Pushkin Hills by Sergei Dovlatov

Author:Sergei Dovlatov [Dovlatov, Sergei]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781619023697
Publisher: Counterpoint

Once again Markov took out his black envelope. I never got the chance to spend my four roubles…

Now we were talking, interrupting one another. I told him about my troubles. To my chagrin, I discoursed on literature.

Markov addressed the void:

“Off with your hats, gentlemen! Before you sits a genius!”

The fans chased clouds of tobacco smoke around the room. The sounds of the jukebox were drowned out by the drunken voices. Workers of the state lumber mill made a bonfire on a porcelain platter. Dogs wandered under the tables…

Everything was beginning to blur before my eyes. I managed to catch only some random bits of what Markov was saying:

“Forward to the West! Tanks moving in a diamond formation! A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step!”

Then some intoxicated character with an accordion approached me. Its bellows blushed pink, intimately. Tears streamed down the accordion player’s cheeks. He asked:

“Why’d they dock me six roubles? Why’d they take away my sick days?”

“Take a swig, Tarasych.” Markov pushed the bottle towards him. “Drink and don’t be upset. Six roubles is nothing…”

“Nothing?” suddenly the accordion player got angry. “People break their backs and for him it’s nothing! For six years these hands drudged away for nothing doing hard time… Article 92, without an instrument…”*

In response, Markov trilled soulfully:

“Stop shedding tears, girl! The rains will pass…”

A second later, two lumber-mill stable hands were prying them apart. With a painful howl the accordion collided with the floor.

I wanted to stand up, but couldn’t.

Then a Duralumin stool flew out from under me. As I fell, I took down a heavy brown curtain.

I couldn’t manage to get up, even though I think Markov was taking a beating. I heard his tragic cries:

“Let me go, you beasts! Finita la commedia!”*

It’s not that I was thrown out of the restaurant. I crawled out on my own, sheathed in the drapery fabric. Then I hit my head on the doorpost and everything went black…

I came to in a strange room. It was already light. The clock was ticking; it had a chisel for a weight.

I was still covered by the same brown drape. On the floor nearby I discovered Markov. Evidently, he had given me his bed.

My head hurt. I felt a deep gash on my forehead.

The sour odour of a peasant home made me a little sick.

I groaned. Markov raised himself up.

“Are you alive?” he asked.

“I think so. What about you?”

“Status: heading into the storm! How much do you weigh?”

“No idea, why?”

“I barely managed to drag you here…”

The door opened and a woman with a clay pot entered.

“Vera,” shouted Markov. “Hair of the dog! I know you’ve got some. Who needs this road to Calvary? Bring it to us now! Let’s bypass this interim period of developed socialism…”

“Drink some milk,” said Vera.

I said hello with dignity. Markov sighed:

“And I had to be born in these boreal backwoods…”

Vera was a pale, tired woman with large, calloused hands. Cantankerous, like all wives of alcoholics, without exception.

A look of deep and utmost sorrow was etched on her face.

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