The Blizzard Read online

  Meanwhile, two girls had brought the travel bags, wiped the snow off them, and set them by the doctor. Two others brought him a pitcher of water, a basin, and a towel.

  “And the soap?” asked Platon Ilich, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  “We don’t have soap,” replied Bedight.

  “No? What about vodka?”

  “We don’t keep any of that swill.”

  “Ah, I have some alcohol…,” the doctor remembered.

  Opening his travel bag, he took out a round bottle, splashed water on his hands, wiped them with the towel, and then washed them in alcohol.

  “Let’s see now…” The doctor unbuttoned Drowsy’s shirt, put his stethoscope to the man’s chest, and began to listen, his eyebrows raised.

  “We didn’t beat him on the heart,” said Lull Abai.

  “His heart’s fine,” concluded the doctor.

  He examined the Vitaminder’s limbs. The man moaned again.

  “His arms and legs are in one piece.”

  “We beat him on the stomach and the head,” said Slumber.

  The doctor pulled up the shirt, revealing the Vitaminder’s stomach. He palpated it, concentrating, his red nose hanging over the man. The man kept on moaning.

  “No swellings or internal injuries,” said the doctor, pulling the shirt down and leaning over the head. “But here it looks like we have a concussion. Has he been unconscious a long time?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “Any vomiting?”

  “No.”

  The doctor put smelling salts under the man’s nose:

  “Come on now, my good fellow.”

  The Vitaminder frowned slightly.

  “Can you hear me?”

  A weak moan came in reply.

  “Hold on just a minute now. Be patient,” the doctor comforted.

  Garin took out a hypodermic and an ampoule; he rubbed the Vitaminder’s tattooed shoulder with alcohol and gave him a shot.

  “It’ll get better.” He removed the hypodermic.

  “Why did you roll him up in a rug?” the doctor asked.

  The Vitaminders looked at one another.

  “To calm him down,” Slumber answered.

  “Like in a cradle.” Bedight yawned.

  “We rubbed sheep fat on the soles of his feet, too,” said Lull Abai.

  The doctor didn’t comment on that bit of information.

  After the shot, Drowsy’s cheeks grew rosier.

  “Can you move your arms and legs?” asked the doctor in a loud voice.

  Drowsy moved his arms and one leg.

  “Wonderful. Consequently—we know his spine is intact … What hurts?”

  The blood-caked lips opened:

  “Huh-huh…”

  “What?”

  “He-he-hed.”

  “Your head hurts?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A lot?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Dizzy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nauseous?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Liar … Liar!” Slumber cried. “He hasn’t barfed once all this time.”

  The doctor looked at Drowsy’s head:

  “No fractures. Only bruises. The neck is all right.”

  He retrieved some iodine and applied it to the abrasions on the man’s face. Then he applied calendula lotion.

  “Metalgin-plus and rest,” said the doctor, straightening up. “And warm liquid nourishment.”

  Bedight nodded in understanding.

  “We were afraid he’d die,” said Lull Abai.

  “No danger to his life.”

  The Vitaminders smiled in relief.

  “Well now, just like I said!” Bedight grinned. “Do you have any Metalgin?”

  “I’ll leave you five tablets.”

  “We thank you, doctor,” said Slumber, inclining his head.

  The doctor took out a pack of Metalgin-plus, punched out one tablet, and gestured to the servant girl:

  “A glass of water.”

  The girl poured some water. The doctor placed the tablet in the patient’s mouth and held the cup for him to sip. The patient began to cough.

  “Calm down. The worst is over…,” the doctor comforted him.

  He held his hands over the basin. The girl poured water over them. The doctor dried his hands and rolled down his shirtsleeves:

  “That’s it.”

  The doctor’s heart pounded in anticipation. But he made an effort to look calm.

  “Have a seat,” said Bedight, nodding toward the empty place at the square table.

  The doctor sat down, tucking his legs under him.

  “The product!” commanded Bedight.

  Two of the young women sitting by the felt wall opened a flat trunk and removed a transparent pyramid from it. It was exactly the same kind that had broken the runner on Crouper’s sled on the snowy road yesterday.

  “So that’s what it was!” thought the doctor.

  He now realized just what the Vitaminder wrapped in the rug had lost and why he’d been beaten.

  “And he didn’t lose just one … probably an entire case. That’s a whole fortune…”

  The doctor looked at the pyramid, which the girl carefully placed in the middle of the table. He had tried the Vitaminders’ two previous products: the sphere and the cube. They weren’t transparent, and were half the size of the pyramid.

