Chapter 22

In Verkhoyansk, a small town on the banks of the Yana River in northeastern Siberia, Russia—located within the Arctic Circle as one of the coldest regions in the Northern Hemisphere—there are no four seasons. Warmth is merely a fleeting visitor here, while biting cold is the permanent state of things. The town's population is sparse, and on a winter day this bitterly cold, even fewer people are seen on the streets. The tavern keeper wrapped himself in a coat, leaning close to the heater and yawning lazily. The wind today was truly bone-chilling. In such an icy, numbing weather, even the patrons in the tavern were few and far between. He was familiar with almost every customer in town; they were old friends who frequented the place to buy liquor. For Russians, the best companion in winter is undoubtedly vodka, and vodka was what the keeper sold the most, making him a good friend to them as well. Christmas had not yet arrived in Russia—Christmas according to the Julian calendar falls two weeks later than the Gregorian calendar—so the holiday was not far off. Everyone had long since bought enough food, clothes, and liquor. In weather this cold, only those who had to go to work would venture outside, and such people rarely came to buy wine at this hour.