I Want to Live
The ground rises a little and the trees give way to a clearing and in that clearing stands a small log I cabin. Nothing special, just a shed really with walls thirteen or fourteen logs high and no porch-and roof either sometimes. Such rough shelters have been built in the taiga since time began. One day in spring a few men will appear from nowhere, chop down some of the straighter pine, strip the bark and, later on, in the fine days of early autumn it takes them no more than a week, working with three or four axes, to shape the logs and knock them together. Somewhere nearby they'll find clay and stones and put in a small stove with a chimneystack and build a rough bunk to sleep on. And there you are-a place to live in for as long as you feel like it.
If you go into one in winter it won't seem very cosy. Frost as thick as your hand on the walls and in every cranny, and a dank, lingering smell of smoke.
But then you get a few logs crackling in the stove, the place begins to reek of thawing clay and the walls start dripping. The air gets so thick it's better to fill the stove and go outside for a while to chop a supply of firewood. In half an hour, however, that little cabin is much warmer and the air is not so heavy. You can throw off your coat and pack more logs into the stove. The walls are still steaming a bit and the stove is blazing hot. And that's when a sense of peace comes over a man. "A-ah!" he feels like saying aloud. "This is the life!" Soon the whole place is nearly dry, but the bunk boards are still cold. No matter-you haven't long to wait. You can spread your sheepskin on them, put your rucksack under your head, stretch your legs out to the fire and what a drowsiness comes over you! It's too much trouble even to get up and put a few more logs in the stove. But you had better.
By this time there's a whole pile of glowing embers in the grate. The logs catch at once, like birch bark. Just in front of the stove there's a stump. You can sit down on it, have a smoke and-think. You can do some good thinking when you're alone. It's dark, except for the light from the stove playing on the floor, the walls and the ceiling. And the things you remember-God knows what! You may suddenly recall taking a girl home for the first time. The way you just walked along beside her without saying a word, like a fool... And before you know what, you're sitting there grinning from ear to ear. And you feel just great!
It's really warm by now. Time to brew up some tea-some of that green stuff, in bricks, with a grassy smell that reminds you of summer.
...So sat old Nikitich one evening in the twilight, sucking at his pipe in front of just such a stove.
It was hot in the cabin. But outside the frost was bitter. Nikitich felt in a good mood. Almost since boyhood he had been roaming the taiga, making his living by hunting. He went mainly for squirrels, but sometimes he had brought down a stray winter bear. In case of such an encounter he always carried five or six buckshot cartridges in the left-hand pocket of his coat. He loved the taiga. Specially in winter. The silence was so complete that it got him down a bit at times. But not the solitude. That gave him a sense of freedom. Nikitich would screw up his eyes and look around, knowing that he and he alone was master of this great white kingdom.
So there he sat, smoking.
Skis scraped on the snow outside, then all was quiet again. He had a feeling that someone had looked in at the window. Then the skis scraped sharply again, approaching the door, and someone knocked twice-with a ski-stick by the sound of it.
"Anyone there?"
The voice was young, but husky from the frost and long silence-not a man who knew how to talk to himself.
It's not a hunter, Nikitich concluded. A hunter wouldn't ask. He'd just come straight in.
"Aye, there is."
The man at the door took off his skis and propped them against the wall. The step creaked and, as the door opened, Nikitich was only just able to make out in the steamy white air a tall young man in quilted trousers and jacket, wearing a belt and an old army cap with earflaps.
"Who is it?"
"A man." Nikitich lighted a splinter of wood and held it above his head. For a time they surveyed each other in silence.
"All on your own?"
"Aye, I'm on my own. Come in. What're you dithering about in the doorway for!"
The lad walked over to the stove, pulled off his mittens, tucked them under his arm and held out his hands to the fire.
"Hell of a frost outside."
"Aye, it's 'frosty." Only now did Nikitich notice that the lad was not carrying a gun. He was certainly "o hunter. Not a bit like one. Not the face or the clothes for it. "And it'll be frostier still before March is out."
"March? You mean April!"
"Not by the old calendar. It's still March. Warmest gear while March is here, that's our motto round this way. You're lightly dressed." Nikitich said nothing about his not having a gun.
