The Golden Calf. Илья Ильф
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Kozlevich stopped the car and, still resisting, said glumly:
“I don’t have much gas.”
“Enough for thirty miles?”
“Enough for fifty.”
“In that case, there’s nothing to worry about. I have already informed you that I have no shortage of ideas and plans. Exactly forty miles from here, a large barrel of aviation fuel will be waiting for you right on the road. Do you fancy aviation fuel?”
“I do,” answered Kozlevich, blushing.
Life suddenly seemed easy and fun. He was prepared to go to Chernomorsk immediately.
“And this fuel,” continued Ostap, “will cost you absolutely nothing. Moreover, they’ll be begging you to take it.”
“What fuel?” whispered Balaganov. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Ostap disdainfully studied the orange freckles spread across his half-brother’s face and answered in an equally low voice:
“People who don’t read newspapers have no right to live. I’m sparing you only because I still hope to re-educate you.”
He did not explain the connection between reading newspapers and the large barrel of fuel allegedly sitting on the road.
“I now declare the grand Arbatov-Chernomorsk high-speed rally open,” said Ostap solemnly. “I appoint myself the captain of the rally. The driver of the vehicle will be . . . what’s your last name? Adam Kozlevich. Citizen Balaganov is confirmed as the rally mechanic, with additional duties as Girl Friday. One more thing, Kozlevich: you have to paint over this let’s ride! sign right away. We don’t need to attract any attention.”
Two hours later the car, with a freshly painted dark green spot on the side, slowly climbed out of the garage and drove through the streets of Arbatov for the last time. Adam’s eyes sparkled hopefully. Next to him sat Balaganov, who was diligently carrying out his role as the rally’s mechanic by thoroughly polishing the car’s brass with a piece of cloth. The captain of the rally sat behind them, leaning into the ruddy-colored seat and eyeing his staff with satisfaction.
“Adam!” he shouted over the engine’s rumble, “what’s your buggy’s name?”
“Lorraine-Dietrich,” answered Kozlevich.
“What kind of a name is that? A car, like a naval ship, ought to have a proper name. Your Lorraine-Dietrich is remarkably fast and incredibly graceful. I therefore propose to name it the Gnu Antelope. Any objections? Unanimous.”
The green Antelope, all of its parts creaking, sped down the outer lane of the Boulevard of Prodigies and flew out onto the market square.
An odd scene greeted the crew of the Antelope on the square. A man with a white goose under his arm was running from the square, in the direction of the highway. He held a hard straw hat on his head with his left hand, and he was being chased by a large howling crowd. The man glanced back frequently, and there was an expression of terror on his decent-looking actor’s face.
“That’s Panikovsky!” cried Balaganov.
“The second phase of stealing a goose,” remarked Ostap coldly. “The third phase comes after the culprit is apprehended. It is accompanied by painful blows.”
Panikovsky apparently knew that the third phase was coming. He was running as fast as he could. He was so frightened that he kept holding on to the goose, which irritated his pursuers to no end.
“Article 116,” recited Kozlevich from memory. “Covert or overt theft of large domestic animals from persons engaged in agriculture or animal husbandry.”
Balaganov burst out laughing. He loved the thought that the violator of the pact would finally receive his due punishment.
The car cut through the noisy crowd and drove onto the highway.
“Help me!” yelled out Panikovsky as the car caught up with him.
“Not today,” said Balaganov, hanging over the side.
The car shrouded Panikovsky with clouds of crimson dust.
“Take me with you!” screamed Panikovsky, desperately trying to keep up with the car. “I am good!”
The voices of the individual pursuers blended into a roar of disapproval.
“Shall we take the bastard?” enquired Ostap.
“No, don’t,” said Balaganov harshly, “that’ll teach him to break pacts.”
But Ostap had already made the decision.
“Drop the bird!” he yelled to Panikovsky; then he turned to the driver and added quietly, “Dead slow.”
Panikovsky immediately obeyed. The goose got up from the ground looking displeased, scratched itself, and started walking back to town as if nothing had happened.
“Get in,” invited Ostap. “What the hell. But don’t sin any more, or I’ll rip your arms out of their sockets.”
Panikovsky grabbed the edge of the car, then leaned into it and, beating the air with his legs, rolled himself inside, like a swimmer into a boat. He fell to the floor, his stiff cuffs knocking loudly.
“Full speed ahead,” ordered Ostap. “Our deliberations continue.”
Balaganov squeezed the rubber bulb, and the brass horn produced the cheerful strains of an old-fashioned Brazilian tango that cut off abruptly:
The Maxixe is fun to dance. Ta-ra-ta . . .
The Maxixe is fun to dance. Ta-ra-ta . . .
And the Antelope tore out into the wilderness, towards the barrel of aviation fuel.
Chapter 4
A Plain-Looking Suitcase
A man without a hat walked out of the small gate of building number sixteen, his head bowed. He wore gray canvas pants, leather sandals without socks, like a monk, and a white collarless shirt. Stepping onto the flat, bluish stones of the sidewalk, he stopped and said quietly to himself:
“Today is Friday. That means I have to go to the train station again.”
Having uttered these words, the man in sandals quickly looked over his shoulder. He had a hunch that a man, wearing the impenetrable expression of a spy, was standing behind him. But Lesser Tangential Street was completely empty.
The June morning was just beginning to take shape. Acacia trees were gently trembling and dropping cold metallic dew on the flat stones. Little birds were chirping some cheerful nonsense. The heavy molten sea blazed at the end of the street below, beyond the roofs. Young dogs, looking around sadly and making tapping sounds with their nails, were climbing onto trash cans. The hour of the street sweepers had ended, and the hour of the milk delivery women hadn’t started yet.
It was that time, between five and six in the morning, when the street sweepers, having swung their bristly brooms enough, returned to their shacks, and the city is light, clean, and quiet, like a state bank. At moments like this, one feels like crying and wants to believe that yogurt is indeed tastier and healthier than vodka. But one can already hear the distant rumble of the milk delivery women, who are getting off commuter trains with their cans. They will rush into the city and bicker with housewives at back doors. Factory workers with lunch bags will appear for a brief moment and then immediately disappear behind factory gates. Smoke will start billowing from the stacks. And then, jumping angrily on their night stands, myriad alarm clocks will start ringing their hearts out (those of the Paul Buhre brand a bit quieter, those from the Precision Mechanics State Trust a bit louder), and half-awake office workers will start bleating and falling off their high single beds. The hour of the milk delivery women will be over, and the hour of the office dwellers will begin.
But it was still early,