by Ilya Ilf
“This is really bad,” thought Alexander Ivanovich, “really bad and scary! What if he strangles me now and takes all my money? Just like that. Cuts me up and dispatches the pieces to different cities on a slow train. And pickles my head in a barrel of sauerkraut.”
Koreiko suddenly felt a crypt-like chill. He peeked out from under the bed fearfully. Bender was dozing on his crate, leaning against the conductor’s lantern.
“But maybe I should dispatch him . . . on a slow train?” thought Alexander Ivanovich, continuing to extract the stacks and feeling horrified. “To different cities? In strict confidence. How about that?”
He peeked out once again. The grand strategist stretched and yawned with abandon, like a Great Dane. Then he picked up the conductor’s lantern and started swinging it:
“Boonieville Station! Get off the train, citizen! We’ve arrived! Oh yes, I completely forgot: are you by any chance thinking of doing away with me? I want you to know that I’m against it. Besides, someone already tried to kill me once. There was this wild old man, from a good family, a former Marshal of the Nobility, who doubled as a civil registrar, named Kisa Vorobyaninov. He and I were business partners, searching for happiness to the tune of 150,000 rubles. And just when we were about to divvy up the loot, the silly marshal slit my throat with a razor. It was in such poor taste, Koreiko. And it hurt, too! The surgeons were barely able to save my young life, and for that I am deeply grateful.”
Finally Koreiko climbed out from under the bed and pushed the stacks of money toward Ostap’s feet. Each stack was neatly wrapped in white paper, glued, and tied up with string.
“Ninety-nine stacks,” said Koreiko dolefully, “Ten thousand each. In 250-ruble bills. You don’t need to count, I’m as good as a bank.”
“And where’s stack number one hundred?” asked Ostap enthusiastically.
“I deducted ten thousand. To cover the mugging at the beach.”
“Now that’s really low. The money was spent on you, after all. Don’t be such a stickler.”
Sighing, Koreiko made up the difference and received his life story, in the yellow folder with shoelace straps, in exchange. He immediately burned it in an iron stove whose chimney vented through the car’s roof. Meanwhile, Ostap picked up one of the stacks to check it, tore off the wrapping, and, seeing that Koreiko wasn’t cheating, stuck it in his pocket.
“But where’s the foreign currency?” asked the grand strategist fussily. “Where are the Mexican dollars, Turkish liras, where are the pounds, rupees, pesetas, centavos, Rumanian leis, where are the Latvian lats and the Polish zlotys? Give me at least some hard currency!”
“That’s all I’ve got,” replied Koreiko, sitting in front of the stove and watching the papers writhe in the fire, “take this, or else it’ll soon be gone, too. I don’t carry foreign currency.”
“So now I’m a millionaire!” exclaimed Ostap with cheerful disbelief. “A fool’s dream comes true!”
Ostap suddenly felt sad. He was struck by how ordinary it all felt. He thought it odd that the earth didn’t move at that very moment, and that nothing, absolutely nothing, changed around him. And even though he realized that one can’t expect mysterious caves, barrels of gold, or Aladdin’s light fixtures in our austere times, he still felt like something was missing. He felt a bit bored, like Roald Amundsen did, when, whizzing over the North Pole in the airship Norge after a life-long quest, he said flatly to his companions: “Well, we made it.” Below them lay broken ice, crevasses, coldness, and emptiness. The mystery is solved, the goal reached, there’s nothing left to do, time to look for a different occupation. But sadness is fleeting, because ahead, fame and glory await: choirs sing, high-school girls in white pinafores stand in formation, the elderly mothers of the polar explorers who had been eaten by their teammates weep, national anthems play, fireworks boom, and the old king presses his prickly stars and medals against the explorer’s chest.
The moment of weakness had passed. Ostap tossed the stacks of money into a small bag, kindly provided by Alexander Ivanovich, stuck it under his arm, and rolled open the heavy door of the freight car.
The festivities were coming to an end. The rockets were cast into the sky like golden fishing rods, pulling red and green fish back out; sparklers burst in people’s eyes, pyrotechnical comet suns swirled. A show for the nomads was taking place on a wooden stage behind the telegraph shack. Some of them sat on benches, while others watched the performance from the vantage point of their saddles. The horses neighed frequently. The special train was lit up from head to tail.
