The Blizzard by Vladimir Sorokin­ Read Free Book Online Page A

skewing his froglike lips, which were already ugly enough. “She went and found the dear guest. Crouper! Just a bum, that scum!”
    “We’re always pleased to have guests,” the miller’s wife said calmly, pouring herself some liquor; she smiled at the doctor and ignored her husband. “To your health, doctor.”
    Platon Ilich’s mouth was full, so he nodded silently.
    “Pour me some!” whined the miller.
    Taisia Markovna set down her glass, sighed, picked up the bottle, and splashed some vodka into the steel thimble that stood on a tiny plastic table. The doctor hadn’t immediately noticed the standard plastic table made for little people standing between the dish with the ham and the cup with pickles. The thimble gleamed on the little table, which held glasses and plates with the same food as the big table for regular people, slivers sliced from the larger portions: a snippet of ham, a dab of lard, a piece of pickle, bread crumbs, a marinated mushroom, and some cabbage.
    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