Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [86]
“You need something more than your uniform,” Volzhenko, who stood on the platform next to me, draped in a thick shearling coat, said. “Pelisses are suitable for winter most places, but here . . . ”
“Where . . . can I get a coat?” I stammered between my teeth that did a little tap-dance of their own.
“There’s a furrier near the station,” Volzhenko said. “Come, you’ll feel better once we’re walking.”
He was right to an extent—walking indeed sent blood coursing through my legs but only to remind me bitterly that I had toes, albeit numb, which would be ripe for frostbite. Not to mention the low fever that made my forehead burn, and the disparity made the rest of me even colder, if that was at all possible.
I did not ask where the rotmistr and the rest of their regiment went. I assumed they had better things to do than pass an entire day on the train, and I did not blame them.
It was indeed a new city, although the appellation of city was rather generous, considering its wide, empty streets lined with a few sparse, single-storied cottages. The dwellings themselves seemed aware of their own insufficient number and volume to create a proper street. The trees around the houses were cleared in fits and starts. While some blocks had a white and deserted appearance, others looked as if they were about to be swallowed by a dark-green wall of spruces and furs, sneaking up from behind. There were a few stores that appeared to be closed, and we passed a tavern that exhaled clouds of smoke from its chimney, and clouds of steam from its open door along with gusts of great laughter.
“We can stop by there if you want,” I said to Volzhenko as I noticed his long, forlorn look toward the tavern’s door.
“As soon as we get you dressed,” he agreed. “Or the rotmistr will kill me—he thinks you’ve fallen ill because of the cold and the wind.”
“And stop by the post office,” I reminded. I had already written a worried letter for Jack, and copied it several times to send to every city between Novonikolaevsk and Yekaterinburg.
“Of course. It’s by the furrier’s store.” Volzhenko pointed toward an especially dense stand of trees, before which the street stopped rather abruptly, like a small child who had run against a glass door and now stood disoriented and puzzled, ready to cry. “Both right over here.”
The furrier’s shop pressed against the tall skinny trunks of three black spruces, as if too shy to step away from their protective skirts. Trubkozub and Son announced the hand-painted sign. I studied it, momentarily forgetting the cold, puzzling at such an exotic name in such harsh environs—mysterious, like its namesake creature. It was rather strange to find a shop in Siberia owned by a man named after an African mammal; I tried to remember its name in English, so I could tell Jack later. Aardvark. A furrier shop named Aardvark and Son. I snorted and entered, followed closely by puzzled-looking Volzhenko.
What the shop lacked in stature and location, it made up in selection. There were skins, furs, and pelts from every animal that ever had the misfortune of meeting man, some already arranged into coats and hats, others were flattened caricatures of their former owners.
The man sitting on the counter, his thick legs folded under him, didn’t look up from his sewing—a curved needle in his fingers moved with the fluid grace of a boat as he made small careful stitches, joining forever two thick Arctic fox pelts, so smoky-gray they seemed blue in this light. I almost had to slap my own face to remind myself that I was Poruchik Menshov, a military young man from a military family, and it would not suit him to walk around in a coat clearly meant for a woman.
“He needs a coat,” Volzhenko said by the way of greeting. “Shearling