“Oh yes!” exclaimed Ostap. “A banquet in the dining car! I completely forgot! Oh, what fun! Let’s go, Koreiko, my treat, I’m treating everyone! In compliance with the laws of hospitality! Brandy with a touch of lemon, game dumplings, fricandeau with mushrooms, old Tokay, new Tokay, sparkling champagne!”
“Fricandeau my foot,” said Koreiko angrily, “that’s how we get busted. I don’t want to advertise myself!”
“I promise you a heavenly dinner on a white tablecloth,” Ostap persisted. “Come on, let’s go! Stop being such a hermit, make sure you consume your share of alcoholic beverages, eat your twenty thousand steaks. Or else total strangers will swarm up and polish off what should be yours. I’ll help you get on the special train, they know me very well—and no later than tomorrow we’ll be in a reasonably civilized place. And then, with our millions . . . Alexander Ivanovich!”
The grand strategist wanted to make everyone happy immediately, wanted everyone to be cheerful. Koreiko’s gloomy face bothered him. So Ostap began working on him. He agreed that there wasn’t any reason to advertise themselves, but why should they starve? Ostap himself wasn’t quite sure why he needed the cheerless timekeeper, but once he got started, he couldn’t stop. In the end, he even tried to browbeat him:
“You keep sitting on your suitcase, and one day the Grim Reaper will show up and slit your throat with his scythe. Then what? Won’t that be something? Hurry up, Alexander Ivanovich, your meat is still on the table. Don’t be such a bonehead.”
After losing a million, Koreiko had become more easy-going and amenable.
“Well, maybe it’s not such a bad idea to take a break?” he said uncertainly. “Go to a big city? But, of course, nothing flashy, nothing ostentatious.”
“Of course not! Just two public health physicians traveling to Moscow to attend the Art Theater and take a peek at the mummy in the Museum of Fine Arts. Get your suitcase.”
The millionaires headed toward the train. Ostap waved his bag carelessly, as if it were a censer. Alexander Ivanovich smiled like a complete idiot. The special passengers were strolling around, trying to stay close to the cars because the locomotive was already being attached. The journalists’ white pants twinkled in the dark.
A stranger lay under the sheets on Ostap’s upper bunk, reading a newspaper.
“Time to get off,” said Ostap amicably, “the rightful owner is here.”
“This is my place, Comrade,” replied the stranger. “I’m Leo Shirtikov.”
“Listen, Leo Shirtikov, don’t awaken the beast in me, just go away.”
Koreiko’s puzzled look compelled the grand strategist to get into a fight.
“Absolutely not,” said the journalist feistily. “Who are you?”
“None of your damn business! I’m telling you to get off, so get off!”
“Any drunk can come in here,” shrieked Shirtikov, “and violate . . .”
Ostap quietly grabbed the journalist’s bare leg. Shirtikov’s screams brought the entire car. Koreiko retreated to the vestibule, just in case.
“Fighting?” asked Ukhudshansky. “Well, well . . .”
Ostap, who had already managed to whack Shirtikov on the head with his bag, was being restrained by Gargantua and the portly writer in the casual jacket.
“Let him show his ticket!” yelled the grand strategist. “Let him show his boarding pass!”
The stark-naked Shirtikov leaped f
rom bunk to bunk and demanded to see the train administrator. Ostap, who had completely detached from reality, also insisted on appealing to the authorities. The altercation ended in a major embarrassment. Shirtikov produced both the ticket and the boarding pass, and then, in a theatrical voice, demanded that Bender do the same.
“I won’t do it on principle!” announced the grand strategist, hastily retreating from the site of the incident. “I have my principles!”
“Fare dodger!” screamed Leo Shirtikov, darting into the corridor naked. “Take note, Comrade administrator, there was a fare dodger in here!”
“Where’s the fare dodger?” thundered the administrator, the thrill of the hunt sparkling in his hound dog eyes.
