“Normal tourists run around Moscow, buying handmade wooden bowls in gift shops. But these two broke away and went driving around the back-roads.”
“That’s commendable,” said Ostap. “America’s billionaires are learning about life in the new Soviet countryside.”
The two citizens of Chicago looked on sedately as their car was being repaired. They wore silvery hats, frozen starched collars, and red matte shoes.
The interpreter looked at Ostap indignantly and blurted out:
“Yeah, right! Like they need your new countryside! They need the country moonshine, not the countryside!”
Hearing the word “moonshine,” which the interpreter had stressed, the two gentlemen looked around nervously and edged closer.
“See!” said the interpreter. “Just hearing the word gets them all excited.”
“Interesting. There’s a mystery here,” said Ostap. “I don’t understand why one would want moonshine when our native land offers such a large selection of superb hard liquors.”
“This is much simpler than you think,” said the interpreter. “They’re just searching for a decent moonshine recipe.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Ostap. “Prohibition! I get it now… So have you found a recipe? Of course not. You might as well have shown up in a three-car motorcade! Obviously, people think you’re officials. I can assure you that you’ll never find a recipe this way.”
The interpreter began to complain about the foreigners again.
“You won’t believe it, but they’ve even started pestering me: ‘Just tell us the secret of the moonshine!’ For God’s sake, I’m not a moonshiner. I’m a member of the education workers’ union. I have an elderly mother in Moscow.”
“And how badly do you want to go back to Moscow? To be with your mother?”
The interpreter sighed dejectedly.
“In that case, our deliberations continue,” declared Ostap. “How much will your bosses pay for a recipe? 150, perhaps?”
“They’ll pay two hundred,” whispered the interpreter. “Do you really have a recipe?”
“I can give it to you this very moment – I mean, the moment I get the money. Made from anything you want: potatoes, wheat, apricots, barley, mulberry, buckwheat. One can even brew moonshine from an ordinary chair. Some people enjoy the chair brew. Or you can have a simple raisin or plum brew. In other words, any of the 150 kinds of moonshine known to me.”
Ostap was introduced to the Americans. Their politely raised hats floated in the air for a long time. Then they got down to business. The Americans chose the wheat moonshine – the simplicity of the brewing process appealed to them. They painstakingly recorded the recipe in their notebooks. As a bonus, Ostap sketched out a design for a compact still that could be hidden in an office desk. The seekers assured Ostap that, given American technology, making such a still would be a breeze. For his part, Ostap assured the Americans that the device he described would produce two gallons of beautiful, fragrant pervach per day.
“Oh!” cried the Americans.
They had already heard this word in a very respectable home in Chicago, where pervach was highly recommended. The man of the house had been in Archangel, with the American expeditionary force. He drank pervach there and never forgot the alluring sensation that it gave him.
On the lips of the enchanted tourists, the crude word pervach sounded both tender and enticing.
The Americans easily parted with two hundred rubles and endlessly shook Bender’s hand. Panikovsky and Balaganov also got to shake hands with the citizens of the transatlantic republic, who had been suffering under Prohibition for so long. The interpreter was thrilled; he pecked Ostap on his cheek and invited him to stop by, adding that his elderly mother would be delighted. For some reason, however, he neglected to give his address.
The new friends climbed into their respective cars. Kozlevich played a farewell maxixe, and to the accompaniment of these cheerful sounds, the cars flew off in opposite directions.
“See,” said Ostap when the American car disappeared in a cloud of dust, “everything happened just like I told you. We were driving. Money was lying on the road. I picked it up. Look, it didn’t even get dusty.” And he crackled the stack of bills in his hand. “Actually, this isn’t much to brag about, a trivial job. But it was clean and honest, that’s what counts. Two hundred rubles in five minutes. And not only did I not break the law, I even did some good. I provided the crew of the Antelope with financial backing. The elderly mother is getting her son the interpreter back. And finally, I quenched the spiritual thirst of the citizens of a country that does, after all, maintain trade relations with us.”
It was almost time for lunch. Ostap immersed himself in the rally map that he had torn out of an automotive magazine and announced the upcoming town of Luchansk.
“The town is very small,” said Bender, “that’s not good. The smaller the town, the longer the welcoming speeches. So let’s ask our amiable hosts to give us lunch for starters and speeches for the second course. In the intermission, I will equip you with more appropriate gear. Panikovsky! You are beginning to neglect your duties. Return the banner to its original position.”
