world from beneath the icebergs, and whose presence was never felt if they weren’t trapped, repulsive reptiles who climbed onto the ship and gnawed at the noses of the sailors. Primitive natives whose heads looked as if they might roll off at any moment because they had no necks, and whose sex was impossible to distinguish…
There was a man in one of the ships sailing to north-east Siberia. His name was Timofei Ankidinov. He was a sable trapper, like hundreds of others. He wouldn’t listen to the stories the sailors told. He only cared about one legend: Pogicha!
The legendary Pogicha River was beautiful enough to believe in and more beautiful when believed in. It would smile delicately after a fog like the fading face of a lost lover. It was always far away, eternally far away. As one approached it, it drew further away. Those who arrived in north-east Siberia, scattering sable carcasses that wouldn’t fit into their sleds behind them was they went, swore that they wouldn’t return until they’d heard the roar of the Pogicha River. And perhaps once they arrived, they wouldn’t want to return. There had to be thousands of sable wandering the banks of the Pogicha River, with their coal-black eyes and their coal-black enchantment. There were paths lined with walrus tusks leading to hollows full of emeralds. The waters of the Pogicha were quite warm, in places to the point of boiling. The waters of the Pogicha were restorative, and it was enough to bathe in them once to cure all wounds. After flowing warmly and gently, the waters emptied into a placid lake. The lake glittered brightly from a distance, and its bed was full of enormous pearls. The shadow of a mountain that seemed far by day and near by night was constantly on the surface of the lake. From time to time, silver boulders rolled off the mountain. When two silver boulders collided, it would rain on the lake. The drops would leave phosphorous stains behind them. Isolated from the rest of the world, the rain would write aimless poems on the Pogicha.
Timofei Ankidinov sincerely believed everything that was told about the Pogicha. He didn’t simply believe that the Pogicha existed; he believed it existed for him alone, and was waiting for him. Timofei Ankidinov was a sable trapper, like hundreds of others. He believed that, as his life had been so bland, and as his face was of a type that was so average and left so little trace on the memory, and as since birth he had had to wear himself out simply to be noticed by others; of everyone on the face of the earth, of every member of the human race, no one had more right than he did to see the Pogicha. He was so caught up in the legend that he referred to the Pogicha as ‘my elegant lady’, and whenever anyone else mentioned the name, and he saw that they were nursing dreams about it, he went mad with anger. The legend was promised to him and to him alone.
Indeed it was for this reason that even when the ship in which he had travelled for weeks was sinking into the dark waters he knew he wouldn’t die. He was so sure he wouldn’t die before he found the Pogicha that he didn’t even struggle to swim to the shore. He was waiting for a magical hand to reach out from among the ice floes and pull him out. When he finally reached the shore, he encountered one of the sailors from the ship. The two men, as a consequence of having emerged unscathed from a terrible accident, embraced each other and kissed each other’s cheeks with shame and delight and turned to look at the sea with surprise; where not long before a black whirlpool had been sucking down the wreckage, white bubbles were now being thrown up with the remains of the wreckage.
Meanwhile, blood from the wound on the sailor’s head was filling his eyes, and lumps of black, clotted blood were forming in his hair. Nevertheless, the sailor didn’t seem to be in a state to feel pain. With a sweet smile on his face, he was looking at the sea. A wave with a
There was a man in one of the ships sailing to north-east Siberia. His name was Timofei Ankidinov. He was a sable trapper, like hundreds of others. He wouldn’t listen to the stories the sailors told. He only cared about one legend: Pogicha!
The legendary Pogicha River was beautiful enough to believe in and more beautiful when believed in. It would smile delicately after a fog like the fading face of a lost lover. It was always far away, eternally far away. As one approached it, it drew further away. Those who arrived in north-east Siberia, scattering sable carcasses that wouldn’t fit into their sleds behind them was they went, swore that they wouldn’t return until they’d heard the roar of the Pogicha River. And perhaps once they arrived, they wouldn’t want to return. There had to be thousands of sable wandering the banks of the Pogicha River, with their coal-black eyes and their coal-black enchantment. There were paths lined with walrus tusks leading to hollows full of emeralds. The waters of the Pogicha were quite warm, in places to the point of boiling. The waters of the Pogicha were restorative, and it was enough to bathe in them once to cure all wounds. After flowing warmly and gently, the waters emptied into a placid lake. The lake glittered brightly from a distance, and its bed was full of enormous pearls. The shadow of a mountain that seemed far by day and near by night was constantly on the surface of the lake. From time to time, silver boulders rolled off the mountain. When two silver boulders collided, it would rain on the lake. The drops would leave phosphorous stains behind them. Isolated from the rest of the world, the rain would write aimless poems on the Pogicha.
Timofei Ankidinov sincerely believed everything that was told about the Pogicha. He didn’t simply believe that the Pogicha existed; he believed it existed for him alone, and was waiting for him. Timofei Ankidinov was a sable trapper, like hundreds of others. He believed that, as his life had been so bland, and as his face was of a type that was so average and left so little trace on the memory, and as since birth he had had to wear himself out simply to be noticed by others; of everyone on the face of the earth, of every member of the human race, no one had more right than he did to see the Pogicha. He was so caught up in the legend that he referred to the Pogicha as ‘my elegant lady’, and whenever anyone else mentioned the name, and he saw that they were nursing dreams about it, he went mad with anger. The legend was promised to him and to him alone.
Indeed it was for this reason that even when the ship in which he had travelled for weeks was sinking into the dark waters he knew he wouldn’t die. He was so sure he wouldn’t die before he found the Pogicha that he didn’t even struggle to swim to the shore. He was waiting for a magical hand to reach out from among the ice floes and pull him out. When he finally reached the shore, he encountered one of the sailors from the ship. The two men, as a consequence of having emerged unscathed from a terrible accident, embraced each other and kissed each other’s cheeks with shame and delight and turned to look at the sea with surprise; where not long before a black whirlpool had been sucking down the wreckage, white bubbles were now being thrown up with the remains of the wreckage.
Meanwhile, blood from the wound on the sailor’s head was filling his eyes, and lumps of black, clotted blood were forming in his hair. Nevertheless, the sailor didn’t seem to be in a state to feel pain. With a sweet smile on his face, he was looking at the sea. A wave with a
Similar Books
