Between Dog and Wolf by Sokolov Sasha

Author:Sokolov, Sasha
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: LCO014000, Literary Collections/Russian & Former Soviet Union, FIC019000, Fiction/Literary
Publisher: Columbia University Press
Published: 2016-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

10

DZYNZYRELLA’S

Well, she says, as a rule, I live all the time in the barracks here. We have a cozy park, with swings, the residents are also quite friendly, and there is a ravine—walk to your heart’s content. Earlier a certain granny, the old ragpicker, shared quarters with me. She smelled of old stuff worser than you do, and I was only gettin into prime, my hands, fittin my years, smelled of milk, my hair was wavy, curly. And I wanted to walk; I’ll go out and walk all day. On the glades it is pleasant—magpies, rooks. When they fly up—half of the sky is gone. And don’t leave nothin shiny—they’ll steal it. Sometimes I would shout: Shoo from my money! I used to pick large dandelions, collect clover for food; after all, fate did not spoil me with sweets. And once a trapper captured a fox cub, what a joy! And he predicted: When it grows up it’ll be a fox. But not long the fox cub stayed with us—it got lost. I searched in the woods—there’s no fox, what pity, what sadness. Later we went with Granny to search for wasted coal on the railroad embankment. We have to fire our stove, the fall is comin. The gray slag from locomotives, Orina tells me, as if I never searched for it myself, the gray slag from locomotives they throw out, and in the gray there is black, what didn’t burn away; you noticed it—pick it up and that’s it. And we found the fox on the rails, sliced up. Apparently some strangers caught it and tied it with twine to its doom. Woe is the fox, it perished, sharp teeth, very long tail. And Granny: Don’t wail now, this ain’t ours, ours was smaller; let’s better pull the skin off. No, Granny, don’t pretend, it’s ours, it grew up in summer. And the trapper later asks about the fox. But I hid the truth. The trapper was our neybor, but I wasn’t goin out with him. At first, I was goin alone, with nobody. But, after all, age takes its toll and a young sailor turned my head: Jokin aside, what’s there to fear, he says. What do you think, he finally got what he wanted. At the very beginnin, quietly—he kept touchin, snugglin. His mouth was so sweet. I am laughin: What, did you munch some fruit drops? And the sailor: I always use them—you know, we need to get rid of the tobacco odor, otherwise our commander will give us hell, we’re not allowed to smoke, we’re underage. When we return to our craft from a furlow, he arranges inspections: Well, cadets, breathe, he demands, right away. Other fellows buy mints in the boat’s apothecary, but in my opinion fruit drops are more useful, although so far my teeth are not too good, I grew up in evacuation, around Chistopol, so they’re all completely rotten, but then from mints a blister bursts just like that on your tongue, and fruit drops you chew your entire way back—and no worries.

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