  “Why didn’t I realize that it must be a product? Idiot … It was too strong. That confused me … Yes, that’s what confused me. But there must have been an entire case of it lying about on the road. A year’s worth of my salary. That’s insane!”

  The doctor grinned.

  “You already had a try?” asked Slumber, not understanding the doctor’s smile.

  “No, of course not. I just … I’ve only tried the cube and the sphere.”

  “Everyone’s tried them.” Lull Abai shrugged his beefy shoulders.

  “This is a totally new, fresh product,” said Bedight, winking at the pyramid. “We’re still trying it out ourselves. Looking for the limit. Getting ready for the spring.”

  The doctor nodded nervously.

  “I should come back from Dolgoye by the same road…,” he thought cautiously.

  Bedight pushed a button on the tabletop. A gas burner flared under the pyramid.

  “It doesn’t vaporize right away,” explained Slumber.

  “Not like the cube and the sphere?” Excited, the doctor sniffed and licked his lips.

  “No. The entire thing has to heat evenly. About four minutes.”

  “We can wait four minutes!” the doctor laughed nervously, dropping his pince-nez.

  “Four minutes.” Bedight smiled.

  “Four men for four minutes.” Lull Abai’s face dissolved into a smile.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Crouper was eating hot noodles with chicken, sitting in a separate shed that had been built just for him. He’d never before seen how things were constructed out of zoogenous felt. The Vitaminders’ servant, the Kazakh, Bakhtiyar, demonstrated the whole process to Crouper with an air of superiority. First he told him to move the sled as close as possible to the wall of the tent; then he stuck three long rake-like combs into the snow, to delineate the perimeter of the shed; and then, putting on protective gloves, he squirted a tube of zoogenous felt paste onto the combs, applied “Living Water” spray, and looked triumphantly at Crouper. Crouper stood there with his birdlike grin, one hand on the sled as though afraid to lose it. The gray paste stirred, and felt fabric began to grow from it fiber by fiber. Despite the snow, three felt walls grew until they surrounded the sled and its owner. Bakhtiyar stood outside.

  “Well?” Bakhtiyar asked smugly.

  “Handy,” replied Crouper in amazement.

  “Technology.”

  “Tek-nol-logy,” Crouper repeated in a voice full of cautious respect.

  As soon as the felt walls had reached
Bakhtiyar’s height, he grabbed the “Dead Water” spray and sprayed the sides of the walls. The felt stopped growing. The Kazakh drove a comb into the top edge of the largest wall, sprayed a bit of “Living Water” on it, and the shed roof began to grow. Inside the room, Crouper crouched on the sled’s seat; watching the roof crawl across overhead, he grabbed the steering rod and reins for some reason. The roof kept going until it reached the opposite wall and completely covered the shed. Crouper and the horses were separated from the storm, the cold, and the light of day. It was pitch-dark and unusually quiet.

  Crouper could barely hear the Kazakh spray the “Dead Water” to stop the growth of the roof. Then everything was totally quiet. The horses, sensing that something unusual was happening, stood stock-still.

  “How’s it goin’ in there?” Crouper knocked on the hood. The roan neighed. Then the three inseparable black bays neighed; then the buckskins; then the sorrels, then the grays, and finally—the slow chestnuts.

  Another five minutes passed, and the sharp sound of an electric knife pierced the darkness. The Kazakh deftly cut a low door in the shed wall and pulled it aside, letting light and warmth in:

  “Scared ya?”

  “Naw.” Crouper squirmed on the seat.

  “Stay. I’ll bring some chow.”

  Crouper remained sitting.

  Bakhtiyar returned with a bowl of noodles and a spoon:

  “Orders to feed ya.”

  “Thank you kindly,” said Crouper with a bow of the head.

  Though the shed was quite dark, Crouper could see a chicken wing in the noodles. He dug in with pleasure. Sensing that their owner was eating, the horses snorted and whinnied.

  “Now, now!” Crouper reprimanded them, knocking on the hood with the spoon. “You still gots a ways to go, it’s no time for food…”

  The horses quieted down. Only the rabble-rousing roan neighed in displeasure.

  “Just wait, ye red rascal…,” Crouper muttered fondly, chewing the tasty chicken.

  He gnawed at the wing and then began chewing on the bone.

