The Golden Calf

by Ilya Ilf

  The Antelopeans were leading a clean, moral, almost pastoral, life. They helped the hostel manager keep order and became well-versed in the prices of barley and sour cream. At times, Panikovsky would go out to the courtyard, busily open the mouth of the nearest horse, glance at its teeth, and mutter, “That’s a fine stallion,” even though he was looking at a fine mare.

  Only the captain was gone all day long, and when he finally showed up at the hostel, he was cheerful and distracted. He would sit down with his friends, who were drinking tea on a dirty glass porch, cross his strong legs, that were clad in red shoes, and say amicably:

  “Panikovsky, is life really wonderful, or is it just me?”

  “Where are you having such a swell time?” the violator of the pact would ask jealously.

  “Come on, old man! This girl is not in your league,” Ostap would say.

  Balaganov laughed loudly and sympathetically, examining his new wallet, while Kozlevich chortled into his train conductor’s mustache. He had already driven the captain and Zosya along the Coastal Highway on more than one occasion.

  The weather was right for love. The Piqué Vests claimed that there hadn’t been an August like this since the days of the porto franco. Night presented a clear sky, perfect for astronomic observations, while day rolled refreshing sea waves toward the city. Doormen were selling white-striped watermelons by their doorways, and the citizens strained themselves, squeezing the watermelons at both poles and lowering their ear in order to hear the desired crunch. In the evening, players returned from the soccer fields, sweaty and happy. Boys ran after them, kicking up dust. They pointed out the famous goal keeper, and sometimes even raised him onto their shoulders and carried him respectfully.

  One evening, the captain advised the crew of the Antelope that they would be going on a big outing in the country the next day. Gifts would be distributed.

  “Since a certain young lady will be joining our morning festivities,” said Ostap significantly, “I would urge the esteemed cadets to wash their faces, clean up, and most importantly, not to use rude language during the trip.”

  Panikovsky became very excited, wheedled three rubles out of the captain, ran to the bathhouse, and then cleaned and scrubbed himself all night, like a soldier before a parade. He was the first to get up, and he kept hurrying Kozlevich. The Antelopeans looked at Panikovsky with amazement. He was clean-shaven and covered in so much powder that he looked like a retired MC. He kept pulling his jacket down and could barely turn his neck in his Oscar-Wilde collar.

  During the outing, Panikovsky conducted himself quite ceremoniously. As he was being introduced to Zosya, he bowed graciously, but blushed so hard that even the powder on his cheeks turned red. Sitting in the car, he tucked his left foot under the seat, trying to hide the hole in his shoe where his big toe was showing. Zosya was wearing a white dress hemmed in red stitches. She really liked the Antelopeans. She was amused by the rough-edged Balaganov, who kept grooming his hair with a Sobinoff comb. At times, he cleaned his nose with his finger, after which he always took out his handkerchief and fanned himself pretentiously. Adam was teaching Zosya to drive the Antelope, which earned him her favor, too. She was a little anxious about Panikovsky, though. She thought he wasn’t talking to her out of pride. But most often, her eyes rested on the captain’s minted profile.

  At sunset, Ostap distributed the promised gifts. Kozlevich received a keychain with a compass, which matched his thick silver pocket watch perfectly. Balaganov was presented with a leatherette-bound basic reader, while Panikovsky got a pink tie with dark-blue flowers.

  “And now, my friends,” Bender announced when the Antelope had returned to the city, “Zosya Victorovna and I will take a little walk. You should go back to the hostel. Nighty night.”

  The hostel was already asleep, Balaganov and Kozlevich were already playing arpeggios with their noses, but Panikovsky, in his new tie, wandered amid the horse carts and wrung his arms in quiet despair.

  “What a femina!” he whispered. “I love her like a daughter.”

  Ostap and Zosya sat on the steps of the Archaeological Museum. Laughing and flirting, young people strolled on the square that was paved with lava rock. Behind a row of plane trees, light sparkled in the windows of the international seamen’s club. Foreign sailors in soft hats walked in groups of two or three, exchanging brief, incomprehensible remarks.

  “Why did you fall in love with me?” asked Zosya, touching Ostap’s hand.