Kozlevich, who had become an expert in spectacular finales, brought the car to a dramatic halt right in front of the reviewing stand. Bender kept his remarks very short. They arranged to postpone the ceremonies for two hours. Fortified by a free lunch, the motorists were in high spirits, and they headed for a clothing store. They were surrounded by the curious. The Antelopeans carried the sweet burden of their new-found fame with dignity. They walked in the middle of the street, holding hands and swaying like sailors in a foreign port. The red-headed Balaganov, looking every inch the young boatswain, broke into a seaman’s song.
The store that sold clothing “For men, ladies, and children” was located under an enormous sign that covered the entire façade of the two-story building. The sign showed dozens of figures: yellow-faced men with pencil mustaches wearing winter coats whose open flaps revealed fitch-fur lining, women with muffs in their hands, short-legged children in little sailors’ suits, Young Communist League girls in red kerchiefs, and gloomy industrial managers sinking up to their hips in large felt boots.
All this splendor was ruined by a small hand-made sign on the front door:
OUT OF TROUSERS
“Ugh, how vulgar,” said Ostap, entering the store. “I can see that I’m in the provinces. Why don’t they say, ‘Out of trousers,’ like they do in Moscow? That would be proper and decent. The customers would go home satisfied.”
They didn’t spend much time in the store. For Balaganov, they found a canary yellow cowboy shirt with large checks and a Stetson hat with vent holes. Kozlevich got his calfskin cap, as promised, but had to settle for a black calfskin jacket, which shined like pressed caviar. Outfitting Panikovsky took much longer. They had to forget about the long pastor’s coat and the fedora, which Bender thought would give the violator of the pact a more refined look. The store’s only alternative was a fireman’s dress uniform: a jacket with golden pumps on its collar patches, fuzzy wool-blend pants, and a cap with a blue strap. Panikovsky jumped around in front of the wavy mirror for a long time.
“I don’t understand why you don’t like the fireman’s uniform,” said Ostap. “It’s certainly better than the exiled king outfit that you’re wearing now. Come now, turn around, my boy! Excellent! Let me tell you, this suits you much better than the coat and hat that I had in mind for you.”
They went outside in their new outfits.
“Me, I need a tuxedo,” said Ostap, “but they didn’t have any. Oh well, some other time.”
Ostap opened the ceremonies in a great mood, unaware of the storm that was gathering over the Antelopeans’ heads. He was witty; he told funny driving stories and Jewish jokes. The public loved him. The final portion of his speech was devoted to the analysis of pressing automobile-related issues. “The car,” he boomed, “is not a luxury but…” At that point he noticed a boy run up to the chairman of the welcoming committee and hand him a telegram. While still uttering the words “not a luxury but a means of transportation,” Ostap leaned to the left and glanced at the telegram over the chairman’s shoulder. What he read startled him. He had thought they had one more day. The long list of towns and villages where the Antelope had misappropriated materials and funds flashed through his mind.
The chairman was still wiggling his mustache, trying to digest the message, when Ostap jumped off the stand in mid-sentence and started making his way through the crowd. The green Antelope was waiting at the intersection. Fortunately, the other passengers were already in their seats. Bored, they were waiting for the moment when Ostap would order them to haul the town’s offerings into the car. This usually happened after the ceremonies.
When the chairman finally grasped what the telegram was saying, he raised his eyes only to see the captain of the rally running away.
“They’re con artists!” he shouted in agony.
He had spent the whole night preparing his welcoming speech, and now his writer’s ego was wounded.
“Hold them, guys!”
The chairman’s shrieking reached the ears of the Antelopeans. They began fussing nervously. Kozlevich started the engine and leapt into his seat. The car jumped forward without waiting for Ostap. In their great hurry, the Antelopeans didn’t even realize they were abandoning their captain to grave danger.
“Stop!” yelled Ostap, making giant leaps. “I’ll get you! You’re all fired!”
“Stop!” yelled the chairman.
“Stop, you bonehead!” Balaganov yelled at Kozlevich. “Can’t you see we’ve lost the chief?”
