Lazhechnikov was rummaging through his shabby rags on the bunk as carefully and exactingly as he probably examined his horse’s harness or his fishing tackle back in Terek, while the Chechen quietly whispered with his fellow countrymen. From a distance, it seemed that they spoke not so much in words as in signs, gestures and quick grins of the mouth.
Vasilii Petrovich shook Artiom awake; immediately, they heard the singing of Moisei Solomonovich about a forest and a sparrow — clearly, he was inspired by the berry brigade.
“I envy you, Artiom, your heavy sleep,” said Vasilii Petroch, and his voice was cozy, as though it floated in from somewhere in childhood. “It’s even unclear to me, how they could have imprisoned such a young man, sleeping the sleep of the righteous in hades. Dinner, Art
