Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [87]
The man on the counter—whom I guessed to be Trubkozub the elder—looked up with his small beady eyes, which clearly longed to be together, but were prevented from achieving unity only by Trubkozub’s large bulbous nose of strangely beautiful lilac hue. “Can help you with that,” he said. And yelled, addressing someone hidden behind the curtain of tails, paws, and snouts with glass eyes, “Hey, Petro! Take your thumbs out of your ass, and come help the customer.” He gave me an apologetic, yet tender smile. “Kids. You know how they are.”
I nodded, hoping that his supposition regarding Trubkozub Junior’s thumbs’ whereabouts was nothing more than speculation, and feeling otherwise ignorant of ways of furriers’ children.
Thankfully, Petro appeared—a small, square boy of maybe fourteen, and seemingly Trubkozub to the bone: he did not waste words but indicated with a brief toss of his flaxen curls that I was to follow him to the back of the shop, where, behind the curtain of various pelts and half-finished hats, there hung a few shearling coats, short and long, as well as some especially warm looking boots, mittens, and hats—all tailored with the fur in, and all originating from sheep rather some more exotic and adorable creatures. Then again, those were probably reserved for women, and I sighed, appalled at my loss of femininity anew.
Petro chose a coat that appeared quite bulky but fit beautifully over my uniform. He then found me a pair of very furry large boots that not only fit over my existing ones, but also went all the way up my legs, secured with belts and buckles, keeping my lower limbs warmer than any woolen trousers or stockings in the world could. Mittens and a hat seemed an unnecessary luxury, a bonus I was grateful for but could have done without. A few moments in Petro’s care transformed Siberia from a place of abject terror to something tolerable.
I paid Trubkozub Senior and thanked both Aardvarks profusely; I considered asking about the origin of their name but decided it would be an imposition. Instead, I said, “You wouldn’t happen to know when the post office is open, would you?”
Trubkozub the elder nodded. “It’s open when I open it,” he said solemnly. “We used to have a postmaster, but the winters here proved to be too much for him, so he left. Brave man, he put up with the mosquitoes and the drought, but the winter got to him. Feel like howling, he kept saying. Left after the second winter, took the first train west, and never heard from him again. I’m the postmaster now.” He put on his hat, made of the fur of a wolverine or some other menacing beast, and tossed aside the tangle of furs he had been sewing. “Petro,” he said. “Mind the store. If the Chinamen come again, you tell them that it’s five per pelt and not a penny less. I’ll take a few bolts of silk in barter, but very few.”
My heart fluttered and then settled, expecting unavoidable disappointment. “Chinamen fur traders?” I asked. “Do they come by often?”
“Not in winter,” Trubkozub the elder answered as he wrestled his thick arms into the sleeves of his voluminous coat. “These two showed up yesterday, on a train going back to China. What they were doing so far west, who knows. The strange thing is, they still have a lot of their silk and tea with them. Why didn’t they trade it all for pelts, I ask you? And why did they have to go west then back here, hmm?”
“Who knows other people’s business?” I answered with as indifferent a shrug as I could manage. “Only I think I met those two before, on the train—I should probably say hello to them.”
“That won’t be difficult,” said Trubkozub as he headed out the door, the keys on a heavy iron ring clinking like icicles. “They’ll either be here, haggling over nothing, or at the tavern, where the rest of you hussars are drinking now. The cook there is a Chinaman too, a good cook. Makes those Chinese pelmeni, calls them pot stickers—very much recommend them, young men. Try them when you join the rest of your army or regiment or whatever they call it nowadays.