at sunrise. “One always thinks, ‘I’ll do this some other time. There will still be plenty of milk and hay in my life.’ But in fact, there won’t be anything like this ever again. Make note of it, my poor friends: this was the best night of our lives. And you didn’t even notice.”
Bender’s companions looked at him with respect. They absolutely loved the easy life that was suddenly theirs.
“Life is beautiful!” said Balaganov. “Here we are, driving along, our stomachs full. Maybe happiness awaits us . . .”
“Are you sure?” asked Ostap. “Happiness awaits us on the road? Maybe it even flaps its wings in anticipation? ‘Where, it wonders, is Admiral Balaganov? Why is he taking so long?’ You’re crazy, Balaganov! Happiness isn’t waiting for anybody. It wanders around the country in long white robes, singing children’s songs: ‘Ah, America, there’s the land, people there drink straight from the bottle.’ But this naïve babe must be caught, you have to make her like you, you have to court her. Sadly, Balaganov, she won’t take up with you. You’re a bum. Just look at yourself! A man dressed like you will never achieve happiness. Come to think of it, the entire crew of the Antelope is dressed atrociously. I’m surprised people still believe we’re part of the rally!”
Ostap looked his companions over with disappointment and continued:
“Panikovsky’s hat really bothers me. He’s dressed far too ostentatiously. The gold tooth, the underwear straps, the hairy chest poking out from under the tie . . . You should dress more modestly, Panikovsky! You’re a respectable old man. You need a long black jacket and a felt hat. Balaganov would look good in a checkered cowboy shirt and leather leggings. He could easily pass as a student-athlete, but now he looks like a merchant sailor fired for drunkenness. Not to mention our esteemed driver. Hard luck has prevented him from dressing in a way that befits his position. Can’t you see how well leather overalls and a black calfskin cap would go with his inspired, oil-smudged face? Whatever you say, boys, you have to update your wardrobe.”
“There’s no money,” said Kozlevich, turning around.
“The driver is correct,” replied Ostap courteously. “Indeed, there is no money. None of those little metal discs that I love so dearly.”
The Gnu Antelope glided down a small hill. The fields continued to slowly rotate on both sides of the car. A large brown owl was sitting by the side of the road, its head bent to one side, its unseeing yellow eyes bulging foolishly. Disturbed by the Antelope’s creaking, the bird spread its wings, soared above the car and quickly flew away to take care of its boring owlish business. Other than that, nothing interesting was happening on the road.
“Look!” cried Balaganov suddenly. “A car!”
Just in case, Ostap ordered them to take down the banner that called on the citizens to fight against irresponsibility. While Panikovsky was carrying out this task, the Antelope approached the other car.
A gray hard-top Cadillac was parked on the shoulder, listing slightly. The landscape of central Russia was reflected in its thick shiny windows, looking neater and more scenic than it actually was. The driver was on his knees, taking the tire off a front wheel. Three figures in sand-colored travel coats hovered behind him, waiting.
“Your ship’s in distress?” asked Ostap, tipping his cap politely.
The driver raised his tense face, said nothing, and went back to work.
The Antelopeans climbed out of their green jalopy. Kozlevich walked around the magnificent vehicle several times, sighing with envy. He squatted down next to the driver and struck up a technical conversation. Panikovsky and Balaganov stared at the passengers with childlike curiosity. Two of the passengers had a rather standoffish, foreign look to them. The third one was a fellow Russian, judging by the overpowering smell of galoshes coming from his State Rubber Trust raincoat.
“Your ship’s in distress?” repeated Ostap, politely touching the rubber-clad shoulder of his fellow countryman, while at the same time eyeing the foreigners pensively.
The Russian started complaining about the blown tire, but his grumbling went in one of Ostap’s ears and out the other. Two plump foreign chicklets were strolling around the car—on a highway some eighty miles from the nearest town of any significance, right in the middle of European Russia. That got the grand strategist excited.
“Tell me,” he interrupted, “these two wouldn’t be from Rio de Janeiro, by any chance?”
“No,” said the Russian. “They’re from Chicago. And I am their interpreter, from Intourist.”
“What on earth are they doing here in this ancient wilderness in the middle of nowhere? So far from Moscow, from the Red Poppy ballet, from the antique stores and Repin’s famous painting Ivan the Terrible Kills his Son? I don’t get it! Why did you drag them out here?”
“They can go to hell!” said the interpreter bitterly. “We’ve been racing from village to village like mad for three days now. I can’t take it any more. I’ve dealt with foreigners quite a bit, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” He waved in the direction of his ruddy-faced companions. “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.
