At the same time, it seemed incredible that he should have fallen in love with her. She was not a beauty by any means, and often when he looked at her, he couldn’t quite figure out what it was about her that kept him coming back: she was fat, her face was lumpy and crude, and her long stringy hair looked like a dirty old floor mop. There was no gentleness or softness in her gestures, and her vulgar laugh repelled him. She was the loudest and most grotesque woman he had ever known.
But despite all that, there was something exceptional about her. She was passionate, cruel and sensual, always bursting with new appetites and adventures. The blood in her veins boiled and when she shivered it was with a kind of drunken excitement. She was skilled in the art of lovemaking, always throwing herself frantically and shamelessly into the pleasures of the flesh. Her caresses were brutal, wild, and she did not hesitate to succumb to the dictates of her body. Leyzarov had never known a woman like this, so ready to lose herself again and again. He felt a deep lust inside him and yearned after her day and night, like a famished animal.
Interestingly enough, it was not only the force of lust that bound Leyzarov to Dounia but also the force of the palate—she was as good a cook as she was a lover. Dounia Avdeevna worked wonders in the kitchen, concocting the tastiest omelets, the most succulent cabbage rolls, and her boiled beef was mouth-watering. In her cellar she stored an assortment of cured foods like pickles and sausages and she always had a generous supply of potatoes, beets and carrots. And if that wasn’t enough, with her many connections in the Pinsk marketplace, she always made sure that her pantry was stocked with Iofe’s favorite foods, one of which was pickled herring. Iofe really lived the good life and believed that indeed everything was better and happier under Stalin’s Constitution.
One night at Dounia’s, Leyzarov happened to overstay his visit, and instead of setting out at his usual time just before nightfall, he prepared to take his leave at a few minutes past midnight. Dounia was cross, and pushed him impatiently toward the door.
“Off with you! It’s later than I thought.”
“Why are you so eager to be rid of me, my dumpling? We were having ourselves such a good time.” Then, laughing, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were seeing another man.”
“Oh, my long-nosed soldier,” she shouted after him, “how ugly you are after all. The dark scares you, is that it? If the Devil catches you by the seat of your pants, how will you defend yourself? Just remember, praying is subversive. All it will do is land you in Siberia!”
“Not to worry, my little dumpling,” he called back, already in the yard, “I have no need for prayers. With my pistol I’ll stop the Devil dead in his tracks.”
Whistling happily, in good spirits, Leyzarov walked briskly from the edge of Morozovich onto the main road that led back to Hlaby, guided by the moon and stars. When a blast of frigid air swept across his face, he turned down the earflaps of his sheepskin hat. Invigorated by the brightened sky, he quickened his pace and listened to the crunching sound of his footsteps. He delighted in the frosty stillness.
He couldn’t be a more contented man—not only did he have a good position with the Party as Representative from the District Committee of the Pinsk Region, but he also had a little something on the side. No, indeed, life was not passing him by. True, at times he found his Party duties tiresome, especially when expropriating land from peasants or confiscating their provisions, and the long hours of Party meetings were becoming increasingly boring, but at least there was one place he had totally and exclusively for him-self—his little love nest. It was there that he was able to concentrate on his own needs and forget about the common good.
“Yes,” he said aloud as he walked along the frozen marsh, “I’m a lucky man. Dounia, you’re the woman for me … It’s true you were not blessed with the beauty and softness that might inspire a painter or a poet, and your love of food has pushed you out in all directions, but you’re mine, all mine.”
Suddenly he noticed a solitary bush on the right side of the road. It thrust out of the snow like a huge wicker basket, cold, dark, and unmoving. Dried leaves dusted with frost dangled from its limbs, and a sprinkling of pink petals looking very much like roses clung to its lower branches.
“How odd,” he thought, stooping to examine it. “Exposed to the harshest of elements and still it clings to life. The leaves look almost green and the petals look so fresh and alive. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?”
