Золотой теленок / The Golden Calf

Chapter 7. The sweet burden of fame

The captain of the rally, the driver, the rally mechanic, and the Girl Friday all felt great. The morning was chilly. The pale sun floated in a pearly sky. A collection of small birdies screeched in the grass. Little roadside birds, known as water rails, slowly walked across the road, right in front of the car. The grassland horizons produced such a cheerful smell that if instead of Ostap, there was a mediocre peasant writer from a literary group called the Iron Udder or something, he wouldn’t have been able to control himself. He would have leapt out of the car, installed himself in the grass, and immediately started writing a new story in his notebook. Something like this: “Them winter crops got mighty toasty. The sun got awful strong and went a-pushing its rays ’crost the whole wide world. Old-timer Romualdych sniffed his sock real good and went, I’ll be darned…”

But Ostap and his companions had no time for poetry. It was their second day running ahead of the rally. They were greeted with music and speeches. Children beat drums in their honor. Adults fed them lunches and dinners, provided them with the automobile parts they had prepared in advance. In one tiny town they were even given bread and salt on a carved oak platter with a cross-stitched towel. The bread and salt sat on the floor between Panikovsky’s feet. He kept picking at the round loaf until finally he made a mouse hole in it. The squeamish Ostap threw the bread and salt out on the road. The Antelopeans spent the night in a village, in the caring arms of the local activists. They left with a big jug of baked milk and sweet memories of the fragrant scent of the hay in which they slept.

“Milk and hay, what could possibly be better?” said Ostap as the Antelope was leaving the village at sunrise. “One always thinks, ‘I’ll do this some other time. There will still be plenty of milk and hay in my life.’ But in fact, there won’t be anything like this ever again. Make note of it, my poor friends: this was the best night of our lives. And you didn’t even notice.”

Bender’s companions looked at him with respect. They absolutely loved the easy life that was suddenly theirs.

“Life is beautiful!” said Balaganov. “Here we are, driving along, our stomachs full. Maybe happiness awaits us…”

“Are you sure?” asked Ostap. “Happiness awaits us on the road? Maybe it even flaps its wings in anticipation? ‘Where, it wonders, is Admiral Balaganov? Why is he taking so long?’ You’re crazy, Balaganov! Happiness isn’t waiting for anybody. It wanders around the country in long white robes, singing children’s songs: ‘Ah, America, there’s the land, people there drink straight from the bottle.’ But this naïve babe must be caught, you have to make her like you, you have to court her. Sadly, Balaganov, she won’t take up with you. You’re a bum. Just look at yourself! A man dressed like you will never achieve happiness. Come to think of it, the entire crew of the Antelope is dressed atrociously. I’m surprised people still believe we’re part of the rally!”

Ostap looked his companions over with disappointment and continued:

“Panikovsky’s hat really bothers me. He’s dressed far too ostentatiously. The gold tooth, the underwear straps, the hairy chest poking out from under the tie… You should dress more modestly, Panikovsky! You’re a respectable old man. You need a long black jacket and a felt hat. Balaganov would look good in a checkered cowboy shirt and leather leggings. He could easily pass as a student-athlete, but now he looks like a merchant sailor fired for drunkenness. Not to mention our esteemed driver. Hard luck has prevented him from dressing in a way that befits his position. Can’t you see how well leather overalls and a black calfskin cap would go with his inspired, oil-smudged face? Whatever you say, boys, you have to update your wardrobe.”

“There’s no money,” said Kozlevich, turning around.

“The driver is correct,” replied Ostap courteously. “Indeed, there is no money. None of those little metal discs that I love so dearly.”

The Gnu Antelope glided down a small hill. The fields continued to slowly rotate on both sides of the car. A large brown owl was sitting by the side of the road, its head bent to one side, its unseeing yellow eyes bulging foolishly. Disturbed by the Antelope’s creaking, the bird spread its wings, soared above the car and quickly flew away to take care of its boring owlish business. Other than that, nothing interesting was happening on the road.

“Look!” cried Balaganov suddenly. “A car!”

Just in case, Ostap ordered them to take down the banner that called on the citizens to fight against irresponsibility. While Panikovsky was carrying out this task, the Antelope approached the other car.