  “Good folks,” he thought, beginning to sweat from the hot food. “Even though they’re Vitaminders…”

  * * *

  The transparent pyramid emitted a delicate whistling sound, and evaporated. The burner went out. At the same moment, a translucent half sphere enclosed the four at the table, separating them from the rest of the world; the sphere was of a zoogenous plastic so delicate that only the sound of its closing, reminiscent of an impossibly large soap bubble popping or the sleepy parting of a giant’s moist lips, betrayed its existence.

  “Madagascar,” said Bedight, his enfeebled mouth slurring the traditional greeting of practicing Vitaminders.

  The doctor wanted to reply “Racsagadam,” but he plunged immediately into another space.

  * * *

  A gray, overcast sky. Occasional snowflakes. Falling from the gray clouds. Falling, falling. A damp winter smell. Or perhaps a thaw? Or early winter. A slight breeze carrying the smell of smoke. No. That’s the smell of a fully stoked bathhouse. A pleasant smell. Burning birch wood. He moved his head. And heard a dull splash. Near the nape of his neck. He looked down. There was liquid, right near his face. Not water. Thick, with a familiar smell. A very, very familiar smell. But too thick. Sunflower oil! He’s up to his neck in oil. He’s sitting in some vessel filled with sunflower oil. It’s a black cauldron, a large black cauldron with thick sides. There’s a huge plaza around the cauldron. A square filled with people. So many of them! Hundreds, hundreds. They’re packed together. What a huge, enormous plaza. Buildings line the sides of the plaza. European buildings. And there’s a huge cathedral. He’s seen that cathedral somewhere before. Prague, probably. It looks just like it. Yes, that’s it, Prague. Although, maybe it isn’t Prague. Warsaw? Or Bucharest? Kraków? No, it’s probably Warsaw. The main square. And there are hundreds and hundreds of people in the square. They’re all staring at him. He wants to move, but he can’t. He’s tied up. Tied with a thick rope. Tied as though he were in the womb. His knees bent, pressed to his chest, pulled up by the rope. His hands are tied to his ankles. He moves his fingers. They’re free. He touches the soles of his feet. His wrists are firmly bound to his ankles. He’s sitting on the bottom of the cauldron. He’s touching the bottom. He’s like a buoy. That’s how he learned to swim. When he was a boy he pretended to be a buoy. That was a long time ago. On a wide river. It was sunny and warm. His father stood on the shore in a broad straw hat. His father laughed, and his glasses shone in the sun. He pretended to be a buoy and watched his father. Two horses stood on the shore and drank from the river. A naked boy sat on one horse and looked at him disdainfully. But he pretended to be a buoy. That was a long time ago. A very long time ago. And now he’s tied up. In this cauldron. The cauldron is raised. It’s on a platform. The edge of the platform is framed with thick logs. He can see them. The thick black edge of the cauldron blocks the view of most of the platform. The cauldron rests on something. And two thick chains run through the eye rings of the cauldron to two freshly hewn posts. The chains are wrapped around these posts. Exactly four times. And fastened to them with huge, wrought-iron nails. The posts are also on the platform. Beyond the platform is the crowd. Everyone is looking at him. A lot of people are smiling. In the distance, near the cathedral, something is being read aloud quite solemnly, almost sung. Latin? No. Polish. No, it’s not Polish. Some other language. Serbian? Or Bulgarian? Romanian! Most likely Romanian. They’re reading something. Reading with great solemnity. In a slight singsong. They’re reading something about him in a singsong voice! And everyone is listening. Everyone is looking at him. They’re reading something about him. They’re reading something about him alone. It is all about him. They read for a long time. He tries to scoot forward to the edge of the cauldron so he can lean his chin on it and pull himself up. But he suddenly realizes that the rope around his ankles and wrists is also attached to the bottom of the cauldron and is keeping his body centered in it. The rope is drawn through a ring on the bottom of the cauldron, right under him. He touches the ring with his fingers. It’s a smooth half circle. A thick rope runs through it. He realizes that there’s no way he can get out of this cauldron. Even with his hands and feet still tied. The ring won’t let him. Terrified, he screams. The crowd laughs and hoots at him. People show him horns and give him the finger. The women are holding children. The children laugh and make fun of him. He jerks with all his might. For a moment he loses consciousness from the horror of it all. But he comes to when he begins to choke on the disgusting, stinking oil. He has oil in his mouth and nose; he coughs, coughs horribly. What vile vegetable oil! It stinks. There’s so much of it. It’s easy to choke on it. It laps thickly around his body. His grandmother used to pour this oil on sour