"Not to worry," the young man rejoined. "Are you all by yourself here?"
"Sure I am. You've asked that already."
The lad had nothing to say to that.
"Sit down. I'll brew up some tea."
"I'll warm myself a bit first..."
No, he wasn't a local man, he didn't speak like one. Nikitich was itching to know more about him but an ingrained habit of not rushing the questions proved stronger than curiosity.
The lad warmed his hands and lit a cigarette.
"Nice place you have here."
While he was lighting up, the old man was able to take a closer look at him, at the pale, handsome face with thick eyelashes. When he dragged hungrily at the cigarette and opened his mouth, two front teeth showed a glint of gold. He certainly hadn't had a shave for a long time. But the beard was a neat one, curling slightly at the cheekbones...He looked very thin... The lad noticed the old man's gaze upon him, picked up the half-burnt match and eyed him attentively, then threw the match away. His glance made an impression on Nikitich. It was direct, unflinching-"chilly" was how the old man defined it.
"You'd better sit down, there's no sense in standing."
The lad smiled.
"That's not the way to say it. Dad. People say, won't you sit down."
"Well, won't you sit down, then. What's the difference?"
"I will anyway. You're not expecting anyone, are you?"
"No, not at this time. But there's plenty of room if anyone does turn up." Nikitich shifted over. The lad sat down beside him on the stump and again held out his hands to the fire. They weren't the hands of a working man, but he looked sturdy enough all the same. And Nikitich liked his smile-there was nothing "uppish" about it, just a restrained friendly smile. And those gold teeth-handsome young fellow. If you gave him a shave and a suit to wear, he'd make a real schoolteacher. Nikitich had a weakness for schoolteachers.
"What are you-a geol'gist?" he asked.
"A what?"
"You know-the ones that go about prospecting."
"Ah!.. Yes, I am."
"How do you manage without a gun? That's risky."
"I got left behind by my party," the lad replied, not very readily. "Is your village far away?"
"About a hundred miles."
The lad nodded, closed his eyes and sat for a while enjoying the warmth, then shook himself and sighed.
"I'm whacked out."
"Been on your own for long?"
"Yes, a long time. You haven't anything to drink, I suppose?"
"I might have somewhere."
The young man brightened up.
"Good! This cold has got into my guts. It's enough to freeze you stiff. April, they call it..."
Nikitich went outside and returned with his rucksack, in which there was a slab of bacon fat. He lighted the lantern hanging from the ceiling.
"Someone ought to teach you fellows how to live in the taiga alone. Sending you out like this... What do you know about it! Why, only last year I found one myself-after the spring thaw. A young fellow. He had a beard too. Rolled himself up in a blanket and that was the end of him." Nikitich cut slices of fat on the edge of the bunk. "But if you turned me loose in the taiga, I could last out the whole winter alone, without a murmur. Enough cartridges, that's all I need. And matches."
"You still make use of the cabin though."
"Why should I bed down in the snow when there's a place like this? I'm not my own enemy."
The lad undid his belt, took off his sweater and strolled across the cabin. Broad in the shoulders, well built. He had warmed up now and there was a brighter light in his eyes. He must be thanking his lucky stars he had found some warmth and a living soul to be with. Now he had lighted another cigarette. His cigarettes smelled good. Nikitich liked talking to townspeople, though he despised them for their helplessness in the taiga; sometimes he made a little on the side, guiding a prospecting party. Inwardly they made him laugh, but he enjoyed listening to their talk and willingly took part in it himself. He was touched by the friendly way they addressed him and by their condescending laughter. But if he were to leave them to their own devices they would stand no more chance than a litter of blind puppies. It was even more interesting when there were a few girls in the group. They would put up with anything rather than complain. Always wanted to be treated the same as the boys and not be helped. Yes, and they all slept in a heap together, but it didn't seem to matter-no hanky-panky. If it had been the local lads and lassies there'd be no end of trouble. But not with these. And yet, they could be pretty as a picture in their narrow thousers and tight jumpers and their heads all wrapped up against the gnats. Real cute they were. But the lads didn't take much notice, just as if it was the usual thing.
