The Blizzard (15 page)

“Yur ’onor…”

“How dare you?” The doctor jerked his hand away. “What do you think you’re…? Are you trying to sabotage…?”

“Yur ’onor…” Crouper wriggled in between the doctor and the sled. “Don’t hit ’em.”

“You just … I’ll sue you, you scoundrel!”

“Yur ’onor, don’t hit ’em, they ain’t ever bin hit…”

“You just—out of the way!”

“I ain’t gonna move, yur ’onor, sir.”

“Get back, asshole!”

“I ain’t gonna.”

The doctor threw the whip aside, drew back his fist, and punched Crouper in the face. Crouper fell helplessly into the snow.

“Beat me, but I ain’t gonna let no one tetch ’em!” he shouted in such a downtrodden and desperate voice that the doctor froze, his fist raised in readiness for another blow.

“What am I doing?” The doctor stepped back, surprised by his own fury.

Crouper floundered in the snow, then he managed to sit up, leaning against the sled, and silently picked up his hat. His birdlike face was still smiling, the doctor thought. Crouper put on his hat and remained sitting.

It was surprising that there hadn’t been a peep out of the horses.

The doctor sighed heavily, walked off a bit, retrieved a cigarette, and lit up.

Far, far off, a wolf howled.

“How stupid…,” the doctor thought. “I lost my temper. Why? Everything seemed to be working out, and the blizzard has stopped. But he doesn’t want to move. Ridiculous!”

He remembered that the last time he had punched a man in the face was at home in Repishnaya, when they’d had to tie up three guys who’d eaten poison mushrooms. He’d had to hit one of them twice.

“And now here I am, back at it,” the doctor thought, annoyed at himself. He threw down his unfinished cigarette.

The doctor walked over to Crouper and squatted. He put his hand on Crouper’s shoulder:

“Kozma, don’t … don’t be mad.”

“Why shud I…” Crouper grinned.

The doctor noticed that Crouper’s split lip was bleeding. He pulled his handkerchief out and pressed it against Crouper’s mouth.

“It weren’t nothin’, yur ’onor…” Crouper pushed his arm away and spat.

The doctor grabbed him under the arm to help him up: “Come on now.”

Crouper stood up, leaning against the sled. He pressed his lip to his mitten.

“Don’t be mad.” The doctor clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just tired.”

Crouper grinned.

“We have to go,” said the doctor, rocking Crouper’s light body.

“That’s sure enough.”

“Well, then, why are we standing around? Let’s be off.”

“They won’t move, yur ’onor. They gotta get over the willies.”

The doctor was about to say something harsh and weighty, but changed his mind and tramped off in a fit of pique. Crouper stood there, spitting and touching his mitten to his lip; then he covered the horses and fastened the matting.

“They needs an hour to come out of it. And then we’ll be off.”

“Do whatever you need to.”

The doctor sat down on his seat, wrapped the rug around tight, and shivered; only his nose and the sparkle of his pince-nez could be seen from under his hat. He was suddenly chilled and uncomfortable, and not simply from the cold. The optimism and energy he’d had when he left the Vitaminders had vanished. The doctor felt cold and disgusted.

“A pile of shit…,” he thought, thrusting his gloved hands into the deep pockets of his fur coat and feeling the cold revolver in his right pocket. “Our life is nothing but a pile of shit…”

“Schweinerei!”
He spoke the German word aloud.

Crouper climbed up onto the seat and sat next to the doctor. He showed no bitterness or offense. There was just his swollen upper lip, which made his birdlike mouth look even funnier.

They sat that way for about ten minutes. The moon was still shining in the cleared sky, and the wind had died down. A frosty silence reigned. The only sound was that of the horses’ hooves stepping about cautiously inside the hood.

“Maybe a drink?” the doctor asked himself out loud.

Crouper just sighed.

“Just a swig apiece?” asked the doctor, turning toward him.

Crouper sniffed:

“We ain’t agin’ it, yur ’onor. It’s shiverin’ cold, so why not?”

“That’s true.” The doctor nodded. Leaning over, he opened his travel bag, rummaged around in it, grunting, and pulled out a round bottle that contained rubbing alcohol.

He pulled the rubber cork out, inhaled, and raised his arm, looking at the moon through the thick glass: “To our health.”

He took a large swig, placed his left hand to his lips, and slowly exhaled into the cold glove, which smelled of smoke from the fire. The alcohol burned as it moved down his throat, causing him to remember the copper kettle filled with boiling oil.

“
Va, pensiero
…,” he muttered, exhausted, as he drew the freezing air in through his nose. Then he burst out laughing.

Crouper looked over at him.

“Here, drink.” The doctor handed him the bottle.

Crouper took it with both hands, leaned over, and slowly leaned back as he took a gulp. He held his breath for a moment, and sat stock-still. Then he grunted like a peasant, shook his head, and handed the bottle to the doctor.

“Good?” asked the doctor.

“Good,” Crouper replied, breathing through his nose noisily.

The doctor closed the bottle and put it away in his travel bag. He squeezed Crouper by the wrist.

“Don’t be mad.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’m just tired … Sick of everything.”

