Ostap suddenly, “do you want to hear how you’re going to die?”
The old man flinched and turned toward him.
“It’ll be like this. One day, when you return to a cold, empty room at the Hotel Marseilles—which will be in some small town where your line of work takes you—you’ll start feeling sick. One of your legs will be paralyzed. Hungry and unshaven, you will lie on a wooden bench, and nobody will come to see you, Panikovsky, nobody will feel sorry for you. You didn’t have kids because you were too cheap, and you dumped your wives. You will suffer for an entire week. Your agony will be horrible. Your death will be slow, and everyone will be sick and tired of it. You will not be quite dead yet when the bureaucrat in charge of the hotel will already be requesting a free coffin from the municipal authorities . . . What is your full name?”
“Mikhail Samuelevich,” replied the stunned Panikovsky.
“. . . requesting a free coffin for Citizen M. S. Panikovsky. But don’t cry, you’ll still last for a couple of years. Now back to business. We need to take care of the promotional and educational aspects of our campaign.”
Ostap pulled his doctor’s bag out of the car and put it down on the grass.
“My right hand,” said the grand strategist, patting the bag on its fat sausage-like side. “Everything that an elegant man of my age and ambition might possibly need is right here.”
Bender squatted over the bag like an itinerant Chinese magician and started pulling various objects out of it. First he took out a red armband with the word “Administrator” embroidered on it in gold. It was joined on the grass by a policeman’s cap with the crest of the city of Kiev, four decks of playing cards with identically patterned backs, and a pack of official documents with round purple stamps on them.
The entire crew of the Antelope looked at the bag with respect. Meanwhile, new objects kept coming out of it.
“You are amateurs,” said Ostap, “I’m sure you’d never understand why an honest Soviet pilgrim like me can’t get by without a doctor’s coat.”
The bag contained not only the coat but a stethoscope as well.
“I’m not a surgeon,” remarked Ostap. “I am a neuropathologist, a psychiatrist. I study the souls of my patients. For some reason, I always get very silly souls.”
An ABC for the deaf-and-dumb came out of the bag next, followed by charity postcards, enamel badges, and a poster, which featured Bender himself in traditional Indian pants and a turban. The poster read:
The poster was followed by a dirty, greasy turban.
“I resort to this kind of amusement very rarely,” said Ostap. “Believe it or not, it’s the progressive-minded people, like the directors of railway workers’ clubs, who are the most likely to buy into the high priest story. The job is easy but irksome. Personally, I find being the favorite of Rabindranath Tagore distasteful. And Samuel the Prophet invariably gets the same old questions: ‘Why is there no butter in the stores?’ or ‘Are you Jewish?’”
Ostap finally found what he was looking for—a lacquered tin with honey-based paints in porcelain cups and two paintbrushes.
“The car that leads the rally has to be decorated with at least one slogan,” said Ostap.
He then proceeded to paint brown block letters on a long band of yellowish linen:
They hung the banner above the car on two long tree branches. The moment the car started moving, the banner arched in the wind and looked so dashing that it left no doubt about the need to use the rally as a weapon against roadlessness, irresponsibility, and maybe even red tape as well. The passengers of the Antelope started puffing and preening. Balaganov covered his red hair with the cap that he always carried in his pocket. Panikovsky turned his cuffs inside out and made them show exactly three-quarters of an inch below the sleeves. Kozlevich was more concerned about the car than about himself. He washed it thoroughly before starting out, and the sun was glimmering on the Antelope’s dented sides. The captain squinted playfully and teased his companions.
“Village on the port side!” yelled Balaganov, making a visor with his hand. “Are we stopping?”
“We are followed by five top-notch vehicles,” said Ostap. “A rendezvous with them is not in our interest. We must skim off what we can, and fast. Therefore, we’ll stop in the town of Udoev. Incidentally, that’s where the drum of fuel should be waiting for us. Step on it, Adam.”
“Do we respond to the crowds?” asked Balaganov anxiously.
“You can respond with bows and smiles. Kindly keep your mouth shut; God knows what might come out of it.”
The village greeted the lead car warmly, but the usual hospitality had a rather peculiar flavor here. The citizens must have been informed that someone would be passing through, but they didn’t know who or why. So, just in case, they dug up all the slogans and mottoes from previous years. The street was lined with schoolchildren who were holding a hodgepodge of obsolete banners: “Greetings to the Time League and its founder, dear Comrade Kerzhentsev!,” “The bourgeois threats will come to naught, we all reject the Curzon note!,” “For our little ones’ welfare please organize a good daycare.”
Besides that, there were many banners of various sizes, written primarily in Old Church Slavonic script, all saying the same thing: “Welcome!”
All this flew swiftly by. This time, the crew waved their hats with confidence. Panikovsky couldn’t resist and, despite his orders, jumped up and shouted a confused, politically inappropriate greeting. But nobody could make it out over the noise of the engine and the roar of the crowd.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” cried Ostap.
Kozlevich opened the choke, and the car emitted a trail of blue smoke—the dogs that were running after them started sneezing.
“How are we doing on gas?” asked Ostap. “Will we make it to Udoev? We only have twenty miles to go. Once we’re there, we’ll take everything.”
“Should be enough,” Kozlevich replied uncertainly.
“Keep in mind,” said Ostap, looking at his troops with a stern eye, “that I will not tolerate any looting. No violation of the law whatsoever. I am commanding the parade.”
Panikovsky and Balaganov looked embarrassed.
“The people of Udoev will give us everything we need anyway. You’ll see. Make room for bread and salt.”
The Antelope covered twenty miles in an hour and a half. During the last mile, Kozlevich fussed a lot, pressed on the accelerator, and shook his head in despair. But all his efforts, as well as Balaganov’s shouting and encouraging, were in vain. The spectacular finale planned by Adam Kazimirovich did not materialize, due to the lack of fuel. The car disgracefully stopped in the middle of the street, a hundred yards short of a reviewing stand that had been decorated with conifer garlands in honor of the intrepid motorists.
With loud cries, people rushed to the Lorraine-Dietrich, which had arrived from
