With a heavy heart I was looking through the window into the darkness with the storm whining and the snow growing thicker and thicker and covering the roads and paths along which we used to go to the wood to pick mushrooms in spring. The falling snow was heavy and beautiful. Dmitry Stepanovich was cleaning his double-barrel hunting gun made in Tula which he had used to kill Marchal when he went mad. We shot him dead to avoid infectious disease and pouring it with gasoline burnt him down. We were sorry for him, of course. But we couldn"t help it. We had to shoot him dead and burn him. To make it up for him Dmitry Stepanovich bought a puppy of Turkmanian Alapay breed. When he brought it home he seized it by the tips of its ears like a spinning toy and turned it round. The puppy fell whining down on ground. The tips of its ears remained in Dmity"s hands. Thus he had cut the puppy"s ears without a knife. Its tail was short by nature. It ran about the farm and played with me; sometimes he would growl biting at my tarpaulin boots. In the evening we would lock it in a cage which was in the cow-shed.
Time flew at a bullet"s speed. It flowed like the water of a boundless river which nobody can turn back. It went by, and, maybe, it grew, who knows?
It had been seven months since we arrived at the farm. Now winter had come. Dmitry Stepanovich turned out to be an honest man, and he paid me honestly for the work I had done within these months. Like an ordinary herdsman he worked on his farm with me day and night. Sometimes his wife Zinaida Sergeyevna and his sons Pavel and Vasily came to the farm to help him. Like Dmitry Stepanovich they were just as good-humored, never haughty. Zinaida Sergeyevna was a book-keeper. She mainly worked at home.
. One day Dmitry Stepanovich and I were cleaning the cow-shed and our boots were all covered with manure. Now a newspaper reporter arrived at the farm and inquired who the farm manager was. Dmitry Stepanobich put the spade aside and went up to the reporter to introduce himself. The journalist stood stock-still in surprise thinking that the herdsman who had introduced himself as the manager was kidding. When he found out that Dmitry Stepanovich was really the manager of the farm the reporter began to show more respect for him. He took Dmitry"s picture, and the next day the local newspaper carried an article about Dmitry Stepanovich, along with his photo. It reminded me of the bygone time when by Kalakhan Adalatov"s permission they released the Uvada newspaper whose editor was the great journalist Bakhadur Buran who was later put to prison.
Dmitry Stepnovich, just like Kalankhan Adalatov, was a good-humored man, and he always invigorated me, particularly when I was upset. I couldn"t send home the money he gave me for the work done. Fearing the persecution of militia in Matarak I was even afraid of sending a letter to my relatives knowing that if the villagers who had given us fruits and vegetables on credit found out my whereabouts they would right away inform the militia about it. The prosecutor"s office might then raise an action against us. They might even put us on the wanting list. Should they start the investigation procedure the Russian Prosecutor"s Office, in accordance with the International Law, might issue an arrest warrant, and that would put the lid on us, as the saying goes.
I kept looking out of the window into the night where a huge swarm of white snowflakes was whirling round.
Dmitry Stepanovich interrupted my thoughts:
- Alec, you and I will go hunting tomorrow. In the morning we shall leave right after Pavlik comes.
-Oh really? Well, thank you, Dmitry Stepanovich - I said overjoyed - I am fond of hunting. Dmitry Stapanovich wanted to say something else but before he had time to open his mouth we heard a wolf"s howl outside the window. We pricked our ears looking out into the dark window.
- A wolf - I said.
Dmitry Stepanovich listened to to the sound of the snow storm and said:
- No-oo-o, that can"t be. There are no wolves in our woods.
Presently, the wolf started howling again.
- Well, I'll be darned! - exclaimed Dmitry Stepanovich in surprise.
- There must be a whole pack of them - I said looking out in fear.
As if by battle alarm, we quickly put on our sheepskin coats and felt boots. Dmitry Stepanovich loaded his gun while I mechanically took an axe, and, cautiously opening the creaking door of the shanty, we went out into the yard. We saw a man crying in a loud voice which resounded through the whirling snowflakes and the branches of the huge pine-tree by the low window. The man was standing on the skis. It was Ramazanov. I made my way towards him while he, roared with laughter taking off his mittens with his teeth.
- Well, you"ve lost your guts, haven"t you?
Walking on the crunching snow I went up to him, and we hugged greeting each other. Then Ramazanov greeted Dmitry Stepanovich. Laughing joyfully we entered the house and shut the door.
- Now take of your wolf"s skin - said Dmitry Stepanovich jokingly.
Ramazanov took off his pea-jacket, his scarf and his hat and hanged them on the clothes-rack. While we were taking off our coats he went up to the stove and putting his hands on the pipe began to warm himself up. Enjoying the warmth he said:
- Wow, this is real good! There"s nothing like warmth and comfort!
- Well, what do you thin about the stove? Tashkent weather, isn"t it? - said Dmitry Stepanovich.
Yes, indeed - Ramazanov said - Russia is the greatest fridge in the world! It"s good that I had cracked a bottle of vodka before setting out for the road. Otherwise I would have frozen some of my organs and...
We roared with laughter at Ramazanov"s remark.
- Fancy meeting you here, Buriby! Whatever has brought you to this place? - I asked.
