Free The Blizzard by Vladimir Sorokin­ Page 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 up 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.
    “Where’s my driver?” asked the doctor, looking at her hands.
    “On the other side. He’s been up for quite a while now.”
    “Why didn’t he wake me?”
    “Can’t say.” She smiled pleasantly. “Some fresh blini?”
    The doctor noticed a stack of piping-hot pancakes on the table.
    “Gladly.”
    “With jam, honey, or sour cream?”
    “With … honey.”
    He frowned. He felt uncomfortable with the woman now.
    “What drama…,” he thought as he sipped the tea.
    “How’s the weather?” He glanced at the windows.
    “Better than yesterday,” answered the miller’s wife, looking him