Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“This one’s Matya and that’s Olga,” he explained. “I call her Olga because she reminds me of my wife. The minute I saw her ears I said, ‘Uh oh! Hello Olga!’ Nasty temper, she has.”

Turning away from the scenery, Trotsky sat up and eased his aching limbs.

“She seems well behaved to me,” he observed.

“That’s because she’s stuck her in between the traces with me sitting over her with a bloody great whip, isn’t it? But get her on her own, pulling a trap for instance, and she can be the very devil.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Trotsky, “if she wasn’t always stuck between the traces with a whip hanging over her, she would be in a better frame of mind.”

The driver laughed scornfully at the idea.

“You might know about all sorts of things, friend, but I know ponies,” he retorted. “And don’t think I don’t know what you are getting at, because I do. Just because I’m a driver doesn’t mean I’m bloody stupid. After all,” he added meaningfully, “I’m coming back, aren’t I? Eh? So don’t waste your politics on me.”

Leaning over the side of the sleigh, he spat forcefully into the roadway.

“I’ll tell you this much, though. This one here,” he offered, pointing with his whip towards the inside pony, “could be bedded down in the Imperial stables every night and still not be fucking satisfied. She’s just like my old woman, she is, just like her. That’s why I call her Olga. All mouth and arse, she is, just like this one.”

He flicked the disfavoured animal again with the tip of his whip.

“Whereas this one,” he went on, pointing to the other pony, “little Matya here, she’s a beauty. Aren’t you, darling?” he called out loudly to the pony. “Reminds me of a girl I know. Works in an inn. Gorgeous bit of tail she is; lovely disposition. She’ll do anything for you. In fact, I’ve got a good mind to give her one tonight, see if I don’t.”

“Oh? Does she live near here, then?” asked Trotsky.

“Who?”

“Matya.”

“Christ, no! She’s on the road to Pokrovakoya. Works at the Golden Plough. No, son, I meant the pony.”

Marking Trotsky’s expression of disgust and disbelief, the guard gave a short bark of laughter.

“Only way to keep them happy,” the driver continued blithely. “Same as women. My old man told me the day I got married. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘there’s only one way to keep them happy and that’s pregnant and barefoot. It’s the only way.’ Of course, like a fool I didn’t listen. Now, every time I go home I have to put up with her nagging.”

Hunching his shoulders in the imitation of a scold, he mimicked a shrill female voice.

“‘Where have you been this time? What have you brought back for me? How are we going to eat?’”

Straightening up, he slewed his body sideways on the driving board so that he could face both his passengers.

“Mind you,” he admitted cheerfully, “he was a right bastard when he was at home, my old man. Used to belt our mum regular; never mind us kids. Still, I suppose she liked it. She stayed with him long enough, even when he was too drunk to work. That’s women for you, the same all over.”

Sighing, he transferred the reins to one hand and, reaching under his seat, pulled out a large stoneware flask. Knocking off the cork that dangled by a knotted cord, he balanced the flask expertly on his forearm and raised it to his lips. When he had drunk off several mouthfuls, he passed to the guard, who took it in both hands.

“What are the Ukrainian women like then?” the driver asked, watching as the soldier drank.

“Much the same, I suppose,” replied the guard, nodding his thanks. “They tend to be a bit taller and darker looking where I come from. More like Tartars.”

He offered the fiery liquor to Trotsky. Trotsky refused and turned away, demonstrably extending his refusal to include joining in their conversation. The guard took another swig and passed the flask back to its owner.

“I had a Polish girl once,” the driver reminisced. “Had the body of a couch. Know what I mean?”

The soldier nodded solemnly.

“A man could just fall into her arms and do nothing,” the driver sighed. “Just lie there and still be perfectly happy. Lena, her name was. Lovely girl. She had a cunt like velvet.”

Gathering up the stone bottle again, he drank deeply. Then, pulling it away from his lips, he clasped the bottle to his chest, threw his head back and roared. The sound came out of his body like a wordless cry, a primitive howl of longing.

Trotsky shuddered and slumped lower in his wooden seat, huddling under the heavy reindeer skins that covered his upper torso. The crudity of expression, the gross appetite of the man, repelled him. He was reminded of the tales he had been told as a child on the farm at Yanovka of the demonic creature, the Bear that Walked Like a Man, who would trap the unwary and the drunk and devour them in the forests of the night.