It's sticking again! If you don't clean it yourself, no one will. Better to buy a new one. Tomorrow, I'll buy one. That's it. One more.
All warm and hollow inside. My joy rolls back and forth down inside of me, like a tiny glass bubble. If I lean sideways, it rolls like a marble—my joy, my youth, my strength. My love, still fresh, unsullied. Tearless. Joyful. Goodness, how quiet it is here.
It's odd, Valery Ivanovich isn't snoring tonight. Let's go take a look how he is in there. Asleep. Covered up to his head—only the forehead and the nose are peeking out, and his foot is stuck out. Let me cover him. My dear husband, thirty times dear and two hundred eighteen times familiar. What is it that I, little slut, want to do with myself? My poor little monkey, my husband. Do you remember how I tore my own hair, how I waited for you when my phone got disconnected, and you didn't know and kept calling and couldn't get through? How desperately in love I was. And now I'm plotting to betray you. And I will, my heart knows—there's no way out of it. I just can't give him up. All my thoughts are about him. Not the same thoughts I think of you, but those deeper ones, inside the glass marble. That's how it is with you and me now. The main thing is for you not to know anything, not to get hurt. Forgive me, Valery Ivanovich! I will make it up to you, every little bit. I'll be your slave. How pitiful you are.
Good Lord! I forgot the iron in there! I run, right up against that goddamn corner—there will be a bruise for sure.
Thank God it didn't fall. Alright. What next? The handkerchiefs. They're nothing, a piece of cake. Is that all? Nothing else to iron? I thought I wouldn't finish this heap for the life of me. But I've finished! I've ironed everything—just look what a good girl I am. Now let's put it all away, and then a little sip before bedtime. I will get some sleep, wake up refreshed, in a spotless, beautiful home, put on my heels, my makeup, open my brand-new perfume, and, jingling the keys in my handbag, run through the lovely May-time city, through the familiar streets, to work, where the heavy door waits with a tight coil and a cool handle, and then—the wide staircase, the room with a bay window, and he, my beloved, in that room. My beloved and incomparable—whatever else happens, however it happens. Anyway. His favorite turn of speech: anyway.
Tomorrow it will be sunny. I know.
Translation by Anna Seluyanova and Marcia Karp
Black Horse With A White Eye
Vladimir Sorokin
They were scything and also preparing for haymaking, the four of them resting between passes in completely different ways, each in his own manner.
Grandpa Yakov finished clearing three swathes in a row and pronounced, "Rest time!" He exhaled loudly and fell on one knee, grasping a bunch of felled grass with his swarthy crabclaw hand and wiping the scythe with it. Taking a whetstone from a leather case tied to his belt, he began quickly sharpening the blade, muttering something into his straggly red beard. His oldest son, Phil, or Fee-yul as everyone called him, was always drowsy and taciturn, with the same red beard as his father and the same firm, short hands. He laid the scythe on the grass and went to the edge of the meadow where Dasha and her mother were sitting under a young oak. Taking a few swallows from a lindenwood flask, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, squatted down on his haunches and just sat, looking around and squinting. Grisha, the middle son, whose narrow, thin face resembled his mother's, repeated after his father, "Rest time it is!" Breathing wearily, he took his scythe and headed toward a linden tree that jutted up in the middle of the meadow and had been cleft by lightning; he sat beneath the half-withered tree and sharpened his scythe a bit. The youngest son, Vanya, a skinny, narrow-shouldered, large-eared, freckled lad of not even fifteen, was using a small scythe appropriate for his height and always lagged behind the other mowers. He leaned his scythe on his shoulder and went over to his middle brother, where he lay on his stomach beneath the linden tree, propping up his sharp chin with two rough little fists and waiting for Grisha to finish his own scythe and sharpen his small one as well.
Dasha sat under the oak, leaning her back onto it and looking at the scythers, the meadow, the beetles, the bumblebees, the butterflies, and a lonely hawk that from time to time glided through the blue expanse above the meadow and the forest. Dasha liked the way the spotted hawk would circle so smoothly and then suddenly hang in the air in one place, quickly flapping its wings and peeping a complaint like a chick, before dropping abruptly down. Her mother sat nearby, leaning against the other side of the oak and knitting a stocking out of gray goat wool. From time to time she stood up and used a rake to turn over the cut grass, which hadn't yet become hay. Then Dasha would take her nutwood stick with the forked end and help her mother do the turning.
The Panins had a good meadow. It was level, smooth, and close to the village and the main road.
They'd been assigned it back in '35, thanks to the old chairman, her mother's relative.
It was only the first day the Panins were scything. For a fortnight, the entire village had been scything, raking and mowing the collective farm fields on the right side of the Bolva. They'd been lucky with the weather; it was a hot June with a dry wind, and as Grandpa Yakov said, "Plenty of hay on such a day."
