Золотой теленок / The Golden Calf

“I love old people,” whispered Ostap to himself, “they’re always entertaining. I have to wait and see how this mysterious test will turn out.”

He didn’t have to wait long. Shortly thereafter, howling could be heard from the house, and the old man crawled out onto the porch, moving backwards, like Boris Godunov in the final act of Mussorgsky’s opera.

“Begone! Begone!” he cried out, sounding like Shalyapin.

“That same dream! Aaaa!”

He turned around and started walking straight towards Ostap, stumbling over his own feet. Deciding that it was the time to act, the grand strategist stepped out from behind the tree and took the Sideburner into his powerful embrace.

“What? Who’s that? What’s that?” cried the restless old man. “What?”

Ostap carefully opened his embrace, grabbed the old man’s hand, and shook it warmly.

“I feel for you!” he declared.

“Really?” asked the owner of the little house, leaning against Bender’s shoulder.

“Of course I do,” replied Ostap. “I myself have dreams quite often.”

“And what do you dream about?”

“This and that.”

“No, seriously?” insisted the old man.

“Well, all kinds of things. A mishmash really. What the newspapers call ‘All things from all places’ or ‘World panorama.’ The other day, for example, I dreamed of the Mikado’s funeral, and yesterday it was the anniversary celebration at the Sushchevsky Fire Brigade headquarters.”

“My God!” said the old man. “My God, what a lucky man you are! A lucky man! Tell me, have you ever dreamt of a Governor General or… maybe even an imperial minister?”

Bender wasn’t going to be difficult.

“I have,” he said playfully. “I sure have. The Governor General. Last Friday. All night. And right next to him, I recall, was the chief of police in patterned breeches.”

“Oh, how nice!” said the old man. “And have you, by any chance, dreamt of His Majesty’s visit to the city of Kostroma?”

“Kostroma? Yes, I had that dream. Wait, wait, when was that? Ah yes, February third of this year. His Majesty was there, and next to him, I recall, was Count Frederiks, you know… the Minister of the Imperial Court.”

“Oh my!” the old man became excited. “Why are we standing here? Please, please come in. Forgive me, you’re not a Socialist, by any chance? Not a party man?”

“Of course not,” said Ostap good-naturedly. “Me, a party man? I’m an independent monarchist. A faithful servant to his sovereign, a caring father to his men. In other words, soar, falcons, like an eagle, ponder not unhappy thoughts…”

“Tea, would you like some tea?” mumbled the old man, steering Bender towards the door.

The little house consisted of one room and a hallway. Portraits of gentlemen in civilian uniforms covered the walls. Judging by the patches on their collars, these gentlemen had all served in the Ministry of Education in their time. The bed looked messy, suggesting that the owner spent the most restless hours of his life in it.

“Have you lived like such a recluse for a long time?” asked Ostap.

“Since the spring,” replied the old man. “My name is Khvorobyov. I thought I’d start a new life here. And you know what happened? You must understand…”

Fyodor Nikitich Khvorobyov was a monarchist, and he detested the Soviet regime. He found it repugnant. He, who had once served as a school district superintendent, was forced to run the Educational Methodology Sector of the local Proletkult. That disgusted him.

Until the end of his career, he never knew what Proletkult stood for, and that made him detest it even more. He cringed with disgust at the mere sight of the members of the local union committee, his colleagues, and the visitors to the Educational Methodology Sector. He hated the word “sector.” Oh, that sector! Fyodor Nikitich had always appreciated elegant things, including geometry. Never in his worst nightmares would he imagine that this beautiful mathematical term, used to describe a portion of a circle, could be so brutally trivialized.

At work, many things enraged Khvorobyov: meetings, newsletters, bond campaigns. But his proud soul couldn’t find peace at home either. There were newsletters, bond campaigns, and meetings at home as well. And Khvorobyov’s acquaintances talked exclusively about vulgar things: remuneration (what they called their salaries), Aid to Children Month, and the social significance of the play The Armored Train.

He was unable to escape the Soviet system anywhere. Even when Khvorobyov walked the city streets in frustration he would overhear detestable phrases, like:

“…So we determined to remove him from the board…”

“…And that’s exactly what I told them: if you insist on the PCC, we’ll appeal to the arbitration chamber!”

Khvorobyov was distressed to see posters calling upon citizens to implement the Five-Year Plan in four years, and he repeated to himself indignantly:

“Remove! From the board! The PCC! In four years! What a crass regime!”

When the Educational Methodology Sector switched to the continuous work-week, and Khvorobyov’s days off became some kind of mysterious purple fifth days instead of Sundays, he retired in disgust and went to live far beyond the city limits. He did it in order to escape the new regime – it had taken over his entire life and deprived him of his peace.

The lone monarchist would sit above the bluff all day long, look at the city, and think about pleasant things: church services celebrating the birthday of a member of the royal family, school exams, or his relatives who had served in the Ministry of Education. But, to his surprise, his thoughts almost immediately returned to Soviet, and therefore unpleasant, things.