Adam hit the brakes, and the Antelope screeched to a halt. The captain lunged into the car and screamed, “Full speed ahead!” Despite his open-minded and cool-headed nature, he hated the idea of physical reprisal. In a panic, Kozlevich jumped into third gear and the car jerked forward, forcing a door open and throwing Balaganov to the ground. All this happened in a flash. While Kozlevich was braking again, the shadow of the approaching crowd was already falling on Balaganov. Huge hands were already stretching out to grab him, but then the Antelope crept back in reverse, and the captain’s steely hand seized him by his cowboy shirt.
“Full speed!” screamed Ostap.
And that’s when the citizens of Luchansk understood the advantages of automotive transport for the first time. The car rattled away, delivering the four lawbreakers from their well-deserved punishment.
For the first mile, they just breathed heavily. Balaganov, who valued his good looks, examined the red scratches left by the fall with the help of a pocket mirror. Panikovsky was shaking in his fireman’s uniform. He feared the captain’s retribution, and it came promptly.
“Did you tell the driver to take off before I could get in?” asked the captain harshly.
“I swear…” began Panikovsky.
“Don’t deny it! It’s all your doing. So you’re a coward on top of everything else? I’m in the company of a thief and a coward? Fine! I am demoting you. You were a fire chief in my eyes, but from now on, you’re just a simple fireman.”
And Ostap solemnly tore the golden pumps off of Panikovsky’s red collar patches.
After this procedure, Ostap apprised his companions of the contents of the telegram.
“We’re in trouble. The telegram says to seize the green car that’s running ahead of the rally. We need to get off to the side somewhere right away. Enough of the triumphs, palm branches, and free dinners cooked with cheap oil. This idea has outlived itself. Our only option is to turn off onto the Griazhsk Road. But that’s still three hours away. And I’m sure that a very warm welcome will be awaiting us in every town between here and there. This blasted telegraph has planted its stupid wired posts all over the place.”
The captain was right.
The Antelopeans never learned the name of the next small town they encountered, but they wished they had, so that they could curse it from time to time. At the town line, the road was blocked with a heavy log. The Antelope turned and, like a blind puppy, started poking around with its nose, looking for a detour. But there wasn’t any.
“Let’s turn back!” said Ostap, becoming very serious.
And suddenly the impostors heard a very distant, mosquito-like buzz. This must have been the cars of the real rally. There was no way back, so the Antelopeans rushed forward again.
Kozlevich frowned and raced the Antelope toward the log. The people standing around it rushed aside, fearing a wreck. But Kozlevich decelerated abruptly and slowly climbed over the obstacle. The passers-by grumbled and cursed the passengers as the Antelope drove through town, but Ostap kept quiet.
The Antelope was approaching the Griazhsk Road, and the rumble of the still invisible cars grew stronger and stronger. The moment they turned off the damned highway, hiding the car behind a small hill in the falling darkness, they heard the bursts and the firing of the engines. The lead car appeared in the beams of light. The con artists hid in the grass on the side of the road and, suddenly losing their usual arrogance, quietly watched the passing motorcade.
Banners of blinding light flapped over the road. The cars creaked softly as they passed the crushed Antelopeans. Dust flew from under the wheels. Electric horns howled. The wind blew in all directions. It was over in a minute, and only the ruby taillights of the last car danced and jumped in the dark for a long time.
Real life flew by, trumpeting joyously and flashing its glossy fenders. All that was left for the adventurers was a tail of exhaust fumes. They sat in the grass for a long while, sneezing and dusting themselves off.
“Yes,” said Ostap, “now even I see that the car is not a luxury but a means of transportation. Aren’t you jealous, Balaganov? I am.”
Chapter 8. An artistic crisis
Some time after 3 A.M., the hounded Antelope stopped at the edge of a bluff. An unfamiliar city lay below, neatly sliced, like a cake on a platter. Multicolored morning mists swirled above it. The dismounted Antelopeans thought they heard a distant crackling and an ever so slight whistling. This must have been the citizens snoring. A jagged forest bordered the city. The road looped down from the bluff.
“A valley from heaven,” said Ostap. “It’s nice to plunder cities like this early in the morning, before the sun starts blazing. It’s less tiring.”
“It is early morning right now,” observed Panikovsky, looking fawningly into the captain’s eyes.
“Quiet, Goldilocks!” exploded Ostap. “You’re such a restless old man! No sense of humor whatsoever.”
