He had gotten a little warmer as he ran.
On his sole, the horse’s manure was drying.
The bloody mush on his face dried up finally, helped along by the wind. If he smiled, an entire piece of red-black whitewash would fall off at once. He smiled.
“… If the saints… under their whitewash… knew how to smile,” thought Artiom in the rolling quickness of the cart, “maybe… also… their faces… would be more easily seen…”
In the hazy heat of May or June, the monastery at Solovki, when you approached, could resemble a font for washing children. In October, under the steely, smoky sky, it now looked like a smoky kitchen range, covered in dirty, black pots and pans — what they’re cooking there, who knows?
Maybe human flesh.
From the St Nicholas gates, Artiom continued on foot — in the paper, it was