“What’s new at the blasted Proletkult?” he would think.

After the Proletkult, his mind would wander to downright outrageous things: May Day and Revolution Day rallies, family evenings at the workers’ club with lectures and beer, the projected semiannual budget of the Methodology Sector.

“The Soviet regime took everything from me,” thought the former school district superintendent, “rank, medals, respect, bank account. It even took over my thoughts. But there’s one area that’s beyond the Bolsheviks’ reach: the dreams given to man by God. Night will bring me peace. In my dreams, I will see something that I’d like to see.”

The very next night, God gave Fyodor Nikitich a terrible dream. He dreamt that he was sitting in an office corridor that was lit by a small kerosene lamp. He sat there with the knowledge that, at any moment, he was to be removed from the board. Suddenly a steel door opened, and his fellow office workers ran out shouting: “Khvorobyov needs to carry more weight!” He wanted to run but couldn’t.

Fyodor Nikitich woke up in the middle of the night. He said a prayer to God, pointing out to Him that an unfortunate error had been made, and that the dream intended for an important person, maybe even a party member, had arrived at the wrong address. He, Khvorobyov, would like to see the Tsar’s ceremonial exit from the Cathedral of the Assumption, for starters.

Soothed by this, he fell asleep again, only to see Comrade Surzhikov, the chairman of the local union committee, instead of his beloved monarch.

And so night after night, Fyodor Nikitich would have the same, strictly Soviet, dreams with unbelievable regularity. He dreamt of union dues, newsletters, the Goliath state farm, the grand opening of the first mass-dining establishment, the chairman of the Friends of the Cremation Society, and the pioneering Soviet flights.

The monarchist growled in his sleep. He didn’t want to see the Friends of the Cremation. He wanted to see Purishkevich, the far-right deputy of the State Duma; Patriarch Tikhon; the Yalta Governor, Dumbadze; or even just a simple public school inspector. But there wasn’t anything like that. The Soviet regime had invaded even his dreams.

“Those same dreams!” concluded Khvorobyov tearfully. “Those cursed dreams!”

“You are in serious trouble,” said Ostap compassionately. “Being, they say, determines consciousness. Since you live under the Soviets, your dreams will be Soviet too.”

“Not one break,” complained Khvorobyov. “Anything, anything at all. I’ll take anything. Forget Purishkevich. I’ll take Milyukov the Constitutional Democrat. At least he was a university-educated man and a monarchist at heart. But no! Just these Soviet anti-Christs.”

“I’ll help you,” said Ostap. “I’ve treated several friends and acquaintances using Freud’s methods. Dreams are not the issue. The main thing is to remove the cause of the dream. The principal cause of your dreams is the very existence of the Soviet regime. But I can’t remove it right now. I’m in a hurry. I’m on a sports tour, you see, and my car needs a few small repairs. Would you mind if I put it in your shed? As for the cause of your dreams, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it on the way back. Just let me finish the rally.”

The monarchist, dazed by his troublesome dreams, readily allowed the sympathetic, kind-hearted young man to use his shed. He threw on a coat over his shirt, stuck his bare feet into galoshes, and went outside with Bender.

“So you think there’s hope for me?” he asked, mincing behind his early morning guest.

“Don’t give it another thought,” replied the captain dismissively. “The moment the Soviet regime is gone, you’ll feel better at once. You’ll see!”

Within half an hour the Antelope was stowed away in Khvorobyov’s shed and left under the watchful eyes of Kozlevich and Panikovsky. Bender, accompanied by Balaganov, went to the city to get paint.

The half-brothers walked towards the sun, making their way into the town center. Gray pigeons promenaded on the roof edges. Sprayed with water, the wooden sidewalks were clean and cool.

For a man with a clear conscience, it was a good morning to step outside, linger at the gate for a moment, take out a box of matches (emblazoned with an airplane that had a fist in place of a propeller and a slogan, “Our answer to Curzon”), admire the fresh pack of cigarettes, and then light up, puffing out a small cloud of smoke that chases away a bumble bee with golden stripes on its belly.

Bender and Balaganov fell under the spell of the morning, the clean streets, and the carefree pigeons. For a brief moment they felt as if their consciences were as clear as a whistle, that everybody loved them, and that they were off to a date with their fiancées.

Suddenly a man with a portable easel and a shiny paintbox in his hands blocked their path. He had the wild-eyed look of a man who had just escaped from a burning building, and the easel and the box were all he had managed to salvage.

“Excuse me,” he said loudly. “Comrade Platonikov-Pervertov was supposed to pass by here a moment ago. You haven’t seen him, by any chance? Was he here?”

“We never see people like that,” answered Balaganov rudely.

The artist bumped into Bender’s chest, mumbled “Pardon!” and rushed on.

“Platonikov-Pervertov?” grumbled the grand strategist, who hadn’t had his breakfast yet. “I personally knew a midwife whose name was Medusa-Gorgoner, and I didn’t make a big fuss over it. I didn’t run down the street shouting: ‘Have you by any chance seen Comrade Medusa-Gorgoner? She’s been out for a walk here.’ Big deal! Platonikov-Pervertov!”

