Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

The doctor entered a spacious izba , richly appointed by village standards. Two large kerosene lanterns illuminated the space: there were two ovens, one Russian, one Dutch; two tables, kitchen and dining; benches, trunks, shelves for dishes, a bed in the corner, a radio under a cozy; a portrait of the sovereign in an illuminated, iridescent frame, and portraits of his daughters Anna and Ksenia in the same type of frame. A double-barreled pistol and a Kalashnikov were hung on moose antlers, a tapestry depicting deer at a watering hole was attached to the wall, and a vodka still rested on a wooden stand.

The miller’s wife, Taisia Markovna, sat at the table; she was a large, portly woman about thirty years old. The table was set with a small round samovar and a two-liter jar of homemade vodka.

“Welcome, please come in,” the miller’s wife said, rising and adjusting the colorful Pavloposad shawl that had slipped from her round shoulders. “Goodness gracious, you’re all covered in snow!”

The doctor was indeed completely covered with snow. He looked like a snowman children make at Shrovetide—except for his bluish nose, which protruded from beneath his big, snow-covered fur hat.

“Avdotia, don’t just stand there, give him a hand,” the miller’s wife ordered.

Avdotia started brushing the snow off the doctor and helped him to take off his coat.

“Why on earth were you traveling at night, and in such a snowstorm?” The miller’s wife came from behind the table, her skirt rustling.

“When we left it was light,” the doctor answered, handing over his heavy, wet clothes, and remaining in his dark-blue three-piece suit and white scarf. “We broke down along the road.”

“How horrible.” The miller’s wife smiled, approaching the doctor, holding the end of her scarf in her plump white hands.

“Taisia Markovna,” she bowed to the doctor.

“Dr. Garin.” Platon Ilich nodded at her, rubbing his hands.

As soon as he entered the izba he realized that he was freezing, exhausted, and hungry.

“Have tea with us, it will warm you up.”

“Gladly.” The doctor took off his pince-nez and squinted at the samovar as he began to wipe the lenses gingerly with his scarf.

“Where have you come from?” the miller’s wife asked.

Her voice was deep and pleasant; she spoke in a slight singsong and her accent wasn’t local.

“I left Repishnaya this morning. It turned out there weren’t any horses in Dolbeshino, so I had to hire a local driver with his own dray.”

“Who?”

“Kozma.”

“Crouper?” squeaked a little voice at the table.

The doctor put on his pince-nez and looked: next to the samovar, a little man sat on the table with his legs dangling over the edge. He wasn’t any bigger than the shiny new little samovar. His clothes were small, but entirely in keeping with the clothes of a prosperous miller: he wore a red knit sweater, mousy gray wool trousers, and stylish red boots, which he swung back and forth. The man held a tiny hand-rolled cigarette, which he had just finished gluing with his little tongue. His face was unattractive, pale, and he had no eyebrows. The sparse fair-colored hair sticking up from his head turned into a sparse light beard on his cheeks.

The doctor had often had occasion to see and treat little people, and thus he showed no surprise. He retrieved his cigarette case, opened it, and took out a papirosa . Screwing it into the corner of his fleshy lips with an accustomed gesture, he answered the little fellow:

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Well, some driver you found yourself!” The little man laughed nastily, putting his homemade cigarette in his unpleasant, large mouth and taking out a lighter the size of a three-kopeck coin from his pocket. “The devil knows where that guy’ll take you.”

He struck his lighter, a stream of blue gas flared, and the little man stretched the lighter up toward the doctor.

“Crouper? Where is he?” The miller’s wife turned to look at the maid, her calm brown eyes slightly shiny from vodka.

“In the barnyard,” the maid answered. “Should I call him?”

“Of course, tell him to come in, he can warm up.”

The doctor leaned down toward the little man, who stood politely, the lighter thrust upward forcefully, as though he were holding a torch. His hand shook, and it was clear that he was drunk. The doctor lit his papirosa , stood up straight, inhaled, and then exhaled a wide stream of smoke over the table. The little man bowed slightly to the doctor:

“Semyon, Markov’s son. Miller.”

“Dr. Garin. You and your wife have the same patronymic?”

“Yes!” the little man chuckled, and swayed, steadying himself against the samovar, then snatching his hand back immediately.

“Markovna and Markich. Just turned out that fucking way…”

“Don’t swear,” said the miller’s wife, coming over. “Sit down, doctor, have your tea. And there’s no sin in having a bit of vodka in this weather.”

“No, no sin,” agreed the doctor, who really wanted a drink.

“Of course! Vodka after tea keeps the soul frost-free!” the miller squeaked. He staggered over to the jar, embraced it, and gave it a ringing slap.

He was the same height as the bottle.

The doctor sat down, and Avdotia set a plate, a shot glass, and a three-pronged fork in front of him. The miller’s wife picked up the bottle, pushing aside the miller, who sat down abruptly on the table, bumping his back against a hunk of wheat bread. She filled the doctor’s glass: “Here’s to your health, doctor.”

“What about me?” whined the miller, dragging on his little cigarette.

“You’ve had enough already. Sit there and smoke.” The miller didn’t argue with his wife; he just sat, leaning against the bread, puffing away.

The doctor lifted the shot glass and downed it quickly and quietly, still holding a papirosa in his left hand; he caught some sour cabbage on his fork and had a bite. The miller’s wife placed a piece of homemade ham on his plate, and potatoes fried in lard.

“Anything else, Markovna?” Avdotia asked.

“That’s it. Go about your business. And tell Crouper to come in here.”

Avdotia left.

After taking several deep drags on his papirosa , the doctor quickly stubbed it out in a small granite ashtray full of tiny cigarette butts, and began to devour the food.

“Crouuuu-per!” the miller drawled, skewing his froglike lips, which were already ugly enough. “She went and found the dear guest. Crouper! Just a bum, that scum!”

“We’re always pleased to have guests,” the miller’s wife said calmly, pouring herself some liquor; she smiled at the doctor and ignored her husband. “To your health, doctor.”

Platon Ilich’s mouth was full, so he nodded silently.

“Pour me some!” whined the miller.

Taisia Markovna set down her glass, sighed, picked up the bottle, and splashed some vodka into the steel thimble that stood on a tiny plastic table. The doctor hadn’t immediately noticed the standard plastic table made for little people standing between the dish with the ham and the cup with pickles. The thimble gleamed on the little table, which held glasses and plates with the same food as the big table for regular people, slivers sliced from the larger portions: a snippet of ham, a dab of lard, a piece of pickle, bread crumbs, a marinated mushroom, and some cabbage.

Taking one last drag on his cigarette, and blowing the smoke out with an unpleasant, serpentine hiss, the miller tossed the butt down, stood up, and with a grand gesture stomped it out with his boot. The doctor noticed that the soles of his red boots were copper. The miller picked up the thimble and stretched unsteadily toward the doctor.