Yama by Aleksandr Kuprin (best ereader for pdf TXT) 📕

seized at this time how smack-smack⁠ ⁠… smack-smack⁠ ⁠… the caught watermelons slapped against hands; and immediately bending downwards again, threw, letting the air out noisily⁠—ghe⁠ ⁠… ghe⁠ ⁠…

The present work was very profitable; their gang, consisting of forty men, had taken on the work, thanks to the great rush, not by the day but by the amount of work done, by the wagon load. Zavorotny, the head⁠—an enormous, mighty Poltavian⁠—had succeeded with extreme deftness in getting around the owner⁠—a young man, and, to boot, in all probability not very experienced as yet. The owner, it is true, came to his senses later and wanted to change the stipulations; but experienced melon growers dissuaded him from it in time: “Drop it. They’ll kill you,” they told him simply and firmly. And so, through this very stroke of good luck every member of the gang was now earning up to four roubles a day. They all worked with unusual ardour, even with some sort of vehemence; and if it had been possible to measure with some apparatus the labour of each one of them, then, in all probability, the number of units of energy created would have equalled the work of a large Voronezhian Percheron.

However, Zavorotny was not satisfied even with this⁠—he hurried and hurried his lads on all the time. Professional ambition was speaking within him; he wanted to bring the daily earnings of every member of the gang up to five roubles per snout. And gaily, with unusual ease, twinkled from the harbour to the wagon, twirling and flashing, the wet green and white watermelons; and their succulent plashing resounded against accustomed palms.

But now a long blast sounded on the dredging machine in the port. A second, a third, responded to it on the river; a few more on shore; and for a long time they roared together in a mighty chorus of different voices.

“Ba-a-a-st-a-a!” hoarsely and thickly, exactly like a locomotive blast, Zavorotny started roaring.

And now the last smack-smack⁠—and the work stopped instantaneously.

Platonov with enjoyment straightened out his back and bent it backward, and spread out his swollen arms. With pleasure he thought of having already gotten over that first pain in all the muscles, which tells so during the first days, when one is just getting back into the work after disuse. While up to this day, awaking in the mornings in his lair on Temnikovskaya⁠—also to the sound of a factory blast agreed upon⁠—he would during the first minutes experience such fearful pains in his neck, back, in his arms and legs, that it seemed to him as if only a miracle would be able to compel him to get up and take a few steps.

“Go-o-o and e-at,” Zavorotny began to clamour again.

The stevedores went down to the water; got down on their knees or laid down flat on the gangplank or on the rafts; and, scooping up the water in handfuls, washed their wet, heated faces and arms. Right here, too, on the shore, to one side, where a little grass had been left yet, they disposed themselves for dinner: placed in a circle ten of the most ripe watermelons, black bread, and twenty dried porgies. Gavriushka the Bullet was already running with a half-gallon bottle to the pothouse and was singing as he went the soldiers’ signal for dinner:

“Drag spoon and mess-kit out,
If there’s no bread, eat without.”

A barefooted urchin, dirty and so ragged that there was more of his bare body than clothes upon him, ran up to the gang.

“Which one of you here is Platonov?” he asked, quickly running over them with his thievish eyes.

“I’m Platonov, and by what name do they tease you?”

“Around the corner here, behind the church, some sort of a young lady is waiting for you⁠ ⁠… Here’s a note for you.”

The whole gang neighed deeply.

“What d’you open up your mouths for, you pack of fools!” said Platonov calmly. “Give me the note here.”

This was a letter from Jennka, written in a round, naive, rolling, childish handwriting, and not very well spelt.

“Sergei Ivanich. Forgive me that I dis-turbe you. I must talk over a very, very important matter with you. I would not be troubleing you if it was Trifles. For only 10 minutes in all, Jennka, whom you know, from Anna Markovna’s.”

Platonov got up.

“I’m going away for a little while,” he said to Zavorotny. “When you begin, I’ll be in my place.”

“Now you’ve found somethin’ to do,” lazily and contemptuously said the head of the gang. “There’s the night for that business⁠ ⁠… Go ahead, go ahead, who’s holding you? But only if you won’t be here when we begin work, then this day don’t count. I’ll take any tramp. And as many watermelons as he busts⁠—that’s out of your share, too⁠ ⁠… I didn’t think it of you, Platonov⁠—that you’re such a he-dog⁠ ⁠…”

Jennka was waiting for him in the microscopic square, sheltered between a church and the wharf, and consisting of ten sorry poplars. She had on a gray, one-piece street dress; a simple, round, straw hat with a small black ribbon. “And yet, even though she has dressed herself simply,” reflected Platonov, looking at her from a distance with his habitually puckered eyes, “and yet, every man will walk past, give a look, and inevitably look back three or four times; he’ll feel the especial tone at once.”

“Howdy do, Jennka! Very glad to see you,” he said cordially, squeezing the girl’s hand. “There, now, I didn’t expect you!”

Jennka was reserved, sad, and apparently troubled over something. Platonov at once understood and sensed this.

“You excuse me, Jennechka, I must have dinner right away,” said he, “so, perhaps, you’ll go together with me and tell me what’s the matter, while I’ll manage to eat at the same time. There’s a modest little inn not far from here. At this time there are no people there at all, and there’s even a tiny little stall, a sort of a private room; that will be just the thing for you and me.