The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
children who have become adolescents, and snatches of long-finished conversation.
Your voice, Comrade Poet, our conversation, will remain here far
longer than you.”
At that point I thought he meant to kill me. Instead he clapped me on the
shoulder, walked me back to the tent, and stuck his head through the flap.
“Nei. You fat, lazy Yakut. Bring me that box, would you?”
“What box, Commandant?” Nei’s face, so broad, plain, and full of concern
when he found me wandering across the snow, had become a pointed
mask of obsequiousness and terror.
“The ivory one, the carved ivory box that holds your snuff. The one that I
told you I liked the last time I visited. The one you were rude enough not to
offer to me.”
“But, Commandant, that box belonged—”
A loud bang and a shower of sparks made both me and Nei jump; I even
fell backward, and when I looked up, I saw Zhensky holding a gun, from
which smoke poured in billows. He aimed the gun at, and seemed to have just
shot, a huge larch tree, which smoked prolifically. With a groan and an air of
resignation, half of the trunk collapsed to the earth, and as it did, the rest of
the tree—roots, branches, and all—toppled over in the other direction. Zhensky
laughed and turned to me: “They just explode, you know, in this weather.
If you try to chop them down for wood during the winter, sparks fly from the
trunk and the ax splinters in your hand. I had no idea I’d do that well,
though. Shallow roots.” He laughed again and holstered the gun, turning to
Nei. “I believe you were telling me why I can’t have that box I wanted.” Nei
scurried back into his tent—when he went in, I could see his wife and children
huddled in the far corner, crying—and came out carrying a small ivory
box, which he handed to Zhensky.
“The Yakuts, you know, traded with merchants in Novgorod before they
fell to the Golden Horde. Novgorodian merchants, in turn, received goods
from all over the world. Including, I presume, this lovely box. And since
nobody with any contact with the rest of the world ever comes out to this
godforsaken frozen land of shit hanging off the edge of the world, little
prizes like this tend to stay in families for a very long time. Look here, look at
this detailing. No Yakut could carve this, don’t you agree?
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