“What are we going to do with the Antelope?” asked Kozlevich.
“A good point,” replied Ostap, “we can’t drive this green washtub into the city under the circumstances. They’d put us in jail. We’re going to have to follow the lead of the most advanced nations. In Rio de Janeiro, for example, stolen cars are repainted a different color. This is done for purely humanitarian reasons, so that the previous owner doesn’t get upset when he sees a stranger driving his car. The Antelope has acquired a dicey reputation; it needs to be repainted.”
They decided to enter the city on foot and find some paint, leaving the car in a safe place outside the city limits.
Ostap walked briskly down the road along the edge of the bluff and soon saw a lopsided log house, its tiny windows gleaming river-blue. A shed behind the house looked like the perfect hiding place for the Antelope.
The grand strategist was thinking up a good excuse to enter the little house and make friends with its residents when the door flew open and a respectable-looking man, in soldier’s underwear with black metal buttons, ran out onto the porch. His paraffin-pale cheeks sported neatly styled gray sideburns. At the end of the nineteenth century, a face like this would have been common. In those times, most men cultivated such government-issue, conformist hair devices on their faces. But when the sideburns were not sitting above a dark-blue uniform, or some civilian medal on a silk ribbon, or the golden stars of a high-ranking imperial official, this kind of face seemed unnatural.
“Oh my Lord,” mumbled the toothless log house dweller, his arms outstretched toward the rising sun. “Lord, oh Lord! The same dreams! Those very same dreams!”
After this lament, the old man started crying and ran, shuffling his feet, along the footpath around the house. An ordinary rooster, who was about to sing for the third time, and who had already positioned itself in the middle of the yard for that purpose, darted away. In the heat of the moment it took several hurried steps and even dropped a feather, but soon composed itself, climbed on top of the wattle fence, and from this safe position finally notified the world that morning had come. Its voice, however, betrayed the anxiety that the untoward behavior of the owner of the little house had caused.
“Those goddamn dreams,” the old man’s voice reached Ostap.
Bender was staring in surprise at the strange man and his sideburns – nowadays, the only place to see sideburns like that is on the imperious face of a doorman at the symphony hall, if anywhere.
Meanwhile, the extraordinary gentleman completed a full circle and once again appeared near the porch. Here he lingered for a moment and then went inside, saying, “I’ll go try again.”
“I love old people,” whispered Ostap to himself, “they’re always entertaining. I have to wait and see how this mysterious test will turn out.”
He didn’t have to wait long. Shortly thereafter, howling could be heard from the house, and the old man crawled out onto the porch, moving backwards, like Boris Godunov in the final act of Mussorgsky’s opera.
“Begone! Begone!” he cried out, sounding like Shalyapin.
“That same dream! Aaaa!”
He turned around and started walking straight towards Ostap, stumbling over his own feet. Deciding that it was the time to act, the grand strategist stepped out from behind the tree and took the Sideburner into his powerful embrace.
“What? Who’s that? What’s that?” cried the restless old man. “What?”
Ostap carefully opened his embrace, grabbed the old man’s hand, and shook it warmly.
“I feel for you!” he declared.
“Really?” asked the owner of the little house, leaning against Bender’s shoulder.
“Of course I do,” replied Ostap. “I myself have dreams quite often.”
“And what do you dream about?”
“This and that.”
“No, seriously?” insisted the old man.
“Well, all kinds of things. A mishmash really. What the newspapers call ‘All things from all places’ or ‘World panorama.’ The other day, for example, I dreamed of the Mikado’s funeral, and yesterday it was the anniversary celebration at the Sushchevsky Fire Brigade headquarters.”
“My God!” said the old man. “My God, what a lucky man you are! A lucky man! Tell me, have you ever dreamt of a Governor General or… maybe even an imperial minister?”
Bender wasn’t going to be difficult.
“I have,” he said playfully. “I sure have. The Governor General. Last Friday. All night. And right next to him, I recall, was the chief of police in patterned breeches.”
“Oh, how nice!” said the old man. “And have you, by any chance, dreamt of His Majesty’s visit to the city of Kostroma?”
“Kostroma? Yes, I had that dream. Wait, wait, when was that? Ah yes, February third of this year. His Majesty was there, and next to him, I recall, was Count Frederiks, you know… the Minister of the Imperial Court.”