Alexander Ivanovich, who was nervously hiding behind the podium, peered into the darkness, but he couldn’t make anything out. Silhouettes scuffled near the train, cigarette tips danced, and one could hear voices: “Show it to me!,” “I’m telling you—on principle!,” “Hooliganism!,” “Isn’t that right? Isn’t it true?,” “Shouldn’t someone ride without a ticket?” Buffer plates banged, the hissing air from the brakes blew low over the ground, and the cars’ bright windows started to move. Ostap was still blustering, but the striped bunks, luggage nets, attendants with lanterns, the flowers and the ceiling fans of the dining car were already coasting past him. The banquet with champagne, with Tokay old and new, was leaving. The game dumplings escaped from his hands and disappeared into the night. The fricandeau, the tender fricandeau that Ostap had described with such passion, left Roaring Springs. Alexander Ivanovich came closer.
“They’re not getting away with this,” grumbled Ostap. “Abandoning a Soviet journalist in the desert! I’ll call on the people to protest. Koreiko! We’re off with the next express! We’ll buy up the entire first-class car!”
“What are you talking about,” said Koreiko. “What express? There aren’t any more trains. According to the plan, the line won’t become operational for another two months.”
Ostap raised his head. He saw the wild stars of the black Abyssinian sky and finally grasped the situation. But Koreiko’s sheepish reminder of the banquet gave him new strength.
“There’s a plane sitting behind the hill,” said Bender, “the one that flew in for the ceremony. It’s not leaving until sunrise. We’ve got enough time.”
In order to make it, the millionaires moved at a fast dromedary’s gait. Their feet slipped in the sand, the nomads’ fires were burning, and dragging the suitcase and the bag, while not exactly difficult, was extremely unpleasant. As they climbed the hill from the direction of Roaring Springs, sunrise advanced from the other side with the buzz of propellers. Bender and Koreiko started running down the hill, afraid that the plane would leave without them.
Tiny mechanics in leather coats were walking under the plane’s corrugated wings, which were high above them, like a roof. The three propellers rotated slowly, ventilating the desert. Curtains with plush pompoms dangled over the square windows of the passenger cabin. The pilot leaned against the aluminum step, eating a pasty and washing it down with mineral water from a bottle.
“We’re passengers,” shouted Ostap, gasping for air. “Two first-class tickets!”
Nobody reacted. The pilot tossed the bottle away and began to put on his wide-cuffed gloves.
“Are there any seats?” repeated Ostap, grabbing the pilot by the arm.
“We don’t take passengers,” said the pilot, putting his hand on the railing. “It’s a special flight.”
“I’m buying the plane!” said the grand strategist hastily. “Wrap it up.”
“Out of the way!” shouted a mechanic, climbing in after the pilot.
The propellers disappeared in a whirl. Shaking and swaying, the plane started turning against the wind. Vortexes of air pushed the millionaires back toward the hill. The captain’s cap flew off Ostap’s head and rolled toward India so fast that it could be expected to arrive in Calcutta in no more than three hours. It would have rolled all the way to the main street of Calcutta, where its mysterious appearance would have attracted the attention of circles close to the Intelligence Service, but the plane took off and the storm died down. The plane flashed its ribs in the air and disappeared into the sunlight. Ostap ran to retrieve his cap, which was stuck in a saxaul bush, and then said:
“Transportation has gotten completely out of hand. Our relationship with the railroad has soured. The air routes are closed to us. Walking? It’s 250 miles. Not particularly inspiring. There’s only one option left—convert to Islam and travel on camels.”
Koreiko ignored the part about Islam, but the idea of camels appealed to him. The enticing sights of the dining car and the plane had confirmed his desire to embark on an entertaining trip as a public health physician. Nothing ostentatious, of course, but not without a certain flair.
The clans that had come for the joining hadn’t taken off yet, so they were able to purchase camels not far from Roaring Springs. The ships of the desert cost them 180 rubles apiece.
“It’s so cheap!” whispered Ostap. “Let’s buy fifty camels. Or a hundred!”
“That’s ostentatious,” said Alexander Ivanovich gloomily. “What are we going to do with them? Two are enough.”
Shouting, the Kazakhs helped the travelers climb between the humps and attach the suitcase, the bag, and some food supplies—a wineskin of kumis and two sheep. The camels first rose onto their hind legs, forcing the millionaires to bow deeply, then onto their front legs, and started walking along the Eastern Line. The sheep, attached with thin cords, trotted behind them, dropping little balls from time to time and emitting heart-wrenching bleats.
“Hey, Sheikh Koreiko!” called out Ostap. “Alexander bin Ivanovich! Isn’t life wonderful?”