A gray hard-top Cadillac was parked on the shoulder, listing slightly. The landscape of central Russia was reflected in its thick shiny windows, looking neater and more scenic than it actually was. The driver was on his knees, taking the tire off a front wheel. Three figures in sand-colored travel coats hovered behind him, waiting.

“Your ship’s in distress?” asked Ostap, tipping his cap politely.

The driver raised his tense face, said nothing, and went back to work.

The Antelopeans climbed out of their green jalopy. Kozlevich walked around the magnificent vehicle several times, sighing with envy. He squatted down next to the driver and struck up a technical conversation. Panikovsky and Balaganov stared at the passengers with childlike curiosity. Two of the passengers had a rather standoffish, foreign look to them. The third one was a fellow Russian, judging by the overpowering smell of galoshes coming from his State Rubber Trust raincoat.

“Your ship’s in distress?” repeated Ostap, politely touching the rubber-clad shoulder of his fellow countryman, while at the same time eyeing the foreigners pensively.

The Russian started complaining about the blown tire, but his grumbling went in one of Ostap’s ears and out the other. Two plump foreign chicklets were strolling around the car – on a highway some eighty miles from the nearest town of any significance, right in the middle of European Russia. That got the grand strategist excited.

“Tell me,” he interrupted, “these two wouldn’t be from Rio de Janeiro, by any chance?”

“No,” said the Russian. “They’re from Chicago. And I am their interpreter, from Intourist.”

“What on earth are they doing here in this ancient wilderness in the middle of nowhere? So far from Moscow, from the Red Poppy ballet, from the antique stores and Repin’s famous painting Ivan the Terrible Kills his Son? I don’t get it! Why did you drag them out here?”

“They can go to hell!” said the interpreter bitterly. “We’ve been racing from village to village like mad for three days now. I can’t take it any more. I’ve dealt with foreigners quite a bit, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

He waved in the direction of his ruddy-faced companions.

“Normal tourists run around Moscow, buying handmade wooden bowls in gift shops. But these two broke away and went driving around the back-roads.”

“That’s commendable,” said Ostap. “America’s billionaires are learning about life in the new Soviet countryside.”

The two citizens of Chicago looked on sedately as their car was being repaired. They wore silvery hats, frozen starched collars, and red matte shoes.

The interpreter looked at Ostap indignantly and blurted out:

“Yeah, right! Like they need your new countryside! They need the country moonshine, not the countryside!”

Hearing the word “moonshine,” which the interpreter had stressed, the two gentlemen looked around nervously and edged closer.

“See!” said the interpreter. “Just hearing the word gets them all excited.”

“Interesting. There’s a mystery here,” said Ostap. “I don’t understand why one would want moonshine when our native land offers such a large selection of superb hard liquors.”

“This is much simpler than you think,” said the interpreter. “They’re just searching for a decent moonshine recipe.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Ostap. “Prohibition! I get it now… So have you found a recipe? Of course not. You might as well have shown up in a three-car motorcade! Obviously, people think you’re officials. I can assure you that you’ll never find a recipe this way.”

The interpreter began to complain about the foreigners again.

“You won’t believe it, but they’ve even started pestering me: ‘Just tell us the secret of the moonshine!’ For God’s sake, I’m not a moonshiner. I’m a member of the education workers’ union. I have an elderly mother in Moscow.”

“And how badly do you want to go back to Moscow? To be with your mother?”

The interpreter sighed dejectedly.

“In that case, our deliberations continue,” declared Ostap. “How much will your bosses pay for a recipe? 150, perhaps?”

“They’ll pay two hundred,” whispered the interpreter. “Do you really have a recipe?”

“I can give it to you this very moment – I mean, the moment I get the money. Made from anything you want: potatoes, wheat, apricots, barley, mulberry, buckwheat. One can even brew moonshine from an ordinary chair. Some people enjoy the chair brew. Or you can have a simple raisin or plum brew. In other words, any of the 150 kinds of moonshine known to me.”

Ostap was introduced to the Americans. Their politely raised hats floated in the air for a long time. Then they got down to business. The Americans chose the wheat moonshine – the simplicity of the brewing process appealed to them. They painstakingly recorded the recipe in their notebooks. As a bonus, Ostap sketched out a design for a compact still that could be hidden in an office desk. The seekers assured Ostap that, given American technology, making such a still would be a breeze. For his part, Ostap assured the Americans that the device he described would produce two gallons of beautiful, fragrant pervach per day.

