No, this is a rare beauty, he thought, and when Sasha-san moved away from the table, he turned his head to Cherry.
My God, how is it painted, he whispered under his breath, and barely restrained himself from the squeamish grimace.
Sasha-san began to play the Japanese guitar. The rattling, dull sounds of some motive torn into small pieces struck Tikhons consciousness, but did not irritate him. He tried to catch the melody and could not.
Like smoke is perceptible, but elusive, he thought.
Lykov poured himself brandy. Tikhon drank liquor. Cherry san danced, slowly waving her arms and shaking her body. In the faint lighting of paper lanterns, a Japanese woman, dressed in a long blue, with large white kimono flowers, seemed to be a casual, airy Tikhon. Dance and music weary him.
The Japanese still have beauty: in music, in dances But they are not in our character. When Russians are dancing, people walk like a walk I would cook them here, flashed in Tikhons head.
From liquor he felt suddenly sick. He jumped up and ran out into the corridor. When he appeared, three people departed from the hanger: a Chinese servant and two strangers. Booster Jacket with unfolded floors rocked.
What the hell How do they like brass buttons!
The servant picked up the shoe under the arm and led it out onto the porch. The cool wind fanned Tikhons face, and his head began to spin. Cherry-san ran up to him with a glass of seltzer water. At a sign from Lykov, she led Tikhon into the room prepared for him.
We will sleep, my Russian hero, she said.
At the door, Podkovin stopped and set Vishnyu-san against himself.
I am very grateful to you, Cherry-san, for dancing and affection.
The Japanese clung to Tikhons chest and, gently pushing him into the room, whispered:
I love you, my hero You are very blue. I love blue, strong
Thank you, goodbye Go home to sleep, go home.
The girl just now realized that the young man had removed her. Embarrassed, she lowered her head and, inhaling the air, muttered:
Cy-o-nara, con-ban-va
As soon as Lykov and Tikhon fell asleep, both women retired to the living room, taking with them the skit. Emptying their pockets, they began to look at the paper. Sasha-san, dipping the brush in the ink, wrote in beautiful hieroglyphs on thin paper:
Passport of Tikhon Stepanovich Podkovin, a peasant from the Nizhny Novgorod province., Lukoyanovsky district, Mareseveka volost, the village of Malaya Polyana. Minister of Justice.
Chapter two
one
In November 1903, the Podkovin had to draw lots for the fulfillment of military service. He was frontal. A brother who was fourteen years older than Tikhon received a privilege on marital status in his family. According to the law of that time, the eldest son remained in the assistance of parents to feed and raise young children. There were three of them in the Podkovins family: Tikhon, his younger brother and sister.
Very often, recruits for the latest draw numbers were not taken to military service. In that year, when Podkovin was called, 320 people were to be collected in the city of Irkutsk, and 260 people were required in military units, therefore, sixty young men could count on staying. Tickets with insignificant numbers pulled out and weakly chested, and myopic, and obsessed with various diseases. During the medical examination, the defectives fell out, and instead of them they took healthy ones, even if they had long-range lots in their hands, above the two hundred and sixtieth. In addition, every year there were both delayed and hiding from conscription.
On November 13, recruits gathered in the great hall of the city duma. When checking it turned out that twenty-three people did not come to the draw. Then they will be found, punished and sent to serve, respectively, freeing those taken with high numbers. But sometime it will be, and today the mood of the youth has been lowered: few lucky numbers remained.
With the recruits came their relatives. They passionately discussed all sorts of opportunities to get rid of military service.
The bell rang. A minute later there was silence in the hall. The chairman of the draft board, a gray-haired man in pince-nez, smiling, invited the recruits to approach the urn and gave a sign to the clerk.
Arkhipov! rang out in the hall.
Everything is quiet. A blond guy came out of the thick of the crowd. His steps boomed loudly on the steps of the platform. He was breathing heavily. Sweat came out in large drops on his forehead. Rolling up his sleeve, the guy ran his hand to the bottom of the urn and took out the ticket rolled up. His hand shook.
Raise the ticket higher and unroll it, said the chairman.
Suddenly the guys face lit up, and he cheerfully, but still in a hoarse voice, shouted:
Two hundred and eighty second!
Well done! the public roared to a friendly applause.
Podkovin worried. He did not like the behavior of Arkhipov. In a firm step, calmly, in a clear voice, Tikhon suggested to himself. The hall fell silent again.
Tell me your number, heard Podkovin and looked at the platform.
Near the urn stood a tall, curly guy in a new coat. The tassels of the belt with which the maroon woolen shirt was girded dangled at the tops of a varnished boot. The recruits lips were shaking, and he, choking on tears, babbled:
The third st
Louder! shouted those present.
He has a third number, said the chairman.
In the guard of the young man!
The guy moved away from the platform.
Podkovin!
To rummage or not to rummage in an urn, thought Tikhon, striding towards the platform. He took a ticket from the top layer and quickly turned it around.
Thirteenth! shouted Podkovin.
There was a loud, universal laugh.
Happy number! Well done! Do not be lost! By God, you will not perish, said Podkovin, when he came down from the platform.
2
In the evening, in order not to hear the mothers lamentations, Tikhon went to the Berezkins.
Well? in one voice asked him Varya and her mother. Podkovin stopped at the door and cried out:
Happy!
happy? repeated Varya and, putting the work on the table she was busy sewing, got up.
Thirteenth, answered Tikhon.
Brother Vari, Kostya, clutching at his sides, laughed loudly.
What is sold, you fool? Mother grumbled. Tikhon a frontal one, his number is his neighbor, he could not escape soldiery.
The old woman, Berezkina, turned to the stove and raised the corner of her apron to her eyes. Her hunched figure shuddered.
Poor Evdokia Ilinichna I will go to her.
And Im with you, said Varya.
Mother Podkovina sat at a table with tear-stained eyes. Varya ran to her and put her arm around her shoulders.
Nothing bad will happen. Tikhon will return from the service tselehonek.
Poor Evdokia Ilinichna I will go to her.
And Im with you, said Varya.
Mother Podkovina sat at a table with tear-stained eyes. Varya ran to her and put her arm around her shoulders.
Nothing bad will happen. Tikhon will return from the service tselehonek.
Weasel girls reassured Podkovina. The old woman loved Varia more than her other friends. Still sobbing, she said:
God will hear the prayers of the mother. Obviously, he will return But the human heart is changeable. Forget each other not for long
Varya flinched. The last words of Evdokia Ilinichna burned her, as it were. She wanted to shout: No, no, this will not happen to me. I know the price of love.
Chapter three
one
In the barracks twilight. Near the gray walls, especially in the corners, hung haze. It was cold. The lamp, suspended under the arch, lights dimly.
Podkovin woke up from a jab in the side.
Get up, you have to clean your boots, he heard his neighbors voice.
Throwing back the blanket, he sat down on his bed and looked at his neighbor. The rookie rubbed his boots, but the desired shine did not work.
You put on your boots and walk. As soon as they get warm, rub with a brush.
It was about six in the morning. In the second half, the barracks were still asleep: there were old soldiers there, and taking care of the boots, apparently, did not bother them anymore.
Let me write a letter to my homeland, said his neighbor, Podkovin, when he was finished with his boots. In the village, I signed for others, if the paper that came. I can read the written, but the letters do not add up. Missed, the guy sighed heavily.
Get up! the command of the person on duty was distributed. Come on verification!
The barracks boomed. The air was even more saturated with the smell of rotten cloth and horse sweat. The soldiers clothes smelled like horses. Each rider has two horses, which he cleans daily.
Recruits went to the middle of the barracks and lined up along it in one row. All the clothes were still homemade. The lamp sparsely lit their anxious faces. The soldiers large red hands hung awkwardly along their bodies. Uncle came.
Motin, why did you not clean your boots?
Motins bootlegs got off their feet: a minute ago he was back from the restroom.
Just now, when I got up, I cleaned it, answered Motin, frightened.
Do not talk!.. Walk along the line with a goose step.
Motin turned red and out of order. He squatted on his haunches, put his hands on his sides and, without raising his body, moved along the barracks, throwing out one or the other leg. Ten more people were sent for Motin. The punished returned to their seats with bloodshot eyes. They breathed heavily and, bending down, rubbed their knees.
After checking and prayers, young soldiers were seated in beds for practicing literature.
Prikshaytis, read Our Father, heard Podkovin. Prikshaytis Lithuanian. He has a small face with a sharp nose, and eyes with flushed eyelids.
Father us, said Prikshaytis, blinking, and stopped. His lips moved, the fingers of his outstretched hands convulsively clenched into fists, his ears reddened, but no words were heard.
Farther! shouted uncle.
Who else is in heaven, exclaimed the recruit, delighted.
What-oh! Again, weigh? yelled uncle. I suffer for fifteen days, but you have not learned five words properly!
Prikshaytis face was covered with white spots, he wrinkled and closed his eyes.
Why are you blinking?
But Prikshaytis still stood with his eyes closed, he only stretched his neck more towards his teacher. So asks for a slap in the face
The teacher came close to him and backhand hit on the cheek. Prikshaytis reeled, but resisted. Tears streamed down the rookies face.
Tikhona smothered anger. He jumped up, but remembering the words from the military charter, the first pages of which he quickly ran through, Complaints about the chief can be brought individually and only for himself, he sank down helplessly on the bed and turned away from the unfortunate Lithuanian.
2
At ten oclock in the morning, Captain Ali-Aga Mehmetinsky, a senior battery officer, came to the barracks. On the large oblong face of the captain, a hunchbacked nose was sticking up. His head is bald, his thick mustache lay magnificently, his eyebrows raised, his brown eyes this time reflecting a grin. Small hands with thin white fingers, the captain held behind his back. Greeting, Mehmetinsky shouted:
Antonov Valentin Pavlovich.
I, one of the recruits said.
Are you illiterate?
The soldier babbled something in response, and the captain summoned Morozov.
You are also illiterate. What is it? From the big city, and the illiterate sent. Why didnt you study?
Morozov blushed deeply.
Mehmetinsky walked along the line and, smiling tenderly, called new recruits by last name, first name and patronymic, although he did not have a list in his hands.
And we waited for you and thought: Siberians will not let you down The same illiteracy as in the Baltic provinces, and in central Russia. Not good. An artilleryman must be well-educated
The captains face became serious. The buggies sagged slightly, but their eyes still gleamed. Talking to the recruits, he squinted them.
Keep your head straight and lift your right shoulder, said Captain Podkovin. Have you worked in the court of justice for a long time? Two years? And before that, he worked somewhere?
Was a clerk. And my main occupation is a fisherman.
Do you have a good handwriting?
I, your Honor, do not want a clerk.
Well see. Who do the clerk do? See for yourself. And the clerk needs Abramovich Moses Iosifovich! Are you a craftsman, a mechanic?
That memory is memory. I read the list once and remembers everyone, thought Podkovin.
Good locksmith we need. What can you do?
I can repair sewing machines, I made new locks.
By the cannon lock do you make new?
With the tool everything is possible.
Do you make a new gun? Wishing to cheer the soldiers, asked the captain.
Give the tool and the room, Ill make you a gun. Only one mess around unprofitable.
This is fine, the captain laughed. We will send you to the arsenal. Verevkin Matvey Karpovich Was a cab driver? Do you know horses? Thats what we need. Be your ride. Good horses will give you a pair. Illiterate?.. If you quickly embrace the teaching, then you will be the senior fireworker. And you will have a riding horse, and you will command a whole platoon Y-yes Your diploma is weak, guys.
Twenty recruits went to their beds. Today they are exempted from general studies. The day was clear and frosty Through the large windows, icy below, the sun illuminated the inside of the barracks. In the middle of it, between cast-iron columns supporting the ceiling, there is a wide passage along the whole room. On the sides, by the walls, in several rows were bunks of gunners; in the corners, where it was more spacious, older and younger fireworks were placed. In the aisle, young soldiers marched in groups. There were stomping and squawking platoon.