The moment Bender finished his tirade, he was confronted by two more men with black easels and shiny paintboxes. The two couldn’t have looked more different. One of them evidently believed that an artist had to be hairy: his facial hair qualified him for the role of deputy of Henri de Navarre in the Soviet Union. The mustache, his hair, and his beard made his flat features very lively. The other man was simply bald, his head shiny and smooth like a glass lampshade.

“Comrade Platonikov…,” said the deputy of Henri de Navarre, panting.

“Pervertov,” added the Lampshade.

“Have you seen him?” cried de Navarre.

“He was supposed to be taking a stroll here,” explained the Lampshade.

Balaganov had already opened his mouth to utter a curse, but Bender pushed him aside and said with stinging courtesy:

“We haven’t seen Comrade Platonikov, but if you are really interested in seeing him, you’d better hurry. He’s already being sought by some character who looks like an artist. A con artist, that is.”

Bumping against each other and getting their easels stuck together, the artists ran off. Then a horse cab careened from around the corner. Its passenger was a fat man whose sweaty gut was barely concealed by the folds of his long tunic. The passenger’s general appearance brought to mind an ancient advertisement for a patented ointment that began with the words: “The sight of a naked body covered with hair makes a revolting impression.” The fat man’s profession wasn’t hard to guess. His hand held down a large easel. Under the coachman’s feet lay a big shiny box which undoubtedly contained paint.

“Hello!” Ostap called out. “Are you searching for Pervertov?”

“Yessir,” confirmed the fat artist, looking plaintively at Ostap.

“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” cried Ostap. “Three artists are already ahead of you. What’s going on here? What happened?”

But the horse, banging its shoes on the cobblestones, had already carried away the fourth practitioner of fine arts.

“What a center of culture!” said Ostap. “You must have noticed, Balaganov, that of the four citizens we encountered thus far, all four were artists. How curious.”

When the half-brothers stopped in front of a small hardware store, Balaganov whispered to Ostap:

“Aren’t you ashamed?”

“Of what?” asked Ostap.

“That you’re actually going to pay money for the paint.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ostap. “Frankly, I am a little bit. It’s silly, you’re right. But what can you do? We’re not going to run to the city council and ask them to supply the paint for Skylark Day. They would, of course, but that could take us all day.”

The brilliant colors of the dry paint in jars, glass cylinders, sacks, caskets, and torn paper bags gave the hardware store a festive look.

The captain and the rally mechanic started the painstaking process of picking a color.

“Black is too mournful,” said Ostap. “Green won’t do: it’s the color of lost hope. Purple, no. Let the chief of police ride around in a purple car. Pink is trashy, blue is banal, red is too conformist. We’re going to have to paint the Antelope yellow. A bit too bright, but pretty.”

“And what would you be? Artists?” asked the salesman, whose chin was lightly powdered with cinnabar.

“Yes, artists,” answered Bender, “scenic and graphic.”

“Then you’re in the wrong place,” said the salesman, removing the jars and the bags from the counter.

“What do you mean, the wrong place?” exclaimed Ostap. “What’s the right place?”

“Across the street.”

The clerk led the two friends to the door and pointed at the sky-blue sign across the street. It had a brown horse head and the words OATS AND HAY written in black letters.

“Right,” said Ostap, “soft and hard feed for livestock. But what does it have to do with us artists? I don’t see the connection.”

It turned out there was a connection, and a very meaningful one at that. Ostap grasped it shortly after the clerk began his explanation.

The city had always loved fine paintings, and the four resident artists formed a group called the Dialectical Easelists. They painted portraits of officials and sold them to the local fine arts museum. With time, the pool of yet-unpainted officials grew smaller and smaller, and the income of the Dialectical Easelists had decreased accordingly, but they still managed to get by. The truly lean years began when a new artist, Feofan Smarmeladov, came to the city.

His first painting made quite a stir. It was a portrait of the director of the local hotel authority. Feofan Smarmeladov left the Easelists in his dust. The director of the hotel authority was not depicted in oil, watercolors, coal, crayons, gouache, or lead pencil; he was done in oats. While Smarmeladov was taking the portrait to the museum in a horse cart, the horse looked back nervously and whinnied. Later, Smarmeladov began to use other grains as well. He made portraits in barley, wheat, and poppy seeds, bold sketches in corn and buckwheat, landscapes in rice, and still-lifes in millet – every one a smashing success.

At the moment, he was working on a group portrait. A large canvas depicted a meeting of the regional planning board. Feofan was working in dry beans and peas. Deep in his heart, however, he remained true to the oats that had launched his career and undermined the Dialectical Easelists.

“You bet it’s better with oats!” exclaimed Ostap. “And to think those fools Rubens and Raphael kept messing with oils. Like Leonardo da Vinci, we’re fools, too. Give us some yellow enamel.”