by Ilya Ilf
Upon entering the village, Ostap instructed the crew to stay put and wait for him at Third Street, while he himself went to the village council on First Street. He came back fairly quickly.
“Everything is taken care of,” he said cheerfully. “They’ll give us a place to stay and dinner. After dinner, we’ll luxuriate in the hay. Milk and hay, remember? In the evening, we’re putting on a show. I already sold it for fifteen rubles. I have the money. Shura! You’re going to have to recite something from your reader, I’ll be showing anti-clerical card tricks, and Panikovsky . . . Where’s Panikovsky? Where on earth did he go?”
“He was here just a moment ago,” said Kozlevich. But then the Antelopeans, who were standing near a wattle fence, heard a goose honking and a woman shrieking behind it. White feathers flew, and Panikovsky ran out onto the street. Apparently, this time his toreador’s hand had betrayed him, and, in defending himself, he had hit the bird the wrong way. He was being chased by a woman who was wielding a piece of firewood.
“A wretched, miserable woman!” screeched Panikovsky, racing out of the village at full speed.
“What a blabbermouth!” exclaimed Ostap, not hiding his frustration. “The bastard just killed our show. Let’s get out of here before they take the fifteen rubles back.”
Meanwhile, the furious owner of the goose caught up with Panikovsky and managed to smack him right on the spine with the log. The violator of the pact fell to the ground, but then immediately jumped up and took off incredibly fast. Having completed this act of retribution, the woman turned around and headed back, satisfied. Running past the Antelopeans, she brandished the log at them.
“Our artistic career is over,” said Ostap, hurrying out of the village. “The dinner, the night’s rest—everything’s ruined.”
They only caught up with Panikovsky a couple of miles later. He was lying in a ditch, complaining loudly. He was pale from exhaustion, fear, and pain, and his numerous old-man’s splotches were gone. He was so pitiful that the captain decided against the punishment he had been planning for him.
“So they whacked Alyosha on his mighty back!” said Ostap, walking past him.
Everyone looked at Panikovsky with disgust. And again he traipsed behind the others, moaning and babbling:
“Wait for me, not so fast . . . I’m old, I’m sick, I don’t feel well! Goose! Drumstick! Neck! Femina! Wretched, miserable people!”
But the Antelopeans were so used to the old man’s laments that they paid no attention. Hunger forced them to press on. Never before had they been in such a tough and uncomfortable spot. The road went on and on, endlessly, and Panikovsky was falling farther and farther behind. The friends had already descended into a narrow golden valley, but the violator of the pact was still silhouetted against the greenish twilight on the hill crest.
“The old man has become impossible,” said the hungry Bender. “I’ll have to sack him. Shura, go and drag that malingerer here!”
Balaganov reluctantly went off to do the chore. As he was climbing up the hill, Panikovsky’s silhouette disappeared from view.
“Something’s happened,” said Kozlevich a bit later, looking at the crest where Balaganov was signaling with his arms.
The driver and the captain climbed back to the top of the hill.
The violator of the pact was lying on the road, motionless, like a doll. The pink ribbon of his tie lay across his chest. One arm was tucked under his back. His eyes looked into the sky daringly. Panikovsky was dead.
“A heart attack,” said Ostap, just to say something, anything. “I can tell even without a stethoscope. Poor old man!”
He turned away. Balaganov couldn’t keep his eyes off the dead body. Suddenly, his face became contorted, and he barely managed to utter:
“And I beat him up over the weights. And before that I used to fight with him.”
Kozlevich thought about the Antelope’s demise, looked at Panikovsky in horror, and started singing a prayer in Latin.
“Oh, come on, Adam!” said the grand strategist. “I know what you’re going to do. After the psalm, you’ll say: ‘God giveth, God taketh away,’ then: ‘We’re all in God’s hands,’ and then something totally meaningless, like: ‘At least he’s now in a better place than we are.’ There’s no need for any of it, Adam Kazimirovich. We’re faced with a very simple task: the body has to be laid to rest.”
