the operating table, accepts a sharp sterilized dagger from an assistant, and says to the patient dryly:
“Allrighty, take off your nightie.”
“It’s always like this with me,” said Bender, his eyes shining, “I have to start a project worth a million while I’m noticeably short of monetary instruments. My entire capital – fixed, working, and reserve – amounts to five rubles… What did you say the name of that underground millionaire was?”
“Koreiko,” said Balaganov.
“Oh yes, Koreiko. A very good name. Are you sure nobody knows about his millions?”
“Nobody except me and Pruzhansky. But I already told you that Pruzhansky will be in prison for about three more years. If you could only see how he moaned and groaned when I was about to be released. He probably had a hunch that he shouldn’t have told me about Koreiko.”
“The fact that he disclosed his secret to you was no big deal. That’s not why he moaned and groaned. He must have had a premonition that you would tell the whole story to me. That is indeed a big loss for poor Pruzhansky. By the time he gets out of prison, Koreiko’s only consolation will be the cliché that there’s no shame in poverty.”
Ostap took off his summer cap, waved it in the air, and asked:
“Do I have any gray hair?”
Balaganov sucked in his stomach, spread his feet to the width of a rifle butt, and boomed like a soldier:
“No, Sir!”
“I will. Great battles await us. Your hair, Balaganov, will turn gray too.”
Balaganov suddenly giggled childishly:
“How did you put it? He’ll bring the money himself on a platter with a blue rim?”
“A platter for me,” said Ostap, “and a small plate for you.”
“But what about Rio de Janeiro? I want white pants too.”
“Rio de Janeiro is the cherished dream of my youth,” said the grand strategist seriously, “keep your paws off it. Now back to business. Send the forward guards to my command. Troops are to report to the city of Chernomorsk asap. Full dress uniform. Start the music! I am commanding the parade!”
Chapter 3. Gas is yours, ideas ours
A year before Panikovsky violated the pact by trespassing on someone else’s territory, the first automobile appeared in the town of Arbatov. The town’s trailblazing automotive pioneer was a motorist by the name of Kozlevich. It was his decision to start a new life that brought him to the steering wheel.
The old life of Adam Kozlevich was sinful.
He repeatedly violated the Criminal Code of the Russian Socialist Republic, specifically Article 162, which deals with the misappropriation of another person’s property (theft). This article has many sections, but sinful Adam had no interest in Section A (theft committed without the use of technical devices). That was too primitive for him. Section E, which carried the penalty of incarceration for up to five years, did not suit him either. He didn’t want to spend too much time in prison. Having been interested in all things technical since he was a child, Kozlevich devoted his energies to Article C (felonious misappropriation of another person’s property committed with the use of technical devices, or repeatedly, or in collusion with other individuals, at train stations, in ports, on boats, on trains, or in hotels).
But Kozlevich had very bad luck. He was caught whether he utilized his beloved technical devices or made do without them. He was caught at train stations, in ports, on boats, and in hotels. He was also caught on trains. He was caught even when, in total despair, he resorted to grabbing property in collusion with other individuals.
After a total of about three years in jail, Adam Kozlevich decided that it was much better to accumulate your own property honestly and overtly than to take it from others covertly. This decision brought peace to his restless soul. He became a model inmate, published denunciatory poems in the prison newsletter, Day In and Day Out, and worked hard in the machine shop. The penitentiary system had a salutary effect on him. Adam Kazimirovich Kozlevich, 46, single, of peasant origin, of the former Czestochowa District, multiple repeat offender, came out of prison an honest man.
After two years of working in a Moscow garage, he bought a used car; it was so ancient that its appearance on the market could only be explained by the closing of an automotive museum. Kozlevich paid 190 rubles for this curiosity. For some reason, the car came with a fake palm tree in a green pot. He had to buy the palm tree as well. The tree was passable, but the car needed plenty of work. He searched flea markets for missing parts, patched up the seats, replaced the entire electric system, and, as a final touch, painted the car bright lizard green. The car’s breed was impossible to determine, but Adam claimed it was a Lorraine-Dietrich. As proof of that, he attached a brass plate with the Lorraine-Dietrich logo to the radiator. He was ready to start a private taxi business, which had been Adam’s dream for quite some time.
The day when Adam introduced his creation to the public at a taxi stand was a sad day for private taxi drivers. One hundred and twenty small, black Renault taxicabs, that looked like Browning pistols, were introduced to the streets of Moscow by the authorities. Kozlevich didn’t even attempt to compete with them. He put the palm tree in the Versailles cabdrivers’ tearoom, for safekeeping, and went to work in the provinces.
Arbatov, which totally lacked automotive transport, was much to his liking, so he decided to stay there for good.
Kozlevich imagined how hard, cheerfully, and, above all, honestly he would toil in the field of cabs for hire. He pictured himself on early arctic-cold mornings, waiting at the station for the train from Moscow. Wrapped in a thick ruddy-colored fur coat, his aviator goggles raised to his forehead, he jovially offers cigarettes to the porters. Somewhere behind him, the freezing coachmen are huddling. They cry from the cold and shiver in their thick dark-blue capes. And then the station bell begins to ring. It’s a sign that the train has arrived. Passengers walk out onto the station square and stop in front of the car, pleasantly surprised. They didn’t think that the idea of the taxi had reached the boondocks of Arbatov. Sounding the horn, Kozlevich whisks his passengers to the Peasants’ Hostel. There’s enough work for the whole day, and everyone is happy to take advantage of his services. Kozlevich and his faithful Lorraine-Dietrich invariably participate in all of the town’s weddings, sightseeing trips, and other special occasions. Summers are particularly busy. On Sundays, whole families go to the country in Adam’s car. Children laugh foolishly, scarves and ribbons flutter in the wind, women chatter merrily, fathers look at the driver’s leather-clad back with respect and ask him about automotive developments in the United States of North America. For example, is it true that Ford buys himself a new car every day?
That’s how Kozlevich pictured his blissful new life in Arbatov. The reality, however, quickly destroyed Adam’s castle in the air, with all its turrets, drawbridges, weathervanes, and standards.
The first blow was inflicted by the train schedule. Fast trains passed through Arbatov without making a stop, picking up single line tokens and dropping express mail on the move. Slow trains arrived only twice a week. For the most part, they only brought insignificant people: peasants and shoemakers with knapsacks, boot trees, and petitions to the local authorities. As a rule, these people did not use taxis. There were no sightseeing trips or special occasions, and nobody hired Kozlevich for weddings. People in Arbatov were accustomed to using horse-drawn carriages for weddings. On such occasions, the coachmen would braid paper roses and chrysanthemums into the horses’ manes. The older men, who were in charge of the festivities, loved
