The Cossacks (13 page)

“I know,” Lukashka said. “You’re right.”

“If you want to be a real Cossack, you must be a brave warrior and not a muzhik.
*
Even a muzhik can get his hands on a horse—he pays the money and the horse is his.”

The two men sat in silence.

“There’s no fun to be had anywhere, Uncle. Not in the village and not at the checkpoint, either. There’s nowhere a man can carouse. You should see what a coward everyone is, even Nazarka. The other day we were in a Chechen village—Girei Khan sent word that we should rustle some horses from the Nogai, but none of our men would go! What could I do? Go on my own?”

“Why didn’t you ask me? You think I’m all dried up? Well I’m not! Get me a horse, and I’ll ride to the Nogai with you!”

“Why talk of it now, Uncle?” Lukashka said. “The real question is how one is to handle Girei Khan. He says that if we get the horses to the Terek, even if it’s a whole herd, he’ll see to it that they’re all sold. But he’s a Chechen himself, how can you trust him?”

“You can trust Girei Khan and all his clan, they are good people. His father was a true blood brother of mine. Just listen to your uncle Eroshka, I only teach you what’s right: Make Girei Khan take an oath, and then you can be sure he’ll stick to it. But when you ride with him, be sure to keep your rifle at the ready, especially when the horses are
being divided up. I once almost got killed by a Chechen that way—I asked him to pay ten rubles for a horse. It’s nice to be trusting, but don’t lie down to sleep without a rifle at your side.”

Lukashka listened intently to the old man’s words. After a few moments of silence he said, “By the way, Uncle, word has it you have some break-in weed.”

“I don’t have any, but I can tell you how to get some. You’re a good boy, and I’m sure you won’t forget your old uncle. You want to know how?”

“Yes, tell me.”

“The tortoise, as you know, is a devilish animal.”

“That it is.”

“Look for a tortoise nest, and build a wall around it so the tortoise can’t get back in. The tortoise will come to its nest, go around the wall, first this way, then that. When it realizes it can’t get in, it’ll go off to find some break-in weed and then use it to break through the wall. The next morning you go to the nest, and where the wall is broken you’ll find the break-in weed. Take it with you wherever you go, and no lock or bolt can ever withstand you again.”

“You’ve tried it, Uncle?”

“No, I haven’t, but some good men told me about it. The only spell I’ve ever used is reciting the ‘All Hail’ whenever I mount a horse. And as you can see, no one has killed me yet.”

“Which ‘All Hail’ is that, Uncle?”

“You don’t know it? Oh, these young Cossacks! Well, I’m glad you asked! Recite this spell after me:

“Kind mankind loveth,” the old man repeated. “You know it now? Recite it!”

Lukashka laughed. “You are telling me this is why you’ve never been killed?”

“You young ones have gotten too clever! Learn it and recite it. It won’t harm you. Recite it, and you’ll be fine.” The old man laughed too. “But you’d better not go to the Nogai.”

“Why?”

“These are other times now, and you young men are not up to it—you’ve become shit Cossacks. And now all these Russians have descended on us! They’ll throw you in jail. Just forget the whole thing. You youngsters could never pull it off. Now Girchik and me, back when we …” And the old man was about to launch into one of his endless stories, but Lukashka looked out the window and said, “It’s light already, I have to be off. Come by the checkpoint when you have a chance.”

“May Christ smile upon you! I’m going over to see the Russian soldier. I promised to take him hunting. He seems a good enough fellow.”

Lukashka left Eroshka’s house and headed home. A damp fog was rising from the earth and enveloping the village. The sound of unseen cattle stamping and rustling came from all directions. Cocks crowed more often and more strongly. The air gradually began to fill with light, and the villagers were starting to wake up. It was not until Lukashka stood in front of his house that he could see the fence, still wet from the fog, and the porch and the open gate. Through the fog he could hear the sound of an ax chopping wood. He went into the house. His mother was already up, throwing wood into the stove. His little sister was still asleep.

“Ah, Lukashka, had enough carousing?” his mother asked quietly. “Where were you all night?”

“In the village,” he replied reluctantly, taking his rifle out of its sling and examining it.

His mother shook her head.