  “You’re lovely and amazing,” replied the captain. “You’re the best in the world.”

  They sat quietly in the black shadows of the museum’s columns for a long time, thinking about their little happiness. It was dark and warm, like between the palms of two hands.

  “Remember I was telling you about Koreiko?” Zosya asked suddenly. “The one who proposed to me.”

  “Yes,” replied Ostap absentmindedly.

  “He’s a very funny man,” continued Zosya. “Remember I told you how he left town unexpectedly?”

  “Yes,” said Ostap, starting to pay attention, “he’s very funny.”

  “Would you believe it, I got a letter from him today, a very funny letter . . .”

  “What?” exclaimed her beau, rising to his feet.

  “Are you jealous?” Zosya asked playfully.

  “Well, a little. So what does this clown have to say?”

  “He’s not a clown. He’s just a very poor, unhappy man. Sit down, Ostap. Why did you get up? No, seriously, I don’t love him at all. He’s asking me to come join him.”

  “Where, join him where?” shouted Ostap. “Where is he?”

  “I’m not telling you. You’re too jealous. You’d go and kill him, God forbid.”

  “Oh, come on, Zosya!” said the captain carefully. “I’m just curious where people find work these days.”

  “Oh, he’s very, very far from here. He writes that he found a well-paying job. He wasn’t making much here. He’s helping build the Eastern Line.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Honestly, you’re way too nosy. You shouldn’t be such an Othello!”

  “For God’s sake, Zosya, you make me laugh. Do I look like a silly old Moor? I’m just curious where on the Eastern Line people find work.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell you, if you insist. He works as a timekeeper at the Northern track-laying site,” said the girl simply. “But it’s just called a site—it’s actually a train. It’s very interesting, the way Alexander Ivanovich describes it. This train lays down the track. You see? And then it moves over that same track. And another train like this is moving toward it from the south. They will soon meet. Then there will be a joining ceremony. And it’s in the desert, he writes, with camels . . . Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Fascinating,” said the grand strategist, pacing under the columns. “You know, Zosya, it’s time to go. It’s late. And it’s cold. Let’s just go!”

  He helped Zosya up from the steps, walked her to the square, and then hesitated.

  “Aren’t you going to walk me home?” asked the girl with alarm.

  “Pardon?” said Ostap. “Oh, home . . . You see, I . . .”

  “Fine,” Zosya said drily, “goodbye. And don’t come see me anymore. Do you hear?”

  But the grand strategist no longer heard anything. After running for a block, he stopped.

  “Lovely and amazing!” he muttered.

  Ostap turned back, to follow his girl. He ran under the dark trees for a couple of minutes. Then he stopped again, took his seaman’s cap off, and lingered for a few moments.

  “No, this isn’t Rio de Janeiro!” he said finally.

  He took two more tentative steps, stopped again, stuck the cap on his head, and, without any further hesitation, rushed to the hostel.

  That same night, the Antelope drove out of the hostel gates, its pale headlights on. Drowsy Kozlevich had to strain to turn the steering wheel. Balaganov promptly fell asleep in the car while the others were hast
ily packing. Panikovsky shifted his small eyes sadly, shivering in the cool of the night. He still had some powder on his face, left over from the festive outing.

  “The carnival is over!” cried out the captain, as the Antelope rumbled under a railway bridge. “Now the hard work begins.”

  And in the old puzzle-maker’s room, next to a bouquet of dried-up roses, the lovely and amazing one was weeping.

  CHAPTER 25

  THREE ROADS

  The Antelope wasn’t feeling well. She would stall on even the slightest incline and roll back listlessly. Strange noises and wheezing were coming from the engine, as if someone was being strangled under the yellow hood. The vehicle was overloaded. In addition to the crew, it carried large supplies of fuel. Gasoline gurgled in cans and bottles that filled every available space. Kozlevich kept shaking his head, stepping on the accelerator, and glancing at Ostap anxiously.

  “Adam,” the captain would say, “you’re our father, we’re your children. Head east! You have a great navigational tool—your keychain compass. Don’t lose the way!”

  The Antelopeans were on the move for the third day in a row, but no one except Ostap knew the final destination of the new journey. Panikovsky looked glumly at the shaggy corn fields and lisped timidly:

  “Why are we driving again? What’s the point of all this? It was so nice in Chernomorsk.”

