The Golden Calf

by Ilya Ilf

  For most of the day and a good part of the night, the four disruptive patients played sixty-six with twenty and forty removed, a tricky card game that requires self-control, sharp wits, purity of spirit, and clarity of mind.

  In the morning, Professor Titanushkin returned from his business trip. He examined all four of them briefly and promptly had them thrown out of the hospital. Neither Bleuler’s book, nor de-personalization complicated by bipolar disorder, nor Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytik und Psychopathologie were of any help. Professor Titanushkin had no patience for malingerers.

  And so they ran down the street, pushing people aside with their elbows. Julius Caesar led the pack, followed by the man-woman and the dog man. Behind them trudged the deposed Viceroy, cursing his brother-in-law and contemplating his future with horror.

  After finishing his highly instructive story, Berlaga wistfully looked first at Borisokhlebsky, then at Dreyfus, then at Sakharkov, and finally at Lapidus Jr. In the semi-darkness of the hallway, it seemed to him that they were nodding their heads sympathetically.

  “Now look where all your fantasies got you,” said the cold-hearted Lapidus Jr. “You wanted to escape one purge and got yourself into another. Now you’re in trouble. Since you were already purged from the madhouse, surely you’ll be purged from the Hercules as well.”

  Borisokhlebsky, Dreyfus, and Sakharkov didn’t say anything. Without a word, they started to fade slowly into the darkness.

  “Friends!” cried the accountant meekly. “Where are you all going?”

  But his friends had already broken into a gallop; their orphanage-style pants flashed in the stairwell for the last time and disappeared.

  “Shame on you, Berlaga,” said Lapidus coldly. “You should know better than to drag me into your dirty anti-Soviet schemes. Adieu!”

  And the Viceroy of India was left alone.

  So what have you done, Berlaga? Where were your eyes? What would your father Foma have said if he had found out that his son became a Viceroy in his declining years? That’s where you ended up, dear accountant, thanks to your shady dealings with the chairman of many partnerships with mixed and tainted capital, Mr. Funt. It’s hard even to think of what old Foma would have said about his favorite son’s risky antics. But Foma had long been lying in the 2nd Christian Cemetery, under a stone seraph with a broken wing, and only the boys who went there to steal lilacs would occasionally throw an incurious glance at the epitaph that read: “Your path has ended. Rest right here, Beloved F. Berlaga dear.” But maybe the old man wouldn’t have said anything. Come to think of it, he certainly wouldn’t have said anything, as he himself hadn’t exactly lived the life of a holy man. He would simply have advised his son to be more careful and not to rely on his brother-in-law in serious matters. Yes, Berlaga, you’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess!

  The heavy thoughts that consumed the ex-regent of George V in India were interrupted by shouting from the stairwell:

  “Berlaga! Where is he? Someone’s looking for him. Ah, there he is! Please, go right in.”

  The Vice President for Hoofs appeared in the hallway. Swinging his huge arms like an Imperial Guardsman, Balaganov marched up to Berlaga and handed him a summons:

  To Comr. Berlaga. Upon receipt of thiz zummonz, you are to inztantly report for the purpoze of clarifying certain circumztancez.

  The summons bore the letterhead of the Chernomorsk Branch of the Arbatov Bureau for the Collection of Horns and Hoofs, as well as an official-looking round stamp whose details would have been difficult to decipher, even if it had occurred to Berlaga to try. But the fugitive accountant was so overwhelmed by his troubles that he only asked:

  “May I call home?”

  “Why bother?” said the Vice President for Hoofs, frowning.

  Two hours later, the crowd that stood in front of the Capital Hill movie theater, waiting for the first show and gawking at the passersby, for lack of anything better to do, spotted a man leaving the horn collection bureau. Holding his hand over his heart, he slowly stumbled away. It was Berlaga. At first, he moved his legs limply, then started to accelerate. Turning the corner, the accountant crossed himself surreptitiously, and bolted. Soon, he was sitting at his desk back in Finance and Accounting, his crazed stare fixed on the master ledger. The numbers leaped and somersaulted before his eyes.

  The grand strategist snapped Koreiko’s case folder shut, looked at Funt, who was sitting under a new sign, CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD, and said:

  “When I was very young and very poor, I earned my living by showing a fat monk with breasts at the fair in Kherson, claiming he was an inexplicable natural wonder—a bearded woman. But even then I hadn’t stooped as low as this lout Berlaga.”

