Methodius Buslaev. The Scroll of Desires

The trainer of cotton swabs thought for a bit. Zozo began to languish. “I’d have dinner all the same! I’ll pay my own shot, if that’s what embarrasses you,” she said persistently, feeling the beast of hunger. “Is money really the matter? So, let’s go! It seems there’s this one place…” Anton said sourly. The necessity for a heroic deed was clearly visible on his noble face.

They went somewhere, turned, turned again, and slid under an arch. Although the sun was raging on the street, here dampness reigned. Having squeezed through between parked cars, they passed one more playground, and dived under one more arch. Here Ogurtsov stopped. Above a small basement with a sparse artificial palm at the entrance crowded the bright letters: DREAM OF YOGI.

“What’s this?” Zozo asked in horror. “A vegetarian restaurant. Someone – don’t remember who, don’t remember when – described it as very good,” the marquis of serviettes proudly explained. He took a serviette from his pocket, wrapped it around the door handle, and with disgust opened it. After Zozo had entered, Ogurtsov discarded the serviette and whisked sideways through the closing door, contented that he had slipped away from the bacilli dwelling on the handle. “Now down the steps! Careful, might fall!” he warned. It was possible to fall fifty times. Namely, there were so many steps.

The restaurant was in a former air-raid shelter. It was chilly in its only hall, like in a tomb. Anton Ogurtsov looked around knowingly and sat down at the far table next to the fire extinguisher. The restaurant was completely empty. Only by the door, a strange sleek little fellow with a lively, exactly elastic face was hunting with a fork the only radish on his plate. He was hunting with such zeal that Zozo even thought that perhaps he was mocking someone. However, the sleek little fellow persistently did not look in their direction.

After some time a pale waitress crept out to them. All things considered, it was obvious that she was extremely surprised by today’s influx of visitors. After leafing through the menu, Ogurtsov ordered the Dual Health salad, asparagus, and carrot juice. The waitress again crept away somewhere. There appeared to be sluggish movement beyond the partition to the kitchen.

Zozo was bored and frozen. Ogurtsov folded a napkin into a ship. “So, are we going to keep quiet? Do you intend to talk about something?” Zozo nervously asked. The king of disposable towels did not answer. After finishing the ship, he took the next napkin and made a toad. “Hey! I’m here!” Zozo shouted. “Is it possible to find out what you’re thinking?” Again, she did not get an answer. The duke of hygiene, without raising his eyes from the table, kept silent and planted the toad into the ship. “That’s it! I’ve had enough! I’m leaving!” Zozo decided. She was already almost getting up when the waitress appeared from the kitchen with a tray. Two tall glasses of carrot juice stood on the tray. Caught unawares, Zozo remained on the spot.

On seeing the juice, the single-use dandy came alive and began to move his fingers. “Here are some plain glasses! I love everything elegant!” he said inopportunely. “What a coincidence! Me too!” Zozo said, glad that her collocutor had come out of his lethargic dream. “Imagine, recently I bought an excellent box in an antique store. Here indeed is a feeling of style!” “Ah, what’s so special about it?” “Well, it’s all so… ancient… carved, from mahogany… on the lid the sun and two such winged… dragons, perhaps? Everything with great taste!” Ogurtsov had difficulty describing it precisely. The little fellow hunting the radish froze.

“And what do you keep in the box?” Zozo asked with the tenderness of a psychotherapist. But Ogurtsov had already become quiet. He took his fork and with disgust began to scrutinize it in the light, checking if it was washed. “What? Medicines, which must be stored in a dry dark place. The box is excellent for this. Above are several small compartments, and a deep one below. Furthermore, there are several drawers. I store vitamins there,” he said edifyingly. “And where do you store your vitamins, Zoe?” “Eh-eh… In the fridge,” Zozo lied. She thought that if she had vitamins for real, in two days Eddy would pig out on them and have an allergic reaction. Her brother eternally suffered from an undivided love for anything free.

Ogurtsov chewed the asparagus critically. Before swallowing, he processed each piece with saliva no less than thirty times. One could read the thought on his face that the digestion of food was an important and necessary labour. The muscles of his strong cheekbones moved vigorously. Zozo looked at him with irritation. She wanted to hurl the plate with turnip at him, then catch a taxi and go to bite someone. Having put an end to the asparagus, Ogurtsov looked at Zozo in the manner of a bird and, making up his mind, started to gurgle with the carrot juice.

