The Blizzard

by Vladimir Sorokin

  It was windy, but the snow had stopped and the sky was clear; the moon shone through tufts of dark clouds. “It’s settled down,” said the doctor, puffing on his cigarette.

  “We could even leave now.” He walked to the middle of the courtyard, mounds of snow crunching underfoot.

  But his heart was pounding, sending jolts of hot longing through him.

  “No, I’m not going anywhere…”

  “Tomorrow!” he said decisively. Clenching his papirosa between his teeth, he walked over to the woodpile and relieved himself.

  A dog barked in the cowshed.

  The doctor quickly finished smoking and tossed the papirosa in the snow.

  “Does she usually sleep with her husband on the bed behind the curtain? Where else would she sleep? So big and white, and next to her he’s like some child’s doll.”

  He stood, taking in the invigorating, frosty air, and looking up at the stars that twinkled between the moving clouds. The moon peeked out and illuminated the courtyard: the storehouse, a shed, snow-capped haystacks—everything gleamed in the fresh, new-fallen snow, in myriad snowflakes. The snow-dusted courtyard and the frigid calm exuded by the wood, which, once upon a time, people had shaped and nailed together into these buildings—all this only intensified Platon Ilich’s desire. The contours of the immobile woodshed, filled with hundreds of frozen birch logs and kindling, all doomed to a brilliant death in the stove, seemed to tell him: in that house there is something warm, alive, trembling, on which the whole human world rests and upon which all its woodsheds, villages, sleds, cities, epidemics, airplanes, and trains depend. And this warmth, this femininity, awaits your desire, your touch.

  Shivers ran down the doctor’s spine; he shuddered, shrugged his shoulders, exhaled, and went back into the house. Passing through the entryway, he felt for the door to the kitchen, opened it, and was immediately met with another dusky darkness. The lamp wasn’t burning, but there was a candle on the table.

  “I made the bed for you upstairs,” called the voice of the miller’s wife. “Goodnight.”

  Judging by the voice, she was already lying on the bed behind the curtain. Crouper and the miller were still snoring. Adding to the racket was the chirp of a real cricket, responding amusingly to the miller’s cheeps.

  The doctor heaved a sigh, not knowing what to do. He wanted to ask the miller’s wife something, find an excuse to stay, but then he quickly realized how ridiculous it would seem, and, all in all, how stupid and vulgar his thoughts were. He was suddenly ashamed.

  “Idiot!” he cursed himself. “Good night.”

  “Don’t kill yourself on the stairs. Take the light,” came her voice, barely audible, from the darkness of the main room.

  The doctor took the candle from the table and went silently upstairs. The staircase led to the attic directly from the entryway; the steps were narrow and creaked under the doctor’s boots.

  “Idiot. A regular idiot!”

  Upstairs there were two rooms: in the first were woven baskets, chests, boxes, strings of onion, garlic, and dried pears. The garden aroma was soothing. The doctor passed that room; the door to the other one was ajar. He found himself in a small room with a dark window, a bed, a little table, a chair, and a small dresser. The bedclothes were turned back.

  The doctor set the candle on the table, closed the door, and began to undress.

  “Beddy-bye, the calf’s asleep.” Noticing a clay cow on the windowsill, he remembered the children’s rhyme.

  “What a strange family … Though perhaps it isn’t strange, but quite normal for the times. And they live well, prosperously … For how long? How old is she, I wonder … thirty?”

  He recalled her calm hands, the ring on her pinky finger, and the look of her dark-brown eyes.

  “Guten Abend, schöne Müllerin…,” he said aloud, recalling Nadine’s beloved Schubert. He took off his shirt.

  “One should never abandon one’s principles. As in chess, one should not stoop lower than the floor and make forced moves. Coercion is not the way to live—the palliatives of work are more than enough. Life offers choice: one should always choose what comes naturally, what will not cause you to regret your own lack of willpower later in life. Only epidemics leave you no choice.”