"Who're you looking for?" "Where?" "I mean, what did you come here for?"
The lad gave a short laugh, to himself."My fortune." "Fortune... Fortune, lad, is slippery as an eel-pout. You think you've got a hold of it, then away it goes."
Nikitich was in the mood to talk as he usually did with townsfolk-original like, when he'd got them listening and exchanging glances, and one of them maybe even writing something down in his notebook. Nikitich could keep up that kind of talk all night-as long as they'd listen with their long ears. His own village folk would have dismissed him as an old chatterbox, but these liked to listen. Very nice that was. And sometimes he would think to himself, darn me, what a speaker I am. He could spin a yarn as good as any priest in the old days. The way he described the forest, for instance. It had a soul; you mustn't spoil it or lay into it with an axe for nothing, or else it would dry up, and if it dried up you would dry up yourself. Yes, you'd just feel overcome with misery and everything would dry inside you, and you wouldn't even know why. "Some folk, you know come out from town with their guns, letting fly in all directions. Don't care who they hit, male or female, as long as they kill something. People ought to have their arms pulled off for that kind of thing. I've known them kill a she-bear before now, with two cubs. Those cubs will die. It's a dirty game killing animals just for the hell of it. That's fortune for you," Nikitich went on, returning to the present.
But the young man didn't want to listen. He went over to the window and stared out into the darkness, then said if he had just woken up, "It'll soon be spring anyway."
"Aye, spring's bound to come. No two ways about it. Sit down, lad. Let'seat what the Lord has given."
"They melted some snow, diluted the pure alcohol and drank it, helping it down with the frozen fat. Nikitich felt fine. He threw a few more logs into the stove. But the lad couldn't keep away from that window. He breathed a spy-hole through the frosty glass and kept staring out into the night.
"Who'd you expect to see out there now?" Nikitich slid in surprise. He wanted to talk.
"Freedom," the lad replied. He gave a sigh. But not a sad sigh. There had been a hard, fierce note in his voice when he had said "Freedom". He swung away from the window.
"Give me another drink. Dad." He unbuttoned the collar of his black cotton shirt, smacked his chest with a broad, heavy hand, and rubbed himself. "I need it."
"You ought to eat something, or it'll throw you on an empty belly."
"No, it won't. It won't throw me." And he put his arm firmly and affectionately round the old man's neck and began to sing.
To the death-cell when I lay,
Dank Mid drear, no light of day,
Came an old grey-headed man...
He broke off smiting affectionately. His eyes were clear and shining with joy.
"Let's drink, good old man!"
"Been feeling lonely, have you?" Nikitich smiled too. The more he saw of the lad the more he liked him. Young, strong, handsome. And he might have been lost. "Aye, lad, you can come to a nasty end like that, you know. It's a rotten business to be without a gun in the taiga."
"Nothing's going to happen to us. Dad. We'll survive!"
Again he spoke firmly, and for a moment his eyes had a faraway expression in them, and again that "chilly" look... It was hard to tell what had crossed his- mind, as if he had remembered something. Something that he didn't want to remember. He raised the glass and drained it in one gulp, gave a grunt of satisfaction, shook his head and chewed some of the fat. Then he lighted another cigarette aid stood up-he just couldn't keep still. He paced about the cabin with broad strides, halted in the middle, stuck his hands on his hips and again stared into the distance with that faraway look in his eyes.
"I want to live. Dad."
"Everyone wants that. Do you think I don't? And I'll soon be-"
"I want to live!" the big handsome lad repeated with a cheerful fierceness, not listening to the old man. "You don't know what life is. It's..." He thought for a moment and gritted his teeth, "it's ... it's a darling-that's what life is."
The drink had gone to Nikitich's head and he tittered.
"You talk about life as if it was a woman."
"Women are cheap trash." The lad seemed to be gripped by a kind of wild elation. He went on talking regardless of the old man, and now Nikitich wanted to listen. The lad's relentless strength was affecting him too.
"Aye, women, of course, they're... But without them it's not so..."
