"THE BLACK FEATHER ON THE HOOD": THE STORY OF A HAUL THAT WENT WRONG FROM THE START
For twenty years, I've been laughing at those who cross the steering wheel and don't whistle in the cabin. That October of 2013, "Gangnam Style" was playing on the radio, and I was loading my Magnum in the rain in Ufa. Akim shoved a black feather through my window. He quietly said, "I took it off the hood. Don't drive, Denis." I threw the feather into a puddle. A hundred kilometers later, it was back under the windshield wiper. And I didn't know it was just the beginning.
My name is Denis Korchagin. Forty-four years, twenty of them behind the wheel. I have an analytical mind and a firm belief that everything in this world has a logical explanation. I don't wear an icon on the dashboard. I don't spit over my shoulder. I count diesel fuel consumption, not superstitions.
If something breaks, there's a reason. A bolt, wear, metal, pressure. This is how I live. It's more peaceful.
The carrier's base was on the outskirts of Ufa, right at the exit to the M5 highway. A gray hangar, wet concrete, two puddles across the yard that hadn't dried up since September. Early twilight. It had been raining since lunchtime—a fine, icy, nasty rain. The kind that didn't pour, but dribbled. My jacket was swelling right on my shoulders.
It squelched underfoot. The concrete was potholed, each one filled with black water and a rainbow film of diesel fuel. There was a smell of wet iron, exhaust, and rotting leaves from the ditch behind the fence. A whiff of rotten cardboard wafted from somewhere. An ordinary yard. I've seen a thousand of these yards in twenty years.
My car is a 2004 Renault Magnum. Dark blue awning, recently overhauled. The body is battered, but honest. I knew every problem with it. I knew where the leaks were, where the rattles were, where they needed tightening. The cabin smelled of old coffee, heated plastic, and a hint of diesel fuel from under the floor. It smelled like home, honestly.
Tall, heavy, reliable. I bought it with almost a million on the odometer, paid it back in two years, and invested everything I had into the capital. It fed me. I took care of it. Almost everything.
It was a good trip. Ufa to Samara, cargo according to invoices, surcharge for rush delivery. Unloading by ten in the morning. The money was decent. I hung on for that trip with all my might—the mortgage wouldn't pay for itself. My wife, Marinka, packed a thermos that morning and said just one phrase: "Drive carefully." And then a pause, in which she wanted to say something else. I knew that trick of hers by heart.
She's always like that. She'll say something short, and in the pause, a whole conversation. "You should give up this business." "Your back is sore." "Your daughter sees you on weekends." I've learned not to interfere during this pause. I tucked the thermos under my arm, kissed her temple, and left. It's easier for both of us this way.
Boxes were being loaded—two hundred and forty pieces, household items, paper, nothing heavy. The storekeeper slapped stamps, yawned, and jabbed a pen at the boxes. I counted the boxes in rows, estimating the places with my eyes, out of habit developed over twenty years. It's impossible to lose track. Any shortfall is your money.
The forklift rumbled, backed up with a nasty squeak, and dropped pieces of cardboard into a puddle. The storekeeper was wearing a wet cap, the peak hanging down, dripping onto his invoices. He cursed under his breath and cupped his hand under the papers. I stood at the edge, counting, nodding. Two hundred and forty. It clicked.
Akim showed up at the gate, as usual—as if he'd stepped out of the wall. Our dispatcher. Fifty-eight years old, with a face like a baked apple and a habit of speaking in proverbs. People are superstitious, and he's the most so. He had a sign for everything. For every sneeze, his own.
For as long as I knew him—eight years—he never once went out into the yard to grumble without a reason. The moon was wrong, a bird had set the wrong way, someone had spilled salt in the supply room. The men laughed at him good-naturedly, but they followed his schedule and set their dates by his words. But I didn't.