cabbage. There’s so much of it! The smell is overpowering. Only a slight breeze keeps him from suffocating. The smell makes him dizzy. Here and there, large snowflakes fall into the oil and disappear. They fall and disappear. Fall and disappear. How lucky they are. They aren’t tied down to anything. They don’t owe anyone anything. And now the reader shouts the last word in a loud, triumphant voice. The crowd roars. It roars and people raise their fists. It roars so loud that the roar reverberates in the cauldron and causes faint ripples to form next to the cast-iron edges. Now someone climbs onto the platform. An adolescent boy holding a torch. He’s wearing a suede jacket with copper buttons, red pants, and red shoes with turned-up toes. His face is beautiful, the face of an angel. Long chestnut hair falls to his shoulders. The adolescent wears a red beret with an eagle feather on his head. He lifts the torch high. The crowd cheers. He lowers the torch to the cauldron and leans forward. Only his beret is visible. The eagle feather trembles. There’s a soft crackling sound that grows stronger. It seems to be tarred brushwood catching fire. The crackling gets louder. Dark smoke seeps out from under the cauldron. The adolescent leaves the platform. His beret and feather can be glimpsed in the crowd. The crowd roars and
hoots. He makes one more desperate attempt to pull free, exerting himself so hard that he passes gas. The bubbles float up slowly around him. But the ropes don’t give. He jerks, swallowing oil, coughing and gasping for air. The oil splashes around him. Stinking, viscous oil. But the cauldron is unmovable. It won’t budge. He screams so loud that the echo of his voice reverberates against the cathedral and returns to him thrice. The crowd listens to him scream. Then it roars and laughs. He begins to cry and mutter that he is innocent. He tells the crowd about himself. He tells them his name. The name of his mother and his father. He talks about a terrible mistake. He has never hurt people. He talks about the physician’s noble profession. He names all the patients he has saved. He calls on God as his witness. The crowd listens and laughs. He talks about Christ, about love, about the Gospels. And suddenly he can feel with his heels that the bottom of the cauldron is warm. He yelps in terror. Once again he faints for a moment. And again the oil, the stinking oil, brings him to his senses. He regains consciousness because he’s swallowing oil. He’s choking on oil. He vomits oil into the oil. The crowd laughs. He wants to tell them about his innocence, but he can’t. He’s gasping. He’s coughing. He coughs so hard it sounds like shouting. The bottom of the cauldron is heating up. But the ring is still cool. It’s thick and sticks out from the bottom. He holds on to the ring with his fingers. He clears his throat. Gathers his thoughts. Calms himself. Then he appeals to the crowd. He gives a speech. He talks about belief. He tells the crowd that he’s not afraid of dying. Because he is a believer. He tells his life story. He’s not ashamed of his life. He tried to live a worthy life. He tried to do good and to help people. There were mistakes, of course. He recalls a girl whom he made a woman, and who had an abortion. And he later found out that she could no longer have children. He remembers how, when he was a student and was at a party one evening in the dormitory, he got soused and threw a bottle out the window and hit a passerby on the head. He tells them about the time he didn’t go to see a patient and the patient died. He lied a great deal in his lifetime. He gossiped and said spiteful things about friends and colleagues. He said nasty things about the woman he lived with. He sometimes begrudged giving his parents money. He didn’t really want to have children. He wanted to live unencumbered, to enjoy life. It was largely because of this that he and his wife separated. He now repents his bad deeds. He spoke badly of the authorities. He wanted Russia to go to hell. He laughed at Russian people. He made fun of His Majesty. But he was never a criminal, he was a law-abiding citizen. He always paid his taxes on time. The bottom of the cauldron was getting hot. With tremendous effort, he balanced his feet on the ring. It was just a little warm. He held his own feet on the ring with his hands. He said that the worst thing in the world was when an innocent person was executed. That kind of death was worse than murder. Because murder is committed by a criminal. But even a criminal who commits murder affords the victim a chance to save himself. The victim might run away, grab the knife from the murderer’s hands, or call for help. The murderer might miss or stumble. Or simply wound the victim. But when a person is executed, he has no chance of being saved. This is the terrible, merciless truth of the death penalty. He was always and still is an opponent of the death penalty. What is happening now on the main square of this town is even more terrible than the death penalty. Because the death penalty is being carried out against an innocent