The Sheikh didn’t answer. He had gotten stuck with a lazy camel and was furiously whacking its bald rear with a saxaul stick.
CHAPTER 31
BAGHDAD
For seven days, the camels hauled the newly minted sheikhs across the desert. At first, Ostap had a great time. He was amused by everything: Alexander bin Ivanovich floundering between the camel’s humps, the lazy ship of the desert trying to shirk its duties, the bag with the million, which the grand strategist occasionally used to prod the recalcitrant sheep. For himself, Ostap took the name of Colonel Lawrence.
“I am Emir Dynamite!” he shouted, swaying on top of the tall camel-back. “If within two days we don’t get any decent food, I’ll incite the tribes to revolt! I swear! I will appoint myself the Prophet’s representative and declare holy war, jihad. On Denmark, for example. Why did the Danes torment their Prince Hamlet? Considering the current political situation, a casus belli like this would satisfy even the League of Nations. No, seriously, I’ll buy a million worth of rifles from the British—they love to sell firearms to the tribes—and onward to Denmark. Germany will let us through—in lieu of war reparations. Imagine the tribes invading Copenhagen! I’ll lead the charge on a white camel. Ah! Too bad Panikovsky isn’t around anymore! He would have loved a Danish goose!”
But in a few days, when all that was left of the sheep were the cords and the kumis was finished, even Emir Dynamite lost his verve, and could only mutter dispiritedly:
“Lost deep in the barren Arabian land, three palm trees for some reason stood in the sand.”
Both sheikhs had lost a lot of weight, become disheveled, and grown stubby beards—they were starting to look like dervishes from a parish of rather modest means.
“Just a little more patience, bin Koreiko—and we’ll reach a town that rivals Baghdad. Flat roofs, native bands, little restaurants with an Oriental flavor, sweet wines, legendary girls, and forty thousand skewers of shish kebab: à la Kars, Turkish-style, Tartar, Mesopotamian, and Odessan. And finally, the railroad.”
On the eighth day of the journey, the travelers approached an ancient cemetery. Rows of semi-spherical tombs stretched all the way to the horizon, like petrified waves. People didn’t bury the
ir dead here. They placed the bodies on the ground and built stone domes around them. The frightful sun glared over the ashen city of the dead. The ancient East lay in its sweltering graves.
The two strategists prodded their camels and soon entered the oasis. Poplars reflected in the waterlogged checkerboard of rice fields and lit the town all around them like green torches. Elm trees stood alone, shaped exactly like giant globes on wooden stands. Little donkeys carrying fat men in cloaks and bundles of clover started appearing on the road.
Koreiko and Bender rode past small stores that sold powdered green tobacco and stinking cone-shaped soaps that looked like artillery shells. Craftsmen with white gauzy beards labored over sheets of copper, rolling them into tubs and narrow-mouthed jugs. Shoemakers dried small ink-painted skins in the sun. The indigo, yellow, and blue glazed tiles of the mosques sparkled like liquid glass.
For the rest of the day and the following night, the millionaires slept a deep and heavy sleep at the hotel. In the morning, they washed in white bathtubs, shaved, and went into town. The sheikhs’ radiant mood was dampened by their need to drag along the suitcase and the bag.
“I consider it my sacred duty,” said Bender boastfully, “to introduce you to an enchanting little club. It’s called Under the Moonlight. I was here some five years ago, lecturing against abortion. What a place! Semi-dark, cool, an owner from Tiflis, a local band, chilled vodka, girls dancing with cymbals and tambourines. We can spend a whole day there. Can’t public health physicians have their own tiny little weaknesses? My treat. The golden calf will take care of everything.”
And the grand strategist shook his bag.
However, the club Under the Moonlight was gone. To Ostap’s surprise, even the street where those cymbals and tambourines once played was gone, too. Instead, there was a straight, European-style avenue, with new construction running along its entire length. Fences lined the street, alabaster dust hung in the scorched air. Trucks baked it even further. Ostap glanced briefly at the gray-brick facades with long horizontal windows, gave Koreiko an elbow, and, saying “There’s another place, a guy from Baku owns it,” took him to the opposite side of town. But the sheikhs didn’t find the sign with the poem, that the proprietor from Baku had composed himself: