The Day Before

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Ivan Patrenkov wiped away the ice from the window and scanned the horizon. The smith Novikov had assured him that the cart axle was fixed soundly, and he had more than enough provisions, so all should be well for his journey in the morning if the weather held and the horse Konstantin cooperated. 

Ivan had made this journey many times. From Vologda to Syamzha was a distance of just over 100 kilometres. Midway he would stop over in the city to rest the horse. Ivan would not have chosen to travel now were it not for his father’s illness. He had never made the journey in this, the coldest of months, but he was a careful, planning person and had made preparations.

A few worn-out rugs were thinly spread over the bare wood of the benches and on the floor. He’d either come early, or there were few travellers at the dvor this evening. Likely the time of year kept those with other options home. He’d dropped his pack to mark a sleeping spot near the stone oven. His coat would serve as a blanket. 

A handful of other patrons gathered around a samovar quietly murmuring as if loud talk would unnecessarily expend energy. Three men, like bears and unmistakably brothers, huddled in a corner nearby, the light illuminating shot glasses and ashtrays spilling out across their table. Ivan could not help but share their cigarette smoke and hear their conversation. He listened with his back to them as they lamented the fate of the other brother who was laid out dead, apparently, in another room. They had warned Andrei over and over again, shaking their heads, to wait and not take that road. Why did he not listen? The forecast was uncertain, the weather could change quickly depending on wind direction and you could find yourself in a white out at minus thirty. For too many miles there was no shelter. And that’s where Andrei had been discovered by a stranger when the storm lifted, on a stretch of open ground frozen to the road, his possessions littered around him and his horse dead not far away.

The stranger had pried him from the ground still with ice and stones attached so as not to break him, and brought him here. The brothers were waiting for the ice to melt enough so that they could clean him, but not enough to allow for him to thaw and decompose. Tomorrow they would take him home and keep him in a cold place until the summer when the ground unfroze temporarily and they would bury him. 

Ivan could not help but turn when the muffled sobs began. One of the men had hunched himself over the table, head buried in his arms. As another started rubbing his shoulders their eyes met his and they nodded in acknowledgement. Embarrassed, Ivan turned back. 

Could it be the Syamzha road they were talking about? The man must have been foolhardy and not taken sufficient precautions. Ivan went over his own preparations. The cart was repaired; he had enough warm clothes and provisions. The old horse Konstantin could be defiant but Ivan blamed himself for that, as he had never been able to form a bond with the horse as he had seen others do. He was not a man to form bonds. The horse was accustomed to winters and always pulled through.

The snow outside the inn sparkled fiercely like diamonds as if to suggest fire emanating from the abject cold. But there was no warmth to be had out there, just the keening wind. Even if real, the finest largest gems would be of no value compared to boots, hats or gloves of the meagerest quality but able to stave off the pervasive piercing cold.

In the distance came a faint whinny, perhaps Konstantin, perhaps not. At this time of year there was no farming but the livestock still needed to be housed. The horses were in the stable along with cows and pigs to add warmth. 

Without his ordering, and not looking him in the eye, the innkeeper placed a stew with bread on the wooden ledge in front of him. Steam rose and turned to condensation as it touched the window glass. The droplets became prisms, reflecting rainbows from the open fire and light, less brilliant and yet mimicking the snow diamonds.

It seemed to him that he had hardly talked, if at all, since arriving, his needs and the role of this place being obvious. Idle gossip could be mistaken for curiosity and inquisitiveness could raise hackles. Who he was was his business and there was no need for others to know more unless it was to further serve his needs and not theirs. Yet he sensed no ill will. He would try to relax and trust that he was safe. He needed rest for the journey ahead of him.

Had his parents lived in a better house then his father might not fall as ill so frequently and wretchedly. Last year Ivan had been sure that the winter would be his last. The old ones did not usually last very long if they found themselves sick at the beginning with the knowledge of the coming misery during the following dark months. 

Ivan could not imagine the will to cling to life when it showed no signs of wishing to cling back or even outwardly thrust him away with its endless ways of infiltrating a person and freezing them from the inside out. He imagined his heart as a frozen slab of meat with ice crystals throughout. He took his spoon to his mouth to explore the stew and willed it to warm his heart on the way down. 

While Ivan ate he thought about his parents. Their house had once been a dacha for a rich merchant but with the change, the government had evicted the rich man. Having once expelled him, the location was found to be so remote that no official had need to occupy it. The officials had shown no further interest in it and stopped looking after it. As it was so out of the way, even the occasional inspection tapered off.

As could be expected, the unheated house tore itself apart. Ivan's parents had moved into it ostensibly as caretakers, but by that time no amount of care could repair the damage to the structure of the house. The roof, walls, pipes and floors were heaved and cracked from the frost. Come the winter, the draft penetrated every part and whistled like a banshee through the house unchallenged, in one side and out the other. All four, father, mother, brother and sister would need to stand the brunt of it.

Ivan's father had done his best, dissembling the furniture to board over the cracks and for firewood in the big stove. They’d taken rags and whatever else was to hand, especially mud in summer, to stuff the smaller cracks. Apart from that a few chickens and Mashka the cow had sustained them. That was until the cow grew old and there was no money to replace her. Last winter the parents and the chickens had shared the house and the cow meat. The added nutrition was inarguably what had sustained Dmitry Nikolai Patrenkov sufficiently to see another spring. 

Ivan considered his mother. If his father died this time he would need to take her back home with him. That should not present a difficulty with his wife as his mother did not speak and hardly ate. Nadia would not be intrusive or argumentative and might help with the chores. Ironically, Nadia meant “hope” something, Ivan reflected, it would have been kinder for her to have existed without.

Growing up theirs was not a joyful household. Dmitry and Nadia communicated in a series of grunts and monosyllables. So little changed in their daily life and they never went anywhere or saw anyone. There was nothing to talk about except when something exceptional happened, and even then words were resentfully eked out.

One morning Ivan had been left in charge of his younger sister Dasha (gift from God) while his parents were out with their chores. Usually the little girl would stay close to the stove playing with her dollies made from rags and straw. She would position them and engage them in conversations, quietly mumbling agreeably at times, and then at others in loud rows over some transgression such as the woman doll not getting up to milk the cow, or the husband dropping the eggs. Ivan could tell who was whom from the squeaky voice for the wife and the attempted baritone of the husband. Dasha could play that way for hours while Ivan would busy himself with studying or doing household chores. 

This day Ivan had fallen asleep by the fire and Dasha had taken advantage of his lack of attention to introduce the doll couple to the outside world. She had found extra rags to keep out the cold and tied them around each doll so that they were almost round bundles. But Dasha could not be bothered to clothe herself and had gone out leaving the door open with a thought to set up a new scenario for the couple in the abandoned stable. It would make a lovely new house for them and the wife would be happy.

Ivan had awoken to his mother standing over him gesturing at the open front door. Gde ona? Gde ona? She was repeating. “Where is she? Where is she?” kicking his foot. And Dasha was not there.

Ivan and Nadia Patrenkov had followed the small naked footsteps in the snow from the house to the stable. He cried out "Dasha! Dasha!" but there was no response. His father, hearing the cries, followed them. The door flung open to Dasha with her dollies clutched in her little blue hands lying on the frozen straw. Pale. Her face oh so white. So nearly as white as the snow. Dmitri snatched her up and stumbled with her back to the house. 

Dasha made a quick full recovery with no frostbite or visible signs of her bid for a dollies' new world. What still came to mind even after all these years was that while Dasha’s life had hung in the balance, not a word had passed between his mother and father. Ivan had never known what to make of them, seeming to take it in their stride. Perhaps it was best for them all that they were unknowable. The gap was too wide.

In the present, nearby chairs scraped as the brothers stood. Ivan turned again to see the innkeeper open a door to shine the lantern into the adjoining room. Ivan could plainly see the corpse laid out on a table, another bear of a man. His face bore no expression, unlike those of his brothers who gathered around him in the puddles of thawed ice. But how could they blame themselves?

The innkeeper retreated leaving the brothers in the room with the body and the lantern. On his way back he leaned past Ivan to retrieve the empty stew bowl. “Syamzha? Yes.” he had answered “No-one takes that road this time of year. The man was a fool.”

Ivan considered things. His parents were waiting. His father could well be dying and his mother could not be left on her own. He was a careful man and had made adequate preparations. Tomorrow he would check the weather forecast and all being well would set off for Syamzha. Unlike the dead brother, no-one had ever accused Ivan Patrenkov of being a fool.