  Remaining in his underclothes, he removed his pince-nez, placed it on the table, blew out the candle, and climbed into the cold bed. Upstairs, as always, it was chilly.

  “A good night’s sleep.” The doctor pulled the blanket right up to his nose. “And leave bright and early tomorrow. As early as possible.”

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  “Yes?” The doctor raised his head.

  The door opened and a burning candle appeared. The doctor picked up the pince-nez from the table and put it to his eyes. The miller’s wife entered the room inaudibly, barefoot; she wore a long white nightgown and her colorful shawl around her shoulders. She held the burning candle in one hand and a cup in the other.

  “Forgive me, I forgot to leave you water. Our ham’s so salty, you’ll be wanting a drink in the night.”

  She leaned over, and her loose hair fell from her shoulders to her breasts as she set the cup on the table. Her eyes met the doctor’s, her face as calm as ever. She blew out the candle and straightened up. And remained.

  The doctor tossed his pince-nez on the table, threw back the blanket in one movement, stood up, and embraced her warm, soft, large frame.

  “There we go…,” she said softly, putting her hands on his shoulders.

  He drew her toward the bed.

  “I’ll close the door…,” she whispered in his ear, and his heart pounded like a hammer.

  But he didn’t want to let her go. He pressed against her body and his lips found her neck. The woman smelled of sweat, vodka, and lavender oil. In one movement he tore off her nightgown and grabbed her by the butt.

  Her bottom was big and plushy and cool.

  “Oh…,” she murmured.

  The doctor threw her back on the bed; trembling, he began tearing off his underclothes. But neither the clothes nor his hands would obey. “Damn…” He pulled hard and a button flew off and rolled across the floor.

  Having managed to get one leg free of his hateful underwear, he fell on her and spread her smooth, plump legs roughly with his own. Her legs opened obediently and bent at the knees. In an instant, trembling and panting, he entered the substantial body, which gave itself to him. She moaned and embraced him.

  He grabbed her by the round, sloping shoulders he had admired at the table, made a few spasmodic thrusts, and couldn’t contain himself: his seed flooded into her.

  “Sweetheart.” She pressed her head to his with a calming movement.

  But he could not calm down. He did not want to calm down. He squeezed her, and began to push, as though racing to catch up with the desired body slipping away from him. Her legs opened wider, letting him in, and her warm hand slid down his back and grabbed his rear. The doctor’s movements were brusque. He seized the woman in his arms and dug his fingers into her. His backside trembled and squeezed tight in time with his movement. As if to calm it, the woman’s hand began to press down gently. The doctor panted noisily into her neck, and his head shuddered.

  “My sweetheart.”

  She pushed down on his buttocks, sensing the fury of the contracting muscles.

  “My sweet…”

  Her hand soothed him, as if to say with its every move: there’s no hurry, I’m not going anywhere, I’m yours tonight.

  He understood the language of that hand; the convulsions left his body and he began to move more slowly, rhythmically. With her left hand the woman lifted his hot head and brought her lips to his parched, open mouth. But he didn’t have the strength to respond to her kiss. He took intermittent, greedy breaths.

  “My sweet…,” she exhaled into his mouth.

  The doctor had her; trying to stretch out the pleasure, he obeyed her delicate feminine hand. Her body responded to
him, her wide hips squeezed his legs in time with his movement: they opened and squeezed, opened and squeezed. Her ample chest rocked him.

  “My sweet,” she exhaled into him once again. And her breath seemed to sober him up. He answered her kiss, their tongues meeting in the hot darkness of their bodies.

  They kissed.

  Her hand stroked and calmed him. Understanding that the man was ready to enjoy her for a long while, the woman gave herself to him utterly. A moan began in her large, heaving breast. And she allowed herself to be helpless. Her breasts and hips trembled.

  “Plow me, my sweet … plow me,” she whispered into his cheek, and gripped him with both arms.

  He swam in her body and the wave continued, rolling further and further, till it seemed it would never end.

