would secretly take the dreams being dreamt by those next to the stove, and cover themselves in their warmth. Those whose dreams were stolen would wake up shivering, listen to the snores, mutters, moans and gnashing that broke the silence of the night, and wait for their eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. But no matter how carefully he looked, he couldn’t determine who the thief was. In any event, everyone here was more or less a thief.
Rancour spread insidiously like a disease, and because revenge waited like an animal in ambush for the right moment to strike, the gambling around the stove every evening would be the cause of vicious fights. Sometimes the fights would subside by themselves. Then, the game would be resumed where it had been left off. Because for the hunters a broken arm or a broken leg was worse than death. Sometimes, too, even the simplest argument could end in murder. But even so, the friends of the murdered man wouldn’t make too much of a fuss, because they preferred not to risk being crippled. In any event, everyone here was more or less a murderer.
The smell in these cabins was so heavy that it even covered those who were sleeping here for only one night. Even from the first days, the fur trappers who spent their nights in these cabins began to stare in the same way, at the same vanishing point. Far away, farther away than could be seen, the snow would be melting drop by drop. By the time the roads were clear, they’d long since finished making their preparations. The hunters would set out with the intense impatience that follows months of waiting; they would gather the tax the natives within the borders had to pay the Czar, and gifts for themselves. Natives who had never seen the Czar’s face or heard his name had to pay him a tax and had to give gifts to the hunters whose faces they didn’t like and whose names they couldn’t learn. If they didn’t, they faced heavy punishment. The fur hunters decided how far they would venture into the interior of Siberia.
In fact all of the hunters had come here with the intention of getting rich as quickly as possible and then going back. But now, with lands to be conquered lying naked and defenceless before them, they didn’t feel like going back to the cities of Russia where it was much more difficult to make a living. Every time they unloaded their sleds at the customs house and filled their money-bags, they turned around and dove once more into the whiteness, the solitude, the boundlessness. When there were fewer places left to discover, the yet undiscovered places increased steadily in value. Now everyone was coveting north-east Siberia. They said it was a paradise; a paradise of furs for the ambitious sons of poor mothers who had gone out into the world without ever having been wrapped in a fur. By 1630 the Cossacks had already set sail on the dark waters, having decided the north-east of Siberia could be reached by sea.
Their so-called boats were made of oak branches strapped together; they used no tar or nails. The sails were made of deer skin, and without a wind behind them they couldn’t continue their journey. The constantly shifting icebergs cut the leather straps and smashed the boats to pieces. The crew were constantly suffering from hunger, filth, and attacks of scurvy. Those who died were buried with their dreams, and the rest continued to nurture their dreams.
The sailors used to tell a variety of stories about Siberia. About ice formations that from afar resembled swords, glittering brightly as one approached, and about strange plants that were invisible when you were right next to them; plants that fed on the songs of insects, and that swallowed themselves when they couldn’t find the voice of an insect to suck. Mother-of-pearl mermaids who called out the name of each sailor’s mother from the tops of icebergs, the wonderful play of lights when ice-floes bade farewell to each other as they broke up, eye-fish who watched the
Rancour spread insidiously like a disease, and because revenge waited like an animal in ambush for the right moment to strike, the gambling around the stove every evening would be the cause of vicious fights. Sometimes the fights would subside by themselves. Then, the game would be resumed where it had been left off. Because for the hunters a broken arm or a broken leg was worse than death. Sometimes, too, even the simplest argument could end in murder. But even so, the friends of the murdered man wouldn’t make too much of a fuss, because they preferred not to risk being crippled. In any event, everyone here was more or less a murderer.
The smell in these cabins was so heavy that it even covered those who were sleeping here for only one night. Even from the first days, the fur trappers who spent their nights in these cabins began to stare in the same way, at the same vanishing point. Far away, farther away than could be seen, the snow would be melting drop by drop. By the time the roads were clear, they’d long since finished making their preparations. The hunters would set out with the intense impatience that follows months of waiting; they would gather the tax the natives within the borders had to pay the Czar, and gifts for themselves. Natives who had never seen the Czar’s face or heard his name had to pay him a tax and had to give gifts to the hunters whose faces they didn’t like and whose names they couldn’t learn. If they didn’t, they faced heavy punishment. The fur hunters decided how far they would venture into the interior of Siberia.
In fact all of the hunters had come here with the intention of getting rich as quickly as possible and then going back. But now, with lands to be conquered lying naked and defenceless before them, they didn’t feel like going back to the cities of Russia where it was much more difficult to make a living. Every time they unloaded their sleds at the customs house and filled their money-bags, they turned around and dove once more into the whiteness, the solitude, the boundlessness. When there were fewer places left to discover, the yet undiscovered places increased steadily in value. Now everyone was coveting north-east Siberia. They said it was a paradise; a paradise of furs for the ambitious sons of poor mothers who had gone out into the world without ever having been wrapped in a fur. By 1630 the Cossacks had already set sail on the dark waters, having decided the north-east of Siberia could be reached by sea.
Their so-called boats were made of oak branches strapped together; they used no tar or nails. The sails were made of deer skin, and without a wind behind them they couldn’t continue their journey. The constantly shifting icebergs cut the leather straps and smashed the boats to pieces. The crew were constantly suffering from hunger, filth, and attacks of scurvy. Those who died were buried with their dreams, and the rest continued to nurture their dreams.
The sailors used to tell a variety of stories about Siberia. About ice formations that from afar resembled swords, glittering brightly as one approached, and about strange plants that were invisible when you were right next to them; plants that fed on the songs of insects, and that swallowed themselves when they couldn’t find the voice of an insect to suck. Mother-of-pearl mermaids who called out the name of each sailor’s mother from the tops of icebergs, the wonderful play of lights when ice-floes bade farewell to each other as they broke up, eye-fish who watched the
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