“It’s bad to live alone. Solitude depresses me. I need a beloved soul next to me. Zozo, a man cannot exist without a woman. Downright unreal after all,” he complained, full of suffering. Zozo choked on the juice from surprise. Passing from an innocent conversation on a box to family life was much too unexpected. “No, Zozo, a man cannot be without a woman at all,” Ogurtsov continued to develop the thought. “Here, for example, if he has problems with the heart at night, who would phone emergency? I’ll teach you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Zoe! And we will give each other injections! You have a light hand, I hope?” Zozo began to look around uneasily. She in no way expected this turn in the conversation.

“So will you agree?” The encouraged Ogurtsov was enthusiastic. “Will I agree to what?” Zozo did not understand. “What do you mean to what? To marry me.” “So soon? I don’t suit you. I don’t know how to make mustard plasters. It’s better for you to look for a nurse,” unexpectedly for her, Zozo blurted out. Accurate female intuition suggested to her that before her was a complete and incurable psycho, whom no injection could already save. The employee of a foreign firm extracted a feeble bird sigh from his powerful chest. He was not offended. Rather he was distressed. His eyelashes were long like a girl’s. “A nurse? Do you think so? I didn’t think about it. Perhaps it’s better than a doctor-resuscitator? This, in my opinion, is more reliable, what do you think? In other words, more extensive!” he seriously asked. “Absolutely. All the best! And good luck to you!”

Zozo got up and began to move back. She was already imagining buying a large chocolate bar at the kiosk. With the thought that chocolate was harmful, she started to feel better. “Please stop! I probably should escort you?” Anton asked. “By no means! I can manage!” Zozo refused and forever disappeared from both the Dream of Yogi restaurant and Anton Ogurtsov’s life.

The king of towels finished drinking the carrot juice in small gulps and felt his own pulse. The pulse was normal. As if Zozo’s departure also did not affect his blood pressure. Ogurtsov thought with relief that all matters of amour were finished today. At the same time, it seemed to him that the little fellow with the crushed face and pushed-out shoulder blades winked insidiously at him from the adjacent table. Acting in the best traditions of a public health ministry, Ogurtsov was not immediately disturbed. He paid the bill and left, again wrapping the door handle with a serviette in order not to get microbes – airborne ones – on his hand.

* * *

Ogurtsov walked home: good it was not far. He walked and fearfully pulled his head into his shoulders. The insolent stooping little fellow with the crushed face – the same one that had winked – in some mysterious manner seemed to him to be anywhere and everywhere. He jumped in shop windows, passed by in trolley buses and taxis, with a leash on his neck ran after small dogs and, swinging his legs, sat on the fence of an avenue. One time he even managed to grin slyly from the street ad of a fashion magazine, where, smacking his lips over the empty casing of a sausage, he sat unsteadily on the shoulders of the very young model. Ogurtsov’s mouth went dry. He felt like a complete paranoiac and began to consider in earnest a visit to a psychiatrist.

Having finally forced his way into the entrance of his building, he stared at the concierge, as if suspecting to see the sly stranger. He stared and calmed down. The concierge was the same as before. A clean little old lady was sitting in a glazed room with geraniums, listening to the radio, and reading something. After greeting her and having gotten a “good evening” in response, Ogurtsov was about to walk past her when suddenly something compelled him to look around fearfully. The concierge was reading – Oh God, no! – the Iron Men magazine for bodybuilders, with the same dreadful insolent little fellow staring out of the cover the whole time. He was naked to his waist and emaciated as the skeleton of a Caspian roach. After ascertaining that the minister of cotton swabs noticed him, the little fellow began waving at him and sending air kisses.

Ogurtsov rushed into the elevator and, after poking a button with his finger, got up to his floor in a hurry. On finding himself in the apartment, he slammed the door shut, turned the key four times, bolted and chained it. On legs like cotton, Anton set off for the kitchen and there, knocking a spoon against his teeth, he hurriedly drank three tablespoons and one teaspoon of red wine. Ogurtsov was never like this. It was already akin to a reckless attempt to pour alcohol into his liver. However, the Herculean organism of the king of serviettes managed even this.

After hiding the bottle and spoon, Anton limply wandered into the room, intending on lying down on the sofa and thinking over a call to the psychiatrist. After pushing open the door, he froze on the threshold and… started to croak in horror. On that very sofa he was aiming for, a pillow behind the back, the insolent person with the lively, somewhat flexible face was lounging. In his hand was a large pistol, which the shady character, tongue hanging out from enthusiasm, aimed directly at Ogurtsov’s heart. “Hands up! Everyone stand, lie, sit! No one leaves, walk together! Bang boom, everyone is dead!” he said in a vile voice. Ogurtsov’s knees buckled from fear. His pulse went off the scale.