- Well, you see, I wanted to ski around a little and, - how do you like it!- I got lost in the wood. I haven"t got a compass. I was not very good at Geography at school. I don"t know where the North and the South are, damn it! I moved at random rambling around a long time. Then suddenly the day began to draw its black curtain, like in a Shakespeare"s tragedy. Well, I thought, that"s the end. The wolves will gobble me up for dinner. And though I am not much of a believer but somehow I wanted God"s assistance. Help me, God, I begged. I"ll requite like for like. I"ll give up drinking in return, I'll be bound!.. I stopped and lingered for a while, and then I walked on. Then suddenly I saw a little river and this house. The place seemed familiar to me. Then I remembered. I went up to the window and started howling like a wolf. That"s all. A fairy tale with happy ending, so to say.
- You are welcome, dear guest. They say, God sends us a guest to check if we are hospitable or not. We"ll share our heaven sent food and drinks - Dmitry Stepanovich said and began to lay the table.
- Thank you - said Ramazanov.
While Dmitry Stepanovich was rummaging about among the plates on the shelves Ramazanov and I had a chat in Uzbek.
- Well, how are you getting on there? - I asked him - Is it hard to work as a tractor driver? I guess, you send home messages along with money? Have you called anyone at Matarak?
Ramazanov looked at me as if I had gone mad and said:
-Have you gone off your head? Why send a message? Don"t you know, you silly man, they"ll pounce on us right off?
Dmitry Stepanovich interrupted us again. He invited us to table. We got up and went there to take our seats. Dmitry Stepanovich poured out the samogon from a long necked bottle. Proposing a toast he suggested drinking to nice people and friendship. He clinked glasses with Ramazanov and drank the liquid at one gulp. While Dmitry was having a bite Ramazanov, too, had drained his glass. Tasting the food he made a gesture giving Dmitry a sign that he should pour a glass for me, too.
- No-oo-o, no, I will not drink - I said and showed with a gesture that I was saying my prayers and could not drink. .
- Our Alec is a Muslim, and he must not drink. Allah forbids it - Dmitry Stepanovich said.
-Ye-e-s, I said.
Dmitry Stepanovich set the glasses right, took the bottle and began to fill them again. Ramazanov didn"t resist. .
- What shall we drink to now? - he asked Ramazanov. The latter thought a little and then answered:
- Well, let"s drink to the wolves. To free and unyielding wolves!
- Yes, let"s - Dmitry Stepanovich said smiling. They drank again. Dmitry Stepanovich continued:
- The wolf is a voracious beast of prey, and it can noiselessly steal up to the sheep-fold. He will even eat earth when it"s hungry. The exciting thing about it is that it cannot bend its neck. It turns with all its body. When a man meets a wolf he grows dumb. Such a man turns into a wolf and starts walking on all fours. Like a wolf he cries for the moon. Then he leaves home and disappears in search of victim. If you meet such a beast in the wood at night, you are vanquished! You are a good wolf. It"s good that you howled like a wolf. I, too, was a little scared. I thought could it be...
- You know, I myself got frightened of my own howl. - Ramazanov said interrupting Dmitry Stepanovich. The latter laughed. Then he began to fill the empty glasses.
We long sat telling stories about wolves. When Dmitry Stepanovich went out to WC Ramazanov started speaking Uzbek again:
Well, how are things with you, Mullah Al Kizim? Are you still toiling for this Russian like a slave? Or does he pay a little for your backbreaking work? I imagine he has taken your passport to prevent you from running away. As for me I am more enterprising than you. I have hidden my passport to be on the safe side. I advise you to hide your pass before he has taken it away from you, for we cannot leave this place without our passports.
I listened to him in silence. Then I rose from he table and went up to the cupboard without doors. I took a box where I kept my passport and the money wrapped in a plastic bag. I put the bag on the table and said:
- Here is my pass. Here is the money which Dmitry Stepanovich paid me as my wage.
Ramazanov stared at the thick pack of money, and from envy there appeared a blue and violet circle on his skin around his mouth.
Presently, Dmitry Stepanovich entered the room and said jokingly:
- Oh, I see you are going to play poker, and you are staking already?
He took his wallet out of his inside pocket, gave me money and said:
- You know what, Alec, you have a special task. Get ready the sledge and go to the village right off. Bring some drinks. You, know we have run short of potion. Put on warm clothes and take the gun for the road, just in case. Don"t be afraid of wolves, for the pack leader is sitting here with us.
- Is that right, comrade wolf? - he said turning to Ramazanov.
The latter responded with a howl:
- Auuuuuuuu-oooo-uuu!
We laughed.
I dressed as warmly as possible, took the lantern and the gun and went out into the yard. It was still snowing, and the storm was still wailing. The snow crunched under my felt boots as I walked to the stable. I opened the door, put the collar on the horse and got the sledge ready. I got on and giving the horse the bridle set it going. The horse started, and I rode towards the village along the snow-clad road through the wood. I was thinking if serving people engaged in things forbidden by God was a sin. I must have looked like Santa Klaus who, wrapped in a ship skin coat, was carrying gifts for children from the remote region of Lapland on magical Christmas nights. In the wood big pines and birches were dozing under the white snow bedspread presented by mother winter.
Samogon - the Russian name for any home-made distilled alcoholic beverage.(ru: самого́н), literally translated as "distillate made by oneself". Raw ingredients include sugar, beets, corn, and potatoes. Samogon of one distillation only is called pervach (ru: первач), literally translated as "the first one" - it is well known for its impressive smell. The production of samogon is widespread in Russia. Its sale is prohibited.