It was already dark when they located the final resting place for the violator of the pact. A natural grave had been washed out by the rains at the foot of a tall stone marker. It must have been standing by the road since time immemorial. Maybe it once sported a sign like THIS LAND BELONGS TO MAJOR G. A. BEAR-WOLFSKY (RET.), or maybe it was just a survey marker from the times of Prince Potemkin—who cared anyway? They placed Panikovsky into the pit, used some sticks to dig up some dirt, and threw it on top of him. Then the Antelopeans put their shoulders to the stone, which was already loose from the passage of time, and felled it onto the ground. The grave was complete. In the flickering light of matches, the grand strategist scribbled an epitaph on the stone with a chunk of brick:
Here lies
MIKHAIL SAMUELEVICH PANIKOVSKY
A man without papers
Ostap took off his captain’s cap and said:
“I’ve often been unfair to the deceased. But was the deceased a moral person? No, he was not a moral person. He was a former blind man, an impostor, and a goose thief. He put all his efforts into trying to live at society’s expense. But society didn’t want him to live at its expense. Mikhail Samuelevich couldn’t bear this difference of opinion because he had a quick temper. And so he died. That’s it!”
Kozlevich and Balaganov were not happy with Ostap’s farewell tribute. They would have found it more appropriate had the grand strategist waxed poetic about the great services the deceased had rendered to society, about his charity to the poor, his sensitive nature, his love for children, and everything else that’s usually ascribed to any dead person. Balaganov even stepped forward to the grave, intending to express all this himself, but the captain had already put his cap back on and was walking away briskly.
When the remnants of the Antelopeans’ army had crossed the valley and negotiated yet another hill, they saw a small train station on the other side.
“Here’s civilization,” said Ostap, “maybe a snack bar, some food. We’ll sleep on the benches. And in the morning, we’ll head East. What do you think?”
The driver and the rally mechanic didn’t respond.
“So why are you so quiet? Have you lost the gift of speech?”
“You know, Bender,” Balaganov said finally, “I’m not going. Please don’t be mad, but I don’t have faith anymore. I don’t know where we’re going. We’ll get into big trouble over there. I’m staying.”
“I wanted to tell you the same thing,” echoed Kozlevich.
“As you wish,” replied Ostap, suddenly sounding cold.
There was no snack bar at the station. A bright kerosene lamp was lit. Two peasant women slumbered on top of their sacks in the waiting area. The entire staff of the station paced on the wooden platform, staring intently into the pre-dawn darkness beyond the semaphore post.
“Which train is it?” asked Ostap.
“Unnumbered,” answered the station chief nervously, straightening a red cap that was decorated with silver stripes. “A special. Delayed for two minutes. Doesn’t have a green light yet.”
Then there was a rumble, wires shook, a pair of small, wolfish eyes appeared, and a short, glistening train came to a screeching halt at the station. The large glass windows of the first-class passenger cars gleamed, and flowers and wine bottles in the dining car rolled right by the noses of the Antelopeans. Attendants jumped off the train with their lanterns while the train was still moving, and the platform immediately filled with cheery banter in Russian and other languages. The cars were decorated with fir garlands and slogans that read: GREETINGS TO THE HEROIC BUILDERS OF THE EASTERN LINE!
The grand strategist disappeared. He returned thirty seconds later and whispered:
“I’m going! I don’t know how—but I’m going! Want to come with me? I’m asking you one last time.”
“No,” said Balaganov.
“I’m not going,” said Kozlevich, “I can’t take it anymore.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“What can I possibly do?” replied Shura. “I’ll be the son of Lieutenant Schmidt again, that’s all.”
“I’m hoping to put the Antelope back together,” said Kozlevich plaintively, “I’ll go give her a good look, fix her up.”
Ostap wanted to say something, but a long whistle silenced him. He pulled Balaganov closer, patted him on the back, kissed Kozlevich goodbye, waved, and ran toward the train, whose cars were already bumping together from the locomotive’s first pull. But before he reached the train, he turned back, stuck the fifteen rubles he had received for the show into Adam’s hand, and jumped onto the step of the car, which was already moving.
Glancing back, he saw two small figures climbing up the slope through the purple haze. Balaganov was returning to the troublesome brood of Lieutenant Schmidt. Kozlevich was trundling back to the remains of the Antelope.