Meanwhile the little fellow jumped from the sofa and ran around the room, shattering everything around. Glass clinked, a chair toppled over, pills gushed out from the overturned night table. Yanked out pages of the medical encyclopaedia fluttered, demonstrating terrible colour pictures of trophic ulcers. “Where’s the box? Confess voluntarily and we’ll let you go in half the sentence!” the little fellow shouted threateningly, brandishing the pistol.

Ogurtsov did not answer; however, his doe eyes slid by themselves to the cabinet. The strange character ran over and jerked open the door. A collection of cups rained down. The last to fall out of the cabinet was the ill-fated box. The insolent little fellow stretched out his hand, but immediately, having said “oh,” jerked it back, after barely touching the lid. One of his fingers flared up and burned almost to the joint. The agent began in panic to shake his hand, groaned, and started to mould his finger anew, lengthening the remaining part. “I hate these artefacts from Light, even if I weren’t Tukhlomon! Even almost no power is left in it, nevertheless still can’t sneak up on it… What to do? Ah, I know!” he muttered to himself. Waving the pistol, he beckoned a trembling Ogurtsov to himself. “Hey, you, boy, well, get over here! Take your box! Open it! Wider! Let’s have a look! Away with the medicines, they’ll no longer be of use to you.”

Pale from horror, Ogurtsov started to whimper, shaking out the pills onto the carpet. Tukhlomon fixed his eyes upon the bottom of the box. “Ah, here it is! Press with a finger on the bottom next to the right edge! Hold, don’t release! What, didn’t know, perhaps? Now with the other hand a quick turn of the sun on the lid! Turn more bravely! It’ll not bite you! Ready? And now release the bottom! Don’t hold it, I say! What, it moved? Take it out! I dare say, you indeed didn’t even know that it has a secret bottom here!”

Not taking his eyes off the little fellow and his terrible pistol, Ogurtsov took out the bottom of the box. Tukhlomon greedily glanced in; however, he only saw a pitiful handful of sawdust. The agent’s face shrunk in disappointment. It was crushed like a rotten apple, on which a sole had stepped. He clearly hoped to behold something more remarkable there.

However, the agent quickly pulled himself together. “It turned out to be a mistake… Your box is an empty shell. The bees have to fly further for honey!” Tukhlomon said sweetly. He approached the window and, fidgeting the flexible nose, thievishly looked out. He was probably checking whether there were any dangerous golden sparks nearby. At this moment, he was very similar to a thievish rat. He discovered no guards of Light. Tukhlomon grinned. “Remember, if golden-wings come flying to you after me, you will give my regards. Uncle Tukhlomon, you tell them, ordered you. Remember? Won’t fall into decay?” he anxiously asked Ogurtsov. After this, he waved to Anton and set off for the door.

The king of serviettes was about to feel relief, understanding that his life had been preserved, when suddenly Tukhlomon stopped halfway and slapped himself on the forehead. The sound was like a hand slapping on flabby dough. “Ah, yes! A tiny little thing! I broke down the little box but forgot something else… Get over here, friend! Lively!” The agent suddenly appeared next to Ogurtsov. His plasticine mouth moved apart. The duke of cotton swaps saw the decayed teeth and the tongue covered with green mould, through which a worm was leisurely crawling. There was nothing more loathsome in the world than this mouth. Ogurtsov was instantly covered with squeamish sweat. Trying not to breathe, he pressed his back against the wall.

“Give me your eidos!” Tukhlomon pronounced in a terrible voice. “No-o!” shaking, Ogurtsov mumbled. What eidos was and why it was demanded, he did not know but for some reason felt that it was something extremely necessary to him. “WHAT?” the agent roared frightfully. “You won’t? Give it, trash, or I’ll kiss you! But together with the kiss are transferred influenza, meningitis, tuberculosis, and heart diseases!” “No-o-o…” Anton groaned, but already with new intonation. An instantaneous, goodness knows from where, gust of wind seized the ripped-out pages of the medical encyclopaedia and flung them in his face. “Yes, my dear. A medical fact. With the kiss are even transferred chickenpox, smallpox, angina, and diphtheria. And no need to check, I know my medicine! I myself made them up on Ligul’s order!” Tukhlomon inflexibly stated.

The agent suddenly grew terrible. He turned blue like a drowned man. Now he occupied a good third of the room. “GIVE ME YOUR EIDOS, YOU NOBODY! Or death! Repeat! ‘I transfer my eidos to Tukhlomon and reject all rights to it.’ WELL!” The terrible green mouth moved to Ogurtsov. A smell of damp earth and rot issued from the mouth. The nightmarish tongue covered with holes again thrust out. But even this seemed not enough to the agent. He raised the pistol and pointed it at Ogurtsov’s forehead. “Eidos or life! Choose! Death of body or death of spirit! Speak, or I’ll shoot!” The terrible voice roared like a snake picking its way into Anton’s heart.