“Oh!” cried the Americans.

They had already heard this word in a very respectable home in Chicago, where pervach was highly recommended. The man of the house had been in Archangel, with the American expeditionary force. He drank pervach there and never forgot the alluring sensation that it gave him.

On the lips of the enchanted tourists, the crude word pervach sounded both tender and enticing.

The Americans easily parted with two hundred rubles and endlessly shook Bender’s hand. Panikovsky and Balaganov also got to shake hands with the citizens of the transatlantic republic, who had been suffering under Prohibition for so long. The interpreter was thrilled; he pecked Ostap on his cheek and invited him to stop by, adding that his elderly mother would be delighted. For some reason, however, he neglected to give his address.

The new friends climbed into their respective cars. Kozlevich played a farewell maxixe, and to the accompaniment of these cheerful sounds, the cars flew off in opposite directions.

“See,” said Ostap when the American car disappeared in a cloud of dust, “everything happened just like I told you. We were driving. Money was lying on the road. I picked it up. Look, it didn’t even get dusty.” And he crackled the stack of bills in his hand. “Actually, this isn’t much to brag about, a trivial job. But it was clean and honest, that’s what counts. Two hundred rubles in five minutes. And not only did I not break the law, I even did some good. I provided the crew of the Antelope with financial backing. The elderly mother is getting her son the interpreter back. And finally, I quenched the spiritual thirst of the citizens of a country that does, after all, maintain trade relations with us.”

It was almost time for lunch. Ostap immersed himself in the rally map that he had torn out of an automotive magazine and announced the upcoming town of Luchansk.

“The town is very small,” said Bender, “that’s not good. The smaller the town, the longer the welcoming speeches. So let’s ask our amiable hosts to give us lunch for starters and speeches for the second course. In the intermission, I will equip you with more appropriate gear. Panikovsky! You are beginning to neglect your duties. Return the banner to its original position.”

Kozlevich, who had become an expert in spectacular finales, brought the car to a dramatic halt right in front of the reviewing stand. Bender kept his remarks very short. They arranged to postpone the ceremonies for two hours. Fortified by a free lunch, the motorists were in high spirits, and they headed for a clothing store. They were surrounded by the curious. The Antelopeans carried the sweet burden of their new-found fame with dignity. They walked in the middle of the street, holding hands and swaying like sailors in a foreign port. The red-headed Balaganov, looking every inch the young boatswain, broke into a seaman’s song.

The store that sold clothing “For men, ladies, and children” was located under an enormous sign that covered the entire façade of the two-story building. The sign showed dozens of figures: yellow-faced men with pencil mustaches wearing winter coats whose open flaps revealed fitch-fur lining, women with muffs in their hands, short-legged children in little sailors’ suits, Young Communist League girls in red kerchiefs, and gloomy industrial managers sinking up to their hips in large felt boots.

All this splendor was ruined by a small hand-made sign on the front door:

“Ugh, how vulgar,” said Ostap, entering the store. “I can see that I’m in the provinces. Why don’t they say, ‘Out of trousers,’ like they do in Moscow? That would be proper and decent. The customers would go home satisfied.”

They didn’t spend much time in the store. For Balaganov, they found a canary yellow cowboy shirt with large checks and a Stetson hat with vent holes. Kozlevich got his calfskin cap, as promised, but had to settle for a black calfskin jacket, which shined like pressed caviar. Outfitting Panikovsky took much longer. They had to forget about the long pastor’s coat and the fedora, which Bender thought would give the violator of the pact a more refined look. The store’s only alternative was a fireman’s dress uniform: a jacket with golden pumps on its collar patches, fuzzy wool-blend pants, and a cap with a blue strap. Panikovsky jumped around in front of the wavy mirror for a long time.

“I don’t understand why you don’t like the fireman’s uniform,” said Ostap. “It’s certainly better than the exiled king outfit that you’re wearing now. Come now, turn around, my boy! Excellent! Let me tell you, this suits you much better than the coat and hat that I had in mind for you.”

They went outside in their new outfits.

“Me, I need a tuxedo,” said Ostap, “but they didn’t have any. Oh well, some other time.”

