Authors: Vladimir Sorokin
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.
“Here’s to you, Mr. Doctor! To our dear guest! And against any sort of scummy riffraff.”
The doctor chewed, watching the miller silently. The miller’s wife again filled his glass. The doctor clinked glasses with each of them. They all drank: the doctor downed his glass just as quickly and quietly; Taisia Markovna drank slowly, with a sigh, her large bosom heaving; and the miller drank with a tormented backward toss of his head.
“Whew!” The miller’s wife exhaled, pursing her small lips like a straw. She sighed, adjusted the shawl on her shoulders, crossed her plump hands on her high bosom, and examined the doctor.
“Whoa!” the miller grunted. He banged his empty thimble on the little table, grabbed his crumbs, held them to his nose, and sniffed loudly.
“How did you come to break down?” the miller’s wife asked. “Or did you hit a tree stump?”
“That’s about what happened,” the doctor agreed, and stuffed a piece of ham in his mouth, as he had no desire to tell the bizarre story of the pyramid.
“What do you expect from Crouper? He’s an asshole!” the miller squawked.
“Oh, you think everybody’s an asshole. Let me talk with the man. Where did it happen?”
“About three versts from here.”
“Must have been in the ravine.” The miller picked up a little knife and stumbled over to the pickles, speared one, and cut off a piece like a wedge of watermelon. He stuffed it in his mouth and crunched noisily.
“No, it was before the ravine.”
“Before?” Taisia Markovna caught her breath. “But the road’s wide, even though it goes through forest.”
“Huh, that half-wit drove off the road, hmmm, and straight into a birch tree…” The miller nodded, still chewing on his pickle.
“We hit something hard. Bad luck. But my driver’s good.”
“He’s good,” the miller’s wife agreed. “Markich here just doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like anyone.”
“I like … Don’t tell lies…,” said the miller with his mouth full.
Suddenly he spit out the chewed-up pickle with a snort and stamped his foot:
“I like you, stupid! Don’t argue with me.”
“Who’s arguing?” His wife laughed, looking at the doctor. “And where are you going, from Repishnaya?”
“To Dolgoye.”
“To Dolgoye?!” She stopped smiling and her face looked shocked.
“To Dolgoye?!” the miller screeched and stood stock-still.
“To Dolgoye,” the doctor repeated.
The miller and his wife looked at each other.
“They’ve got the black plague, we saw it on the radio,” said Taisia Markovna, raising her black eyebrows in surprise.
“I saw it on the radio this morning!” The miller nodded his head. “They’ve got the black plague!”
“Yes. The black sickness.” The doctor nodded as he finished chewing and leaned against the back of the chair.
His large nose had turned red and sweaty from the vodka and food. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
“They’ve … The … There’s troops on the outskirts. Where do you think you’re going?” The miller staggered back and stumbled.
“I’m bringing the vaccine.”
“Vaccine? To inoculate them?” the miller’s wife asked.
“That’s right. To vaccinate the ones who are left.”
“The ones that d-d-didn’t get bit yet?” Stepping back once more, the miller reclined on the pickle.
It was clear that the last thimbleful had knocked him off his feet.
“Yes. The ones that haven’t been bitten yet.”
The doctor retrieved a cigarette from his case and lit up with the satisfied sigh of a man who has assuaged his hunger.
“Aren’t you afraid to go there?” asked the miller’s wife, her bosom heaving.
“That’s the nature of my job. And what’s to be afraid of? The troops are there.”
“But they … mmm … Those … They’re … quick ones,” she said, her plump hand spinning her empty glass in worry.
“They! The-e-y! Oh, they’re quick ones, they are! They are so qui-i-i-ck!” shouted the miller, holding on to a bump on the pickle, and shaking his head, as though offended.
“They can tunnel underground.” She licked her lips.
“Tunnel! That’s right! They tunnel under!”
“And they can come out anywhere at all.”
“And they c-c-can … They c-can! Those dirty…”
“They can, of course,” agreed the doctor. “Even in winter they have no trouble digging their way through frozen earth.”
“Lord Almighty,” said the miller’s wife, crossing herself. “Are you armed?”
“Of course.” The doctor puffed on his
papirosa
.
He liked the miller’s wife. There was something maternal, kind, and cozily caring about her that brought back memories of childhood, when his mother was still alive. The miller’s wife wasn’t beautiful, but her femininity was winning. Talking to her was a pleasure.
“That drunkard got lucky,” the doctor thought, looking at her plump hands and her smooth, pudgy fingers, with their tiny nails, which were spinning the drinking glass.
The door opened and Crouper entered.
“Oho! It’s Iva-an Susanin!” The miller burst out laughing, holding on to the pickle. “What were you doing, running into a birch tree? A birdbrain, that’s what you are.”
“Really, it’s true—a birdbrain,” the doctor agreed silently. He looked at Crouper.
“Greetings!” Crouper took off his hat, bowed, crossed himself in front of the icon, and began to remove his snowy clothes.
“Who said you could do that?” the miller objected. “Asshole!”
“Stop cursing, Senya.” The miller’s wife slapped her heavy hand on the table.
“You’re an enemy of the s-s-state. Got it? A s-s-sa-saboteur!” The miller, staggering around the hors d’oeuvres, crossed the table toward Crouper. “They should sh-sh-ut you up for it!”
He tripped and planted himself on the lard.
“Just sit there!” grinned the miller’s wife. “Come in, Kozma. Have a seat.”
Crouper smoothed his red, sweaty hair and sat down at the table.
“All those scummy bums should be locked up … You’re a fucking asshole!” the miller screeched, staring nastily at Crouper.
“Now, now…” Losing patience, the miller’s wife scooped up her husband and put him on her bosom, pressing him tightly. “Sit!”
Holding on to her husband with one hand, she poured some vodka into a tea glass for Crouper:
“Drink,” she said. “It will warm you up.”
“Thank you, Taisia Markovna.”
Crouper sat down at the table, picked up a glass with his clawlike hand, leaned over it, opened his magpie mouth, and began slowly sucking in the moonshine, straightening up as he drank.
When he finished, he exhaled, frowned, took a piece of bread, sniffed it, and put it on the table.
“Have a bite, Kozma, don’t be shy.”
“Go on, stuff your face!” the miller chortled.
And then the miller began to sing in a tremulous voice:
There was an old woman from Tula,
Said, “I’m off to the States to make moolah.”
“You stupid old cunt,” her old man did swear,
“They ain’t got no trains that go there.”
“Now you stop that!” The wife poked the miller.
He laughed tipsily.
Crouper stuck a piece of lard in his mouth, bit off some bread, and chewed rapidly. He’d just swallowed when the doctor asked him:
“What about the sled?”
“The steering rod? Pulled it out, nailed it back.”
“Does it work?”
“Yup.”
“Then let’s get going.”
“You’re going to travel? To Dolgoye?” The miller’s wife smiled grimly.
“They’re waiting for me.”
“Ah, go on … Let that rag pile go. The doctor can stay!” The miller shook his fist at Crouper.
“Hold on now!” Taisia Markovna pressed her husband to her bosom. “You can’t go off into the storm at night. You’ll lose the road straightaway.”
“S-s-straight! Away!” The miller shook his head.
“I absolutely must get to Dolgoye today,” the doctor asserted stubbornly.
The miller’s wife sighed deeply, rocking her husband like a baby:
“You’ll get across the grove, and the old village, but that’s where the fields start and there’s no mileposts either. You’ll get stuck in the field. You have to spend the night.”
“Can’t anyone show us the way? Your worker, for instance?”
“What?” The miller’s wife grinned. “You think he has cat eyes? He can’t see at night. And he’s not from around here.”
“He’s just the g-guy you want…” The miller dug his boots into his wife’s chest, climbed up to her neck, and stared at Crouper. “And you there, you just … take that!”
The miller gave Crouper the finger. Crouper was eating cabbage slaw and paid no attention to him.
“Stay till morning.” With her free hand the miller’s wife set a glass under the samovar tap and turned the spigot. Boiling water poured into the glass.
“They’re expecting me today.” The doctor stubbed out his cigarette.
“Even if you don’t get lost, you still won’t make it till morning time. Leave now and you’ll not go far.”
“Maybe we oughta stay, doctor, sir?” Crouper asked timidly.
“You jess get th’ell outta! Ya lost a horse at the market! You loser loafer!!” the miller shouted, kicking his feet against his wife’s bosom.
“Stay now, don’t be silly.” The miller’s wife poured strong brew from a Chinese teapot. “The storm will die down, and you’ll fly along.”