“Oh my!” the old man became excited. “Why are we standing here? Please, please come in. Forgive me, you’re not a Socialist, by any chance? Not a party man?”
“Of course not,” said Ostap good-naturedly. “Me, a party man? I’m an independent monarchist. A faithful servant to his sovereign, a caring father to his men. In other words, soar, falcons, like an eagle, ponder not unhappy thoughts…”
“Tea, would you like some tea?” mumbled the old man, steering Bender towards the door.
The little house consisted of one room and a hallway. Portraits of gentlemen in civilian uniforms covered the walls. Judging by the patches on their collars, these gentlemen had all served in the Ministry of Education in their time. The bed looked messy, suggesting that the owner spent the most restless hours of his life in it.
“Have you lived like such a recluse for a long time?” asked Ostap.
“Since the spring,” replied the old man. “My name is Khvorobyov. I thought I’d start a new life here. And you know what happened? You must understand…”
Fyodor Nikitich Khvorobyov was a monarchist, and he detested the Soviet regime. He found it repugnant. He, who had once served as a school district superintendent, was forced to run the Educational Methodology Sector of the local Proletkult. That disgusted him.
Until the end of his career, he never knew what Proletkult stood for, and that made him detest it even more. He cringed with disgust at the mere sight of the members of the local union committee, his colleagues, and the visitors to the Educational Methodology Sector. He hated the word “sector.” Oh, that sector! Fyodor Nikitich had always appreciated elegant things, including geometry. Never in his worst nightmares would he imagine that this beautiful mathematical term, used to describe a portion of a circle, could be so brutally trivialized.
At work, many things enraged Khvorobyov: meetings, newsletters, bond campaigns. But his proud soul couldn’t find peace at home either. There were newsletters, bond campaigns, and meetings at home as well. And Khvorobyov’s acquaintances talked exclusively about vulgar things: remuneration (what they called their salaries), Aid to Children Month, and the social significance of the play The Armored Train.
He was unable to escape the Soviet system anywhere. Even when Khvorobyov walked the city streets in frustration he would overhear detestable phrases, like:
“…So we determined to remove him from the board…”
“…And that’s exactly what I told them: if you insist on the PCC, we’ll appeal to the arbitration chamber!”
Khvorobyov was distressed to see posters calling upon citizens to implement the Five-Year Plan in four years, and he repeated to himself indignantly:
“Remove! From the board! The PCC! In four years! What a crass regime!”
When the Educational Methodology Sector switched to the continuous work-week, and Khvorobyov’s days off became some kind of mysterious purple fifth days instead of Sundays, he retired in disgust and went to live far beyond the city limits. He did it in order to escape the new regime – it had taken over his entire life and deprived him of his peace.
The lone monarchist would sit above the bluff all day long, look at the city, and think about pleasant things: church services celebrating the birthday of a member of the royal family, school exams, or his relatives who had served in the Ministry of Education. But, to his surprise, his thoughts almost immediately returned to Soviet, and therefore unpleasant, things.
“What’s new at the blasted Proletkult?” he would think.
After the Proletkult, his mind would wander to downright outrageous things: May Day and Revolution Day rallies, family evenings at the workers’ club with lectures and beer, the projected semiannual budget of the Methodology Sector.
“The Soviet regime took everything from me,” thought the former school district superintendent, “rank, medals, respect, bank account. It even took over my thoughts. But there’s one area that’s beyond the Bolsheviks’ reach: the dreams given to man by God. Night will bring me peace. In my dreams, I will see something that I’d like to see.”
The very next night, God gave Fyodor Nikitich a terrible dream. He dreamt that he was sitting in an office corridor that was lit by a small kerosene lamp. He sat there with the knowledge that, at any moment, he was to be removed from the board. Suddenly a steel door opened, and his fellow office workers ran out shouting: “Khvorobyov needs to carry more weight!” He wanted to run but couldn’t.
Fyodor Nikitich woke up in the middle of the night. He said a prayer to God, pointing out to Him that an unfortunate error had been made, and that the dream intended for an important person, maybe even a party member, had arrived at the wrong address. He, Khvorobyov, would like to see the Tsar’s ceremonial exit from the Cathedral of the Assumption, for starters.
Soothed by this, he fell asleep again, only to see Comrade Surzhikov, the chairman of the local union committee, instead of his beloved monarch.
