The Blizzard by Vladimir Sorokin­ Read Free Book Online

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,