The Blizzard by Vladimir Sorokin­ Read Free Book Online Page B

morning!” The miller nodded his head. “They’ve got the black plague!”
    “Yes. The black sickness.” The doctor nodded as he finished chewing and leaned against the back of the chair.
    His large nose had turned red and sweaty from the vodka and food. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
    “They’ve … The … There’s troops on the outskirts. Where do you think you’re going?” The miller staggered back and stumbled.
    “I’m bringing the vaccine.”
    “Vaccine? To inoculate them?” the miller’s wife asked.
    “That’s right. To vaccinate the ones who are left.”
    “The ones that d-d-didn’t get bit yet?” Stepping back once more, the miller reclined on the pickle.
    It was clear that the last thimbleful had knocked him off his feet.
    “Yes. The ones that haven’t been bitten yet.”
    The doctor retrieved a cigarette from his case and lit up with the satisfied sigh of a man who has assuaged his hunger.
    “Aren’t you afraid to go there?” asked the miller’s wife, her bosom heaving.
    “That’s the nature of my job. And what’s to be afraid of? The troops are there.”
    “But they … mmm … Those … They’re … quick ones,” she said, her plump hand spinning her empty glass in worry.
    “They! The-e-y! Oh, they’re quick ones, they are! They are so qui-i-i-ck!” shouted the miller, holding on to a bump on the pickle, and shaking his head, as though offended.
    “They can tunnel underground.” She licked her lips.
    “Tunnel! That’s right! They tunnel under!”
    “And they can come out anywhere at all.”
    “And they c-c-can … They c-can! Those dirty…”
    “They can, of course,” agreed the doctor. “Even in winter they have no trouble digging their way through frozen earth.”
    “Lord Almighty,” said the miller’s wife, crossing herself. “Are you armed?”
    “Of course.” The doctor puffed on his papirosa .
    He liked the miller’s wife. There was something maternal, kind, and cozily caring about her that brought back memories of childhood, when his mother was still alive. The miller’s wife wasn’t beautiful, but her femininity was winning. Talking to her was a pleasure.
    “That drunkard got lucky,” the doctor thought, looking at her plump hands and her smooth, pudgy fingers, with their tiny nails, which were spinning the drinking glass.
    The door opened and Crouper entered.
    “Oho! It’s Iva-an Susanin!” The miller burst out laughing, holding on to the pickle. “What were you doing, running into a birch tree? A birdbrain, that’s what you are.”
    “Really, it’s true—a birdbrain,” the doctor agreed silently. He looked at Crouper.
    “Greetings!” Crouper took off his hat, bowed, crossed himself in front of the icon, and began to remove his snowy clothes.
    “Who said you could do that?” the miller objected. “Asshole!”
    “Stop cursing, Senya.” The miller’s wife slapped her heavy hand on the table.
    “You’re an enemy of the s-s-state. Got it? A s-s-sa-saboteur!” The miller, staggering around the hors d’oeuvres, crossed the table toward Crouper. “They should sh-sh-ut you up for it!”
    He tripped and planted himself on the lard.
    “Just sit there!” grinned the miller’s wife. “Come in, Kozma. Have a seat.”
    Crouper smoothed his red, sweaty hair and sat down at the table.
    “All those scummy bums should be locked up … You’re a fucking asshole!” the miller screeched, staring nastily at Crouper.
    “Now, now…” Losing patience, the miller’s wife scooped up her husband and put him on her bosom, pressing him tightly. “Sit!”
    Holding on to her husband with one hand, she poured some vodka into a tea glass for Crouper:
    “Drink,” she said. “It will warm you up.”
    “Thank you, Taisia Markovna.”
    Crouper sat down at the table, picked up a glass with his clawlike hand, leaned over it, opened his magpie mouth, and began slowly sucking in the moonshine, straightening up as he