PART 3
A PRIVATE
CITIZEN
CHAPTER 26
A PASSENGER ON
THE SPECIAL TRAIN
A short unnumbered train stood in the asphalt berth of the Ryazan Station in Moscow. It had only six cars: a baggage car, which actually housed food supplies on ice instead of the baggage; a dining car with a white-clad cook leaning out the window; the government’s private car; and three sleeping cars, whose bunks, draped with austere striped covers, were to accommodate a delegation of exemplary factory workers, as well as Soviet and foreign journalists.
The train was heading for the joining of the Eastern Line.
A lengthy journey lay ahead. The workers were pushing their travel baskets, whose little black locks hung from iron rods, through the cars’ doors. The Soviet press was rushing up and down the platform, brandishing their shiny plywood travel cases.
The foreigners were watching over the porters who carried their thick leather suitcases, garment bags, and cardboard boxes, which were plastered with colorful labels from travel companies and steamship lines.
The passengers had already stocked up on a book, The Eastern Line, whose cover featured a picture of a camel sniffing the rails. The book was being sold on the platform, from a baggage cart. Its author, a journalist named Palamidov, had already walked past the cart several times, glancing at the buyers anxiously. He was considered an expert on the Eastern Line: this would be his third trip there.
Departure was fast approaching, but the farewell scene was nothing like an ordinary passenger train’s departure. There were no old women on the platform, nobody was holding a baby through an open window for a last look at its grandfather. Obviously, there was no grandfather either, a grandfather whose dim eyes reflect a fear of drafty trains, and, obviously, there was no kissing. The workers’ delegation had been brought to the station by union officials, who hadn’t had the chance to work out the issue of farewell kisses yet. The journalists from Moscow were accompanied by their co-workers, who were used to getting away with a handshake in situations like this. On the other hand, the foreign journalists—there were thirty of them—were headed to the joining at full strength, with their wives and their phonographs, so there was no one to see them off.
True to the occasion, the travelers talked louder than usual, pulled out their notepads for no reason, and scolded the well-wishers for not joining them on such an exciting journey. A journalist named Lavoisian was being particularly loud. He was young at heart, even though a bald pate shone through his locks like a moon in the jungle.
“You disgust me!” he shouted to those staying behind. “You can’t even fathom what the Eastern Line really means!”
The hot-headed Lavoisian was so passionate, and so dedicated to print news, that he could have easily beaten up a friend or two, except that his hands were busy with a large typewriter in a heavy oilcloth cover. He was already itching to send an urgent cable to his office, but there was absolutely nothing to report.
Ukhudshansky, from a union newspaper, had been the first to arrive at the station and was strolling next to the train at a leisurely pace. He was carrying The Turkestan Region: A Complete Geographical Description of Our Land, A Reference and Travel Book for the Russian People, by Semenov-Tian-Shansky, which had been published in 1903. He would stop by a group of travelers or well-wishers and say, somewhat sarcastically:
“Going? Well, well . . .”
Or:
“Staying? Well, well . . .”
In this manner, he reached the front of the train. Holding his head back, he carefully studied the locomotive, and finally said to the engineer:
“Working? Well, well . . .”
After that, Ukhudshansky returned to his compartment, opened the latest issue of his union paper, and became immersed in an article, “Retail Boards Need Improvement: Boards’ Overhaul Insufficient,” that he had written himself. The article reported on some meeting or other, and the author’s take on the subject could be described in one sentence: “Meeting? Well, well . . .” Ukhudshansky read until the train departed.
One of the well-wishers, a man with a pink plush nose and small velvety sideburns, made a prophecy that scared everyone to death.