  But the wave suddenly surged; he understood his helplessness, and his body trembled in anticipation. Her hand once again touched his buttocks, but its touch was no longer gentle, it was forceful, commanding. The hand pushed and clutched him, and her fingers dug into him as though each one wore a thimble.

  With a roar he spurted into the wave.

  The woman moaned and cried out under him. He lay on top of her, exhaustedly breathing into her neck.

  “Hot…,” she whispered, and stroked his head.

  The doctor caught his breath, then turned over and lifted his head.

  “Strong…,” she said.

  He sat upon the edge of the bed and looked at the miller’s wife in the darkness. Her body took up the entire bed. The doctor put his hand on her chest. She immediately covered his hand with her palms: “Have a drink of water.”

  The doctor remembered the cup, picked it up, and drank the water thirstily. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds and poured light in through the window. The doctor was able to locate his pince-nez, so he put it on. The miller’s wife lay with her chubby hands behind her head. The doctor stood and fumbled in his trouser pockets for his cigarette case and matches. He lit up, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

  “I didn’t think you’d come to me,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “But you wanted me to.” She smiled.

  “I did,” he said with a doomed sort of nod.

  “And I wanted to also.”

  They gazed at each other silently. The doctor smoked, and the light of the papirosa was reflected in his pince-nez.

  “Let me have a smoke, too.”

  He handed her the papirosa. She inhaled, held the smoke for a while, then let it out carefully. The doctor watched. He suddenly realized he had absolutely no desire to talk to her.

  “You’re a bachelor?” she asked, and returned the cigarette to him.

  “You can tell?”

  “Yes.”

  He scratched his chest:

  “My wife and I split up three years ago.”

  “You left her?”

  “She left me.”

  “So that’s what happened,” she said respectfully.

  They sat quietly.

  “Any children?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “She couldn’t conceive.”

  “Ah, so that’s it. I gave birth, but it died.”

  They sat silently again.

  The silence stretched on and on.

  The miller’s wife sighed and sat up on the bed. She put her hand on the doctor’s shoulder: “I’ll go now.”

  The doctor said nothing.

  She turned over on the bed and the doctor squeezed to one side. She lowered her plump feet to the floor, stood up, and straightened her nightgown, while the doctor sat with the extinguished cigarette in his mouth.

  The miller’s wife stepped toward the door. He took her hand:

  “Wait.”

  She sat back down.

  “Stay a bit longer.”

  She pulled a lock of hair back from her face. The moon moved behind clouds and the room was plunged into darkness. The doctor caressed her; she touched his cheek:

  “Is it hard without a wife?”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “May God help you meet a good woman.”

  He nodded. She stroked his face. The doctor took her hand in his and kissed the sweaty palm.

  “Come see us on the way back,” she whispered.

  “It won’t work out.”

  “You’ll go a different way?”

  He nodded. She moved closer, lightly touching him with her breast, and kissed his cheek:

  “I’ll go now. My husband will be mad.”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “He gets cold without me. Too cold, and he’ll wake up and start whining.”

  She stood up.

  The doctor didn’t try to keep her any longer. Her nightgown rustled in the dark, the door squeaked and closed, and the steps of the staircase creaked under her bare feet. The doctor took out another papirosa, lit it, rose to his feet, and walked to the window.

  “Guten Abend, schöne Müllerin…,” he said, gazing at the dark sky hanging over the snowy field.

  He smoked his cigarette, stubbed it out on the windowsill, got in bed, and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Crouper also slept soundly. He fell asleep as soon as he got up on the warm oven bed, put a log under his head, and covered himself with the patchwork quilt. Falling asleep to the sound of the doctor’s strong, nasal voice chatting with the miller’s wife, he thought of the toy elephant that his late father had brought six-year-old Kozma from the fair. The elephant could walk, move its trunk, flap its ears, and sing an English song:

  Love me tender, love me sweet,

  Never let me go.

  You have made my life complete,

  And I love you so.