  “A miserable, wretched man,” agreed Panikovsky as he was bringing tea to the others. He relished the thought that there were people out there who were even lowlier than him.

  “Berlaga is not much of a brain,” offered the dummy chairman in his typically unhurried fashion. “MacDonald is a real brain. His idea of industrial peace . . .”

  “All right, all right,” said Bender. “One day we’ll have a special meeting just to discuss your views on MacDonald and other bourgeois statesmen. But right now I’m busy. Berlaga is no brain, that’s true, but he did tell us a few things about the life and works of those self-destructing partnerships.”

  The grand strategist felt great. Things were going well. Nobody was bringing any more foul-smelling horns. The work of the Chernomorsk Branch could be deemed satisfactory, even though the latest mail delivery brought a new pile of circulars, memos, and requests, and Panikovsky had been to the employment office twice already to look for a secretary.

  “Oh yes!” Ostap exclaimed suddenly. “Where’s Kozlevich? Where’s the Antelope? How can you have an organization without a car? I need to go to a meeting. They all want me, they can’t live without me. Where’s Kozlevich?”

  Panikovsky looked away and sighed:

  “There’s a problem with Kozlevich.”

  “What do you mean—a problem? Is he drunk or something?”

  “Worse,” replied Panikovsky, “we were even afraid to tell you. Those Catholic priests put a spell on him.”

  The messenger looked at the Vice President for Hoofs, and the two of them shook their heads sadly.

  [1] The authors have discovered that the map which drove the poor geographer mad was indeed missing the Bering Strait. This was due to negligence at The Book and the Pole Publishers. The culprits were duly punished. The director was demoted, while the rest got away with reprimands and warnings.—Authors’ note.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE RETURN OF

  THE PRODIGAL SON

  The grand strategist didn’t care for Catholic priests. He held an equally negative opinion of rabbis, Dalai Lamas, Orthodox clergy, muezzins, shamans, and other purveyors of religion.

  “I’m into deception and blackmail myself,” he said. “Right now, for example, I’m trying to extract a large amount of money from a certain intransigent individual. But I don’t accompany my questionable activities with choral singing, or the roar of the pipe organ, or silly incantations in Latin or Old Church Slavonic. I generally prefer to operate without incense or astral bells.”

  And while Panikovsky and Balaganov, interrupting each other, were telling him about the terrible fate that had befallen the driver of the Antelope, Ostap’s brave heart was filling with frustration and anger.

  The priests apprehended the soul of Adam Kozlevich at the hostel, where the Antelope was sitting in mud thick with manure, alongside Moldovan fruit carts and two-horse wagons that belonged to some German colonists. Father Kuszakowski frequented the hostel, where he conducted spiritual conversations with the Catholic colonists. The cleric noticed the Antelope, walked around it, and poked a tire with his finger. Then he had a chat with Kozlevich and found out that Adam Kazimirovich was indeed a Roman Catholic, but hadn’t been to confession for some twenty years. Saying: “Shame on you, Pan Kozlewicz,
” Father Kuszakowski left, holding up his black skirt with both hands and jumping over the frothy beer-colored puddles.

  Early next morning, as the wagon drivers were preparing to take some agitated vendors to the small market town of Koshary, stuffing fifteen of them into each wagon, Father Kuszakowski appeared once again. This time, he was accompanied by another priest, Aloisius Moroszek. While Kuszakowski was greeting Adam, Father Moroszek carefully inspected the automobile, not only poking a tire with his finger but even squeezing the horn, which played the maxixe. The two priests exchanged glances, approached Kozlevich from both sides, and started to cast their spells on him. They kept at it the whole day. The moment Kuszakowski stopped talking, Moroszek chimed in. And the moment he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow, Kuszakowski took over again. At times Kuszakowski would raise his yellow index finger towards the heavens, while Moroszek worked his rosary beads. At other times, it was Kuszakowski who fingered his beads, while Moroszek pointed toward the heavens. Several times, the priests sang quietly in Latin, and toward the end of the day, Kozlevich started to join in. At this point, both Fathers glanced at the car with interest.

