The Night Before Christmas (3 page)

Striding in, grunting and rubbing his hands, the deacon announced that no one had come to his party but that he was glad of the chance to have himself a little party with her and so had braved the blizzard. Then he sidled up to the hostess, coughed, smirked, and with his long fingers touched Solokha's full white arm.

“And what's this you have here, gorgeous Solokha?” he asked with a sly smile, taking a step back.

“Can't you see? It's an arm.”

“Ha! An arm!” and, satisfied with such a beginning, the deacon strolled around the room.

“And how about this, dearest Solokha?” and he touched her lightly on the neck.

“Can't you see for yourself? It's a neck, and on the neck a necklace.”

“Ha! A neck! A necklace!” and the deacon performed another victory lap.

“May I inquire, incomparable Solokha, what is . . .” the deacon began, and God knows what he would have touched if they hadn't heard Chub demanding to be admitted. The deacon went pale. “Oh dear, now Father Kondrat will find out, oh dear!” The deacon's fears, to be honest, mostly concerned his beloved spouse, who had already reduced his thick braid to a skinny ponytail. “For all that's dear, virtuous Solokha, hide me! Your kindness, as is written in Luke, chapter thir . . . Oh, anywhere, please!” Solokha promptly emptied another, smaller sack, and the not very large deacon fit there so nicely that you could easily pour quite a bit of coal on top.

“Well, hello, my dear,” Chub announced, striding in. “Perhaps you didn't expect me? Perhaps you were entertaining someone else, eh?” His slow brain was clearly churning out a joke. “Perhaps you have company hidden somewhere, huh?” and, delighted with his wit, Chub let out a hoot of laughter. “Well, give
us
a sip of vodka, that cursed cold has turned my hands to ice . . . What a night, what a blizzard . . .”

“Open up, Mother!” the blacksmith yelled, banging on the door.

“It's him, the cursed blacksmith! Solokha, you do what you want, but you must hide me from this bastard son of yours. May he grow bags under his eyes the size of a haystack!”

Solokha, who at this point lost her cool, darted around the room and in her terror gestured to Chub to get into the sack that already contained the deacon, who somehow managed not to groan when the heavy Cossack settled on top of him, shoving his iced boots into the deacon's ears.

Vakula stomped inside and fell on his cot without taking off his hat. One could see that he was in a terrible mood. Just as Solokha was closing the door behind him, there was yet another knock, and the last of the deacon's would-be guests, Cossack Sverbyguz, announced his desire to see her. Since he was taller than Chub's
kum
and heavier than Chub, there wasn't the slightest chance of hiding him, so Solokha stepped out into the yard in order to hear what he had to say.

The blacksmith was glancing distractedly around his house, listening to the singing of the carolers outside and finally registering the presence of two enormous coal sacks. “Through this stupid love of mine I've completely lost my senses,” he thought. “Tomorrow's a holiday, and the house is full of rubbish. What are these coal sacks doing here? I should take them to the smithy,” and he squatted down to tighten the knots. He was too distracted to hear either Chub hiss with pain when his hair got caught in the knot or the village head's hiccup.

“Am I not going to forget that worthless Oksana?” he continued his lament. “Lord knows I'm trying. She just fills my head against my will. But look at these sacks—they feel heavier than before. Perhaps there's something else in them besides coal. But I forget—everything these days seems heavier. I used to bend coins with my fingers, and now I quiver in the wind. But enough: I won't let anyone mock me!” And he cheerfully hoisted the sacks, which would have been too much for two strong men. “And this little one I'll grab, too—I believe I put my tools in there.” He
reached for the sack that contained the devil and marched outside whistling a merry tune.

*   *   *

T
he streets grew lively. Small windows opened one by one, and old mothers tossed pieces of sausage or pie to the carolers, who tried to catch the treats with their sacks. A group of boys surrounded several girls; elsewhere the girls surrounded one of the boys and made him trip in the snow. The magical night glittered with all its crystals, and the crescent moon shone all the more brightly on the white snow.

The blacksmith halted—he thought he heard Oksana's laughter. Every one of his nerves tingled; he dropped the two larger sacks in the snow—the deacon groaned, the village head hiccupped—and pushed his way into the young crowd. “There she is, standing like a tsarina surrounded by courtiers. That good-looking guy is telling her something amusing, and she is laughing at his joke . . .” Without knowing what he was doing, he squeezed through the circle surrounding Oksana and stood at her side.

“Ah, Vakula,” she addressed him with the very smirk that made his knees buckle, “is this all you've earned with your carols?” and she pointed at the little sack containing the devil. “And what about my royal slippers? Don't forget, I'll marry you if you get them!” She laughed and ran off with her friends.