Ostap opened the ceremonies in a great mood, unaware of the storm that was gathering over the Antelopeans’ heads. He was witty; he told funny driving stories and Jewish jokes. The public loved him. The final portion of his speech was devoted to the analysis of pressing automobile-related issues. “The car,” he boomed, “is not a luxury but…” At that point he noticed a boy run up to the chairman of the welcoming committee and hand him a telegram. While still uttering the words “not a luxury but a means of transportation,” Ostap leaned to the left and glanced at the telegram over the chairman’s shoulder. What he read startled him. He had thought they had one more day. The long list of towns and villages where the Antelope had misappropriated materials and funds flashed through his mind.

The chairman was still wiggling his mustache, trying to digest the message, when Ostap jumped off the stand in mid-sentence and started making his way through the crowd. The green Antelope was waiting at the intersection. Fortunately, the other passengers were already in their seats. Bored, they were waiting for the moment when Ostap would order them to haul the town’s offerings into the car. This usually happened after the ceremonies.

When the chairman finally grasped what the telegram was saying, he raised his eyes only to see the captain of the rally running away.

“They’re con artists!” he shouted in agony.

He had spent the whole night preparing his welcoming speech, and now his writer’s ego was wounded.

“Hold them, guys!”

The chairman’s shrieking reached the ears of the Antelopeans. They began fussing nervously. Kozlevich started the engine and leapt into his seat. The car jumped forward without waiting for Ostap. In their great hurry, the Antelopeans didn’t even realize they were abandoning their captain to grave danger.

“Stop!” yelled Ostap, making giant leaps. “I’ll get you! You’re all fired!”

“Stop!” yelled the chairman.

“Stop, you bonehead!” Balaganov yelled at Kozlevich. “Can’t you see we’ve lost the chief?”

Adam hit the brakes, and the Antelope screeched to a halt. The captain lunged into the car and screamed, “Full speed ahead!” Despite his open-minded and cool-headed nature, he hated the idea of physical reprisal. In a panic, Kozlevich jumped into third gear and the car jerked forward, forcing a door open and throwing Balaganov to the ground. All this happened in a flash. While Kozlevich was braking again, the shadow of the approaching crowd was already falling on Balaganov. Huge hands were already stretching out to grab him, but then the Antelope crept back in reverse, and the captain’s steely hand seized him by his cowboy shirt.

“Full speed!” screamed Ostap.

And that’s when the citizens of Luchansk understood the advantages of automotive transport for the first time. The car rattled away, delivering the four lawbreakers from their well-deserved punishment.

For the first mile, they just breathed heavily. Balaganov, who valued his good looks, examined the red scratches left by the fall with the help of a pocket mirror. Panikovsky was shaking in his fireman’s uniform. He feared the captain’s retribution, and it came promptly.

“Did you tell the driver to take off before I could get in?” asked the captain harshly.

“I swear…” began Panikovsky.

“Don’t deny it! It’s all your doing. So you’re a coward on top of everything else? I’m in the company of a thief and a coward? Fine! I am demoting you. You were a fire chief in my eyes, but from now on, you’re just a simple fireman.”

And Ostap solemnly tore the golden pumps off of Panikovsky’s red collar patches.

After this procedure, Ostap apprised his companions of the contents of the telegram.

“We’re in trouble. The telegram says to seize the green car that’s running ahead of the rally. We need to get off to the side somewhere right away. Enough of the triumphs, palm branches, and free dinners cooked with cheap oil. This idea has outlived itself. Our only option is to turn off onto the Griazhsk Road. But that’s still three hours away. And I’m sure that a very warm welcome will be awaiting us in every town between here and there. This blasted telegraph has planted its stupid wired posts all over the place.”

The captain was right.

The Antelopeans never learned the name of the next small town they encountered, but they wished they had, so that they could curse it from time to time. At the town line, the road was blocked with a heavy log. The Antelope turned and, like a blind puppy, started poking around with its nose, looking for a detour. But there wasn’t any.

“Let’s turn back!” said Ostap, becoming very serious.

And suddenly the impostors heard a very distant, mosquito-like buzz. This must have been the cars of the real rally. There was no way back, so the Antelopeans rushed forward again.