Beyond the bush, there was nothing but a vast, empty, silent plain. Leyzarov knew the trail between Morozovich and Hlaby like the back of his hand, and even in the dark of night he was able to tell where he was along the path. Looking to the right he remembered that exactly at this point about a quarter kilometer from the road was a clump of alder shrubs that continued southward all the way to the Stryy River. So why had this peculiar bush never caught his attention before? A scattering of snow fell, and the moon, climbing up between the trees, slipped behind the clouds. When the moon re-emerged he turned back to the bush. As he bent to examine a limb on its left side, longer than the others by about a foot, he heard a strange, cackling sound. When the lower branches began to rustle, he edged his way forward, trying to get a better look. Several seconds passed. Then as if out of nowhere a largish object soared swiftly upward, and landed with a heavy thud directly at his feet. Completely bewildered and rather frightened, Leyzarov jumped back. A sharp, shrill cry pierced the silence. Leyzarov stiffened like a board. Something horrible was staring up at him; it had eyes that were penetrating and shiny, like live coals
“Caw! Caw! Caw!” Then again, “Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Gradually the thing came into full view: it was smaller than he first thought, soft and roundish, with a pointed head, sporting a crest of brush-like feathers. After a moment an enormous spread of plumage appeared, displaying iridescent greens and golds with rich vibrant peacock-blue markings.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Leyzarov scratched his head. “If it isn’t the peacock from the Olivinski manor. What’s it doing here in the middle of nowhere scaring me half out of my wits?” Then sneering, “Cold, are you? Well, come here; let me put you out of your misery.”
When he reached to grab it by the neck, the bird sprang upward instantly, and flying into the air, released an earsplitting yelp. Leyzarov put his hands to his ears to muffle the noise. When finally the bird settled a little further away, Leyzarov once again lunged forward and tried to snatch it, this time by the tail, and almost grabbed hold of its feathers. The peacock flung itself around, screaming louder and more wildly than before. Leyzarov was thrown completely off balance and fell into the snow, where he lay for a minute or two. When finally he regained himself and sat up, he was astonished to find the peacock staring at him, flapping its wings, as if it was taunting him.
“Why, you useless peafowl!” he exploded. “I’ll get you once and for all!”
Rising to his feet, he reached for his holster, pulled out his revolver, aimed and fired it. The peacock, frightened by the noise, scrambled behind the bush to safety. Several seconds of silence followed. Leyzarov listened, and not hearing a sound, aimed and fired again, this time randomly into the bush, hoping to somehow bring the bird down. When the silence continued, he became convinced he had finally finished it off. Then as if out of nowhere a strange, deafening, almost pain-filled wail erupted, followed by a series of shorter, fainter ones.
Leyzarov muttered hotly, “That damned bird is still alive!”
Panting heavily, thrashing through the snow, it was not long before he caught sight of the animal in the open field. It was dragging its right leg behind it, slightly opening and closing its fan as if in distress. A bullet had landed in its right upper thigh and it looked as if it was about to collapse.
“I’ve got you now,” laughed Leyzarov victoriously. “Come here and let me finish you off.”
But the bird, flapping its wings frantically, somehow managed to move further from Leyzarov, who chased after it,
firing shot after shot. He shouted at the top of his voice, “You stupid bird! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”
It dragged itself farther and farther on its healthy leg. Leyzarov took aim and fired his last shot. A long wail erupted from somewhere in the darkness, and then came silence. The bird dropped to the ground, dead. Iofe hastened to examine his kill, and when he saw the animal lying limp and motionless on a smooth crust of ice, he shouted loudly, “I got you, you bourgeois bastard! I won!”
As he bent to pluck a feather out of its wing for a memento, suddenly he heard a cracking sound beneath his feet. He was horrified to find he was standing not on solid ground but in the middle of a pond, and the ice beneath him was starting to give way. He could feel his body slowly slipping into the ice-cold water. His muscles cramped and he went completely numb. Cursing the bird for having lured him there, he was certain his life was about to end, either by drowning or by freezing, whichever came first. His blood pulsated in his temples and his head whirled. Kicking the water, frantically trying to stay afloat, he began to realize that his boot heels were touching bottom and that the water actually reached only to his waist. He turned ever so carefully, and, with the tips of his fingers, searched for ice thick enough to support his weight. But the cold was becoming more and more painful, and he was starting to experience a tremendous loss of strength. When finally he found a chunk thick enough, he placed his palms flat upon the surface, and with all his strength pushed himself upward and pulled himself out of the water.