And so night after night, Fyodor Nikitich would have the same, strictly Soviet, dreams with unbelievable regularity. He dreamt of union dues, newsletters, the Goliath state farm, the grand opening of the first mass-dining establishment, the chairman of the Friends of the Cremation Society, and the pioneering Soviet flights.
The monarchist growled in his sleep. He didn’t want to see the Friends of the Cremation. He wanted to see Purishkevich, the far-right deputy of the State Duma; Patriarch Tikhon; the Yalta Governor, Dumbadze; or even just a simple public school inspector. But there wasn’t anything like that. The Soviet regime had invaded even his dreams.
“Those same dreams!” concluded Khvorobyov tearfully. “Those cursed dreams!”
“You are in serious trouble,” said Ostap compassionately. “Being, they say, determines consciousness. Since you live under the Soviets, your dreams will be Soviet too.”
“Not one break,” complained Khvorobyov. “Anything, anything at all. I’ll take anything. Forget Purishkevich. I’ll take Milyukov the Constitutional Democrat. At least he was a university-educated man and a monarchist at heart. But no! Just these Soviet anti-Christs.”
“I’ll help you,” said Ostap. “I’ve treated several friends and acquaintances using Freud’s methods. Dreams are not the issue. The main thing is to remove the cause of the dream. The principal cause of your dreams is the very existence of the Soviet regime. But I can’t remove it right now. I’m in a hurry. I’m on a sports tour, you see, and my car needs a few small repairs. Would you mind if I put it in your shed? As for the cause of your dreams, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it on the way back. Just let me finish the rally.”
The monarchist, dazed by his troublesome dreams, readily allowed the sympathetic, kind-hearted young man to use his shed. He threw on a coat over his shirt, stuck his bare feet into galoshes, and went outside with Bender.
“So you think there’s hope for me?” he asked, mincing behind his early morning guest.
“Don’t give it another thought,” replied the captain dismissively. “The moment the Soviet regime is gone, you’ll feel better at once. You’ll see!”
Within half an hour the Antelope was stowed away in Khvorobyov’s shed and left under the watchful eyes of Kozlevich and Panikovsky. Bender, accompanied by Balaganov, went to the city to get paint.
The half-brothers walked towards the sun, making their way into the town center. Gray pigeons promenaded on the roof edges. Sprayed with water, the wooden sidewalks were clean and cool.
For a man with a clear conscience, it was a good morning to step outside, linger at the gate for a moment, take out a box of matches (emblazoned with an airplane that had a fist in place of a propeller and a slogan, “Our answer to Curzon”), admire the fresh pack of cigarettes, and then light up, puffing out a small cloud of smoke that chases away a bumble bee with golden stripes on its belly.
Bender and Balaganov fell under the spell of the morning, the clean streets, and the carefree pigeons. For a brief moment they felt as if their consciences were as clear as a whistle, that everybody loved them, and that they were off to a date with their fiancées.
Suddenly a man with a portable easel and a shiny paintbox in his hands blocked their path. He had the wild-eyed look of a man who had just escaped from a burning building, and the easel and the box were all he had managed to salvage.
“Excuse me,” he said loudly. “Comrade Platonikov-Pervertov was supposed to pass by here a moment ago. You haven’t seen him, by any chance? Was he here?”
“We never see people like that,” answered Balaganov rudely.
The artist bumped into Bender’s chest, mumbled “Pardon!” and rushed on.
“Platonikov-Pervertov?” grumbled the grand strategist, who hadn’t had his breakfast yet. “I personally knew a midwife whose name was Medusa-Gorgoner, and I didn’t make a big fuss over it. I didn’t run down the street shouting: ‘Have you by any chance seen Comrade Medusa-Gorgoner? She’s been out for a walk here.’ Big deal! Platonikov-Pervertov!”
The moment Bender finished his tirade, he was confronted by two more men with black easels and shiny paintboxes. The two couldn’t have looked more different. One of them evidently believed that an artist had to be hairy: his facial hair qualified him for the role of deputy of Henri de Navarre in the Soviet Union. The mustache, his hair, and his beard made his flat features very lively. The other man was simply bald, his head shiny and smooth like a glass lampshade.
“Comrade Platonikov…,” said the deputy of Henri de Navarre, panting.
“Pervertov,” added the Lampshade.
