The Blizzard by Vladimir Sorokin­

coatrack, and Avdotia awkwardly tried to help him put on his coat. The miller’s wife came over and stood nearby, her arms crossed.
    “Farewell,” nodded the doctor as he put on his fur hat and pulled the earflaps down.
    “Goodbye,” she said, bowing her head.
    He walked out into the courtyard. The sled was already there, and Crouper sat holding the reins. Someone was busy in the barn, and the gates were open wide. The doctor looked at the sky: overcast, windy, but no snow.
    “Thank God.” The doctor took out his cigarette case, lit up, and began to settle in. Crouper waited until he was wrapped and buttoned up; then he smacked his lips and jerked the reins. Inside the hood the doctor could hear snorting and the already familiar clatter of tiny hooves. The sled set off and Crouper took hold of the steering rod.
    “You know the road?” asked the doctor, inhaling the invigorating cigarette smoke with pleasure.
    “There ain’t but one hereabouts.”
    The sled moved slowly out of the courtyard, the runners squeaking.
    “How much farther?” The doctor tried to remember.
    “Roundabout nine versts. The road’ll take us through New Forest, then there’s Old Market, then there’s fields—a baby could make it ’cross.”
    “Drive safely!” came a familiar female voice.
    The miller’s wife stood on the porch.
    The doctor silently waved his hat, holding it by the earflap, which was rather awkward, and Crouper smiled and waved his mitten:
    “S’long Markovna!”
    The miller’s wife watched them as they moved farther and farther away.
    “She’s an interesting woman, I have to admit,” thought the doctor. “How quickly everything happened … But did I want it to? Yes, I did. And I don’t regret a thing…”
    “The miller’s got hisself a good woman.” Crouper smiled.
    The doctor nodded.
    “Luck, that’s what,” said Crouper thoughtfully, pushing his hat back off his forehead. “Like they says, ‘On lucky days, even a rooster lays.’ So there ye go: one fellow’s kind and loving, but luck don’t shine on him. Then some drunk with a foul mouth catches hisself a wife of gold.”
    “But how did that drunk manage to get the mill?”
    “He got lucky.”
    “How so? The mill just fell straight from heaven?”
    “Don’t know ’bout heaven, but his papa, he’s one of the little fellers, too, made hisself a fortune on taxes and bought that mill, and put his son in it. And that was that.”
    The doctor had nothing to add, and for that matter, he didn’t feel like chatting with Crouper first thing in the morning.
    “Markovna, she does all the work. He just shouts at everthin’ in sight.”
    “Ah, to hell with him…” the doctor said, putting an end to the conversation.
    Speeding along the riverbank, where the night before they’d trudged behind the broken sled, they passed willows and haystacks. They moved along smoothly at a clip, and the fresh, untouched snow whooshed softly under the runners. Soon, that same bridge appeared. Crouper kept to the left, turning onto the road. Though covered in new-fallen snow, it was quite discernible.
    “How d’ye like that, ain’t nobody passed by after us!” Crouper nodded at the road. “All gone and hid ’emselves from the blizzard.”
    “Maybe they drove by and then the tracks were covered.”
    “Don’t look like it.”
    The sled moved swiftly along the road. Bushes, bushes, and more bushes began to appear. The wind blew at their backs, giving the sled some help.
    “Zilberstein is probably cursing me. But what could I do? There isn’t even a telephone here. ‘It doesn’t work in winter!’ Ridiculous! Nine—no, eight—versts now. Getting closer … I’ll start the vaccinations straightaway, the delay won’t matter…”
    Before them a birch grove came into view.
    “C’mon now, faster.” Crouper clicked and whistled. “Get a move on.”
    The little horses increased their pace obediently.
    They entered the grove at full tilt. Birch trunks