  After a while, Panikovsky noticed a change in the Antelope’s owner. Adam Kazimirovich took to uttering vague words about the kingdom of heaven. Balaganov saw the change, too. Then Kozlevich started disappearing for long periods of time, and he finally moved out of the hostel altogether.

  “So why didn’t you inform me?” asked the grand strategist angrily.

  They wanted to, but they were afraid of the captain’s wrath. They were hoping that Kozlevich would come to his senses and return on his own. But they had given up hope. The priests had put a spell on him. Just the day before, the messenger and the Vice President for Hoofs had run into Kozlevich by accident. He was sitting in his car in front of the cathedral. They didn’t even have a chance to talk to him. Father Aloisius Moroszek came out, accompanied by a boy decked out in lace.

  “Can you believe it, Bender,” said Shura, “the whole gang got into our Antelope, Kozlevich—the poor sucker—took off his hat, the boy rang a bell, and they took off. I felt really sorry for our Adam. The Antelope is as good as gone.”

  Without saying a word, the grand strategist put on his captain’s cap, with its glossy black visor, and headed for the door.

  “Funt,” he said, “you’re staying here. Do not accept any horns or hoofs no matter what. If there’s any new mail, dump it in the basket. The secretary will figure it out later. Do you understand?”

  By the time the dummy chairman opened his mouth to reply—which happened exactly five minutes later—the orphaned Antelopeans were long gone. The captain ran at the head of the pack, taking huge strides. He looked back occasionally and muttered: “You lost our sweet Kozlevich, you daydreamers! Consider yourself repudiated! Those bishops and archbishops, let me tell you!” The rally mechanic marched quietly, pretending that the reprimands had nothing to do with him. Panikovsky limped forward like a monkey, working up his anger against Kozlevich’s abductors, even though he had a large cold toad sitting on his heart. He was afraid of the black priests, believing they possessed many magic powers.

  Maintaining formation, the entire branch of the Horns and Hoofs Bureau reached the foot of the cathedral. The empty Antelope was parked in front of the wrought-iron fence made of interwoven spirals and crosses. The cathedral was enormous. Thorny and sharp, it ripped into the sky like a fish bone. It stuck in your throat. Polished red bricks, tiled roofs, tin flags, massive buttresses, graceful stone idols hiding from the rain in niches—all these Gothicisms, frozen at attention like soldiers, overwhelmed the Antelopeans from the start. They felt tiny. Ostap climbed into the car, sniffed the air, and said with disgust:

  “Ugh! Sickening! Our Antelope already reeks of candles, collection baskets, and heavy priests’ boots. Of course it’s much nicer to carry the rites around in a car than in a horse cab. Plus, it’s free! Well, sorry, dear Fathers, but our rites are more important!”

  With that, Bender entered the gate and, walking through a group of kids who were playing hopscotch, climbed the imposing granite steps to the cathedral entrance. The thick door panels were enforced with iron hoops and decorated with reliefs of saints, each one in his own little square. The saints were blowing kisses at each other, or waved their hands in various directions, or amused themselves by reading thick little books in which the meticulous woodcarver had even cut tiny Roman letters. The grand strategist pulled the door, but it didn’t move. The gentle sounds of a harmonium wafted through the door.

  “The spells are being cast!” reported Ostap loudly, coming down the steps. “They’re hard at it as we speak! To the sweet sound of the mandolin.”

  “Maybe we’d better leave?” asked Panikovsky, fiddling with the hat in his hands. “This is God’s temple, you know. It’s not right.”

  Ignoring him, Ostap walked up to the Antelope and started squeezing the horn impatiently. He played the maxixe until they heard keys jingling behind the thick doors. The Antelopeans raised their heads. The door panels opened, and the jolly saints slowly rode back in their little oak squares. Adam Kazimirovich stepped out of the dark portal onto the tall, bright porch. He was pale. His long train conductor’s mustache had grown damp and drooped dejectedly from his nostrils. He had a prayer book in his hands. The priests were propping him up on both sides. On his left was Father Kuszakowski, on his right—Father Aloisius Moroszek. Their eyes were awash in saccharine piety.

  “Hey, Kozlevich!” shouted Ostap from below. “Haven’t you had enough of that already?”