  He sighed desperately, thinking of the lovely femina. On top of that, he was hungry, but there was nothing to eat—they were out of money.

  “Forward!” proclaimed Ostap. “Stop whining, old man. Golden dentures, a nice plump widow, and an entire swimming pool of kefir await you. For Balaganov, I’ll buy a sailor’s suit and sign him up for elementary school. He’ll learn to read and write, which at his age is a must. And Kozlevich, our faithful Adam, will get a new car. What would you like, Adam Kazimirovich? A Studebaker? A Lincoln? A Rolls? A Hispano-Suiza?”

  “An Isotta-Fraschini,” said Kozlevich, blushing.

  “Fine. You’ll get it. We’ll call it the Antelope II, or Antelope Junior, whatever you prefer. And now, cheer up. I’ll make sure you’ve got the basics. Of course, my bag went up in flames, but my ideas are fire-proof. If things get really bad, we’ll stop at some lucky little town and set up a bullfight, Seville-style. Panikovsky will be the picador. That alone will spur the public’s unhealthy curiosity and make it a huge box-office hit.”

  The car crept along a wide roadway that was marked by tractor teeth. Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes.

  “Which way?” he asked. “We have three roads here.”

  The passengers climbed out of the car and walked on a bit, stretching their stiff legs. The crossroads was marked by a tall leaning stone, with a fat crow perched on top of it. The flattened sun was setting behind unkempt corn silk. Balaganov’s thin shadow stretched toward the horizon. The ground was touched by dark hues, and an early star dutifully signaled the advent of the night.

  Three roads lay in front of the Antelopeans: one asphalt, one gravel, and one dirt. The asphalt was still yellow from the sun, blue vapor hovered over the gravel road, but the dirt road was barely discernible and melted into the fields just beyond the stone. Ostap yelled at the crow, which was very frightened yet didn’t fly away. He paced back and forth at the crossroads in contemplation and then announced:

  “I declare the conference of the roving Russian knights open! In attendance are: Ilya Muromets—Ostap Bender, Dobrynya Nikitich—Balaganov, and Alyosha Popovich—our esteemed Mikhail Panikovsky.”

  Kozlevich, who took advantage of the stop and climbed under the Antelope with a wrench, was not included in the ranks of the knights.

  “Dear Dobrynya,” Ostap instructed, “please stand on the right! Monsieur Popovich, take you place on the left! Shade your eyes with your hands and look forward intently.”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Alyosha Popovich testily. “I’m hungry. Let’s go somewhere, now!”

  “Shame on you, Alyosha boy,” said Ostap, “stand properly, as befits an ancient knight. And think hard. Look at Dobrynya: you could put him straight into an epic. So, my fellow knights, which road shall we take? Which one has money lying around on it, the money we need for our daily expenses? I know that Kozlevich would prefer the asphalt: drivers like good roads. But Adam is an honest man, he doesn’t know much about life. Knights have no use for asphalt. It probably leads to some giant state farm. We’ll get lost amidst the roar of the engines down there. We might even get run over by a Caterpillar or some combine harvester. To die under a harvester—that’s too boring. No, my fellow knights, the paved road is not for us. Now the gravel one. Kozlevich, of course, would like it, too. But trust your Ilya Muromets: it’s no good for us either. Let them accuse us of backwardness, but we will not take that road. My intuition tells me of encounters with tactless collective farmers and other model citizens. Besides, they have no time for us. Their collectivized land is now overrun by numerous literary and musical teams that collect material for their agri-poetry and vegetable-garden cantatas. That, citizen knights, leaves us the dirt road! Here it is—an ancient fairy-tale route that our Antelope will embark on. There’s Russian soul! There’s Russian spirit! There, the smoldering firebird still flies, and people in our line of work can come across a golden feather here and there. Kashchey the wealthy farmer still sits on his treasure chests. He thought he was immortal, but now he realizes, to his horror, that the end is near. But we, my fellow knights, we shall still be able to get a little something from him, especially if we introduce ourselves as itinerant monks. For vehicles, this enchanted road is awful. But for us, it’s the only way. Adam! Let’s go!”

