As he was thinking along these lines, the shop assistant put more guns in front of him and decided that his duty was to keep the customer busy with conversation.
“Here is a British handgun, made by another company. But I would assure you, dear sir, that this one is not as good as the Smith and Wesson. Recently, you may have read in the papers that an officer bought a gun made by Smith and Wesson at our store. He was going to shoot his wife’s lover—and what do you think? The bullet went through the lover’s body, then it hit the bronze lamp, and then it hit the grand piano, and ricocheted off the grand piano, killed the lady’s little dog, and even slightly wounded his wife. This is a brilliant handgun! It has brought honor to our company. The officer was just arrested recently; it is certain that he will be sentenced to hard labor.” He paused.
“First of all, my dear sir, our law is too old-fashioned. Secondly, our law is always on the side of the lover. Why, you may ask? It is all very simple, dear sir: all of them—the judge, the jury, the prosecutor, and the defense lawyers—they each live with the wife of some other man, and they would all feel better if we had one husband less in the country. It would be nice for them if all the husbands could be sent to eastern Siberia, to the Sakhalin Island Prison.
“My dear sir, you should know how indignant I become when I see virtue destroyed in our society. To love another man’s wife is seen as no worse than to smoke his cigarettes, to read his books. And our trade grows worse and worse—this does not mean that there are fewer lovers, no! This means that more husbands are deciding to ignore their situation. They do not seek revenge, they are afraid of the sentences, afraid of their long prison terms.”
The shop assistant looked around and whispered,
“And who is to blame for all this, sir? The Russian government.”
“I am not going to go to Sakhalin Island for the sake of some dirty swine. That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Mr. Sigaev was lost in his thoughts. “If I go to prison, it would just give my wife another opportunity to get married again and to cheat on her second husband. She would win. Therefore, I will leave her to live, I will not commit suicide myself, and as for him—I am not going to kill him. I have to think up something more logical and sensible. I shall torture them with my contempt, and start a scandalous court case against her.”
“And over here, my dear sir, there is another line of wonderful shotguns. I would like to draw your attention to the very original design of the trigger.”
After making his decision, Mr. Sigaev did not need a gun anymore, but the shop assistant was getting more and more inspired, and the pile of guns on the counter had grown into a great heap. The husband felt ashamed that the poor little man had spent so much time in vain, that he had wasted so much time smiling, talking, and admiring his guns.
“All right,” he mumbled, “in this case, I will come back later, or I will send someone over.”
He did not see the facial expression of the shop assistant, but to ease the situation, he decided to buy something. But what should he buy? He looked at the walls of the store trying to pick something cheap and his glance stopped at a green net hanging from the wall next to the entrance door.
“And this? What is this?” he asked.
“This is a net for catching small birds, quail and the like.”
“And how much does it cost?”
“Eight rubles, sir.”
“Wrap it up for me then please, I will purchase this.”
The hurt husband paid eight rubles, took the net and, feeling even more hurt, left the store.
THIEVES
A medical nurse, Mr. Ergunov, a simple-minded man, believed to be one of the greatest boasters and drunks in the county, was returning one evening on Christmas week from the little town of Repino, where he had made some purchases for the hospital. The local doctor had loaned him his best horse so that Ergunov might return on time and not be late.
At first the weather was fine and still, but by about eight that night, a violent snowstorm began. By the time he realized he only had four more miles to go, Ergunov was completely lost. He was an inexperienced rider who was unfamiliar with the road, and so he hoped the horse could find the way on its own. Two hours passed; the horse grew exhausted, Ergunov was chilled to the bone. By now he had figured out he would not make it home and he should return to Repino.
At last, through the sound of the storm, he heard a vague barking of a dog, and a blurred red spot appeared ahead of him. Little by little, he could discern a high gate, a long fence with protruding pointed nails, and then a crooked roof came into view beyond the fence. The wind drove away the mist of snow from before his eyes, and where before there had been a red blur, there now appeared a sturdy little house with a steep cane-covered roof. One of three windows, curtained with something red, was lit up.