  After the elephant he thought of the horse the drunken miller kept harping on. Vavila, the late merchant Riumin’s groom, had entrusted Crouper with the horse. This was at the fair in Pokrovskoye, before Kozma got married, but when he was already known as “Crouper.” Vavila had a year-old colt for sale, and he had been walking around the fair with him all morning, trying to sell him. He got greedy, and thought some Chinese people and Gypsies were trying to cheat him. He asked Kozma to hold on to the colt, said he was going to “stuff his face and take a dump.” He gave Kozma five kopecks. Kozma found a spot by the willow, near where the saddler’s stalls began. He stood there with the colt and cracked sunflower seeds. Right about then some movie people from Khliupin put up two receivers and stretched “tableau vivant” screens between them. They displayed dolphins. It turned out that the picture wasn’t just lifelike, but touchable; the dolphins swam from one screen to the other and you could touch them. First kids and then men and women came up to touch the dolphins. Crouper tied the colt to the willow and waded through the crowd. He reached out and touched a dolphin. He liked it. The dolphin was smooth and cool, and it made friendly, squeaky noises. And the sea was nice and warm. Pushing his way forward, Crouper entered the water up to his chest and kept on touching and touching. The dolphins dove down in one monitor and swam over to the other one. Crouper touched their backs and stomachs, and grabbed them with his hands, trying to hold on to them. But they were agile and slipped right out of his grasp. He felt happy and fell in love with dolphins then and there. When the movie fellows turned the picture off and went around the crowd with a hat out, Crouper threw in his five-kopeck coin without a thought. Then he remembered the colt and went back to the willow: there was no trace of the horse. Vavila chased Crouper through the fair and landed a few good punches. The merchant Riumin sacked Vavila. They never found the colt.

  The doctor awoke to the sound of Crouper’s voice:

  “Yur ’onor, sir, it’s time.”

  “What is it?” the doctor grumbled with his eyes closed.

  “The dawn’s up.”

  “Let me sleep.”

  “You asked me to wake ye.”

  “Go away.”

  Crouper left.

  Two hours later the miller’s wife climbed u
p to the doctor’s room and touched his shoulder:

  “It’s time for you to go, doctor.”

  “What?” the doctor murmured with his eyes closed.

  “It’s already eleven o’clock.”

  “Eleven?” He opened his eyes and turned over.

  “Time for you to get up.” She looked at him with a smile.

  The doctor fumbled for his pince-nez on the side table, placed it on his wrinkled face, and looked up. The miller’s wife hung over him—large, nicely dressed in a fur-lined top with a string of viviparous pearls on her neck, braids circling her head, and a pleased, smiling face.

  “What do you mean, eleven?” the doctor asked more calmly, finally remembering everything that had happened during the night.

  “Come and have tea.” She squeezed his wrist, turned, and disappeared behind the door, her long blue skirt rustling.

  “Damn…” The doctor stood up and looked at his watch. “It really is eleven.”

  He looked at the window. Daylight flooded through it.

  “The idiot didn’t wake me.” The doctor remembered Crouper and his magpie-shaped head.

  He dressed quickly and went downstairs. The kitchen was bustling: Avdotia was sliding a large kettle into the recently lit Russian oven with a long-handled poker; her husband was making something on the bench in the corner; and at the far table the miller’s wife sat majestically alone. The doctor headed for the washbasin that stood in the corner to the right of the oven, splashed his face with cold water, and dried it with a fresh towel that the miller’s wife had hung there especially for him. He wiped his pince-nez, looked at himself in the small, round mirror, and touched the stubble on his cheeks:

  “Hmm…”

  “Doctor, come have a cup of tea,” the strong voice of the miller’s wife sounded from the other side of the room.

  Platon Ilich went to her.

  “Good morning.”

  “And a very fine morning to you, too.” She smiled.

  The doctor crossed himself before the icon and sat down at the table. The same little samovar stood on the table and the same ham lay on a dish.

  The miller’s wife poured tea into a large cup with a portrait of Peter the Great, and dropped in two sugar cubes without asking.