“I know about trips like this,” he announced, “I’ve done them myself. I know what your future holds. There’s about a hundred of you. Altogether, you’ll be on the road for a whole month. Two of you will be left behind at a small station in the middle of nowhere, with no money and no papers, and, hungry and bedraggled, will catch up with the train a week later. Somebody’s suitcase is bound to be stolen. Perhaps, Palamidov’s, or Lavoisian’s, or Navrotsky’s. The victim will whine for the rest of the trip and beg his comrades for a shaving brush. He’ll return the brush dirty and will lose the bowl. One of you will certainly die, and the friends of the deceased, instead of going to the joining, will be obliged to escort the remains of the dearly beloved back to Moscow. A very boring and unpleasant chore. On top of that, there will be a nasty squabble during the trip. Trust me! Someone, say, that same Palamidov, or Ukhudshansky, will commit an anti-social act. All of you will denounce him endlessly and tediously, while the culprit will moan and groan in protest. I’ve seen it all. You’re wearing hats and caps now, but you’ll come back in Oriental skull caps. The stupidest of you will purchase the full uniform of a Bukhara Jew: a velvet hat trimmed with jackal fur and a thick quilted blanket sewn into a cloak. And, of course, all of you will be singing the Stenka Razin song on the train in the evening, bellowing like idiots: ‘And he throws her overboard, to the wave that happens by.’ Not only that, even the foreigners will sing: ‘Down the river Volga, sur notre mère Volga, down our Mother Volga . . .’”
Indignant, Lavoisian brandished his typewriter at the prophet.
“You’re just envious!” he said. “We won’t sing.”
“Oh yes, you will. There’s no way around it. Trust me, I know . . .”
“No, we won’t.”
“Yes, you will. And if you have any honor, you will immediately send me a postcard to that effect.”
At this moment, they heard a stifled cry. A photojournalist named Menshov had fallen off the roof of the baggage car. He had climbed up there in order to photograph their departure. Menshov lay on the platform for a few seconds, holding his camera above his head. Then he got up, checked the shutter carefully, and headed back to the roof.
“Falling?” asked Ukhudshansky, sticking his head out the window, newspaper in hand.
“That wasn’t much of a fall,” said the photojournalist disdainfully. “You should have seen me fall off the spiral slide in the amusement park!”
“Well, well . . .” remarked the representative of the union paper, disappearing through the window.
On the roof, Menshov kneeled down and got back to work. A Norwegian writer, who had already put his luggage in his compartment and gone outside for a stroll, watched him with a look of whole-hearted approval. The writer had light boyish hair and a large Varangian nose. The Norwegian was so impressed by Menshov’s photoheroism that he felt an urgent need to share his excitement with someone else. He marched up to an elderly worker from the Trekhgorka Factory, pointed a finger at the man’s chest, and belted out in Russian:
“You!!”
Then he pointed at his own chest and exclaimed with equal force:
“Me!!”
Having thus used every single word of his Russian, the writer smiled amicably and rushed back to his car as the station bell rang out for the second time. The worker hurried to his own car. Menshov descended to the ground. Heads began to nod, the final smiles flashed, a satirist in a coat with a black velvet collar rushed by. As the train’s tail was bouncing over the exit switch, two journalist brothers—Leo Shirtikov and Ian Benchikov—bolted out of the station’s diner. Benchikov was clutching a Wiener schnitzel in his teeth. Leaping like young dogs, the two brothers raced down the platform, jumped off onto the oily ground, and only then, amid the ties, did they realize that they had actually missed the train.
The train, in the meantime, was rolling out of construction-filled Moscow and had already struck up its deafening tune. It pounded with its wheels and laughed diabolically under the overpasses, only quieting down a bit when it had attained full speed in the woods outside the city. It was going to trace a sizable arc on the globe, run through several climate zones —from the coolness of central Russia to the hot desert, travel past many cities and towns, and advance four hours ahead of Moscow time.
Toward the end of the first day, two envoys from the capitalist world appeared in the Soviet journalists’ car. They were Mr. Heinrich, who represented a liberal Austrian newspaper, and Hiram Berman, an American. They came to introduce themselves. Mr. Heinrich was rather short. Mr. Berman wore a hat with its brim turned up. Both of them were quite fluent in Russian. At first, everybody just stood in the corridor silently, eyeing each other with curiosity. To break the ice, they brought up the Moscow Art Theater. Heinrich praised the theater, while Mr. Berman evasively remarked that, as a Zionist, what most interested him in the Soviet Union was the Jewish question.