The Bigger Man

"They've probably already left us," he says.

"They'll wait," the other one says.

They walk through the snow covered forest, up the hill where tall pines stand covered in cake frosting. They've been walking a long time now. The air is cold and quiet except for the crunching of snow under their feet and the sound of their white breath. The larger one's face is red and numb. Early winter winds in Russia are fierce and full of novocaine.

"We were supposed to be there an hour ago," the smaller one says, "they've probably already gone."

The bigger one says nothing.

All around them are frozen trees and white ice that shimmers in the midday sun. Last night they ate too much, drank too much wine, slept too little and too late. Isn't it always that way?

"My head is killing me. Do you have the water?"

"You have your own."

"I drank it."

"We are almost there. You can have water once we arrive."

"If we are almost there then why does it matter if I wait?"

"Because this water is mine."

The smaller one glares resentfully as they march on. The sky gives little cover from the sun this time of day, and although it is freezing cold, they are frostbitten and sunburned. The snow brightens the light, doubles the dawn. Overhead a wandering waxwing flies like a thrown snowball from tree to tree, sending small explosions of powder as it goes. The bigger one thinks back to the night before, to dinner and the party. He sees her face, her eyes, her smile, the softness of her hair, the cut of her dress.

"Where are you going," she'd asked him when they came in. He'd gotten her to sit with him alone at a table.

"On an expedition," he'd said.

The smaller one was at the bar, already half drunk, talking loudly and laughing with the men there. The larger one could see him turning back over his shoulder to look at him as he talked to the girl.

"Oh," she'd said with interest, "to where?"

"Ah, it's nothing," he said modestly.

"No, I am curious," she said, "please, tell me."

"The Ural mountains."

Again the smaller man turned. He had a curious look in his eye. The larger one watched a wave of crooked courage spread across the little one's lips, creating a flippant, roguish grin.

"The Ural mountains," she said, surprised, "that is very far from here!" As the woman spoke the smaller one was already within earshot, walking stridently toward their table.

"Not far for us," the smaller one said as he sat down, "we've done it before. Twice."

"My, that's something. Just the two of you?"

"No," the smaller one said as the larger one opened his mouth to speak, "we're meeting the rest of the pack tomorrow."

"Pack," she said laughing, "you speak as though you were wolves."

The smaller one howled, showing his drunken, wine stained teeth.

She laughed and was no longer looking at the larger man. She went with the smaller one to the bar for more drinks.

He sat alone and watched them dance and laugh. He knew leaving too quickly would reveal his jealousy and make him look small, so he stayed. When his concern for appearances wore off he'd gone to his room. He'd replaced the wine with brandy and smoked an ashtray full of cigarettes before going to bed.

In the distance, perhaps a kilometer away, a large green building sits on top of a snowy embankment.

"C'mon, we are nearly there, let me have a drink of that water," the smaller one says.

"No."

"C'mon, we are a team, bratán."

"A pack, bratán," he says coldly.

After pausing, the little one asks, "this isn't about last night is it?"

"What about last night."

"The girl. You are upset about the girl."

"No."

"Then what?"

"I am teaching you a lesson about responsibility, self-reliance. I am doing it for you."

"You are teaching me a lesson about your selfishness."

The bigger one says nothing and keeps on walking. He takes out his canteen, takes a big drink, then puts it away.