With his clothes already stiffening, somehow he managed to stumble back onto his trail. Without thinking, he took to his heels and fled, not toward Hlaby, but back toward Morozovich, to Dounia Avdeevna’s. He ran so fast he thought his heart would explode. Another ten minutes and he would be at Dounia’s door, comfortable under a thick, warm eiderdown, being nursed back to health, spoon-fed hot teas with liquor and maybe later a little chicken soup. He had to keep moving, to keep his blood circulating. Never had he taken part in such a race, a race for life, and he was doing his best. The frozen wasteland was rapidly closing in on him.
Then all at once things got worse. A cold blast of wind blew in from the north and thick flakes of snow began to fall heavily. “Trouble,” Leyzarov murmured as he forced his way into the driving snow. Chills rushed through him, his teeth chattered, and he could no longer feel his hands or feet. The cold cut through him like a knife. His well-trodden path was quickly becoming snow-filled, and with each step he had to fight deep wind-driven heaps of ice and snow. He no longer knew whether he was going in the right direction. The bitter cold was beginning to affect his mind. He prayed feverishly for the lights of Morozovich. Desperately, hopelessly, he called out Dounia’s name over and over, but his voice bounced off the plains and became lost in the emptiness.
Terrified and desperate, Leyzarov began to weep. He didn’t want to die. He became convinced that his frozen corpse would be found in the morning, perhaps by some local peasants, or even by his comrades. His life, which had been a very full and rewarding one, not only as a prominent Party representative but as a lover was over, and all because of a stupid bird. Dropping to his knees, his strength gone, he began to imagine what it would be like for Dounia when she came to identify his body. Her bitter tears, her misery, her suffering. Poor Dounia!
As he sank deeper into the snow, he caught a whiff of smoke. The smell intensified and a waft of warm air swept across his face. Raising his head and straining his eyes, he could see a faint stream of smoke billowing out of a chimney close by. He was on the outskirts of Morozovich! What great luck! Stumbling to his feet, he tottered toward the outlying houses. Dounia’s was the third on the left; he recognized the cleared walkway leading to her front porch. He had never been so happy to lay eyes on her small wood-framed house, old and decaying as it was, with its sagging roof and lopsided shutters. Crawling up the front stairs, his face coated with crystals of frost, he banged on the front door, waiting anxiously for it to open, for Dounia to appear, to take him into her big, fat embrace, to warm his body in hers. But to his great horror when the door finally did open, it was not Dounia standing there, but Kokoshin, and in his night clothes!
Collapsing on the threshold, Leyzarov was carried inside, stripped of his clothes, and placed in Dounia’s great walnut bed. Half-conscious, shuddering, he fell into a fearful broken dream, barely aware of what was going on around him: there were vague shuffling noises beside his bed, the splashing of water, the sound of voices, first a man’s, then a woman’s. The warmth of the room penetrated him. Struggling to bring himself to consciousness, through drooping lids he saw enormous shadows on the gray walls, and heard a whispered conversation. It was not long before he fell into a deep sleep.
Leyzarov slept for two days and two nights; he slept like the dead. When he finally woke it was to excruciating pains in his entire body. His hands and legs were a purplish blue, and he could hardly move his toes. There was a throbbing in his head and his cheeks burned. Rolling onto his side, he looked around in utter confusion. After a moment everything started to come back to him and he realized where he was and that he had gone through a terrible ordeal. He made an effort to call Dounia’s name, but felt too weak and tired. Burrowing into the pillow, he closed his eyes and dozed off again. He was grateful to be alive.
