and the birds and squirrels are busy. Breath hangs in the air on the bike ride to school. The sky has that nothingness-white, snow-crystal look to it. I’ve been reading Tolstoy’s The Cossacks, off in the ice-capped mountain lands near Grozny. It’s the Russian runaway’s Wild West, full of noble savages galloping into the forest and dancing peasant girls nibbling at pumpkin seeds. I can’t quite tell if Leo loves it or hates it as some silly myth-making, think I prefer Lermontov’s straight ripping yarn style, or getting lost in the blizzards of Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter. I’ve been reading to escape the carnage and calamity of current affairs – and the Caledonian crusher. And as you read, you learn new tips and truths. Next time I’m lost on the steppe, I’ll know how to find my way to the village. Daddy Eroshka shared his secrets with me over a cup of wine in a Cossack hut. You find a hillock to climb, cup your hands and howl like a wolf. Howl for all you’re worth. And the village dogs will start barking, way off in the distance, a call to guide you home.