Lukashka poured some gunpowder onto the rifle pan, took some empty cartridges out of a pouch, and began filling them, stopping
them up carefully with a bullet wrapped in a strip of cloth. He checked the cartridges, tugging at them with his teeth, and then put the pouch away.

“Mother, don’t forget that my bags need mending,” he said.

“Yes, yes. Your sister, the deaf-mute one, was mending something yesterday evening. Do you have to go back to the checkpoint already? I haven’t seen you at all!”

“As soon as I get my things ready, I have to be off,” Lukashka replied, tying up his gunpowder bag. “Where’s my sister? Is she out in the yard?”

“I think she’s chopping wood. She’s been very worried about you. She says she never gets to see you anymore. She points to her face, clicks her tongue, and then presses her hands to her heart, as if she’s telling me she’s sad. Shall I call her? She understood everything about the Chechen.”

“Yes, call her,” Lukashka said. “And I had some lard somewhere—can you find it for me? I need to grease my sword.”

The old woman went outside, and a few minutes later Lukashka heard his deaf-mute sister’s shuffling footsteps as she entered the house. She was six years older than her brother and would have looked remarkably like him if she had not had that dull yet abruptly changing expression common to deaf-mutes. She wore a rough, patched smock, an old, light blue kerchief, and her feet were bare and mud-spattered. Her neck, hands, and face were sinewy, like those of a man. It was clear from her clothes and appearance that she was used to doing a man’s rough work. She had brought in a bundle of wood, which she threw into the stove. Then she came up to her brother with a happy smile that creased her whole face, touched his shoulder, and began making quick signs with her hands, her face, and her whole body.

“That’s nice, Stepka, very nice!” Lukashka replied, nodding his head. “It’s very nice that you prepared and fixed everything! Good girl! Here, take this!” And he took two pieces of spice cake out of his pocket and gave them to her.

The mute girl’s face flushed, and she hummed wildly with pleasure. She took the spice cake and began making signs even faster, often pointing in one direction, running a thick finger over her eyebrow and
face. Lukashka understood her and kept nodding with a slight smile. She was saying that her brother should give the spice cake to the girls, that the girls liked him, and that one of the girls, Maryanka, was better than the rest, and that she was in love with him. She indicated Maryanka by quickly pointing in the direction of Maryanka’s yard and then at her eyebrows and face, while clicking her tongue and wagging her head. “She loves you,” she signed by pressing her hand against her breast, then kissing her hand and stretching it out as if she were about to embrace someone. Their mother came back into the house, and seeing what her daughter was saying, smiled and shook her head. The girl showed her the pieces of spice cake and again hummed with joy.

“I told Maryanka’s mother the other day that I was going to send the matchmaker over,” their mother said. “She took my words well enough.”

Lukashka looked at his mother silently for a moment and then said, “You have to get the wine carted off and sold—I need a horse.”

“I’ll have it carted when the time comes. I’ll get the barrels ready,” she said, clearly not wanting her son to interfere in household matters. “When you leave,” she added, “don’t forget to take along the sack that’s in the front room. It’s all the things the neighbors brought along for you to take to the checkpoint. Or do you want me to stuff the things into one of your saddlebags?”

“Yes, that would be better,” Lukashka said, preparing to go. “And if Girei Khan rides in from across the river, send him to the checkpoint, because it’ll be quite a while before I get another leave. I have business to see to with him.”

“I’ll send him over, Lukashka, don’t worry,” the old woman said. “You and the other boys were drinking at Yamka’s? I got up in the night to see to the cattle, and I was sure I heard you singing.”

Lukashka did not answer but went into the front room, hung the bag over his shoulder, straightened his coat, took his rifle, and stopped for a moment by the door.

“Farewell, Mother.”

His mother walked with him to the gate.

“Send me a keg of Chikhir with Nazarka,” he said to her, closing the gate behind him. “I promised the boys at the checkpoint. Nazarka will come for it.”

“God be with you, Lukashka, and may Christ smile upon you! I’ll send it with Nazarka. I’ll get it from the new barrel!” the old woman called out, walking up to the fence. Leaning over it she added, “But there’s something I want to say to you.”

Lukashka stopped.

“You’ve been carousing and having fun here in the village, though why shouldn’t a young man enjoy himself? It is after all God who gave man happiness. It is as it should be, God be praised. But be careful that you don’t cross your sergeant. I will sell the wine and get the money for you to buy the horse, and I’ll arrange the marriage with the girl.”