Kozlevich frowned and raced the Antelope toward the log. The people standing around it rushed aside, fearing a wreck. But Kozlevich decelerated abruptly and slowly climbed over the obstacle. The passers-by grumbled and cursed the passengers as the Antelope drove through town, but Ostap kept quiet.

The Antelope was approaching the Griazhsk Road, and the rumble of the still invisible cars grew stronger and stronger. The moment they turned off the damned highway, hiding the car behind a small hill in the falling darkness, they heard the bursts and the firing of the engines. The lead car appeared in the beams of light. The con artists hid in the grass on the side of the road and, suddenly losing their usual arrogance, quietly watched the passing motorcade.

Banners of blinding light flapped over the road. The cars creaked softly as they passed the crushed Antelopeans. Dust flew from under the wheels. Electric horns howled. The wind blew in all directions. It was over in a minute, and only the ruby taillights of the last car danced and jumped in the dark for a long time.

Real life flew by, trumpeting joyously and flashing its glossy fenders. All that was left for the adventurers was a tail of exhaust fumes. They sat in the grass for a long while, sneezing and dusting themselves off.

“Yes,” said Ostap, “now even I see that the car is not a luxury but a means of transportation. Aren’t you jealous, Balaganov? I am.”

Chapter 8. An artistic crisis

Some time after 3 A.M., the hounded Antelope stopped at the edge of a bluff. An unfamiliar city lay below, neatly sliced, like a cake on a platter. Multicolored morning mists swirled above it. The dismounted Antelopeans thought they heard a distant crackling and an ever so slight whistling. This must have been the citizens snoring. A jagged forest bordered the city. The road looped down from the bluff.

“A valley from heaven,” said Ostap. “It’s nice to plunder cities like this early in the morning, before the sun starts blazing. It’s less tiring.”

“It is early morning right now,” observed Panikovsky, looking fawningly into the captain’s eyes.

“Quiet, Goldilocks!” exploded Ostap. “You’re such a restless old man! No sense of humor whatsoever.”

“What are we going to do with the Antelope?” asked Kozlevich.

“A good point,” replied Ostap, “we can’t drive this green washtub into the city under the circumstances. They’d put us in jail. We’re going to have to follow the lead of the most advanced nations. In Rio de Janeiro, for example, stolen cars are repainted a different color. This is done for purely humanitarian reasons, so that the previous owner doesn’t get upset when he sees a stranger driving his car. The Antelope has acquired a dicey reputation; it needs to be repainted.”

They decided to enter the city on foot and find some paint, leaving the car in a safe place outside the city limits.

Ostap walked briskly down the road along the edge of the bluff and soon saw a lopsided log house, its tiny windows gleaming river-blue. A shed behind the house looked like the perfect hiding place for the Antelope.

The grand strategist was thinking up a good excuse to enter the little house and make friends with its residents when the door flew open and a respectable-looking man, in soldier’s underwear with black metal buttons, ran out onto the porch. His paraffin-pale cheeks sported neatly styled gray sideburns. At the end of the nineteenth century, a face like this would have been common. In those times, most men cultivated such government-issue, conformist hair devices on their faces. But when the sideburns were not sitting above a dark-blue uniform, or some civilian medal on a silk ribbon, or the golden stars of a high-ranking imperial official, this kind of face seemed unnatural.

“Oh my Lord,” mumbled the toothless log house dweller, his arms outstretched toward the rising sun. “Lord, oh Lord! The same dreams! Those very same dreams!”

After this lament, the old man started crying and ran, shuffling his feet, along the footpath around the house. An ordinary rooster, who was about to sing for the third time, and who had already positioned itself in the middle of the yard for that purpose, darted away. In the heat of the moment it took several hurried steps and even dropped a feather, but soon composed itself, climbed on top of the wattle fence, and from this safe position finally notified the world that morning had come. Its voice, however, betrayed the anxiety that the untoward behavior of the owner of the little house had caused.

“Those goddamn dreams,” the old man’s voice reached Ostap.

Bender was staring in surprise at the strange man and his sideburns – nowadays, the only place to see sideburns like that is on the imperious face of a doorman at the symphony hall, if anywhere.

Meanwhile, the extraordinary gentleman completed a full circle and once again appeared near the porch. Here he lingered for a moment and then went inside, saying, “I’ll go try again.”