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.
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