I found him still asleep in the back of his two-room hut. The walls of the bigger room in front were covered with brass basins, weapons, fishing nets, drying animal skins, and a couple of blankets. On the floor under a wooden bench rested pumpkins and melons. Three hunting dogs lay on a pile of rags in the far corner. In the back room, amongst rugs and bedding, sat a well-worn camp bed where the old man lay snoring. His musket stood against the nearest wall. I gently shook his shoulder.
His eyes opened and fixed on me.
“What do you want so early in the morning?”
“I would like to talk with you.”
“If you want me to be sociable at this time of day you will have to stand me to a pail of chikhir.”
For myself, I too like a good wine, but with my supper — this was not yet breakfast. However, if that’s what it took to loosen his tongue, then so be it.
I nodded.
Daddy Eroshka immediately sat up on the camp bed. His voice roared out into the yard. “Lukashka, come quickly. Your uncle has money for a drink.”
With grimy hands, he reached under the camp bed and picked two bottles off the floor. Blowing a light film of road dust off the bottles, he held them up by their necks in one hand, then stuck out the callused palm of his other hand. It took me a minute to realize what he wanted.
As I counted out several small coins into his palm, a young boy rushed into the room. With the two bottles, the coins, and instructions to go to Auntie Ustenka’s hut, the boy left in a hurry. Daddy Eroshka lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Not sure what I was supposed to do, I waited quietly until the youngster returned. At this point, the old Cossack resurrected himself.
He handed me a cracked porcelain cup with brown streaks on the inside and made as if to pour wine into it for me. I quickly wiped it out with my sleeve. He filled my cup halfway, then he drank straight from the bottle. I noticed that the second bottle had gone under the bed, presumably for later.
He wiped his lips on the back of his sunburned hand and raised his bottle again.
“To your health, Armenian.”
Having no wish to buy more wine, I began my questions.
“You hear all the gossip in the village. What have you heard about the staff captain?”
“Ah, the Russian noble, related to the tsar they say.”
“Yes, that one.”
“Of course. It is said that he receives a large monthly allotment from his family estates back in Russia. And it must be true because he parties with the prettiest girls, buys them sweetmeats and silver trinkets, drinks to all hours of the night, and plays their games. He lives well.”
“Any problems there?”
“Not as far as the Russian himself is concerned. He favors one girl, beautiful Marushka, who carries herself like a queen. Oh, the captain spends a lot of money on her, but she is undecided. You see, sometime back, her mother spoke to the mother of one of our Cossack lads, Yermack, and the two of them were to be married some day. You should know this, our Yermack is a fine lad. After his father was killed by the Chechens, I trained him myself to ride a horse in the Cossack way. I taught him everything he knows about horses.”
“Anything else for me?”
The old man drank from the bottle again and screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember something important so I could get my money’s worth.
“There’s some of the other village girls, who are not as pretty as Marushka and her friends. And I hear that the staff captain’s orderly sells some of the household silver bowls and cups for money to party with those girls. But then, all the Moscow soldiers quartered here flirt with the village girls, if that means anything to you.”
I wasn’t sure it did, but there wasn’t much else the old man seemed willing to give up. I thanked him and left. Out on the broad street, my stomach complained about how high the sun had risen in the sky, which settled the matter of priorities.
Back at my hut, I brewed tea, munched on a piece of bread, and mulled circumstances over in my head. Marushka herself probably wouldn’t talk to me about Yermack, but maybe one of the other girls would... especially if I had something to offer.
Once again, I left the shop in the hands of my Nogay helper and walked up the main street. This time I continued out the village gate and less than a verst up the road to the vineyards. Lowing of the oxen that pulled the grape-laden carts, interspersed with the voices of the girls calling out to each other, rose above the dusty vines.
Eventually, I found one of Marushka’s friends. She was cutting bunches of the sugar black grapes and piling them into an ox cart.
“Good morning, Bela. How is the harvest?”
She paused to wipe the sweat off her handsome face.
“Armenian, you’ve come to help me.”
“No, no, I merely wished to talk.”
Immediately, she returned to cutting the next bunch of grapes.
“No time to gossip. I have work to do.”
I whisked a bright yellow silk scarf from out of my sleeve and dangled it in front of her face.
She stopped cutting and looked at the scarf, then me, then back to the scarf. Cleaning her hands on the hem of her smock, she reached for the yellow silk.
I let her have one end.
“Tell me about the Russian and Marushka,” I said.
“Oh that.” Bela laughed. “That’s nothing. The captain buys all of us sweetmeats and silver lockets, but he wants only Marushka for his ‘little soul,’ his mistress.”
“And what does Yermack say about that?”
Bela’s smile faded.
“In front of Marushka, he pretends it doesn’t matter. He laughs and says there are plenty of other beautiful women in the next village to love him, so what does he care.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
She puckered up one cheek.
“Because in private he mutters that the Russian stole something he loved away from him, and therefore he will steal away something that the Russian loves.”
“Could that something have been a horse?”
Bela snatched the scarf out of my grasp and turned away.
“I have grapes to cut before they dry on the vine. Go ask your questions of someone else.”
She was right, and I had a fair idea whom to speak with. Only this time, I would be better prepared.
In the late afternoon as the heat of the day began to cool, I was seated on Daddy Eroshka’s porch, waiting for his return. Down the street he trudged, with still-wet nets thrown back over his shoulder, his naked back carrying the weight of both fish and equipment. A pelt of snowy white hair covered his massive chest and he walked barefoot with his pants legs rolled up to his knees.
I knew he saw me sitting there on his porch, but he ducked his head as if to give himself time to consider what business I might have with him now. His whistling stopped, but his outward appearance seemed cheerful enough as he came up the steps.
“Armenian, you’ve come back to me.”
He unslung the nets and dropped them onto the porch.
I held up the small pail of vodka I’d had the foresight to bring along this time.
His voice boomed.
“And you’ve brought me a present. We may become kunaks, yet. Yes, we may become very good comrades.”
Using the only drink container in the hut, I scooped up some of the vodka and held the cup out to him. He toasted my health, downed the liquid in two swallows, and returned the empty porcelain. This time, after refilling the cup, I held it in sight, but made no proffer.
“You forgot to tell me about the horse. But then it was early morning when I came to your hut, and it’s possible that you were still groggy from your sleep.”
He stared at the vodka.
“Which horse is that?”