“No, I can't stand this any longer. Her eyes, her laugh—everything just burns me, burns me. I must put an end to this torture—farewell, my immortal soul; hello, the cold river.” With a decisive step Vakula approached Oksana. “Good-bye, Oksana. Find yourself a fiancé you want, torture anyone you want, you won't see me again in this life.” The beauty seemed taken aback and was about to say something, but Vakula just waved and walked off. “Where to, Vakula?” his friends shouted. “Farewell, friends. God willing, we'll see each other again in the next life. Tell Father Kondrat to pray for my sinful soul. Sorry I never had a chance to paint those candles! Give my things to the church. Farewell!”

“He's lost his mind,” the young men said. “Oh, the ruined soul,” an old woman passing by mumbled. “I must go tell everyone that the blacksmith has hanged
himself!”

Vakula ran a couple blocks, then stopped to catch his breath. “What's the hurry?” he thought. “There's one last thing left to try: Round Patziuk. They say he's familiar with all the devils and can do anything he pleases. What's the difference? My soul's lost anyway.” The delighted devil bounced up and down behind his back, but the blacksmith smoothed the sack with a hearty slap and strode off to Round Patziuk's.

This Patziuk had once belonged to the Zaporozhian Host, but whether he was expelled or left willingly no one knew. He had settled in Dikanka ten or fifteen years ago and at first lived like a true Zaporozhian: did nothing useful, slept three-quarters of the day, ate for six farmhands, and emptied a bucket of
horilka
at a time. There was room enough, it must be noted, for all that nourishment, for despite his short stature Patziuk was fantastically wide in girth. He also wore the widest
shalwar
in the village, so when he walked it was as though a wine barrel glided along the street. Days after his arrival it became known that Patziuk had a way with diseases and could cure anything just by whispering. Lately, though, he had stopped leaving the house, either because of his
exceptional laziness or because he could no longer squeeze through his door. Those in need of his services had to come to him.

Not without trepidation, Vakula opened the door. A remarkable sight met his eyes. Patziuk was sitting on the floor in front of a small barrel with a bowl of noodles on top and, without touching it, was slurping the broth and swallowing the noodles. “Well, well,” Vakula thought, “this one is even lazier than Chub—at least he eats with a spoon.” Vakula cleared his throat. “I have heard, dear Patziuk—please don't take this in anger—that, well, you are rather familiar with the devil.” Vakula paused here, half-expecting Patziuk to hurl the barrel with the noodles at his head and actually covering his face against the hot broth, but Patziuk only glanced at him and went back to his noodles. The emboldened blacksmith continued. “I came to you, Patziuk, may you prosper in every way and have enough of everything in proportion”—Vakula liked to use sophisticated words he'd picked up on his job in Poltava—“I came to you because nothing else helped me and you are my last resort. I'm in need, you see, of the devil's assistance. What should I do?”

“If you need the devil, you should go to the devil,” responded Patziuk without raising his head from the bowl.

“That's why I came to seek your favor,” and Vakula bowed again. “Except for you, no one seems to know the way.”

Patziuk continued with his slurping.

“I beg you, dear neighbor, don't deny me this. Anything you need—pork, sausage, buckwheat, cloth, or anything else, as is customary among good neighbors—just tell me. Would you approximately describe the way?”

“If a man carries the devil on his shoulders, he doesn't have far to go,” Patziuk said indifferently, without changing position. Vakula stared at him with his mouth open, as though ready to swallow the very first word of explanation like a noodle. But Patziuk said nothing else.

Suddenly Vakula noticed that the noodles and the barrel had disappeared and were replaced with two bowls, one with sour cream, the other with sweet dumplings. Despite his misery, Vakula was curious to see how lazy Patziuk would soak dumplings in sour
cream and then eat them without using his hands. At that moment Patziuk opened his mouth and looked at the top dumpling sternly, then opened his mouth wider. The dumpling jumped from the bowl into the sour cream, flipped, and flew straight into Patziuk's mouth—all he had to do was chew and swallow. One dumpling tapped the stunned blacksmith on the lips, coating them in sour cream. Knocking it away and wiping his mouth, Vakula reflected on the many wonders in life and the lengths to which the devil can take you—though remembering that the very same devil was his last hope. “I should pay my respects again,” he thought. “Maybe he'll agree to explain what he means . . . But what the hell's he doing? Tonight's Christmas Eve, and he's stuffing himself with cream . . . and here I am, tainting myself with sin!” And the devout blacksmith ran out of the house.

As soon as Vakula put down the sack, the devil, unable to contain his joy at capturing such a prize, jumped out of the sack and onto Vakula's shoulders.

Vakula's blood froze. He was about to make the sign of the cross, but the devil lowered his snout to Vakula's right ear and whispered sweetly, “Don't,
I'm
your friend, your only friend. I'll help you out—Oksana will be yours tonight.”

The blacksmith pondered this. “Agreed,” he said finally. “For this price I'll be yours.”

Delighted, the devil bounced up and down. I got him, he thought, I got him. Now all the caricatures will be paid for. He couldn't wait to see his colleagues' reaction when they found out he had ensnared the most devout Christian in the village. He giggled, imagining how he'd tease his tailed coworkers, especially one lame devil who fancied himself the first of tricksters.