  “Good afternoon, Adam Kazimirovich,” said Panikovsky brashly, ducking behind the captain’s back, just in case.

  Balaganov raised his hand in a greeting and made a face, which must have meant: “Stop fooling around, Adam!”

  The body of the Antelope’s driver took a step forward, but his soul lurched back under the piercing stares of both Kuszakowski and Moroszek. Kozlevich looked at his friends with anguish and lowered his eyes.

  And then the great battle for the driver’s soul began.

  “Hey, you, cherubim and seraphim!” said Ostap, challenging his opponents to a debate. “There is no God!”

  “Yes, there is,” countered Father Aloisius Moroszek, shielding Kozlevich with his body.

  “This is outrageous,” mumbled Father Kuszakowski.

  “No, there isn’t,” continued the grand strategist, “and there never has been. It’s a medical fact.”

  “I think this conversation is highly inappropriate,” declared Kuszakowski angrily.

  “And taking the car away—is that appropriate?” shouted the tactless Balaganov. “Adam! They just want to take the Antelope.”

  Hearing this, the driver raised his head and looked at the holy fathers inquiringly. The priests began to get nervous and tried to take Kozlevich back inside, their silk robes rustling about. But he wouldn’t budge.

  “So, on the subject of God?” persisted the grand strategist.

  The priests were forced into a debate. The children stopped hopping and came closer.

  “How can you say there is no God,” started Aloisius Moroszek earnestly, “when He created all living things!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Ostap, “I am an old Catholic and Latinist myself. Puer, socer, vesper, gener, liber, miser, asper, tener.”

  These Latin exceptions, which Ostap had to learn by heart in the third grade of Iliadi’s private gymnasium, and which his brain still retained for no reason, made a powerful impression on Kozlevich. His soul rejoined his body, and as a consequence of this reunion, the driver inched tentatively forward.

  “My son,” said Kuszakowski, looking at Bender furiously, “you are confused, my son. God’s miracles demonstrate . . .”

  “Quit yapping, Father!” said the grand strategist sternly. “I have performed miracles myself. Just four years ago in some God-forsaken town, I was Jesus Christ for a few days. And it went very smoothly. I even fed several thousand of
the faithful with five loaves of bread. I did that all right, but imagine the mayhem!”

  The debate continued in the same oddball vein. Ostap’s arguments, unconvincing yet funny, had the most invigorating effect on Kozlevich. Color appeared on the driver’s cheeks, and the tips of his mustache gradually started to look up.

  “You tell them!” Cries of encouragement came from behind the spirals and the crosses of the fence, where a sizable crowd of onlookers had already gathered. “Tell them about the Pope, tell them about the Crusade!”

  Ostap told them about the Pope. He condemned Alexander Borgia for bad behavior, mentioned St. Seraphim of Sarov for no apparent reason, and laid particularly hard into the Inquisition that persecuted Galileo. He got so carried away that he ended up laying the blame for the great scientist’s misfortunes directly on the shoulders of Kuszakowski and Moroszek. That was the last straw. When he heard about Galileo’s terrible fate, Adam quickly put the prayer book down on the steps and fell into Balaganov’s bear-like embrace. Panikovsky was right there, stroking the prodigal son’s scratchy cheeks. The air was filled with happy kissing.

  “Pan Kozlewicz!” groaned the priests. “Where are you going? Come to your senses, Pan!”

  But the heroes of the auto rally were already getting into their car.

  “See!” shouted Ostap to the disconsolate priests while settling into the captain’s seat, “I told you there’s no God! It’s a scientific fact. Farewell, Fathers! See you later!”

  Hailed by the crowd, the Antelope took off, and soon the tin flags and the tiled roofs of the cathedral disappeared from view. To celebrate, the Antelopeans stopped at a beer joint.

  “Thank you so much, guys!” said Kozlevich, holding a heavy beer mug in his hand. “I was as good as gone. Those priests really put a spell on me, especially Kuszakowski. He’s one sneaky devil! He forced me to fast, can you believe it? Or else, he said, I wouldn’t make it to heaven.”

  “Heaven!” said Ostap. “There’s nothing going on in heaven these days. Wrong times, wrong historic period. The angels want to come down to earth now. It’s nice down here: we have municipal services, the planetarium. You can watch the stars and listen to an anti-religious lecture all at once.”