup!”

The horses’ hooves clattered timidly on the drive belt, as though they’d forgotten how to do the work humans needed them to do.

“Heigh-yup!”

The sled jerked, and the runners squeaked.

“Heigh-yup!” the doctor shouted, laughing.

The sled took off.

“Now that’s more like it! And not a wolf in sight!” The doctor poked Crouper in the ribs.

“They got ’customed.” Crouper smiled with his swollen lip.

They slid smoothly across the field. The snowy road could be seen quite well: it protruded slightly, stretching like a ribbon toward the dark horizon.

“That’s more like it. And not a wolf in sight!” the doctor repeated, patting himself on the knees.

He was in a good mood.

The horses slowly gathered speed.

“There we go, there we go…” The doctor kept patting his knees happily.

They passed through a bit of forest and came out into a large, clear field again. The moon shone bright.

“Why are they so weak?” the doctor asked, elbowing Crouper. “Don’t you feed them well?”

“I feed ’em enough, yur ’onor.”

“Give them a taste of the lash, make them run like the wind!”

“They ain’t got over their fright as yet.”

“What are they—foals?”

“Naw, they ain’t foals no more.”

“Then why are they so slow? Come now, use the lash!”

“Heigh-yup, c’mon!” Crouper slapped the reins.

The horses sped up a bit. But it wasn’t enough for the doctor.

“Why are they crawling along like slugs?! Heigh! Get going!” he said, knocking on the top of the hood.