Dasha had turned ten the day before. Her grandfather had woven her a new pair of bast shoes. Her father had given her a clay whistle and her mother a white scarf with a red fringe. Dasha was pleased. She stowed the scarf in her grandmother's trunk and went to the scything in her room-to-grow shoes, taking her whistle with her. Each time her father came under the tree to take a drink and sit on his haunches, Dasha would get her whistle out of the front pocket of her print dress, which had been sewn in Zheltoukhi by an itinerant tailor, and whistled. Her father looked at her approvingly and scratched his beard, smiling with his eyes. He was a quiet man.
Her mother was also not very talkative. Grandpa Yakov was the only one of the Panins with a lively tongue.
"So Dasha, how are you walking there?" he asked along the way to the haymaking. "The shoes don't let you walk; do they cover your ass too?"
Everyone laughed. Dasha grasped her grandfather's crooked, work-darkened finger with its thick black nail and ran alongside him, her new shoes scraping along the dusty road.
When the mowers had finished a third of the meadow and the sun was hanging in the sky and beating down upon them, Grandpa Yakov made a dismissive wave:
"Lunchtime!"
The mowers threw down their scythes and flocked beneath the oak. While they were drinking greedily and passing a flask back and forth, Dasha and her mother spread out a torn piece of burlap and began unloading provisions from a plaited basket. Half a loaf of rye bread, a bunch of green onions, a dozen baked potatoes, a crock of baked milk, a small piece of fatback in a scrap of rag and some salt in a paper twist.
"Bless us O Lord..." exhaled Grandpa Yakov wearily, took the loaf, pressed it to his chest, and began nimbly cutting off hunks of it using a big, old knife with a darkened wooden handle that had been worn thin.
The brothers each took a piece and immediately began eating.
Grandpa Yakov crossed himself, dipped a hunk of bread into the salt, took a bite, grabbed a long onion, crumpled it, thrust it into his mouth, and began chewing very quickly, which made his straggly beard quiver comically. Dasha liked looking at her grandfather while he ate. It seemed to her he'd suddenly turned into an old, helpless hare. The brothers ate somewhat seriously, as if they were working, becoming drearier and gloomier. The youngest, Vanya, had somehow during the meal suddenly grown up into a man like his father and Grisha.
Mother cut up the fatback into eight pieces and passed them out to the men. The fatback was old and yellow; the hog had died last summer from some unknown disease and they'd only gotten a new piglet in the spring. But then there was the cow, Docha. And she gave a lot of milk.
Mother set the crock of baked milk in the middle of the cloth, passed out wooden spoons, pierced the dark brown crust that had hardened on the mouth of the crock with her spoon, and stirred it:
"Eat up y'all..."
The flesh-colored milk was mixed with the thick, white sour cream that had gathered on the top. After bolting down the fatback, the men slipped their spoons into the crock. Dasha and her mother waited for them to finish scooping, and thrust their spoons in.
The milk was cool and tasty. Dasha spooned it up, slurping loudly, and began eating her bread. She liked the yellow flecks of butter in the baked milk more than anything. At home they only churned butter for Easter, when her grandmother made buckwheat pancakes. The butter smelled very tasty and melted right there on the pancakes. There was never enough of it.
Her mother ate as she usually did, without hurrying, holding a spoonful of milk over her palm, swallowing quietly, and leaning her small head, wrapped in a faded dark-blue scarf, docilely to one side.
The men slurped down the milk, snuffling loudly.
"The dew dried up mighty fast today..." Grisha muttered, wiping milk off his chin. "Scythin' when it's dry, it's a real..."
"Heat like 'is, how else?" Fee-yul broke up a baked potato, dunked it in salt, and took a bite.
"No mind. We'll git it down in time," said Grandpa Yakov, quickly slurping his milk.
"Long as it dries all the way through." Dasha's mother scooped out a large dollop of sour cream and held it out to Dasha. "There you go, eat the top."
Dasha licked her spoon and placed it on the burlap. And took the spoon from her mother with both hands. It was filled to the rim, overflowing with sour cream. Thick and white, it just barely fit into the new wooden spoon, seeking a way to crawl over the edge. Dasha brought the spoon to her mouth carefully. The sour cream settled, quivering. Its top sagged. A ray of midday sun penetrated the oak leaves, fell on the rounded white mound of sour cream, and flared up. The yellow butter flecks in the sour cream shone brightly. Dasha opened her mouth. And suddenly a dark reflection fell across the tenderly shining whiteness. Dasha looked around.
A black horse was standing nearby.
Dasha gave a start. The sour cream tore itself away from the spoon and plopped down onto her knee. And everyone saw the horse.
"What the..!" Grandpa Yakov started in surprise and squinted.
The horse shied sideways from the sitting group, stepped away, and stood a bit off, swishing its tangled, black tail. It was a deep raven color, stocky, with a wide chest and bones like all peasant horses, a large head, small ears, and a thick, shaggy, long-untrimmed mane. The mane was thick with burrs. Horseflies buzzed over the horse's glossy back.
"Mother o' mine..." sighed Dasha's mother, crossing herself and placing a hand on her small chest. "What a fright I got, the devil..."
"Whose mare is she?" Grisha stood up.
"Not our-uns," said Grandpa Yakov, laying down his spoon. "Black' uns weren't never raised around here."
