Notes on a Cuff and Other Stories by Mikhail Bulgakov

Author:Mikhail Bulgakov
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Alma Classics
Published: 2023-04-10T00:00:00+00:00

…Well, anyway, I am going to record everything down in my little notebook, everything to the last detail. It’s interesting.

We set off in no particular direction.

…A raven soaring high into the sky. Another swooping down. And over there, there’s a third. Why are they whirling around like that? We drive up in our cart. A Chechen lies on the edge of an abandoned field. His arms spread out like a cross. His head flung back. A ragged black Circassian cloak. Bare legs. No dagger. No bullets in his ammunition pouch. The Cossacks are a thrifty nation, just like Gogol’s Osip.*

“Even a little piece of string will come in useful.”*

Under his left cheekbone there is a black hole, from which a bloodstain, congealed in the sun, trickles down his chest like a ceremonial sash. Emerald flies swarm around, plastering the wound. The angry ravens circle close overhead croaking…

On, on!…

…The Zeiss is hallucinating! A hill, and on the very top of the hill, a bentwood chair! Absolute desert all around! Who has dragged a chair to the top of the hill? What for?…

…We drive cautiously round the hill. Nobody. We continue on our way, with the chair still lying there.

It’s hot. I’m glad I’ve brought a full mess tin of water with me.

Late afternoon

It’s over. They’ve attacked. There they are, the mountains, a stone’s throw away. There is the gorge. And people are riding out of the gorge. Horses, horses! Silver swords gleaming… I wonder who will be getting my notebook? So nobody will read it! Shugayev has a greenish tinge to his face. As do I probably. Instinctively I finger the Browning in my pocket. Idiotic! What good will that do? Shugayev makes a sudden movement. Wants to spur the horses on and then freezes.

Idiotic. Their horses are a pleasant sight. How far would you get with two carthorses? You wouldn’t get anywhere at all. Any one of them could throw up his rifle, take aim, and the game will be over.

“Oh, oh, oh,” is all Shugayev could say.

They have spotted us. They race towards us, raising a cloud of dust. They gallop up to us, white teeth and silver gleaming. I glance up at the sun. Farewell, sun.

And, miracle of miracles!… They gallop up and circle round us, the horses dancing. They don’t seize us, but they start making a racket:

“Ta-la-ha-ha!”

God knows what they want. I thrust my hand into my pocket, grasp the handle of the Browning and turn off the safety catch. If they grab me, I’ll put the barrel in my mouth. Better that way. That’s what I’ve been taught.

But they carry on with their infernal racket, beating themselves on the chest, baring their teeth and pointing into the distance.

“Allah-ma-mya… Bolgatoe-e!”

“Shali-Aul! Ga-go-gyr-gyr.”

Shugayev has seen a thing or two in his life. Experienced chap. Suddenly his face flushed, the red overlaying the green. Then he waved his arms about and started talking in some astonishing language:

“Shali, you say? Right, right. Our Shali-Aul has gone, you say? Right, right. Bolgatoe.

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