"I'll get her, this darling of mine," the lad reached forward and clenched his fists. "I'll get my darling by the throat... Don't you remember me, dearest-Kolya's the name? You've forgotten me, eh?" It was just as if the lad was addressing some woman and was surprised at her forgetfulness. "Kolya, have you forgotten?.. But Kolya remembers you. Kolya hasn't forgotten you." Either he was glad about something or he was planning a fierce revenge. "Here I am. Step this way, madam. We're going to have a nice tittle chat. No, I won't hurt you. But you'll give me every thing. Everything! Because I'll take it!"
"Did a woman really get you het up like that?" Nikitich asked wonderingly.
The lad shook his head.
"That woman's name is freedom. You don't know her either. Dad. You're an animal. You like it out here. But you don't know the lights of the big city-the lure and glitter of them. They're all such nice people there. It's warm and soft and there's sweet music playing. They all have good manners and are very much afraid of death. And when I'm in town, the whole town belongs to me. So why are they there and I here? Get me?"
"But you're not here forever..."
"You don't understand." The young man was serious now, and stern. "I ought to be there because I'm not afraid of anyone. I'm not afraid of death. And that means life belongs to me."
Nikitich shook his head.
"I don't see what you're driving at, lad".
The young man went over to the bunk and filled the glasses. He looked tired all of a sudden.
"I'm on the run. Dad," he said tonelessly. "Let's drink, eh? Will you drink to that?"
Mechanically Nikitich clinked glasses. The lad drank, then looked at the old man... Nikitich was holding his glass as before, staring at the lad.
"What's up?"
"I don't get you."
"Drink," the lad commanded. He reached for another cigarette but the packet was empty. "Give me one of yours."
"Mine's leaf tobacco."
"I don't care what it is."
They lighted up. The lad settled himself on the stump, nearer the fire.
There was a long silence between them.
"They'll catch you, that's for sure," Nikitich said. He was not exactly sony for the tad, but he had suddenly imagined him, such a big handsome fellow, being marched along under guard. He MM sorry for the lad's youth, his strength and good looks. They'd lock him up and it would all be wasted, all thrown away. Good looks cut no ice where he was going. What a waste. "You shouldn't have done it," he said soberly.
"What?"
"Tried to escape. Times are different now-you'll get caught."
The tad made no reply. He sat staring -thoughtfully at the fire, then leaned forward and tossed a log into the stove.
"You ought to have stuck it out... It's no good."
"Cut it out!" the lad snapped abruptly. He had also become strangely sober. "I've got a brain of my own."
"Stands to reason," Nikitich assented. "Have you far to go?"
"Be quiet for a bit, can't you!"
He must have a mother and father, Nikitich thought to himself, gazing at the back of the lad's head. He'll come and tell them the-glad news, the son of a gun.
They were silent for about five minutes. The old man knocked the ash out of his pipe and filled it again. The lad stared into the fire.
"Is your village the district center?" he asked, without turning his head.
"Not likely! That's another sixty miles on from us. You'll never make it. All that way through the taiga in winter..."
"I'll live with you for three days or so, build up my strength a bit..." He didn't ask, just stated the fact.
"Stay if you like, I don't mind. I guess you had a long stretch ahead of you. Couldn't stick it, eh?"
"A very long stretch."
"What'd you get it for?"
"Never ask anyone that question. Dad."
Nikitich puffed at his pipe, got it going again and began to cough as the smoke caught in his throat. Between coughs he said, "No business of mine!.. It's a pity though...You'll be caught..."
"Who knows, I might be lucky. They won't get me for nothing. Let's have some sleep."
"You get your head down. I'll sit here for a bit till the wood burns out so that I can close the chimney. Otherwise well be frozen stiff by morning."
The stranger spread his jersey on one the bunks and looked round for something to put under his head. Noticing Nikitich's gun hanging on the wall, he went over and took it down, examined it, then put it back.
"That's an old one."
"It'll do me for a while, there's a rug over there in the corner. Spread that under you and use your jersey for your head. And keep your feet near the stove. It'll be right cold by-morning."
The young man spread the rug and stretched himself with a noisy sigh.
"Little Tashkent," he said for some reason. "Aren't you scared of me. Dad?"
"Scared of you?" the old man's voice expressed astonishment. "Why should I be scared of you?"