Grisha walked towards the horse, pulling a strap out of his trousers on the way. Standing sideways, the mare turned her nose toward him, bending down and extending her nostrils. And everyone noticed at once that her left eye was completely clouded.
"Look, she's blind in one eye!" Grisha smirked, approaching her. "Don't be afraid, don't be afraid."
The horse jumped to the side. And turned her left side.
"Grisha, go to the left, where her blind eye is," advised Grandpa Yakov. "She must've strayed over from Bytosh, the vagrant."
"No Dad, she came from the gypsies." Fee-yul scowled at the horse and started to get up. "They set up camp again in Zheltoukhi. That's where she ran from. Raggedy and stanky."
Grisha approached the horse carefully, making the strap into a loop and holding it behind his back. But the horse jumped away again.
"Eh, you varmint..." laughed Grisha.
"Holeup Grisha." Fee-yul broke off a piece of bread and went over to the horse. "There you go, raggedy girl, take it..."
Moving in tandem, like hunters, they began carefully closing in on the horse from both sides. The horse fell still, twitching her small ears and snuffling a little. Grisha and Fee-yul began moving very slowly, like in a dream. And Dasha became very uneasy for some reason. Her heart began to pound. She held her breath and watched how craftily they were approaching the horse, her father with a piece of bread on his palm, and Uncle Grisha with a loop behind his back.
"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid..." murmured Grisha.
The men came quite close, then stopped. Fee-yul held out the bread almost to the horse's nose. Grisha tensed and bit his lip. The still horse snorted and ran headlong between them. The men flung themselves on her, clutching her mane. Dasha closed her eyes. The horse neighed.
"If only they didn't catch her!" Dasha implored suddenly, without opening her eyes.
She heard the horse neighing and the men cursing.
Then the neighing stopped.
"Aw, your mother..." said her father spitefully.
"Wild bitch..." said Grisha.
Dasha realized they hadn't caught the horse. And opened her eyes.
In the meadow stood her father and Grisha. The horse was gone.
"And you morons!" said Grandpa Yakov angrily, waving his hand at them. "Can't even catch a horse."
"She's wild, Dad." Grisha began placing the strap back into his slipping trousers.
"Running around the forest like a tramp." His father picked up the bread that had dropped and walked over to place it on the burlap.
"If she's blind and wild, what good is she?" muttered Dasha's mother and began spooning the sour cream from Dasha's lap.
Dasha's knees were trembling.
"What's with you? Did you get scared?" Her mother smiled.
Dasha nodded her head. She was very glad they hadn't caught the horse. Her mother held out a spoon of sour cream to her again. Dasha took it and swallowed the thick, cool sour cream greedily. The men who had jumped up sat down again, grasped their spoons, and took to slurping up the rest of the milk. The wild mare's appearance and disappearance had stirred them up. They started talking about horses and the gypsies who stole them, about the useless new chairman, about the stable roof that had fallen in on the collective farm, about buckwheat and the clover on the other side, about the nighttime cutting in the glades near Mokry and about Mokry carpenters, and suddenly began arguing over whether it was better to split shingles from a stolen pine in your own shed or in Kostya's bathhouse.
Dasha wasn't listening to them. After the horse had run away, she felt better and lighter.
"Dasha, what're you sittin' around for?" Her mother said, adjusting her crooked scarf. "Go pick us some berries."
Dasha stood up unwillingly, took an empty basket, hung it on her shoulder, and went to the far edge of the meadow.
"Don't go far," said her father, licking his spoon.
Dasha went first through the stubble, her new shoes rustling loudly, then through the standing grass, frightening the chattering grasshoppers. The grass had warmed in the sun, and her legs were hot in it. Dasha crossed the entire meadow and looked back. The men had gotten up to scythe. Dasha pulled her whistle out of her pocket and whistled loudly. Her mother waved a hand at her. The birds in the forest surrounding the meadow answered the whistle. Dasha whistled again. She listened to the voices of the birds. She whistled. She put the whistle away and went into a sparse wood at the narrow end of the meadow. There was a young stand of birches there with clusters of strawberry plants in it. Dasha went in under the birches, took the stiff bastwood basket from her shoulder, placed it on the grass, and began picking berries and taking them to the basket. There were a lot of strawberries, but nobody had picked the entire patch yet. Dasha plucked the ripe and the not-so-ripe berries and dropped them in the basket, eating the bigger ones herself. The strawberries were sweet. Dasha picked the strawberries from one clearing, then carried the basket into another. Suddenly a bird took wing from beneath her feet, fluttered its wings, flew off, and sat on a birch tree. Dasha pulled out her whistle and whistled. The bird responded with a slender, jerky peep, just like a whistle. Dasha was surprised. And w
histled again. The bird answered. Dasha went up to the bird. The bird took wing, flew off, and lighted somewhere again. Dasha had time to notice that the bird was spotted, like a hawk, but much smaller. Dasha whistled. The bird answered. Grandpa Yakov had told Dasha that birds have their own language, but only holy people and bird catchers can understand bird language.
Life Stories Page 26