“Fine, fine!” Lukashka replied with a frown.

His sister called out to catch his attention. She pointed at her head and her hand, which meant “shaved head,” in other words, “Chechen.” Frowning and mimicking the aiming of a rifle, she shrieked and began humming, shaking her head. She was telling Lukashka to kill another Chechen.

Lukashka smiled, and with light, quick steps, his rifle slung over his shoulder beneath his cloak, he disappeared into the thick fog.

The old woman stood silently awhile at the gate, went back into the milk shed, and immediately returned to her work.

While Lukashka was on his way to the checkpoint, Uncle Eroshka whistled to his dogs, climbed over the fence, and took the back lane to Olenin’s lodgings. When he was going out to hunt, he did not like women to cross his path. Olenin was still asleep, and Vanyusha, who had awakened but not gotten up, was looking around the room wondering whether it was time to get out of bed. Uncle Eroshka, in full hunting gear, his rifle on his shoulder, swung open the door.

“Get up! Grab a cudgel! Chechens!” he shouted in his deep voice. “Ivan! Light the samovar for your master!” He turned to Olenin. “As for you, get up! Get a move on! That’s how we do things here, my friend! Even the girls are up already! Look out the window—look, that girl there’s already fetching water, and you’re still asleep!”

Olenin woke up and jumped out of bed. The sound of the old man’s
voice made him feel fresh and cheerful. “Get a move on, Vanyusha! Get a move on!” Olenin called out.

“So that’s how you set out for a hunt?” the old man shouted, as if the hut were filled with a large crowd. “Everyone’s eating breakfast, and you’re still asleep? Lyam, here boy!” he called to his dog. “So, are the rifles ready?”

“I know I should have been up already,” Olenin said. “Vanyusha! Gunpowder! Cartridges!”

“You’ll have to pay a fine for oversleeping!” the old man shouted.

“Du thé voulez vous?”
Vanyusha asked with a grin.

“You’re not one of us, you devil!” the old man yelled, baring the stumps of his teeth. “What you’re babbling there is foreign!”

“As it’s my first offense, you’ll have to pardon me,” Olenin joked, pulling on a pair of big boots.

“Your first offense will be pardoned, but if you ever oversleep again you’ll be fined a bucket of Chikhir. Once the day warms up you won’t find any deer out there.”

“And even if we do find some, they’re bound to be cleverer than we are,” Olenin replied cheerfully, repeating what the old man had said the night before. “You can’t trick them.”

“Yes, laugh all you like! Kill one first, and then talk! Come on now, get a move on! Look, your landlord is coming to see you,” Eroshka said, glancing out the window. “Look at that, he’s all dressed up and has even put on a new coat so you can see he’s an officer! Oh, these people, these people!”

A few moments later Vanyusha announced that the landlord wished to see his master. “
L’argent,”
he added gravely, alerting his master to the reason for the cornet’s visit. The smiling cornet appeared close on Vanyusha’s heels. He entered the room with a swagger, in a new Circassian coat with officers’ shoulder stripes and polished boots—quite unusual for a Cossack—and welcomed Olenin to his new quarters.

Cornet Ilya Vasilyevich was an “educated” Cossack, who had been to Russia, was a schoolmaster, and most important, was a noble—or rather he wished to appear noble. But one could not help feeling that beneath the grotesque affectation of vivacity, self-assuredness, and his outrageous manner of speaking, he was just like Uncle Eroshka. That
was also apparent from his sun-browned face, his hands, and his reddish nose. Olenin asked him to sit down.

“Greetings, Ilya Vasilyevich!” Eroshka said, rising and bowing with what Olenin thought was mock humility.

“Hello, Uncle! Here already?” the cornet replied with an offhand nod.

He was a trim, lean man of about forty, quite handsome for his age, with a gray, pointed beard. He was visibly worried that Olenin might take him for an ordinary Cossack and was eager for his importance to be immediately apparent.

“This here is our Egyptian Nimrod,”
*
the cornet said, pointing at the old man with a self-satisfied smile. “A hunter before the Lord. Our first and foremost man. I see it has already pleased you to make his acquaintance.”