Vladimir Sorokin - The Blizzard

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A dead man lies asleep,

Upon a bed of white,

Swirling at the window

Is a blizzard calm and light.

ALEXANDER BLOK

You have to understand, I simply must keep going! Platon Ilich exclaimed angrily. There are people waiting for me! They are sick. Theres an epidemic! Dont you understand?!

The stationmaster clenched his fists against his badger-fur vest, and leaned forward:

Well now, whaddya mean, we dont understand? Course we do. You dont wanna stop, course I understand. But I dont got horses and aint gonna get none till tomorrow!

What do you mean you dont have horses?! Platon Ilich cried out in a livid voice. What is your station for, then?

Thats what for, but all of em are out, and there aint a one to be found nowheres! the stationmaster shouted, as though speaking to a deaf man. Not less some miracle brings the mail horses in tonight. But who knows when theyll get here?

Platon Ilich removed his pince-nez and stared at the stationmaster as though seeing him for the first time:

My good fellow, do you comprehend that people are dying?

The stationmaster unclenched his fists and stretched his hands toward the doctor like a beggar.

Who dont understand dying? Acourse we does. Good Russian Orthodox people dying, its a terrible business. But look out the window!

Platon Ilich put his pince-nez back on and automatically turned his puffy eyes toward the frost-covered windows through which nothing could be seen. Outside, the winter day was still overcast.

The doctor glanced at the clock, which was shaped like Baba Yagas hut on chicken legs; it ticked loudly and showed a quarter past two.

Its already past two! He indignantly shook his strong, close-cropped head, tinged with gray at the temples. Past two oclock! And it will get dark, dont you get it?

Acourse, why wouldnt I be getting it the stationmaster began, but the doctor interrupted:

Ill tell you what, old man! You get me some horses if you have to dig them up out of the ground! If I dont make it there today, Ill take you to court. For sabotage.

That familiar government word had a soporific effect on the stationmaster. He seemed to fall asleep, all his muttering and explaining coming to an abrupt halt. He wore a short vest, velour pants, and high white felt boots with yellow leather soles sewn on. His body was slightly bent at the waist; he seemed to freeze, remaining immobile in the dim light of the spacious, overheated chamber. On the other hand, his wife, who until now had been sitting quietly and knitting behind a calico curtain in the far corner, turned and peered out, showing her broad, expressionless face, which the doctor had already grown sick of over these last two hours of waiting, drinking tea with raspberry and plum jam and leafing through year-old copies of the magazine Niva:

Mikhailych, what about asking Crouper?

The stationmaster perked up immediately.

Hmmm, we could try Crouper, he said, scratching his left arm, and half turning to his wife. But they want official horses.

I dont care what kind they are! the doctor exclaimed. Horses! Horses! I just want hor-r-r-r-ses!

The stationmaster shuffled over to the high counter:

If he aint at his uncles in Khoprov, we cn try

He lifted the telephone receiver, turned the handle a couple of times, stood up straight, put his left hand on the small of his back, and raised his balding head high as if trying to grow taller:

Mikholai Lukich, its Mikhailych here. Tell me, our bread man passed your way this morning? No? All right then. Acourse not! Not going nowhere now, not a chance youre right. Well now, Ill be thanking you.

He replaced the receiver carefully. Signs of animation appeared on his carelessly shaven, ageless face, and he shuffled over to the doctor:

Crouper didnt go to Khoprov for bread today. So hes here, probly lying about next to the stove, cause when he goes to fetch bread, he always drops by his uncles. They have a cup of tea and chat up a storm. He dont bring our bread till suppertime.

He has horses?

Hes got a sledmobile.

A sledmobile? The doctor frowned, taking out his cigarette case.

If you beg him and explain, hell take you to Dolgoye on his snow sled.

And my horses? Platon Ilichs forehead puckered, as he remembered his sleigh, driver, and pair of work-issued official horses.

They can stay put for the time bein. You can go back on em!

The doctor lit up and exhaled smoke:

And where is this bread man of yours?

Not too far aways from here. The stationmaster gestured behind him. Vasya over therell take you. Vasya!

No one answered his call.

Hes like to be in the new cottage, the stationmasters wife called out from somewhere behind the curtain.

She stood, her skirts swished across the floor, and she left the room. The doctor retrieved his heavy floor-length beaver coat from the coatrack, put it on, set a wide fox-fur hat with earflaps on his head, threw a long white scarf around his neck, pulled on his gloves, grabbed both of his traveling bags, and stepped firmly over the threshold of the door that the stationmaster had opened for him into the dark mudroom.

Platon Ilich Garin, the district doctor, was a tall, sturdy forty-two-year-old man with a long, narrow face and a large nose; he was closely shaven and always wore a look of concentrated dissatisfaction. His purposeful face, with its large, stubborn nose and puffy eyes, seemed to say: You are all preventing me from achieving the very important thing I was destined by fate to accomplish, the thing I know how to do better than all of you, and to which Ive already devoted most of my conscious life. In the mudroom he ran into the stationmasters wife and Vasyatka, who immediately took his two traveling cases.

The seventh house down thataways, explained the stationmaster, running ahead and opening the door to the porch. Vasyatka, show the doctor gentleman the way.

Platon Ilich went outside, squinting. The day was frosty and overcast; a faint breeze had been blowing for the last three hours and a fine snow was still falling.

He wont ask fer too much, the stationmaster mumbled, shivering in the wind. He aint much interested in profits. Just as long as he can drive.

Vasyatka put the traveling bags on the porch bench, disappeared back inside, and soon returned in a short fur coat, felt boots, and a hat; he grabbed the traveling bags and stomped the snow that had been swept off the porch.

Lets go, doctor, sir.

The doctor followed, puffing on his cigarette. They walked along an empty, snow-covered village street. A good deal of snow had accumulated: it reached halfway up the doctors fur-lined knee-high boots.