What kind of place was it? Ergunov recalled that on the right side of the road should be Andrei Chirikov’s inn, three or four miles from the hospital. He also remembered that Chirikov had recently been killed by some robbers. He left behind an elderly wife and a daughter named Lyubka, who had been in the hospital two years earlier for treatment. The inn had a bad reputation, and it was believed quite dangerous to stay there overnight, especially with someone else’s horse. However, Ergunov knew he had no choice. He felt for his revolver in his saddlebag and, after coughing boldly, knocked on the window frame with his whip handle.
“Hey! Anybody there?” he shouted. “Granny, please let me in to get warm!”
A black dog, barking hoarsely, rolled under the horse’s feet, then another, this one white. Then yet another black one, until there must have been at least a dozen of them. Ergunov noticed the biggest, swung his arm and lashed out at the dog with all his force. A small long-legged dog raised his pointed muzzle upward and howled in a high-pitched, piercing voice.
Ergunov had been standing at the window knocking for a long time, until the frost glowed red on the trees next to the house, the gate creaked open, and a muffled female figure appeared holding a lantern.
“Dear granny, let me in to get warm,” said Ergunov. “I was going to the hospital, and I’ve lost my way. It’s such weather, Lord forbid. Don’t be afraid, granny, we’re not strangers, right?”
“All the strangers are at home by now, as they are not invited,” said the figure sternly. “Why did you feel the need to knock? The gate was not locked.”
Ergunov drove through the gate into the yard and stopped at the porch, requesting that the stable boy take his horse from the old granny.
“I’m no granny.” And indeed, she was not a granny. When she blew out the lantern, her features came to light and the doctor recognized Lyubka.
“What helpers are you talking about?” she said as she went into the house. “Those who are drunk are asleep, and the rest left for Repino in the morning. The holiday’s coming….”
As the boy fastened his horse up under the shed, Ergunov heard a whinny, and distinguished another horse in the dark, with a Cossack saddle on. It meant there was someone else in the house apart from the owners. Just in case, Ergunov took the saddle off his horse, and on his way to the house, he took both his purchases and the saddle with him.
The first room he entered was spacious, well heated, and smelled of freshly washed floors. A short, lean peasant of about forty, with a small, light brown beard, wearing a blue shirt, was sitting at the table under the icons. It was Kalashnikov, an arrant knave and horse-stealer, whose father and uncle kept an inn in Bogalyovka, who traded in stolen horses at any opportunity. He, too, had been to the hospital more than once, but he would come not for medical treatment, but to negotiate with the doctor about horses: whether there was any for sale, and whether the dear doctor, his honor, wished to trade his chestnut mare for a lovely dun gelding. Now, with his hair greased back and a silver earring glittering in his ear, he looked quite festive. Frowning, with his lower lip pulled down, he was attentively examining a big book with pictures, frayed and dog-eared. Another pea
sant lay stretched out on the floor near the stove, his face, shoulders, and chest covered by a sheepskin as he slept. There were two dark pools of melted snow near his new boots, with shining pieces of metal on the soles.
Seeing the doctor, Kalashnikov greeted him.
“Yeah, the weather’s awful,” said Ergunov, rubbing his chilled knees with the palms of his hands. “The snow’s gone down my neck; I’m soaked through, I’d say, like a rat. And I think my revolver is also, well….” He took out his revolver, looked at it all over, and put it into his bag again. But the revolver produced no reaction whatsoever; the peasant kept his eyes on his book. “Yeah, the weather…. I lost my way, and had it not been for the dogs here, I’d have been dead, I believe. Yeah, there would have been something to talk about. And where’s the hostess?”
“The old woman has gone to Repino, so the girl is cooking dinner,” answered Kalashnikov.
Silence followed. Shivering, Ergunov blew on his hands, huddling, and pretending he was extremely warm and well rested. The dogs were still heard barking outside. It was getting boring.
“You are from Bogalyovka, aren’t you?” Ergunov asked the peasant strictly.
“Yes, I am.”
As he did not have anything better to do, Ergunov started to think about that village of Bogalyovka. It was a big village that lay in a deep ravine, so that when one drove along the big road on a moonlit night, and looked down into the dark ravine and then up at the sky, it seemed that the moon was hanging over a bottomless abyss and it was the end of the world. The road down to the village was steep, serpentine, and so narrow that when one drove to Bogalyovka for any reason, one had to scream at the top of one’s voice, or whistle loudly, to ensure safe passage through the pass, as there was only room for one to travel.
