Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

“Hop-hop!” shouted the boy, but his voice was not very strong because of excitement.

“Hop!” came a restrained, calm bass from a distance.

The curly tops of the rushes trembled as they were carefully pushed aside by someone’s hand. A short, stocky, apparently awkward peasant in a torn brown coat appeared from the rushes, and, with body bent forward, stepped upon the trampled down, dry spot where the beggar and the boy were sitting. His straight, hard hair fell down his face, almost covering his black, slanting eyes, which had a gloomy and suspicious look. He held his head bent downward and a little to one side, somewhat like a bear, and when he had to look to one side, he slowly and awkwardly turned with his whole body, as is usually done by men with short necks or diseased throats. This was Akim Shpak, the well-known dealer in stolen goods. He often informed the horse-thieves of likely opportunities and sometimes even helped them.

Shpak looked at the old man and the boy closely, and with an expression of enmity, then turned back with his whole ridiculous body and his immovable neck, and said hoarsely:

“Over here, Buzyga!”

“Here!” came back in a merry, low, self-confident voice, the word being pronounced in a military fashion.

“Good evening to you, gentlemen rascals.”

A tall, red-haired man, dressed in city clothes, with high, elegant boots, stepped into the clearing. He extended his hand to Kozel but drew it back immediately, noting his blunder.

“Oh, the devil⁠ ⁠… I’ve forgotten that you have nothing to shake hands with,” said he carelessly. “Well, good evening anyway. Is this the lad you were talking about?” and he pointed to Vasil.

“Yes, yes,” the old beggar nodded his head hastily. “He is quick, just like a bullet. Well, sit down, Levonty.”

“I will sit down all right, and be a guest, and if I treat you to some whiskey, I will be the host,” jested Buzyga indifferently, sitting down on the ground. “Let’s see what you’ve got there, Akim.”

Akim took from the bag a bottle of whiskey, a few hard-boiled eggs, and half a loaf of bread, and placed them all on the grass in front of Buzyga. Kozel followed every one of his movements greedily, and nervously tugged with his only finger at his grayish mustache.

“And I thought you would never come,” said the old beggar, turning his face toward Buzyga, but without taking his eyes from Akim’s hands. “I saw you in Berezna a few hours ago and you were more drunk than whiskey itself. And I thought that you would not come this evening. But you don’t show it now.”

“Whiskey doesn’t affect me,” said Buzyga slowly. “I was bluffing more than anything else. And besides, I slept until evening.”

“At Gripa’s?”

“Any of your business? And suppose it was there?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Only, women like you.”

“Oh, the devil take them. Let them like me.” Buzyga shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Are you jealous?”

“Who, I? My time is past. I have forgotten how to think about it.⁠ ⁠… I guess she did not want to let you go?”

“Oh, yes, as if she could hold me back!” Buzyga threw up his chin with a self-confident expression on his face. “You had better take a drink of this whiskey, old fellow. I see that you are trying to get somewhere. Why don’t you ask straight out?”

“Oh, I have nothing to ask, nothing at all. I was just wondering.⁠ ⁠… Well, to your health, Buzyga; may God send you health and success in all your enterprises.”

The old man clasped the neck of the bottle with his thumb as though it were a movable hook, and raised the bottle to his mouth with a shaking hand. For a long time he strained the whiskey through his teeth, then returned the bottle to Buzyga, dried his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, and asked:

“Did she ask you where you were going?”

“Who?”

“Gripa.”

Buzyga looked at the old man seriously and attentively.

“Suppose she did ask. What of that?” he said slowly, knitting his eyebrows.

“Why, I.⁠ ⁠… Nothing at all.⁠ ⁠… I know, anyway, that you would not tell.⁠ ⁠…”

“You had better shut your mouth, Uncle Kozel,” the taciturn Akim advised him weightily, looking off at a distance to one side.

“You are trying to be too smart, you old dog,” said Buzyga, and in his strong voice were suddenly heard tones that reminded one of wild animals. “Look out. It is not for you to teach Buzyga. When Buzyga says that he is going to be in Kresher, that means that they are going to look for him in Filippovichi, and in the meantime Buzyga will be selling his horses at the Stepan fair. Shpak is right. You had better keep still.”

While Buzyga was speaking, Vasil did not take his eyes from him. There was nothing extraordinary in the horse-thief’s appearance. His large face, marked by smallpox, with red mustaches curled in a military fashion, was motionless and seemed weary. His little, blue eyes, surrounded by white lashes, appeared drowsy, and it was only for a moment that a peculiarly keen and cruel expression shone in them. All his motions were slow, lazy, as though his purpose was to expend the least possible effort, but his powerful neck, visible from under his shirt, his long arms with their large hands covered with red hair, and his broad back spoke of gigantic strength.

Under the boy’s persistent gaze, Buzyga involuntarily turned his head toward him. The light in his eyes immediately became extinguished, and his face became indifferent once more.

“Why are you looking at me, boy?” he asked calmly. “What is your name?”

“Vasil,” answered the boy, and coughed. His own voice seemed to him to be so weak and whistling.

Kozel tittered servilely.

“He-he-he! Ask him, Buzyga, what he is going to do when he grows up. We were talking about it just before you came. ‘I don’t want to be a beggar like you,’ says he, ‘I am going to be like Buzyga.⁠ ⁠…’