"Well... I'm a convict, am I not? Maybe I was in for murder."
"For murder God will punish you, not man. You can run away from men, but there's no escape from Him."
"Do you believe in religion? You're an Old Believer, I bet."
"An Old Believer! Would an Old Believer have been drinking vodka with you?"
"True enough. But don't start fuddling my brains with your god talk. It makes me sick." The young man spoke casually, in a rather flat voice. "If I ever ran into that Christ of yours, I'd stick a knife in him right away."
"What for?"
"What for?.. Because he told all those fairy-tales, because he lied. No one's kind to others in this world. And your gentle Jesus taught people to be meek and mild. The bastard!" The young man's voice was recovering its hard, aggressive note, but without the former elation. "Who's kind in this world? Am I? Are you?"
"I've never done anyone any harm..."
"You kill animals, don't you? Did he teach that?"
"You can't compare! A man's not the same as an animal."
"It's alive, isn't it? That's what you're always babbling about, you two-faced swine."
Nikitich could not see the lad's face, but he had a mental picture of it-pale and bearded; in the warm stillness of the little log cabin the frenzied voice of this young man with such a fine and handsome face, who was so hopelessly down on his luck, sounded wild and absurd.
"What are you pitching into me for?"
"Don't tell lies! Don't swindle people, you creeping Jesus. If they taught you to be patient, be patient! But what are you really like? Before you've finished praying you're pulling off your pants to get on a woman, you dirty swine. I'd invent a new Christ for today, I would, one that knew how to slug 'em on the jaw. Lie, would you? Take that then, you creep!"
"Don't swear!" Nikitich said sternly. "You were let in here in good faith, and now you're snarling at me. You've got your back up because they put you in gaol. They didn't put you there for nothing. So who's to blame?!"
"H-uh." The young man gritted his teeth and said nothing.
"I'm no priest and this is no church for you to spit out your fury at. This b the taiga, where everyone's equal. Remember that. Or you won't ever reach your precious freedom-you 11 break your neck first. You know what they say about being a lion against sheep and a sheep against lions. You'll meet your match one day. And if you offend him for nothing, he'll show you Where to look for your freedom."
"Don't be angry. Dad," the young man said appeasingly.
"I hate being preached at! It makes my blood boil! They dangle a bunch of tapeworms in front of your nose and tell you how good they are and that's the way to live. I have HI" he almost shouted. "I won't live like that. They're lying! It stinks of death! We can all be sympathetic over a clean washed corpse, but try to love the living, with all their dirt on them. There're no saints on earth! I've never seen any. Why invent them?!" The young man raised himself on his elbow; his eyes glowed with frightening ferocity from the white blob in the darkness that was his face.
"When you cool down a bit, you'll understand. If there weren't any good people in the world, all life would have come to an end long ago. We'd have eaten each other or slaughtered ourselves. It wasn't any Christ who taught me that, it's my own belief. As for saints-you're right there. I'm not a bad man, no one would say I was a bad or wicked man. But when I was young... There used to be an Old Believers' chapel the other side of the hill. There was a family living there, an old man and his wife and their daughter-about twenty she was. Maybe they weren't so old, but they seemed so to me then. They went away afterwards... Well, as I was saying, they had a daughter. And the whole family was as holy as could be; that's why they'd withdrawn from the world, you see, to keep away from sin. And one day I tempted their daughter into a birch-grove and had a bit of the old you know what with her. Pine lass she was, big and strong. The end of it was she had a child. And I was a married man..."
"And you say you never did anyone any harm?"
"Well, there you are. It turns out that I'm no saint either. I didn't force her, mind you. It was all done by fondness, but all the same... I let a fatherless child into the world. I feel sorry when I think of it. He must be a big lad now, cursing me, I bet."
"You didn't kill anyone; you save life. Maybe you saved her. Maybe she broke away from her family after that. They might have driven her crazy with their kneeling praying and she'd have hung herself. She'd never have known what it was to lie with a man. You did a good thing. Why worry?
"Good or bad, that's how it was. Not much good in it, of course. Anything left in that bottle?"
"Grog? Just a drop. You have it, I don't want any more."