man. If they have all gathered here to carry out the death penalty against him, an innocent man, then they are committing a grave sin. And this sin will cast eternal shame on their town, and on their children and grandchildren. He feels the oil heating up at the bottom, and warm streams of it rising, displacing the cooler oil. The warm oil is crowding out the cold oil. And the cold oil moves downward. In order to heat up on the bottom, become warm oil, and rise to the top. He talks about the children standing here and sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. The children are watching his execution. They will grow up and find out that he was innocent. They will be ashamed of their parents. They will be ashamed of their town. Such a marvelous, beautiful town. It wasn’t made for executions but for joyous, prosperous lives. His heels slip off the ring and touch the bottom of the cauldron. The bottom is hot. He quickly pushes his heels off the bottom and grabs the ring and rope with the soles of his feet, and holds on to the rope. He talks about faith. Faith should make people kinder. People should love their brethren. Two millennia have passed since Christ’s death, and people still haven’t learned to love one another. They haven’t truly grasped their kinship. Haven’t stopped hating one another, deceiving, and thieving. People haven’t stopped killing each other. Why can’t people stop killing each other? If it’s possible in one family, in one village, in one town, then isn’t it possible in one country at the very least? The ring is heating up. His soles are feeling the heat. He jerks them away, but they immediately sink to the bottom. The bottom is even hotter. His feet recoil. But they can’t just hang in the oil. They have to lean on something. His buttocks sink to the bottom and are burned. He puts his fingers under his buttocks and heels. Balances his fingers on the hot bottom of the cauldron. Then on the ring. The smoke from the fire billows around the cauldron and gets in his eyes. He closes his eyes and shouts that they are all criminals. That their town will be judged by an international tribunal. That they are committing a crime against humanity. That the international tribunal will sentence them all to jail. That an atom bomb will be dropped on their town. The crowd laughs and hoots. The oil is heating up. Hot streams float upward. They lick his spine like tongues of smooth flame. They lick his chest. There’s no protection from them. They get hotter and hotter. The ring is already hot. He gathers air into his lungs. And screams with all his might. He curses the town. He curses the people on the square. He curses their parents and their children. He curses their grandchildren. He curses their country. He begins to sob. He belches forth all the curses he knows. He shouts obscenities, sobbing and spitting. The oil splashes around his head. He can’t balance on the ring any longer. It’s hot. Very hot. And the bottom of the cauldron is now horrendously hot. He can’t even touch it. He pushes off the ring and floats in the oil. Pushes and floats. Pushes and floats. Plashes and floats. Plashes and splashes. He’s dancing in the oil. Oil dancing! He begins to howl. Oil dancing! He howls, no longer addressing the crowd, but the roofs of the buildings around the square. Oil dancing! They’re old tiled roofs. Dance! People live under them. Dance! Whole families. Splash! Women are making breakfast under those roofs. Plash! Children lean against their mothers. Splash! And sleep in their little beds. Children sleep, sleep, sleep. In their little beds. Little pillows, little embroidered pillows. Mothers embroider flowers on the pillows. Children sleep on the pillows. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And don’t awaken. Sleep for days and days. You can sleep. For days and days. And not awaken. No one executes anyone for this. If you don’t wake up. If you keep on sleeping. He shouts and begs to be awakened. He believes the children. He believes the pigeons on the tiled roofs. He loves pigeons. The pigeons can forgive him. Pigeons forgive everyone. Pigeons don’t kill people. Will I die? Pigeons love people. I will die? Pigeons will save him. I’ll die? He’ll turn into a pigeon. I’ll die? And away he’ll fly. I’ll die! The crowd begins to sing and sway. I’ll die! What’s that? I’ll-a-die! A folk song? I’ll-a-die! A song of this people? I’ll-a-die! Of this wonderful people. Isle-a-die! Of this accursed people. Isle-a-die! This evil people. Isle-a-die! The people sing. Isledie! The people sing and sway. Isled! They desire his sublime death. Isled! But he’ll turn into a dove and away he’ll fly. Isled! No, it’s the choir from Nabucco. Isled! They are singing. Isled and away! Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate! Isled! And sway. Isled! They’re singing. Isled! Swaying. Isled. Singing Isled! Swaying. Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Isled! Iled! Iled! Iled! Iled! Iled! Iled! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l-! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l! I-l!