Crouper nodded. The doctor looked around glumly.

“You hurry up those horses of yours somehow, hear?”

“They’ll go on their own soon. It’s in the little ones’ blood, yur ’onor. They’re scared of dogs and wolves. And weasels.”

“But the wolf tracks are cold!” the doctor exclaimed with a hurt expression.

“That’s right, but the fright’s still there.”

“Not that much farther to go, anyway.”

“We’ll get there.”

“There are very sick patients waiting for me,” the doctor said without any hint of reproach. He retrieved his cigarettes.

Crouper raised the collar of his sheepskin coat, shivered, and grew quiet.

The doctor, on the contrary, felt a surge of energy and warmth after drinking the alcohol. It felt like a tropical flower had blossomed in his belly.

“Down to the last two!” He grinned as he showed Crouper his cigarette case.

Crouper didn’t move.

The doctor lit up. The irritability and impatience had left him. He smoked and squinted into the snowy plain. His eyes teared up, but he didn’t feel like moving and wiping them. He blinked, but the tears stayed in his eyes, making everything around him swim, and the corners of his eyes felt pleasantly cool.

“Why are we always hurrying somewhere?” he thought, inhaling the cigarette smoke and blowing it out again with pleasure. “I was in a hurry to get to Dolgoye. What would happen if I arrived tomorrow? Or the day after? Nothing at all. The people who’ve been infected and bitten will never be people again anyway. They’re doomed to be shot. And the ones who’ve barricaded themselves inside their
izba
s will wait for me one way or the other. They’ll be vaccinated. And they’ll no longer fear the Bolivian plague. Zilberstein won’t be happy, of course. He’s waiting for me, cursing me up and down. But it’s not in my power to overcome this cold, snowy expanse with a wave of my hand. I can’t fly over the snowdrifts…”

Finishing his
papirosa
slowly, he tossed the butt into the snow.

A cloud crawled over the moon, plunging the field into the dark of night.

“Sleeping?” The doctor poked the driver.

“Naw,” Crouper answered.

“Don’t sleep.”

“I ain’t sleepin’.”

The cloud moved past the moon. The field brightened again.

Crouper felt warm and calm after drinking the liquor. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, holding on to his sides, his hat practically down to his nose. He peeped out at the expanse of moonlit field. He no longer thought about his unheated house, he just sat there and looked. The doctor was on the verge of asking him about the horses, when and why they first became scared of wolves, how soon they’d come out of it and be ready to pull the sled, but he changed his mind. He, too, sat motionless, giving himself over to the absolute calm stretching all around him.

The wind had completely died down.

They sat like this for a while longer. Neither the doctor nor Crouper wanted to move. Tufts of cloud crawled across the moon and moved on, crawled across the moon and moved on. Crawled across the moon and moved on.

The doctor remembered that there was still a bit of alcohol left in the bottle. He took it out and took two large gulps with a pause between. He caught his breath and handed the bottle to Crouper:

“Drink up the rest.”

Crouper came out of his trance, took the bottle, drank the remainder obediently, and put his mitten to his mouth. Stashing the empty bottle in the travel bag, the doctor scooped some snow from the matting, put it into his mouth, and chewed on it. Warmth spread throughout his insides once again. He cheered up and felt a surge of energy. He wanted to move and do something.

“What do you say, my good fellow, let’s be off!” The doctor clapped Crouper on the shoulder. “Can’t stay here forever.”

Crouper got down, turned back the matting, and looked inside the hood. The horses looked at him.

“Let’s go,” Crouper said to them.

Hearing these familiar human words, the horses neighed discordantly. Nodding in approval, Crouper covered them, sat down, and tugged on the reins:

“Heigh-yup!”

The horses’ hooves clattered timidly on the drive belt, as though they’d forgotten how to do the work humans needed them to do.

“Heigh-yup!”

The sled jerked, and the runners squeaked.

“Heigh-yup!” the doctor shouted, laughing.

The sled took off.

“Now that’s more like it! And not a wolf in sight!” The doctor poked Crouper in the ribs.

“They got ’customed.” Crouper smiled with his swollen lip.

They slid smoothly across the field. The snowy road could be seen quite well: it protruded slightly, stretching like a ribbon toward the dark horizon.

“That’s more like it. And not a wolf in sight!” the doctor repeated, patting himself on the knees.

He was in a good mood.

The horses slowly gathered speed.

“There we go, there we go…” The doctor kept patting his knees happily.

They passed through a bit of forest and came out into a large, clear field again. The moon shone bright.

“Why are they so weak?” the doctor asked, elbowing Crouper. “Don’t you feed them well?”

“I feed ’em enough, yur ’onor.”

“Give them a taste of the lash, make them run like the wind!”

“They ain’t got over their fright as yet.”

“What are they—foals?”

“Naw, they ain’t foals no more.”

“Then why are they so slow? Come now, use the lash!”

“Heigh-yup, c’mon!” Crouper slapped the reins.

The horses sped up a bit. But it wasn’t enough for the doctor.

“Why are they crawling along like slugs?! Heigh! Get going!” he said, knocking on the top of the hood.

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.