  With a heavy heart, Kozlevich drove onto the dirt road, where the car promptly went figure-skating, listing sideways and jolting the passengers into the air. The Antelopeans were clutching on to each other, cursing under their breath, and banging their knees against the hard metal cans.

  “I’m hungry!” moaned Panikovsky. “I want a goose! Why did we have to leave Chernomorsk?”

  The car screeched, trying to pull itself out of a deep rut and then sunk back into it.

  “Keep going, Adam!” shouted Bender. “Keep going no matter what! If only the Antelope takes us all the way to the Eastern Line, we’ll bestow on it golden tires with swords and bows!”

  Kozlevich wasn’t listening. The wild jolting was tearing his hands off the steering wheel. Panikovsky was still restless.

  “Bender,” he wheezed suddenly, “you know how much I respect you, but you’re clueless! You don’t know what a goose is! Oh, how I love that bird! It’s a heavenly, juicy bird. I swear. Goose! Bender! Wing! Neck! Drumstick! Bender, do you know how I catch a goose? I kill it like a toreador, with a single blow. When I go up against a goose, it’s an opera! It’s Carmen!”

  “I know,” said the captain, “we saw it in Arbatov. Better not try it again.”

  Panikovsky fell silent, but a minute later, when yet another jolt threw him against Bender, he started whispering feverishly again:

  “Bender! It walks on the road. The goose! That heavenly bird takes a walk, and I stand there and pretend it’s none of my business. Now it comes closer. It’s about to start hissing at me. These birds think they are stronger than anybody, and that’s their weak point. Bender! That’s their weak point!”

  The violator of the pact was all but chanting:

  “So now it confronts me, hissing like a phonograph. But I’m not from a timid bunch, Bender. Somebody else would have fled, but me, I stand there and wait. Now it comes near and stretches out its neck, a white goose-neck with a yellow beak. It wants to bite me. Note, Bender, that I’m on the moral high ground here. I don’t attack the goose, it attacks me. So, in self-defense, I grab . . .”

  But Panikovsky never finished his speech. There came a horrible, nauseating crack, and the next moment, the Antelopeans found themselves lying on the road in the most peculiar positions. Balaganov’s legs we sticking out of a ditch. The grand strategist had a
can of gasoline lying on his stomach. Panikovsky was moaning under the weight of a suspension spring. Kozlevich rose to his feet and took a few unsteady steps.

  The Antelope was no more. An ugly pile of rubble was lying on the road: pistons, cushions, springs. The copper intestines glistened in the moonlight. The car’s body fell apart and slid into the ditch next to Balaganov, who had just come back to his senses. The chain crawled down into a rut like a viper. The sudden stillness was broken by a high-pitched ringing noise, as a wheel rolled in from some nearby mound, where it must have been thrown by the blast. The wheel traced a curve and landed gently at Adam’s feet.

  And only then did the driver realize that it was all over. The Antelope was dead. Adam sat down on the ground and put his arms around his head. A few minutes later, the captain touched his shoulder and said gently:

  “Adam, we must go now.”

  Kozlevich got up and then quickly sat down again.

  “We must go now,” repeated Ostap. “The Antelope was a good, faithful car, but there are plenty of other cars out there. You will soon be able to choose any one you want. Let’s go, we need to hurry up. We have to spend the night somewhere, we have to eat, we have to find money for train tickets somehow. It’ll be a long trip. Come on, Kozlevich, let’s go! Life is beautiful, despite certain shortcomings. Where’s Panikovsky? Where’s that goose thief? Shura! Help Adam out!”

  They dragged Kozlevich forward, holding him by the arms. He felt like a cavalryman whose horse has been killed due to his own negligence. He imagined that pedestrians would start making fun of him.

  After the Antelope’s demise, life immediately became more complicated. They had to spend the night in the fields.

  Ostap angrily fell asleep right away. Balaganov and Kozlevich also fell asleep, but Panikovsky spent the whole night shivering by the fire.

  The Antelopeans got up at sunrise but didn’t reach the nearest village until 4 P.M. Panikovsky traipsed behind the others the whole way. He limped a bit. Hunger gave his eyes a cat-like gleam, and he complained incessantly about his fate and his captain.