Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Do you think I would risk a knouting if I wasn’t genuine?”

“But if you weren’t genuine,” countered Trotsky, “then you wouldn’t be risking anything at all.”

Goat’s Foot scratched his head and considered this answer for a while. Then his craggy face broke into a smile.

“That’s true enough, I suppose,” he admitted, taking his seat again. “So, can we do business together?”

Trotsky nodded.

“I think so.”

“Good! So this is how it goes,” the peasant continued. “You hire me for fifty roubles and I will make all the necessary arrangements to get you away from here. That means finding a driver, choosing the deer…”

“Hold on!” broke in Trotsky. “Do you mean that you won’t be driving me?”

Goat’s Foot stared at him and then laughed.

“In February? You must be fucking kidding! No true born Christian could find his way across the taiga in this weather. No, you shall need a Zyrian for this job, and I know just the fellow. He’ll get you where you want to go if anyone will.”

“A Zyrian?” repeated Trotsky doubtfully.

“Sure! It’s only natural. The taiga is in their blood. They can find their way across it blindfold, or blind drunk, as easy as a yid makes money, if you’ll excuse the saying.”

“And does this Zyrian drink?” asked Trotsky, ignoring the slur.

“Drink?” repeated Goat’s Foot incredulously. “Of course he bloody drinks! Why shouldn’t he drink? Everybody drinks in these parts. It was drink what ruined him. Before that he was a first class hunter and used to bring in plenty of sables and earn lots of money for his family.”

Getting up, Goat’s Foot came over and sat down beside Trotsky on the bed, patting his arm reassuringly.

“Don’t worry. Nikivor’s a real old fox. He’s got two heads instead of one. If he’s game, your problems are over. And he’s strong enough,” Goat’s Foot added, lifting his own arm and flexing his muscles to illustrate the point. “If he won’t drive you, no one will.”

Still unconvinced, Trotsky hesitated.

“Will he be able to understand what I say to him?” he asked.

“Oh, sure!” replied Goat’s Foot confidently. “Don’t worry about that. Like I told you, he was a great hunter. He’s been around. He speaks Russian, and Zyriane and two different Ostyak dialects. Another driver like him is not to be found around here. And he’s shrewd, very shrewd.”

“All right,” said Trotsky unwillingly. “When can I meet this man?”

“Ah! That’s just it. You can’t,” admitted Goat’s Foot apologetically. “At least, not for the moment. He lives in a yurt about ten versts from here. But as soon as we agree on terms, I’ll ride out to his place and hire him. I expect that the sooner you get started, the happier you will be.”

“And I suppose you shall want something in advance?” asked Trotsky.

Goat’s Foot scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Well,” he conceded, “it would be useful if I had something to flash at him. He is the one who will be picking out the team for you. Even though I’m a fair judge of deer, he’s better than I am.”

Trotsky’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I thought all the deer had been bought up already for the convoy.”

“Pah!” snorted Goat’s Foot. “Not all the good ones. Why waste them on the military, eh? And don’t worry about my man Nikivor. Just remember, he has to pick a team that will not only get you there, but also bring him back. So he’ll make sure they’re the best.”

In order to buy himself some time, Trotsky swung his feet off the bed and got up. The deeper I go, he thought, the less trustworthy people become. Roshkovsky can be relied upon only until he is pushed too far. This fellow sitting next to me even less so. This Zyrian guide, this “Nikivor”- will need careful watching.

Walking over to his overcoat which was hanging from a peg in the wall he rummaged in its pockets, and brought out a tin of cigarettes and some phosphor matches. Offering a cigarette to the peasant, he took another and lit them both.

“What are your terms again?” he asked.

“Fifty roubles for me,” repeated Goat’s Foot, “plus the cost of hiring Nikivor and buying the deer and clothing. Twenty roubles now, the rest when all the arrangements are made.”

“That’s far too much!” protested Trotsky. “I’ll be left with nothing.”

Goat’s Foot shrugged philosophically.

“Once you’re on the taiga, money means little. If anything, it’s a liability.”

“That may be so,” retorted Trotsky, “but when I reach the railway they’ll expect payment in cash for a ticket, not in skins. This Zyrian, he will already have the deer to keep for himself. Any money he demands above that will have to come out of your share. Otherwise, I can’t afford it.”

Chewing on a badly bitten fingernail, Goat’s Foot turned this counter proposal over in his mind.

“Agreed,” he said at last.

“And you only get ten roubles now. The remainder will be paid on the day I go. That’s more than enough to pay for the food.”