The Cossacks (10 page)

The taunts were directed at Uncle Eroshka, who was returning from the hunt with his rifle slung over his shoulder and three pheasants hanging from his belt.

“I have sinned, I have sinned, children!” he called out, waving his hands briskly and looking into the windows of the houses on both sides of the street. “I sold my poor dog for drink, sinner that I am!” he said, vexed at himself but trying to act as if he did not care.

Olenin was surprised at the children’s behavior toward the old man but was even more taken aback by the man’s strong frame and expressive, intelligent face.

“Uncle!” he called out to him. “Can you come here a moment?”

The old man looked into the window and stopped. “Greetings, my friend,” he said, raising his hat over his close-cropped head.

“Greetings, my friend,” Olenin answered. “What are those brats shouting at you?”

Uncle Eroshka walked over to the window. “They are making fun of me, old man that I am. But I don’t mind. I like it. Why shouldn’t they have a little fun at their old uncle’s expense?” he said in his strong, resonant voice. “Are you the commander of the soldiers?”

“No, I’m a cadet. Where did you catch those pheasants?”

“I caught these three hens in the forest,” the old man answered, turning his broad back to the window, showing Olenin the pheasants that hung with their heads wedged in his belt, staining his coat with blood. “Never seen pheasants before?” he asked. “Here, take a pair. There you go.” And he handed Olenin two birds through the window. “Are you a hunter yourself?”

“Yes I am,” Olenin answered. “During the campaign I shot four.”

“Four? That’s a lot!” the old man said with a mocking twinkle in his eye. “You a drinker? You drink Chikhir wine?”

“Do I drink Chikhir wine! I love drinking!”

“Ha! I see you’re a fine fellow! We will be true blood brothers, you and I!” Uncle Eroshka called out.

“Come on in!” Olenin said. “Let’s drink some Chikhir!”

“I’ll come in,” the old man answered. “But here, first take the pheasants.”

Eroshka’s face clearly showed that he liked the cadet—he realized he could drink here for free and that his gift of the two pheasants would not go to waste. A few moments later Eroshka appeared at the door. It was only now that Olenin realized how big and strong his
frame was, youthful in spite of the old man’s thick white beard and the deep lines of age and toil. The muscles of his arms, legs, and shoulders were full and strong, like those of a young man. Deep scars were visible on his head beneath his cropped hair. His thick, sinewy neck was covered in crisscrossing folds like that of a bull, his rough hands scratched and battered. He entered the room with a light step, slung his rifle from his shoulder, and put it in the corner, sizing up Olenin’s belongings with a quick glance. Stepping softly in his rawhide shoes, he walked through the room, bringing with him a penetrating but not unpleasant odor of Chikhir, vodka, gunpowder, and congealed blood. He bowed before the icons, smoothed his beard, walked over to Olenin, and reached out his strong, swarthy hand.

“Hoshgildi!”
he said. “In Tatar that means ‘Good day, peace be with you’—that’s what it means in their language.”

“
Hoshgildi!
I know,” Olenin replied, giving him his hand.

“No, no! That’s not how it’s done, you fool!” Uncle Eroshka said, shaking his head reproachfully. “If someone says
‘Hoshgildi’
to you, you’re supposed to say,
‘Allah pazi bo sun!’
which means, ‘May God save you!’ That’s what you’re supposed to say, not
‘Hoshgildi.’
I’ll teach you all of that. We had a fellow here called Ilya Moseyich, one of you Russians, and he and I were blood brothers. A drinker, horse rustler, and hunter—and what a hunter! I taught him everything he knew!”

“What are you going to teach me?” Olenin asked with growing interest.

“I’ll take you hunting, I’ll teach you how to fish, I’ll show you Chechens, and if you want a pretty little sweet soul, I’ll get you one. That’s the kind of man I am, someone who knows how to have fun!” Uncle Eroshka burst out laughing. “Let me sit down, my friend—I’m worn out!
Karga?
”

“What does
karga
mean?”

“It means ‘all right’ in Georgian. That’s what I always say, it’s my favorite word. When I say
karga
, it means I’m ready for some fun. So, my friend, won’t you call for some Chikhir? You have an orderly, don’t you? Ivan!” the old man shouted. “All of your soldiers are called Ivan. Your man’s an Ivan too, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. Vanyusha! Go get some Chikhir from our landlord, and bring it here.”

“Ivan or Vanyusha, it’s all the same. Why are all your soldiers Ivans? Ivan!” the old man called out. “Tell them to give you Chikhir from the barrel they just started. They have the best Chikhir in the village—and don’t pay more than thirty kopecks, because you’ll only give that old witch something to gloat about. It’s a curse how stupid our people are,” Uncle Eroshka confided after Vanyusha had left. “They don’t see you Russians as men. To them you are worse than a Tatar. They say all Russians are worldly sinners. But if you ask me, even though you’re a Russian soldier, you’re still a man—you have a soul in you. Why do I say that? My friend Ilya Moseyich was a Russian soldier, and he was a man of gold! And you know what, my friend, that’s why my people don’t like me, but I don’t care! I’m a fun-loving man, I love everyone, I, Eroshka! That’s how it is, my friend!”

And the old man patted the young man tenderly on the shoulder.

Vanyusha was in the best of spirits. He had prepared Olenin’s lodgings, managed to get himself shaved by the company barber, and pulled his trouser legs out of his boots as a sign that the company was now at rest and comfortably billeted. He eyed Eroshka with wary misgiving, as if he were some unknown wild beast. He shook his head at the floor Eroshka had soiled with his shoes, took two empty bottles from under the bench, and headed over to Old Ulitka.

“Good evening to you, dear mistress,” he said, intent on being particularly amiable. “The gentleman sent me to buy some Chikhir from you—will you be so kind as to pour me some?”

The old woman did not answer. Her daughter was standing in front of a small Tatar mirror, tying a kerchief around her head. She turned and looked at Vanyusha.

“I will give you good money,” Vanyusha said, jingling the coins in his pocket, and then added, “Be nice to us, and we’ll be nice to you—it will be better that way.”

“You want a lot of Chikhir?”

“Just an eighth.”

“Go and tap some for him,” Old Ulitka told her daughter. “And mind, sweetie, that it’s from the barrel we just started.”

The girl brought a ring of keys and a jug, and Vanyusha followed her out of the house.

Olenin saw her walk past the window. “Who is that woman?” he asked Uncle Eroshka.

The old man winked and nudged him with his elbow.

“Watch this,” he said, leaning out the window. He cleared his throat and bellowed, “Maryanka! Darling Maryanka! Won’t you fall in love with me, my sweetheart?” He turned to Olenin and whispered, “I’m always good for a joke!”

Without looking back, Maryanka walked on with the strutting gait of the Cossack woman, smoothly swinging her arms. Then she slowly turned her black, long-lashed eyes toward the old man.

“Love me and I promise you happiness!” Eroshka shouted, and with a wink looked at Olenin as if expecting him to say something. “What you need is a quick tongue—just a bit of fun,” he added. “She’s a fine girl, isn’t she?”

“A beauty,” Olenin said. “Call her over.”

“No, no!” the old man replied. “She’s been promised to Lukashka. Luka is a good Cossack, a fighter, he killed a Chechen warrior the other day. I’ll find you a better girl—I’ll find you one dressed in silk and silver. I said I’ll find you one, and find you one I will! A real beauty, you’ll see!”

“An old man like you saying such things!” Olenin exclaimed. “What you’re suggesting is a sin!”

“A sin? What do you mean, a sin?” the old man snapped. “Is it a sin to look at a pretty girl? Is it a sin to have some fun with her? Or is it a sin to love her? Is that how things are back where you’re from? No, my dear friend, it is not sin, it is salvation! God made you and God also made women. He made everything. So how can it be a sin to look at a pretty woman? That’s what she was made for—to be loved and taken delight in. That’s how
I
see things!”

Maryanka crossed the courtyard and entered the dark, cool storeroom
filled with barrels. She walked over to one, spoke the customary words of prayer, and put in the siphon. Vanyusha stood in the doorway, smiling. He found it very funny that she was only wearing a smock, and that the smock was tight behind and tucked up in front, and even funnier that she was wearing a coin necklace. He thought all this was very un-Russian, and imagined how everyone back home in the servant quarters would laugh if they saw such a girl. “But
la fille il c’est très bien
!” he thought. “I will tell my master.”

“You’re blocking the light, you devil!” the girl suddenly said. “You’d do better to give me that jug!”

Maryanka filled the jug with cold red wine and handed it to Vanyusha.

“No, give Mother the money,” she said, pushing away his hand with the coins.

Vanyusha laughed.

“Why are you so unkind, you sweet girl?” he asked good-naturedly, shifting from one foot to the other while Maryanka stopped up the barrel.

She burst out laughing. “Are
you
perhaps kind?”

“The gentleman and I are both very kind,” Vanyusha said emphatically. “We are so kind that wherever we have been quartered, the people putting us up were grateful to us. My master is a nobleman.”

Maryanka stood and listened. “So, is your master married?” she asked.

“No! My master is young and unmarried—because noblemen can never marry young,” Vanyusha said in a superior tone.

“Too young? An ox of a man like that too young to marry? Is he the commander of all you men here?”

“My master is a cadet. That means he’s not an officer yet. But actually he is higher up than a general, because he’s so important. The Czar himself knows him,” Vanyusha said with pride. “We aren’t poor riffraff like the other soldiers. My master’s father was a senator, he had more than a thousand serfs, and my master is sent a thousand rubles a month. That’s why wherever we’ve been quartered the people loved us. Another man might be an army captain, but if he has no money, then what’s the good of that, as—”

“I’ll go lock up,” the girl interrupted.

Vanyusha carried the wine to Olenin, proclaiming, “
La fille il c’est très jullie!”
And with a foolish laugh he quickly left the room.

Meanwhile, a bugle sounded tattoo in the village square. The villagers were returning from work. The cattle were lowing by the gates in a dusty golden cloud. Women and girls hurried through streets and yards, driving the cattle toward the sheds. The sun sank below the distant snow-covered mountain range, and a bluish shadow spread over earth and sky. The first stars appeared dimly over the darkening orchards, and the bustle in the village gradually fell silent. After tending the cattle, the women gathered on the street corners to sit in groups on the earthen mounds surrounding the houses, cracking sunflower seeds with their teeth. Maryanka, having milked the cows, joined a group of women and girls who were talking to an old man about the Chechen warrior whom Lukashka had killed. The old Cossack was telling the tale, and the women were asking questions.

“I bet he’ll get a good reward, won’t he?” one of the women asked.

“Of course he will. Word has it they’ll give him a medal.”

“But Mosyev tried to get the better of him—he took his rifle, but the commanders in Kizlyar heard about it.”

“He’s mean-spirited, Mosyev is!”

“I heard Lukashka has come back to the village,” one of the girls said.

“He and Nazarka have already drunk half a bucket at Yamka’s.” Yamka was a dissolute, unmarried Cossack woman who kept a drinking house.

“That Lukashka the Snatcher is a lucky man!” one of the women added. “A real snatcher! That’s for sure a fine boy! His father, old Kiryazh, was a fine man too, and Luka’s just like him. When old Kiryazh was killed, the whole village wailed. Ah, look, here they come,” the woman said, pointing at three men walking toward them along the street. “Ha, that drunkard Ergushov managed to join them!”

Lukashka, Nazarka, and Ergushov had drunk half a bucket of
vodka among them. The faces of all three were redder than usual, particularly that of old Ergushov, who was tottering. Laughing loudly, he kept nudging Nazarka in the ribs.

“Hey there, girls!” he called out. “How about a song!”

“Greetings, greetings!” the girls called out.

“Why should we sing, it’s not a feast day!” one of the women said. “It’s you who’s full of drink—
you
sing!”

Ergushov guffawed and nudged Nazarka. “Why don’t you start, and I’ll sing along. I’m the best singer you ever heard!”

“Hey, have you fallen asleep, my beauties?” Nazarka shouted. “We’ve come back from the checkpoint to drink your health! But as you can see, we’ve already drunk Lukashka’s!”

As Lukashka approached the group, he slowly raised his sheepskin hat and stopped in front of the girls. His neck and wide cheekbones were flushed. He stood and spoke quietly and deliberately; but in his quietness and deliberateness there was more vitality than in all of Nazarka’s antics. Lukashka was like a playful stallion that had suddenly stopped in midgallop, snorting and flicking its tail. He spoke little, glancing at his drunken comrades and then back at the girls with a twinkle in his eye. When Maryanka joined the group at the corner, he raised his sheepskin hat in an unhurried sweep, stepped aside for her to pass, and then stepped back in front of her, one foot a little forward, his thumbs hooked into his belt and toying with his dagger. Maryanka acknowledged his greeting with a slight bow, sat down on the earthen mound, and took a bag of sunflower seeds from between her breasts. Lukashka watched her with unmoving eyes. Everyone had fallen quiet when Maryanka appeared.