The young man drank, again with a deep breath of satisfaction. He ate nothing.
"Do you drink a lot?"
"No, it's just because I was so cold. This isn't the way to drink. Dad. You want the proper atmosphere for drinking. Music, good cigarettes, champagne... Women. Everything gentle and civilized." The young man again fell into a muse and leaned back with his hands behind his head. "I hate whores. It's like being in a pigsty. But life can be beautiful! If I play with Death seven times in one night-get me?-if I feel her bony hand on my shoulder and her icy lips trying to kiss me on the forehead-that tires me. But after that I rest. I love and enjoy life more than all the public prosecutor's put together. You talk about danger? Yes, it is dangerous. I don't care if my heart is in my mouth, if it's shaking like a sheep's tail, I go straight in and I won't trip up or turn back."
"What was your job before that?" Nikitich inquired.
"I was a supply agent. Cultural relations with other countries. I was quite a learned man. I used to give lectures on What the Colorado Beetle Is and How to Fight It'..." The young man's voice broke off and a minute or two later he said sleepily, 'That's all. Dad... I'm off."
"Sleep well."
Nikitich raked the fire with a small poker, filled his pipe and began thinking about the young man. That was a life for you.. Here was a fellow who had everything-good looks, health and a pretty good brain by the sound of it. And what of it? Where would 'it get him? Roaming the forests? There was no doubt about it, town life drove them all crazy. They were all wrong-headed in those places. Nikitioh's grandsons-three of them-also lived in a big city. Two were still at school and the other had a job and was married. They never bragged like this one, but the city had a hold over them. When they came out in the summer, they were bored. Nikitich would provide them with guns and guide them through the taiga, expecting them to brighten up and shake off the cares of study, to feel refreshed. They would pretend to enjoy it and Nikitich would be embarrassed because he had nothing else to please his grandsons with. He would feel as if he had cheated them. All they could think of was the city. And this young fellow on the bunk was crazy to be there too. In his position he ought to make a hideout for himself deep in the forest and lie low for about five years, if prison was so unbearable. But he was going straight to the very place where he might be picked up at every step. And he knew it but still he went. What's the power these cities have over them? I'm an old man, of course, and I've only been there three times in my life, maybe I don't understand. I dare say there's plenty of fun and bright lights. Still, I don't understand what it's all about, so I wouldn't think of running it down. If a man wants to be there, let him. As for me, I like it here. But as soon as they're out here they turn up their noses and say it's so boring and miserable. Why don't they took a bit closer! Before they've seen a thing, they start bragging about their city. You want to tell me your fairy-tales about the big city? What if I were to tell you all I know! People don't listen to me. It's you they goggle at because you're from town. But it cuts no ice with me. I'm not impressed by the way you swagger along the pavements in your smart shoes. This one did enough swaggering and he got about fifteen years, I guess, for his beautiful life. Shop-breaking it was, I reckon. Had his fling, and then he came a cropper. And now he's asking for it again. He just can't live without the city. He'11 be making a bee-line for some shop or other. Champagne... But how will he get it? They're a lot of fools... The city will eat you all up, bones and all. I'm sorry for you in your stupidity, but there's nothing I can do. There's no arguing with you.
The logs were burning out. Nikitich waited for the last spark to die among the ashes, then closed the chimney, put out the lantern and turned in beside the young man, who was now breathing steadily in his sleep, his arm twisted awkwardly under his side. He didn't so much as stir when Nikitich pulled it into a more comfortable position.
"Tired out, aren't you, you young jackanapes," Nikitich muttered. "But who makes you do it? If you could only look at yourself!"
Some time after midnight there was a sound of voices outside the cabin. Two or three men were talking.
The lad sat bolt upright, as if he had never been asleep. Nikitich also raised his head.
"Who's that?" the young man asked quickly.
"Darned if I know."
The lad slipped down off the bunk and with one ear to the door groped across the wall for the gun. Nikitich realised what he intended.
"Don't be a fool; lad!" he snapped quietly. "You'll only cause worse trouble."
"Who is it?" the young man asked again.
"I've told you I don't know."
"Don't let them in. Bolt the door."
"Who does that here, you fool! There's nothing to bolt it with. Get back to bed and don't move."
"I'm telling you. Dad..."
The lad had no time to finish. Someone had mounted the steps and was groping for the door handle. The lad darted lizard-like took to the bunk and from there managed to whisper, "Dad, I swear by God and the devil if you give me away... Please, old chap. I'll never forget..."
"Get your head down," Nikitich commanded.
The door swung open.
"Aha!" a deep voice exclaimed cheerfully. "I said there was someone here. And it's warm! Come on in!"
"Close that door!" Nikitich said crossly, climbing down from the bunk.
"Glad it's warm, are-you! Well, open up a bit wider end it'll tie warmer still!"
"All's well," the deep voice boomed. "It's warm and we're welcome."
Nikitich lighted the lantern.
Two other men entered. Nikitich recognised one of them as the chief of the district militia. All the hunters knew him because he pestered them about hunting cards and made them pay their dues. He was a tall, burly man of about fifty.
"Your name's Yemelyanov, isn't it?" he asked Nikitich.
"That's right, Comrade Protokin."
"Well, receive your guests."
The trio began pulling off their coats.
"Come out for a spot of shooting, eh?" Nikitich asked, not without a touch of sarcasm. He had no liking for these visiting sportsmen. They only made a lot of noise and went away again.
"Must have some relaxation. Who's that over there?"
The militia chief had noticed the young man on the bunk.
"Geol'gist," Nikitich informed him shortly. "He got left behind by his party."
"Was he lost?"
"Aye."
"We haven't heard anything about it. Where were they making for? Did he say?"
"How could he! He could hardly get his mouth open he was that frozen. I warmed him up with a glass or two and now he's sleeping like the dead."
The militia chief lighted a match and held it over the lad's face. Not a muscle moved in it. He went on breathing steadily.
"You've filled him up all right." The chief's match burned out. "How is it we haven't heard anything?"
"Perhaps they didn't have to report it?" one of the others suggested.
"No, he looks as if he's been roaming a long time. Did he mention how long he'd been on his own?"
"No," Nikitich replied. "Just said he had got left behind and that's all."
"Let him sleep it off. We'll sort this out in the morning. Well, are you chaps ready for bed?"
"Yes, but is there room?" the other two responded.
"Room enough," the chief proclaimed firmly. There were five of us test time too. We were stiff as boards by morning. We'd warmed the place up, but not enough. It must have been about fifty below outside."
They took off their coats and climbed on to the broad bunk. Nikitich resumed his place beside the young man.
The newcomers went on talking for a while about the affairs of the district and gradually fell silent.
Soon they were all asleep.
...Nikitich awoke as soon as the window began to glimmer. The young man was no longer at his side. Nikitich slid down cautiously off the bunk and felt in his pocket for matches. It has not occurred to him that there was anything wrong. He struck a match... No sign of the young man or his sweater-or of Nikitich's gun. The old man's heart contracted unpleasantly.
He had gone and taken the gun with him.
Nikitich dressed quietly, took one of the three guns stacked in the corner and felt in his pocket for the buckshot cartridges. He opened the door quietly and went out.
Day was just breaking. The temperature had risen during the night and a foggy haze diffused the faint colors of the dawn. At five paces nothing was yet visible. There was a smell of spring in the air.
Nikitich strapped on his skis and set out along the fresh trail that stood out clearly in the greyish snow.
"You son of a bitch, you rotten skunk," he swore softly. "Go and good riddance to you, but why take the gun! What can I do out here without a gun? Did you ever think of that? D'you think I earn thousands to be able to supply you all with gum? You know you'll only throw it away somewhere, you blighter. All you want to do is get out of the taiga, isn't it? And I'm supposed to sit here twiddling my thumbs without a gun. You people, you haven't got a spark of conscience or shame in you."
Gradually the snow whitened. It looked as if the day would be cloudy and warm.
The ski-trail did not lead in the direction of the village.
"So you're afraid of people, eh? You and your 'beautiful life'. You can take an old man's only gun, and that's nothing. But you won't get away from me, my lad. I could wear out seven of you, young though you are."
But the old man's anger was not great. He was more hurt than angry. He had done all he could for the fellow, and the tad had gone off with his gun. What a rotten thing to do!
