Pushkin Hills Read Online Free Page A

down. I want to get some rest and do a little work. I pose you no danger…”
    “We’ll see about that.” And Natella broke into hysterical laughter.
    She coquettishly swung her canvas bag with an image of James Bond on it and walked off.
    I set off for Sosnovo. The road stretched to the top of the hill, skirting a cheerless field. Dark boulders loomed along its edges in shapeless piles. A ravine, thick with brush, gaped on the left. Coming downhill, I saw several log houses girdled by birch trees. Monochrome cows milled about on the side, flat like theatre decorations. Grimy sheep with decadent expressions grazed lazily on the grass. Jackdaws circled above the roofs.
    I walked through the village hoping to come across someone. Unpainted grey houses looked squalid. Clay pots crowned the pickets of sagging fences. Baby chicks clamoured in the plastic-covered coops. Chickens pranced around in a nervous, strobing strut. Squat, shaggy dogs yipped gamely.
    I crossed the village and walked back, pausing near one of the houses. A door slammed and a man in a faded railroad tunic appeared on the front steps.
    I asked where I could find Sorokin.
    “They call me Tolik,” he said.
    I introduced myself and once again explained that I was looking for Sorokin.
    “Where does he live?”
    “In the village of Sosnovo.”
    “But this is Sosnovo.”
    “I know. How can I find him?”
    “D’ya mean Timokha Sorokin?”
    “His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”
    “Timokha’s been dead a year. He froze, havin’ partaken…”
    “I’d really like to find Sorokin.”
    “Didn’t partake enough, I say, or he’da still been here.”
    “What about Sorokin?”
    “You don’t mean Mishka, by chance?”
    “His name is Mikhail Ivanych.”
    “Well, that’d be Mishka all right. Dolikha’s son-in-law. D’ya know Dolikha, the one that’s a brick short of a load?”
    “I’m not from around here.”
    “Not from Opochka, by chance?”
    “From Leningrad.”
    “Ah, yeah, I heard of it…”
    “So how do I find Mikhail Ivanych?”
    “You mean Mishka?”
    “Precisely.”
    Tolik relieved himself from the steps deliberately and without reservation. Then he cracked open the door and piped a command:
    “Ahoy! Bonehead Ivanych! You got a visitor!”
    He winked and added:
    “It’s the cops for the alimony…”
    A crimson muzzle, generously adorned with blue eyes, appeared momentarily.
    “Whatsa… Who?… You about the gun?”
    “I was told you have a room to let.”
    The expression on Mikhail Ivanych’s face betrayed deep confusion. I would later discover that this was his normal reaction to any question, however harmless.
    “A room?… Whatsa… Why?”
    “I work at the Preserve. I’d like to rent a room. Temporarily. Till autumn. Do you have a spare room?”
    “The house is Ma’s. In her name. And Ma’s in Pskov. Her feet swolled up.”
    “So you don’t have a room?”
    “Jews had it last year. I got no complaints, the people had class… No furniture polish, no cologne… Just red, white and beer… Me personally, I respect the Jews.”
    “They put Christ on the cross,” interjected Tolik.
    “That was ages ago!” yelled Mikhail Ivanych. “Long before the Revolution.”
    “The room,” I said. “Is it for rent or not?”
    “Show the man,” commanded Tolik, zipping his fly.
    The three of us walked down a village street. A woman was standing by a fence, wearing a man’s jacket withthe Order of the Red Star* pinned to the lapel.
    “Zin, lend me a fiver,” belted out Mikhail Ivanych.
    The woman waved him away.
    “Wine’ll be the death of you… Have ya heard, they got a newdecree out? To string up every wino with cable!”
    “Where?!” Mikhail Ivanych guffawed. “They’ll run outta metal. Our entire metalworks will go bust…”
    And he added:
    “You old tart. Just wait, you’ll come to me for wood… I work at the forestry. I’m a Friendshipist !”
    “What?” I didn’t understand.
    “I got a power saw…