Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

The horses sped up some more.

“Now that’s more like it…,” said the doctor happily. “Not much farther to go now. Yup yup! Get going!”

“Heigh-yup, yup!” Crouper shouted and clucked.

He suddenly wanted to show off his horses, although he realized that they were tired.

“Aw, let ’em run for it at the end, maybe as they’ll warm ’emselves!” he thought. He himself felt a jolly warmth throughout after polishing off the alcohol.

“Come on now—give them a taste of the whip!” the doctor demanded. “Why are they hiding in there like mice in a pantry? Take that sackcloth off!”

“Well, that’s right now, it c’n come off … Ain’t snowin’, and it ain’t too cold…,” Crouper thought, and deftly unfastened the matting as they went, rolling it up.

The doctor saw the horses’ moonlit backs. They looked just like toys.

“Come on, let me…” The doctor pulled the whip out of the case.

“Aw, why not let ’im crack it,” Crouper thought.

The doctor stood, drew back, and cracked the whip over the horses’ backs. “Yip-yip!”

They ran faster. The doctor cracked the whip again:

“Heigh-yuuup!”

The horses snorted and picked up speed. Their legs gleamed and their backs undulated, reminding the doctor of the rough, surging sea that he and Nadine had seen in October in Yalta, the sea he hadn’t wanted to enter at all at the time; he’d stood on the shore, staring at the waves, and Nadine, in her striped bathing suit, kept pulling him into the water, teasing him for being overly cautious.

“Heigh-yup!” He lashed the horses so hard that a shiver went down their spines.

They rushed ahead. The sled flew across the field.

“See, that’s the way to do it!” the doctor shouted in Crouper’s ear.

The frosty air slapped them in the face. Crouper whistled.

The horses ran, and the snow swooshed under the runners.

“That’s the ticket! There you go!” The doctor plopped down on the seat, waving the whip. “That’s the way to go!”

Crouper whistled as he drove along skillfully. He felt good, too; he realized that it was only another three versts to Dolgoye. The field ended, and fir trees began to appear along the sides of the road. Pretty fir trees, cleared of snow, lined the way.

“Let’s goooo!” the doctor shouted, whirling the whip over the horses and knocking the pince-nez off of his nose.

The sled sped through the fir trees. Crouper could make out the contours of a firmly packed bump or hill ahead on the road, but he didn’t slow the horses:

“We’ll skip on by!”

The sled flew up and hit the hill hard; a crack resounded. The travelers flew off their seats and landed in the snow. The sled stopped on the hill, leaning heavily to one side. The horses snorted and stomped under the hood.

“Damn it…,” the doctor muttered. He’d lost his hat, and grabbed his knee, wincing with pain.

“Shit…” Crouper pulled his head out of a snowdrift and rubbed the snow off his face.

He floundered about in the drift, looking for his hat, but, on hearing the horses’ frightened snorts, he hurried to them and checked under the hood. The horses whickered, looking for help from their master.

“Now, now…” Pulling off his mittens, he began petting them gently. “It’s all right, all right … Not hurt, are ye?”

None of the horses appeared to be injured. The collars and the strong straps had held them.

“Y’er all right, all right … Coulda been worse…” He stroked their backs, which were damp and steaming from running.

Holding his knee, the doctor moaned. He had whacked it hard against the sled.

Once the horses were calm, Crouper went looking for his hat. Fortunately, the moon was bright and still free of clouds. Crouper soon found the hat, shook the snow off, and stuck it on his head. Then he went over to the doctor. The doctor was sitting in the snow, moaning, shaking his uncovered head, and cursing. Crouper picked up the doctor’s hat and put it on him.

“Ain’t broke nothing, did ye?” Crouper asked.

“Damn…” The doctor felt his knee. “I don’t think so. Damn … It hurts…”

Crouper grabbed him under the arms. Cautiously, the doctor tried to stand but immediately moaned and fell back in the snow:

‘Wait a minute…”

Crouper squatted nearby and only then realized that he’d broken his lower front tooth against the rudder.

“Ay, darn it…” He touched the broken tooth in his mouth, shook his head, and grinned: “How d’ye like that!”

The doctor scooped up snow and held it to his knee:

“Just a minute…”

Holding the snow, he turned unseeing eyes on Crouper:

“What was it?”

“Cain’t say, yur ’onor…” Crouper touched his tooth. “We’ll take a look.”

“Why didn’t you hold the horses back?”

“You was the one floggin’ ’em on!”

“I was flogging!” The doctor shook his head indignantly. “I flogged, but you were steering, you damned idiot … Damn … Hmmm … Ouch!”

He winced, leaning over his knee, his fat lips puffing.

“I thought: it’s just a little bump, we’ll skip right over.”

“We sure skipped over it!” the doctor laughed bitterly. “I almost broke my neck…”

“And the bump is smooth,” said Crouper, standing up and walking over to the sled.

He walked around to the front, looked closely, and froze. He crossed himself:

“God a’mighty. Yur ’onor, take a look at what we runned into.”

“Wait, you fool…,” the doctor moaned.

“Lord a’mighty, tarnation! Yur ’onor!”

“Shut up, you fool.”

“It’s a … Ain’t no one’ll believe it…”

“Ow…” The doctor rubbed his knee. “Give me your hand.”

“Lordy, why such a misfortune, what did I do…?” Crouper sat down and anxiously slapped his mittens on his felt boots.

“I said, give me a hand!”

Crouper returned to the doctor and helped him stand:

“God must be mad at me, yur ’onor. Looky what’s come ’bout.”

He appeared totally lost, and the smile on his birdlike mouth was pitiful, like a beggar’s.

The doctor finally managed to stand and straighten up. Leaning on Crouper, he stepped on the hurt leg. He moaned. He stood a bit, panting. He took another step:

“Ow, damn it…”

He stood, frowning. Then he hit Crouper upside the head.

“Where have you taken me, you idiot?!”

Crouper didn’t even flinch.

“Where’ve you taken me?!” the doctor screamed into his hat.

A strong, pleasant smell of alcohol came from the doctor.

“Yur ’onor, there’s a … over there…” Crouper shook his head. “Prob’ly better ye don’t look.”

“You idiot!” The doctor put on his pince-nez, took a step, frowning, glanced at the listing sled, and threw up his hands. “What kind of bastard are you?!”

Crouper said nothing.

“Bastard!”

The doctor’s voice thundered through the snow-covered fir trees.

Crouper stepped away toward the tip of the sled and stood there, sniffling.

“Were you just born an idiot or what?” Limping, the doctor hobbled over to him, stopped, and looked.

And froze, his eyebrows raised.

Right in front of the sled, something was sticking out from under the snow. At first the doctor thought it was the twisted stump of an old tree. But when he looked closer, he could make out the head of a dead giant. The sled’s right runner had run straight into his left nostril.

The doctor couldn’t believe his eyes; he blinked and moved closer: the hill they’d flown up was nothing other than the corpse of one of the big ones , covered in snow.

Forgetting all about the pain in his knee, Platon Ilich approached the sled and leaned over. The huge, frozen head had tangled hair, a wrinkled brow, and thick eyebrows; the force of the blow had knocked some of the snow off of it. The runner had disappeared into the nostril of the fleshy nose. The snowflakes on the giant’s eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair shimmered silver in the moonlight. One dead eye was full of snow; the other, half closed, stared threateningly at the night sky.