Nikitich had already covered three kilometres. By now it was nearly broad daylight and the trail showed far ahead into the distance.
The young man must have got up early. And how quiet he was about it!
At one point he had stopped for a smoke; beside the trail were the marks where he Had plunged his sticks into the snow, a few scraps of leaf tobacco and a burnt match.
"So he took my pouch as well!" Nikitich spat angrily. "He's a bad lot, that one!" And he put on speed.
...He spotted the young man from a distance, in a ravine below him.
The lad was swinging along at a good pace but without hurrying. The gun was slung across his back.
He knows how to ski, Nikitich had to admit. He turned off the trail and set out to outflank his quarry, taking care that he was hidden from view by the long sloping ridge above the ravine. He knew almost exactly where they would meet. The young man would soon come to a narrow ride in the forest. He would pass along that and again run into thick woodland. And that was where Nikitich would be waiting for him.
"Now I'll have a proper look at you," Nikitich muttered not without malice, pushing hard on his sticks. Strangely enough he was extremely anxious to see that handsome face again. There was something deeply attractive about it.
Perhaps it's the right thing for him to be so keen on this beautiful life of his. What is there for him to do here, if you come to think of it? He'd just be wasted. Ah, life's a riddle, drat it!
When he reached the end of the ride Nikitich peered cautiously out of the thickets. There was no trail on the snow-he had got ahead. He selected the spot where the young man would probably emerge from the forest, crouched down in the bushes, made sure that his gun was loaded and waited. His hunter's eyes noted the gun he was holding. It was a brand-new one from Tula, shiny and reeking of gunsmith's oil. They 90 hunting and it doesn't strike them that a gun shouldn't smell like that. Why, when you're hunting you'd better forget tobacco and wash your mouth out with tea or you'll reek for miles around, and put on some different clothes that have been hanging outside, so that they don't smell of living quarters. Call themselves hunters.
The young man came out on the ride and halted. He looked this way and that, stood for a moment, then quickly crossed the ride. Nikitich rose suddenly to meet him.
"Halt! Hands up!" he ordered loudly, to give the lad a shock. The lad's head came up with a look of horror in the eyes. He was about to raise his hands, but then he recognised Nikitich. "You say you're not afraid of anyone," Nikitich remarked. "And you're shifting your pants already."
The young man recovered quickly from his fright, and with something of an effort produced 'one of his charming smiles.
"Well, Dad... You certainly know how it's done. Just like on the films, damn you. You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Now, listen to me," Nikitich went on in a businesslike tone. "Don't take the gun off your back, just reach behind you and empty the magazine. And turn everything out of your pockets too. It had sixteen cartridge left. Throw the whole lot on the-snow and then step aside. If you try any tricks, I'll shoot. And I mean what I say."
"I get you. Dad. I don't feel much like joking at the moment."
"You're a shameless thief."
"You said yourself the forest was no place to be in without a gun."
"What am I supposed to do here without it?"
"You're on your home ground."
"That's right, goon! I'm at home, am I? And what have I got at home-a gun factory?"
The young man scooped the cartridges out of his pockets; Nikitich counted fourteen. Then he reached behind his back, biting his lower lip and narrowing his eyes, which were fixed closely on the old man. Nikitich watched him just as closely, keeping his gun levelled at the young man's chest.
"What's the trouble?"
"I can't get them out..."
"Use your nails. Or give the butt a knock with your fist."
One cartridge fell out, then the other.
"Right. Now move over there."The young man obeyed.Nikitich gathered up the cartridges and put them in his coat pocket. "Throw me the gun, but don't move otherwise."
The young man removed the gun from his back and tossed it to Nikitich.
"Now sit down where you are and we'll have a smoke. Throw me the pouch that you stole too."
"I want a smoke sometimes."
"It's always what you want, isn't it? You never thought of me, you selfish devil. What was I to smoke?"
The lad made himself a cigarette and lighted it.
"May I keep a little of your tobacco?"
"Yes. Got any matches?"
"Yes."
The lad took a handful of tobacco for himself and tossed the pouch to the old man. Nikitich also lighted up.
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