The peasants of Bogalyovka had the reputation of being good gardeners and horse-stealers. Their gardens always yielded large crops. In spring time, the whole village drowned in white cherry blossoms, and in summer, you could pay three kopecks and pick a pail of cherries for yourself. The peasants’ wives were well groomed and well fed, they were fond of lovely clothing, and did nothing even on workdays. They would sit on the ledges of their houses, and gossip.
At that moment someone’s steps were heard. Lyubka, a girl of twenty, entered the room in her bare feet, wearing a red dress. She looked swiftly at Ergunov and walked from one corner of the room to another a few times. She did not move simply, but with little steps, holding her head up high. She obviously enjoyed walking barefooted on the freshly washed floor, and had taken off her shoes for exactly that reason.
Kalashnikov grinned at something, beckoning her with his finger. She went over to the table, and he showed her a picture of the prophet Elijah driving three horses rushing up to the sky. Lyubka leaned her elbows on the table; a long reddish plait tied with a red ribbon at the end fell across her shoulder and almost touched the floor. She also grinned.
“That’s a remarkable picture,” said Kalashnikov. “Remarkable,” he repeated, and made a movement with his hands as if he wanted to take the reins instead of Elijah.
The wind droned in the stovepipes; something growled and squeaked as if a big dog had strangled a rat.
“Hear that? That’s the sound of evil forces,” said Lyubka.
“That’s the wind,” said Kalashnikov; then, after a pause, he raised his eyes to Ergunov and asked: “And what’s your expert opinion, Osip Vasilich—are there devils in this world or not?”
“What shall I say, young fellow?” answered Ergunov, shrugging one shoulder. “If we reason scientifically, then of course, there are no devils, it’s just a prejudice. If we talk about it simply, as we are doing right now, then they do exist, to put it briefly. I’ve experienced many things in my lifetime. After I finished school, I served as medical assistant in the army in a regiment of dragoons. I was in the war, of course. I was awarded a medal and a decoration of the Red Cross. After the peace treaty of San Stefano, I returned to Russia and began working for the county government. And I should say, having been around, I’ve seen many things that others could not even imagine. I have seen devils; I don’t mean the kind with a tail and horns, for that’s rubbish but, some kind of devil …”
“Where?” asked Kalashnikov.
“Different places. Not long ago. Last summer. You know, it’s not good to speak of him at night. I came across him right here, near this very inn. Well, I was going to Golyshino; I remember it, to vaccinate against smallpox. You know, it’s always like that, racing the horse, carrying all the necessary stuff besides my watch, and so I was riding and on the alert. Tramps are always around, you know. So I headed down into the Zmeinaya gully, when, well, this thing approached me! Black hair, black eyes, even his whole face looked blackish, too, as if completely covered in smoke! He came up to my horse and took hold of the left rein right away, commanding us to: ‘Stop!’ He looked at the horse, then at me, and then dropped the rein. Without saying a bad word, he asked, ‘Where are you going?’ as he bared his teeth, with a malicious glint in his eyes. ‘Well,’ I thought to myself, ‘you must be the devil!’ ‘I’m here to vaccinate against smallpox,’ I answered, ‘And what difference is it to you?” He replied: ‘If that’s the case, then vaccinate me, too,’ as he thrust his arm right into my face. Of course, I didn’t go on talking with him, just immediately vaccinated him to get rid of him. And then I looked at my lancet and as I said ‘Here we go’ I realized that it had gone all rusty.”
The peasant who was sleeping near the stove suddenly turned and threw off his sheepskin. To his great surprise, Ergunov recognized that very stranger he had once met at Zmeinaya gully. The peasant’s hair, beard, and eyes were as black as soot; his face was swarthy; and, on top of it all, there was a black lentil-sized spot on his right cheek. He looked at the hospital assistant sarcastically and said: “I did take hold of the left rein, that’s true, but about the smallpox—here you’ve told lies, sir. We never discussed the smallpox.”