When finally he woke again, his first thought was of Dounia. The peacefulness of her room, the pale light creeping in through the window, the faint odor of garlic from the kitchen, everything around him made him feel calm and contented. His eyes strayed across the room. An old painted chair piled with towels and linen stood by the door and next to it was a cheap oak bureau cluttered with various odds and ends. Several items were strewn across the floor—undergarments, stockings, shoes. The room was small, almost bare, not the kind of room one would think of as a lover’s retreat. But it was special to Leyzarov, dear to his heart. He was a lucky man to have a woman like Dounia Avdeevna. Closing his eyes he pictured her big, soft, body pouring out over his, her bosom on his chest, her half-open mouth releasing crude chuckles. The mere thought of her made him quiver. Without question, he was coming back to normal.
He opened his mouth to call her, when like a flash his horrible ordeal came back to him and he began to relive it bit by bit. But it was not the ordeal on the pond that really upset him; it was the ordeal that followed, the ordeal on the doorstep of Dounia’s house. Suddenly he remembered vividly: it had not been Dounia who had greeted him at the door that terrible night. It had been a man! With rage boiling up inside him, his heart pounding violently, he screamed out one word:
“Kokoshin!”
Everything was clear to him now. Dounia was unfaithful, and he had caught her red-handed. His pride was wounded; he felt crushed and humiliated. He was horribly jealous of Kokoshin; the mere thought of being replaced by him was almost unbearable. Kokoshin’s red nose, his scraggly beard, his quavering, arrogant voice, all rushed at him like cold water.
“The joke’s on me,” he muttered miserably. “I’ve been replaced like a dog.” He was angry, not so much with Dounia, but with himself for not having seen it coming.
While he was trying to climb out of bed, Dounia walked through the door. She was carrying a tray of food and a small bottle of greenish ointment.
“And where do you think you’re going?” she exclaimed good-naturedly. “I thought I’d bring you something to eat. I see you’re already feeling better.”
Setting the tray on the nightstand, she frowned at him. “That was quite some adventure you put yourself through the other night. In your fever you kept shouting and shooting at something, and cursing. What was all that about? Well, never mind.” Then fussing with his bed covers, “Let me roll up your sleeves, I’ll put some ointment on your blisters.”
As Dounia rubbed his arms and legs, he watched her in bitter anguish. His vanity had been hurt; he had been played for a fool. The words at last broke from his mouth, “Dounia, you’ve betrayed me. How long has this aff
air with Kokoshin been going on?”
“Oh, Iofushka,” Dounia looked at him peevishly. “I really can’t stand to hear you whimper like this. You ought to calm yourself. And don’t be such a poor sport. I’m not made of glass, I don’t break easily. I’m a woman of many needs, and the truth of the matter is, I’ve become bored with you. I like change in my life and excitement. You don’t own me.”
Leyzarov gasped in shock. With his whole heart he hoped it was all just some big joke. He was so intent on being reconciled with her that he was willing to forgive and forget everything she had just said. After all they had been through together, how could she just brush him off like that, and without the slightest sign of remorse? For a brief moment he hated her. He hated her obesity, the roundness of her shoulders, and her unhealthy color. She was common and crude and repulsive to him. His heart was in pain.
Dounia remained indifferent; she felt she had done nothing wrong. Leyzarov no longer interested her and she wanted to be rid of him, it was as simple as that. She felt obliged to tell him to go away, that he ought not to pester her any more, and just as she was about to do that, she was struck with an idea. She decided to make him an offer.
“Iofushka,” she whispered, “I’ve been thinking. I have a proposition for you and it’s quite a generous one, one that I thought up all by myself just now. It’s like this: you can remain my lover as long as you agree to share me with Kokoshin. It’s up to you.”
Leyzarov could not believe his ears. He was willing to give way to some extent, but there was a limit to what was and was not acceptable to him. Red with anger and confusion, he remained speechless for the longest time.
Dounia looked impatiently at him. “Is that a no? Well, Iofushka, then it looks like it’s goodbye.” She shrugged, a look of disappointment passed across her face and vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I must admit, it was fun while it lasted. Come here and give me one last kiss.”
Wave of Terror Page 23
