going to have to use chalk.”
“Why is that?” asked the new passenger grumpily.
“Because your cuffs are pitch black. That wouldn’t be dirt, by any chance?”
“You’re a miserable, wretched man!” retorted Panikovsky quickly.
“You’re saying this to me, your savior?” asked Ostap gently. “Adam Kazimirovich, could you stop the car for a moment? Thank you kindly. Shura, my friend, would you please restore the status quo?”
Balaganov had no idea what “status quo” meant, but he took his cue from the tone with which these words were uttered. With a nasty smile on his face, he put his hands under Panikovsky’s arms, pulled him out of the car, and lowered him onto the road.
“Go back to Arbatov, young man,” said Ostap dryly. “The owners of the goose can’t wait to see you there. We don’t need boors here. We are boors ourselves. Let’s go.”
“It won’t happen again!” pleaded Panikovsky. “My nerves are bad!”
“Get on your knees,” said Ostap.
Panikovsky instantly dropped on his knees, as if his legs had been cut out from under him.
“Good!” said Ostap. “I find your posture satisfactory. You are accepted conditionally, until the first violation, as the new Girl Friday.”
The Antelope re-admitted the chastened boor and went rolling on again, swaying like a hearse.
Half an hour later, the car turned onto the big Novozaitsev highway and, without slowing down, entered a village. People were gathered near a log house with a crooked and knotty radio mast growing from its roof. A clean-shaven man stepped out of the crowd resolutely, a sheet of paper in his hand.
“Comrades!” he shouted sternly, “I now declare our meeting of celebration open! Allow me, comrades, to consider your applause . . .”
He had evidently prepared a speech and was already looking at his paper, but then he realized that the car wasn’t stopping and cut it short.
“Join the Road Club!” he said hastily, looking at Ostap, who was just then riding past him. “Let’s mass-produce Soviet motorcars! The iron steed is coming to replace the peasant horse.”
And then, as the car was already speeding away, he blurted out the last slogan over the congratulatory rumble of the crowd:
“The car is not a luxury but a means of transportation!”
With the exception of Ostap, all the Antelopeans were somewhat unnerved by this elaborate reception. Not knowing what to make of it, they fidgeted in the car like little sparrows in their nest. Panikovsky, who generally disliked large gatherings of honest people, crouched on the floor just in case, so that the villagers could see only the dirty top of his straw hat. Ostap, on the other hand, was totally unfazed. He took off his white-topped cap and acknowledged the greetings by nodding left and right with dignity.
“Improve the roads!” he shouted as a farewell. “Merci for the reception!”
The car was back on the white road cutting though a large, quiet field.
“They’re not going to chase us?” asked Panikovsky anxiously. “Why the crowd? What happened here?”
“These people have never seen an automobile before, that’s all,” said Balaganov.
“Continuing our discussion,” commented Ostap. “Let’s hear from the driver. What’s your assessment, Adam Kazimirovich?”
The driver thought for a moment, sounded the maxixe to shoo off a silly dog that had run into the road, and allowed that the crowd had gathered to celebrate a local church holiday.
“Holidays of this nature are common among country people,” explained the driver of the Antelope.
“Right,” said Ostap. “Now I know for sure that I’m in the company of unenlightened people. In other words, bums without university education. Children, dear children of Lieutenant Schmidt, why don’t you read newspapers? One must read newspapers. They quite often sow the seeds of reason, good, and the everlasting.”
Ostap pulled a copy of Izvestiya out of his pocket and loudly read to the crew a short article about the Moscow—Kharkov—Moscow auto rally.
“We are now on the route of the rally,” he said smugly, “roughly one hundred miles ahead of its lead car. I suppose now you understand what I’m talking about?”
The low-ranking Antelopeans were quiet. Panikovsky unbuttoned his jacket and scratched his bare chest under his dirty silk tie.
“So you still don’t get it? Apparently, even reading newspapers doesn’t help in some cases. Fine, I’ll give you more details, even though it goes against my principles. First: the peasants thought the Antelope was the lead car of the rally. Second: we don’t deny it. Moreover, we will appeal to all organizations and persons for proper assistance, underscoring the fact that we are the lead car. Third . . . Oh well, the first two points should be enough for you. It’s abundantly clear that we will keep ahead of the rally for a while and will milk, skim off, and otherwise tap this highly civilized undertaking.”
The grand strategist’s speech made a huge impression. Kozlevich looked at the captain with admiration. Balaganov rubbed his wild red locks with his palms and laughed uncontrollably. Panikovsky shouted “Hooray!” in anticipation of worry-free looting.
“All right, enough emotion,” said Ostap. “On account of the falling darkness, I now declare the evening open. Stop!”
The car stopped, and the tired Antelopeans climbed out. Grasshoppers hopped around in the ripening crops. The passengers were already seated in a circle near the road, but the old Antelope was still huffing and puffing, its body creaking here and there and its engine rattling occasionally.
The novice Panikovsky made such a large fire that it seemed like a whole village was ablaze. The wheezing flames blew in all directions. While the travelers fought the pillar of fire, Panikovsky bent down and ran into the fields, returning with a warm, crooked cucumber in his hand. Ostap promptly snatched the cucumber from him, saying: “Don’t make a cult out of eating.”
Then he ate the cucumber himself. They dined on the sausage that the practical Kozlevich brought from home and went to sleep under the stars.
“And now,” said Ostap to Kozlevich at sunrise, “get ready. Your mechanical tub has never seen a day like this before, and it will never see one like this again.”
Balaganov grabbed a small bucket, that was inscribed “Arbatov Maternity Hospital,” and ran to the river to fetch some water.
Adam raised the hood of the car, squeezed his hands into the engine, and, whistling along, started fiddling with its little copper intestines.
Panikovsky leaned against the spare wheel and stared pensively and unblinkingly at the cranberry-colored sliver of sun that had appeared above the horizon. The light revealed a multitude of small age-related details on his wrinkled face: bags, pulsating veins, and strawberry-colored splotches. This was the face of a man who had lived a long, honorable life, has adult children, drinks healthy acorn coffee