Ergunov was confused and scared. “I was not referring to you, sir.” He did not know who the swarthy peasant was or where he had come from. Now, looking at him, he decided the man must be a gypsy.
The peasant got up, stretching and yawning loudly, and came up to Lyubka and Kalashnikov, sitting down next to them. He, too, looked into the book. His sleepy face softened as a look of envy came over it.
“See, Merik,” Lyubka said to him; “get me such horses and I’ll ride them to heaven.”
“Sinners can’t go to heaven,” said Kalashnikov. “It’s reserved for saints.”
Then Lyubka laid the table for the meal with a big piece of lard, salted cucumbers, a wooden plate of cubed boiled meat, and finally a frying pan still sizzling with sausage and cabbage. A decanter of vodka also appeared on the table, filling the room with the aroma of orange peels as it was poured.
The medical assistant was annoyed that Kalashnikov and Merik were talking to each other, ignoring him completely, as if he were not in the room. He wanted to chat, to boast, to have a drink and a filling meal, and—if he could, flirt with Lyubka. She kept sitting beside him briefly throughout the meal, and as if by accident, kept bumping him with her beautiful shoulders or elbows as she swiveled in her place and stroked her broad hips with her hands. She was a healthy, restless girl, who laughed easily as she was constantly in motion.
Ergunov also found disconcerting the fact that the peasants stopped drinking after only one glass of vodka each, making him feel uncomfortable continuing to drink alone. Eventually he gave in and drank a second glass, then a third, as he ate all the remaining sausage. He now decided to flatter the men so that they would accept him instead of continuing to avoid him.
“You’re a bunch of good guys over there in Bogalyovka!” he commented, as he shook his head.
“Good at what?” asked Kalashnikov.
“Well, with horses, for example. Good at stealing!”
“Hah, good guys, you say. There’s only drunks and thieves left.”
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“Yeah, those days are over,” said Merik, after a pause. “There’s just old Filya left, and he, too, is blind.”
“Right, just Filya left,” sighed Kalashnikov. “He must be about seventy now; the German colonists put out his one eye, and now he can barely see out of his remaining one. In the good old days the police officer would see him and shout: ‘Hey, you Shamil!’ until everyone called him that. Now that’s the only name he goes by, One-eyed Filya. He was a nice guy, indeed! One night he, along with Andrei Chirikov, Lyuba’s father, got into Rozhnovo—some cavalry regiments were stationed there at that time—and they stole nine of the soldiers’ horses, the very best ones. They weren’t afraid of the sentry or anything. That same morning they sold them all to the gypsy Afonka for twenty rubles. Yeah! Nowadays, people steal horses when the master is drunk or asleep, having no fear of God, but will take the boots off the man, too. He’ll then head a hundred and fifty miles away to sell that horse at the market, negotiating the price like a wretched Jew, until the police track him down, the idiot. It’s no longer fun, which is such a shame! Lousy people, I must say.”
“And what about Merik?” asked Lyubka.
“Merik is not from our area,” said Kalashnikov. “He is a Kharkov guy, from Mizhirich. And yes, he is a nice fellow. Nothing can be said to the contrary, he is a fine fellow.”
Lyubka turned a playful eye toward Merik, and said: “Yeah, there was a good reason why the folks bathed him in an ice hole.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ergunov.
“Well,” answered Merik, grinning, “Filya stole three horses from the Samoylovka tenants and they accused me. There were ten tenants in Samoylovka—with their hired hands, about thirty altogether, all of them Molokans. So one of them tells me at the market: ‘Come to our place, Merik, we’ve bought new horses from the fair, come take a look.’ Of course, I was interested. When I arrived, they—the thirty of them—tied my hands behind my back and dragged me to the river. ‘Now, we’ll show you the horses, man,’ they said. There was one ice hole already, and they cut another one about seven feet away. They then took a rope, put a loop under my armpits, and tied a crooked stick to the other end, long enough to reach both holes. Well, they thrust the stick in and dragged it through the holes. And I, dressed as I was in my fur coat and boots, went plop! into the ice hole. They stood on the ice, pushing me along with their feet or the stick as they dragged me under the ice and pulled me out through the other hole.”