“Have you seen him?” cried de Navarre.
“He was supposed to be taking a stroll here,” explained the Lampshade.
Balaganov had already opened his mouth to utter a curse, but Bender pushed him aside and said with stinging courtesy:
“We haven’t seen Comrade Platonikov, but if you are really interested in seeing him, you’d better hurry. He’s already being sought by some character who looks like an artist. A con artist, that is.”
Bumping against each other and getting their easels stuck together, the artists ran off. Then a horse cab careened from around the corner. Its passenger was a fat man whose sweaty gut was barely concealed by the folds of his long tunic. The passenger’s general appearance brought to mind an ancient advertisement for a patented ointment that began with the words: “The sight of a naked body covered with hair makes a revolting impression.” The fat man’s profession wasn’t hard to guess. His hand held down a large easel. Under the coachman’s feet lay a big shiny box which undoubtedly contained paint.
“Hello!” Ostap called out. “Are you searching for Pervertov?”
“Yessir,” confirmed the fat artist, looking plaintively at Ostap.
“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” cried Ostap. “Three artists are already ahead of you. What’s going on here? What happened?”
But the horse, banging its shoes on the cobblestones, had already carried away the fourth practitioner of fine arts.
“What a center of culture!” said Ostap. “You must have noticed, Balaganov, that of the four citizens we encountered thus far, all four were artists. How curious.”
When the half-brothers stopped in front of a small hardware store, Balaganov whispered to Ostap:
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Of what?” asked Ostap.
“That you’re actually going to pay money for the paint.”
“Oh, I see,” said Ostap. “Frankly, I am a little bit. It’s silly, you’re right. But what can you do? We’re not going to run to the city council and ask them to supply the paint for Skylark Day. They would, of course, but that could take us all day.”
The brilliant colors of the dry paint in jars, glass cylinders, sacks, caskets, and torn paper bags gave the hardware store a festive look.
The captain and the rally mechanic started the painstaking process of picking a color.
“Black is too mournful,” said Ostap. “Green won’t do: it’s the color of lost hope. Purple, no. Let the chief of police ride around in a purple car. Pink is trashy, blue is banal, red is too conformist. We’re going to have to paint the Antelope yellow. A bit too bright, but pretty.”
“And what would you be? Artists?” asked the salesman, whose chin was lightly powdered with cinnabar.
“Yes, artists,” answered Bender, “scenic and graphic.”
“Then you’re in the wrong place,” said the salesman, removing the jars and the bags from the counter.
“What do you mean, the wrong place?” exclaimed Ostap. “What’s the right place?”
“Across the street.”
The clerk led the two friends to the door and pointed at the sky-blue sign across the street. It had a brown horse head and the words OATS AND HAY written in black letters.
“Right,” said Ostap, “soft and hard feed for livestock. But what does it have to do with us artists? I don’t see the connection.”
It turned out there was a connection, and a very meaningful one at that. Ostap grasped it shortly after the clerk began his explanation.
The city had always loved fine paintings, and the four resident artists formed a group called the Dialectical Easelists. They painted portraits of officials and sold them to the local fine arts museum. With time, the pool of yet-unpainted officials grew smaller and smaller, and the income of the Dialectical Easelists had decreased accordingly, but they still managed to get by. The truly lean years began when a new artist, Feofan Smarmeladov, came to the city.
His first painting made quite a stir. It was a portrait of the director of the local hotel authority. Feofan Smarmeladov left the Easelists in his dust. The director of the hotel authority was not depicted in oil, watercolors, coal, crayons, gouache, or lead pencil; he was done in oats. While Smarmeladov was taking the portrait to the museum in a horse cart, the horse looked back nervously and whinnied. Later, Smarmeladov began to use other grains as well. He made portraits in barley, wheat, and poppy seeds, bold sketches in corn and buckwheat, landscapes in rice, and still-lifes in millet – every one a smashing success.
At the moment, he was working on a group portrait. A large canvas depicted a meeting of the regional planning board. Feofan was working in dry beans and peas. Deep in his heart, however, he remained true to the oats that had launched his career and undermined the Dialectical Easelists.
“You bet it’s better with oats!” exclaimed Ostap. “And to think those fools Rubens and Raphael kept messing with oils. Like Leonardo da Vinci, we’re fools, too. Give us some yellow enamel.”
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