The Duck

Translation of Varlam Shalamov's story, original Russian here.

The mountain stream was gripped with ice. On the slopes the stream was already nonexistent. It froze up from the slopes and a month later, there was nothing left of the fearsome bubbling summer waters. Even the ice itself was pulverised, crushed and trod upon by hooves, tyres and boots. But the stream was still alive then, the water in it still breathed and white steam rose above the branches.

An exhausted diving duck dropped into the water with a splash. The flock had left for the south long ago - the duck remained. It was still light and snowy, being especially bright because the snow covered the entire naked forest to the horizon. The duck wanted to rest up a little and then then to fly following its flock.

She had no strength to fly. The immense weight of her wings bent her to the ground, but in the water she found support and salvation. The water seemed like a vibrant river to her.

But the duck barely had time to look around and have a breather before her delicate hearing sensed danger. Not a sound; a crash.

A man was descending from the snowy mountain with a jog. He tripped over the icy bumps on the ground that were still freezing over for the evening. He saw the duck long ago. He watched her with a hidden wish, and now the wish had come true - the duck descended onto the ice.

The man originally tried to creep up to the duck. However, he tripped and the duck noticed him - so he ran openly. The duck couldn't fly away - she was tired. She only needed to get off the ground. Then the worst he could do would be to issue angry threats. But to get into the sky she needed strength in her wings and she was too tired. She only managed to dive and disappear into the water through a hole in the ice. The man (armed with some heavy stick he picked up) waited for her at the hole. Surely the duck must breathe at some point!

Twenty metres away there was a second hole in the ice. The man, swearing, saw that the duck simply reemerged at the second hole. But even from there she couldn't fly. And she wasted time on having a break.

The man tried to break, to crush the ice - but his footwear wasn't adequate, being made of rags.

He beat the stick against the blue ice. The ice crumbled a bit but didn't break. His strength sapped, he sat on the ice while breathing heavily.

The duck still swam around in the second hole. The man ran, swearing again and throwing stones at her - she dived and came up at the first hole.

So they ran back and forth - the man and the duck - until it got dark. It was time to get back to the barracks from this unexpected, failed hunt. The man regretted wasting energy on this crazy chase. His hunger didn't let him consider things properly in advance and come up with a plan to outsmart the duck. The impatience of hunger hinted at a wrong path, a bad plan. The duck remained on the ice, in the hole. It was time to return.

The man was trying to catch the duck not to boil and eat it. A duck is meat, right? He could have boiled it in a large metal can or even better, buried it in the ashes of a fire. He could smear it with clay and bury it in the glowing purple ashes, or simply throw it into the fire. The fire would burn and the duck's clay shell would burst. The fat would flow onto his arms, coagulate around his mouth. No, this wasn't at all the reason he was after the duck. Hazily, as if through a fog, his brain concocted other plans. He would give the duck as a present to his supervisor-of-ten, and then the supervisor will strike him off the ominous list that was compiled at night. The list was known to everyone in the barracks, and the man tried not to think about the impossible, the unattainable - how to avoid the next work-stage and stay here in this 'retreat'. At least the hunger here was bearable, and the man never searched for something better on top of something good.

But the duck was at the hole in the ice. It was very hard for the man to have made the right decision, to do something for which his day-to-day life didn't prepare him. They didn't teach him how to chase after a duck. That's why his movements were skilless and pathetic. They didn't teach him to think about the possibility of such a hunt - his brain could not readily solve the unexpected problems life posed him. He was taught to live in a state where your own decisions are unnecessary, where someone else's will controls things. It's incredibly difficult to interfere in your own fate, to try to 'break' it. Maybe that's for the best - the duck dies on the ice, the man in his barrack.

His fingers, all scratched-up from the ice, barely warmed up next to his breast. He put both palms at his breast, shuddering at the gnawing pain of his permanently-frozen fingers. His hungry body contained no warmth. The man returned to his barrack, hustled up to the oven and still couldn't get warm. His body shook uncontrollably.

His supervisor-of-ten looked inside. He also saw the duck, saw the dead man hunting the dying duck. The supervisor-of-ten didn't want to leave this settlement either: who knew what would await him in a new place? He hoped with a generous gift - a live duck and civilian pants - to appease the heart of his own senior supervisor, who was still sleeping. When the senior supervisor would wake up, he could strike him off the list - him and not the man who caught the duck.

The senior supervisor was laying down. He softened the tobacco of the 'Rocket' brand cigarette in a familiar motion. Through the window, he too saw the start of the hunt. If the duck was caught, he'd order the carpenter to make a cage and take the duck to the big boss. Or rather, to the big boss's wife Agnia Petrovna. Then, the future of the senior supervisor would be provided for.

But the duck; she was dying back at the ice. And everything went on as if she had never even flown into this land.