Золотой теленок / The Golden Calf

The owner of LET’S RIDE! was at loggerheads with the entire city. He no longer exchanged greetings with anybody. He became edgy and mean-spirited. Seeing an office worker in a long Caucasus-style shirt with puffy sleeves, he would drive up and yell, laughing bitterly:

“Thieves! Just wait, I’m going to set all of you up! Article 109!”

The office worker shuddered, pulled up his silver-studded belt (that looked like it belonged on a draft horse), pretended that the shouting had nothing to do with him, and started walking faster. But vindictive Kozlevich would continue to follow him and goad the enemy by monotonously reading from a pocket edition of the Criminal code, as if from a prayer book:

“Misappropriation of funds, valuables, or other property by a person in a position of authority who oversees such property as part of his daily duties shall be punished…”

The worker would flee in panic, his derriere, flattened by long hours in an office chair, bouncing as he ran.

“…by imprisonment for up to three years!” yelled Kozlevich after him.

But this brought him only moral satisfaction. Financially, he was in deep trouble; the savings were all but gone. He had to do something fast. He could not continue like this.

One day, Adam was sitting in his car in his usual state of anxiety, staring at the silly AUTOMOBILE FOR HIRE sign with disgust. He had an inkling that living honestly hadn’t worked out for him, that the automotive messiah had come too early, when citizens were not yet ready to accept him. Kozlevich was so deeply immersed in these depressing thoughts that at first he didn’t even notice the two young men who had been admiring his car for some time.

“A unique design,” one of them finally said, “the dawn of the automotive industry. Do you see, Balaganov, what can be made out of a simple Singer sewing machine? A few small adjustments – and you get a lovely harvester for the collective farm.”

“Get lost,” said Kozlevich grimly.

“What do you mean, ‘get lost’? Then why did you decorate your thresher with this inviting LET’S RIDE! sign? What if my friend and I wish to take a business trip? What if a ride is exactly what we’re looking for?”

The automotive martyr’s face was lit by a smile – the first of the entire Arbatov period of his life. He jumped out of the car and promptly started the engine, which knocked heavily.

“Get in, please” he said.

“Where to?” “This time, nowhere,” answered Balaganov, “we’ve got no money. What can you do, Comrade driver, poverty…”

“Get in anyway!” cried Kozlevich excitedly. “I’ll drive you for free! You’re not going to drink? You’re not going to dance naked in the moonlight? Let’s ride!”

“All right, we’ll accept your kind invitation,” said Ostap, settling himself in next to the driver. “I see you’re a nice man. But what makes you think that we have any interest in dancing naked?”

“They all do it here,” replied the driver, turning onto the main street, “those dangerous felons.”

He was dying to share his sorrows with somebody. It would have been best, of course, to tell his misfortunes to his kindly, wrinkle-faced mother. She would have felt for him. But Madame Kozlevich had passed away a long time ago – from grief, when she found out that her son Adam was gaining notoriety as a thief. And so the driver told his new passengers the whole story of the downfall of the city of Arbatov, in whose ruins his helpless green automobile was buried.

“Where can I go now?” concluded Kozlevich forlornly. “What am I supposed to do?”

Ostap paused, gave his red-headed companion a significant look, and said:

“All your troubles are due to the fact that you are a truth-seeker. You’re just a lamb, a failed Baptist. I am saddened to encounter such pessimism among drivers. You have a car, but you don’t know where to go. We’re in a worse bind: we don’t have a car, but we know where we want to go. Want to come with us?”

“Where?” asked the driver.

“To Chernomorsk,” answered Ostap. “We have a small private matter to settle down there. There’d be work for you, too. People in Chernomorsk appreciate antiques and enjoy riding in them. Come.”

At first Adam was just smiling, like a widow with nothing to look forward to in this life. But Bender gave it his eloquent best. He drew striking perspectives for the perplexed driver and quickly colored them in blue and pink.

“And here in Arbatov, you’ve got nothing to lose but your spare chains. You won’t be starving on the road, I will take care of that. Gas is yours, ideas ours.”

Kozlevich stopped the car and, still resisting, said glumly:

“I don’t have much gas.”

“Enough for thirty miles?”

“Enough for fifty.”

“In that case, there’s nothing to worry about. I have already informed you that I have no shortage of ideas and plans. Exactly forty miles from here, a large barrel of aviation fuel will be waiting for you right on the road. Do you fancy aviation fuel?”

“I do,” answered Kozlevich, blushing.

Life suddenly seemed easy and fun. He was prepared to go to Chernomorsk immediately.

“And this fuel,” continued Ostap, “will cost you absolutely nothing. Moreover, they’ll be begging you to take it.”

“What fuel?” whispered Balaganov. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ostap disdainfully studied the orange freckles spread across his half-brother’s face and answered in an equally low voice:

“People who don’t read newspapers have no right to live. I’m sparing you only because I still hope to re-educate you.”

He did not explain the connection between reading newspapers and the large barrel of fuel allegedly sitting on the road.

“I now declare the grand Arbatov-Chernomorsk high-speed rally open,” said Ostap solemnly. “I appoint myself the captain of the rally. The driver of the vehicle will be… what’s your last name? Adam Kozlevich. Citizen Balaganov is confirmed as the rally mechanic, with additional duties as Girl Friday. One more thing, Kozlevich: you have to paint over this LET’S RIDE! sign right away. We don’t need to attract any attention.”

Two hours later the car, with a freshly painted dark green spot on the side, slowly climbed out of the garage and drove through the streets of Arbatov for the last time. Adam’s eyes sparkled hopefully. Next to him sat Balaganov, who was diligently carrying out his role as the rally’s mechanic by thoroughly polishing the car’s brass with a piece of cloth. The captain of the rally sat behind them, leaning into the ruddy-colored seat and eyeing his staff with satisfaction.

“Adam!” he shouted over the engine’s rumble, “what’s your buggy’s name?”

“Lorraine-Dietrich,” answered Kozlevich.

“What kind of a name is that? A car, like a naval ship, ought to have a proper name. Your Lorraine-Dietrich is remarkably fast and incredibly graceful. I therefore propose to name it the Gnu Antelope. Any objections? Unanimous.”

The green Antelope, all of its parts creaking, sped down the outer lane of the Boulevard of Prodigies and flew out onto the market square.

An odd scene greeted the crew of the Antelope on the square. A man with a white goose under his arm was running from the square, in the direction of the highway. He held a hard straw hat on his head with his left hand, and he was being chased by a large howling crowd. The man glanced back frequently, and there was an expression of terror on his decent-looking actor’s face.

“That’s Panikovsky!” cried Balaganov.

“The second phase of stealing a goose,” remarked Ostap coldly. “The third phase comes after the culprit is apprehended. It is accompanied by painful blows.”

Panikovsky apparently knew that the third phase was coming. He was running as fast as he could. He was so frightened that he kept holding on to the goose, which irritated his pursuers to no end.

“Article 116,” recited Kozlevich from memory. “Covert or overt theft of large domestic animals from persons engaged in agriculture or animal husbandry.”

Balaganov burst out laughing. He loved the thought that the violator of the pact would finally receive his due punishment.

The car cut through the noisy crowd and drove onto the highway.