“And if it doesn’t?” The doctor looked at Crouper as though the weather depended on him.
“If’n it don’t, it’s a sight calmer in the light,” Crouper answered. Something stuck in his throat and he had a coughing fit.
“He lost the horse to passs-churs, lost traaa-ck-o-vvvit!” The miller refused to quiet down. “They oughta lock ye up fer horse-thieving!”
“Stay.” The miller’s wife set the glass of tea down in front of the doctor and began to pour some for Crouper.
“And the horses c’n rest a piece.”
“No snoozin’, not a wink … They’ll rest in peace, not rest a piece, thass whachur horses’ll do!” cackled the miller.
The miller’s wife laughed, her chest rose, and her husband rocked on it as though on a wave.
“Maybe we really should stay?” thought the doctor.
He looked around for a clock on the well-chinked wall, but didn’t see one; he was about to take his pocket watch out but suddenly saw small, glowing numbers hovering in the air over a metal circle lying on the sewing machine: 19:42.
“We could try to get there by midnight … But if we get lost, as she pointed out…,” the doctor thought.
He took a sip of tea.
“We could stay and leave at first light. If the blizzard has stopped, we’ll get there in an hour and a half. If I give them vaccine-2 eight hours later, nothing terrible will happen. That’s acceptable. I’ll write an explanatory note…”
“Nothing terrible will happen if you get there tomorrow,” said the miller’s wife, as though she’d read his mind. “Have some more vodka.”
Deep in thought, the doctor bit his lower lip and glanced at the numbers glowing in the air.
“So we’re staying?” Crouper asked, no longer chewing.
“Very well.” Platon Ilich sighed with disappointment. “We’re staying.”
“Thank God!” Crouper nodded.
“Yes, thank God,” the miller’s wife almost sang, as she filled the glasses.
“What about me? What about me?” The miller tottered and swayed on her chest.
She dripped a few drops from the bottle into the thimble and handed it to the miller.
“May you be healthy!” She raised her glass.
The doctor, Crouper, and the miller all drank.
Taking a bite of ham, the doctor now looked at the room not just as a stopping place but as the night’s lodging: “Where will she put us? In another
izba
? We had to end up here for the night. Damn this blizzard…”
Crouper took a deep breath and relaxed. He warmed up right away and was glad that he wouldn’t have to go out into the dark now, glad not to get lost looking for the road, torturing himself and his horses; glad that his horses would spend the night in the warmth of the miller’s stable, that he would give them some oats—he always had a bag of oats stored under the seat—and that he himself would sleep here, most likely on top of the stove, in the warmth, and that the nasty miller couldn’t touch him; glad that they’d leave early the next morning, and that when he’d delivered the doctor to Dolgoye, he’d get five rubles and drive back home.
“Oh well, perhaps it’s for the best,” said the doctor, reassuring himself.
“It’s for the best.” The miller’s wife smiled at him. “I’ll put you upstairs, and Kozma—on the stove. It’s quiet and warm upstairs.”
“Ow, what the … Got a leg cramp…,” the miller squeaked, grabbing his right leg, his drunken face grimacing.
“Time for bed.” The miller’s wife picked him up to take him off her chest, but at that moment the miller dropped the thimble. It rolled down his wife’s large body and fell under the table.
“Now look what you’ve done, Semyon Markich, gone and lost your cup.” Lovingly, as though he were a child, the miller’s wife placed him in front of her on the edge of the table.
“Huh? Whass, how’s … the … what?” muttered the thoroughly drunk miller.
“That’s what,” she replied. Standing, she lifted her husband with two hands, carried him over to the bed, set him down on it, and drew the curtains.
“Lie down, time to go night-night.” She rustled the pillows and blanket, tucking her husband in.
“Wake me up early tomorrow,” the doctor told Crouper.
“The crack of dawn, first light,” the driver replied, nodding his reddish magpie-shaped head.
It was obvious that the vodka, warmth, and food had made Crouper tipsy, and that he was ready to sleep.
“Let ’em all … all o’ them…’em all…” The miller’s drunken squeak could be heard behind the curtain.
“Sorta like a cricket … chirp chirp,” Crouper thought, smiling his birdlike smile.
“Taa-iiii-sssia … Taiss … Let’s cuddle and have a roll in the hay,” the miller peeped.