“Death of spirit… I reject all rights to eid…” hardly moving his lips, Anton announced. “Eidos!” Tukhlomon helpfully prompted. “I reject all rights to eidos and transfer it to…” “I’m Tukhlomon. I have neither mommy nor daddy! Repeat, don’t tease the little orphan!” “To Tukhlomon!” Ogurtsov repeated dejectedly. The agent smiled pleasantly and in approval slapped the duke of hygienic sheets on the cheek. “Has to be a bit louder, so it’ll come off! Well done, did everything for papa! And for that I love you, because you’re papa! Because you, sour puss, obliged Tukhlomon!” he said affectionately and in rhyme, mangling the known children’s verse.

Tukhlomon slammed shut his terrible mouth. The stench instantly disappeared. There were bags under Tukhlomon’s eyes and his face sagged and became flabby, exactly like a tomato touched by mould. The shoulders drooped, the chest fell. And even the agent himself suddenly appeared as a pitiful and negligible creature. With sudden and shameful enlightenment Ogurtsov suddenly understood that the one he so feared, the one he was squeamish about, turned out to be simply trash – the most ordinary and harmless plasticine. Both the worm and the terrible pistol seemed to be plasticine also. The muzzle of the pistol drooped and crumpled. Tukhlomon, after looking sideways at the pistol, carelessly rolled it up into a lump and stuck it to his leg. The lump stretched, spread, and grew into place as if poured. “Very useful little thing! Ah-ah, you wouldn’t know how much trash I’ve already modelled from it: bombs, engagement rings, small trunks with money, deputy’s ID cards…” he shared the secret.

Ogurtsov, feeling ashamed, realized that he had become the victim of an immense bluff. But it was already too late to change anything. The agent, shuffling in a senile way, approached Anton and, putting an arm all the way up to the shoulder into Anton’s chest, extracted something. It was not painful, perhaps slightly disgusting. Ogurtsov also did not understand what was taken away from him, but experienced a terrible void.

“Well, that’s it here! As you see, it’s not painful at all. One, two, and it’s ready! He didn’t even have time to gasp, as Tukhlomony ate the eidos!” the agent stated in a friendly manner, greedily examining what was lying on his palm… “How miserable the clients are now! You scare one with a herring, kiss another, slip a syringe to the third in an hour of need – and that’s it, pack the goods… Eh, darling, you made a fool of yourself! Perhaps I could really do that to you? Not on your life! It’s said: hair won’t fall near the head! Just shout, stamp your feet, be a worm!”

Ogurtsov took a step forward and, grabbing the agent by the shoulder, mumbled some broken and indistinct words. It seemed he was asking, almost praying for the return of something to him, but he knew already that this “something” was lost to him forever, and together with it everything good, what was and what could be, was also gone. Hope was lost.

“Well, be good, dear, don’t get sick! Now you have to be even more on your guard against diseases, because your immortality is all lost! Hee-hee, very funny even! All you have to do – hee-hee! – is to kick me with one-third strength or drop the box on me! I’d immediately be gone! I have no power, I’m plasticine, puny! Now farewell, poor devil! Take your vitamins, my dear, and don’t sneeze!” Tukhlomon said with false sympathy, resolutely freeing himself from Ogurtsov’s fingers. Having carelessly waved to the sultan of disposable towels, the agent coolly took a step into the wall and melted away. Ogurtsov stood for a little in the empty room, and then, sobbing, squatted down and sadly began to gather the pills off the carpet. In his chest gaped an invisible black hole.

Chapter 4

How many sixes in the ace?

After moving her fingers apart, Julitta with tender emotion examined her hands. “Ah, how beautiful they are! And indeed my feet are not any worse! But no one appreciates them except the idiot genies! Everyone sees only a heavy elephant!” “Can never say ‘heavy elephant’. It’s meaningless. ‘Heavy elephant’ is like ‘enormous moose’. It goes without saying that a moose is enormous. Simply enough to say ‘elephant’ or ‘moose’,” Daphne remarked.

Julitta placed her arms akimbo. The lights in reception shook alarmingly. The hanged men in the pictures started to squint. The antique statue in horror turned away and covered its face with its hands. “Turn off the sound, Light! I can even call myself a hippo. But if anyone squawks again about moose, let him consider: the cemetery is full of free holes!” the witch said threateningly. “No one called you anything! The discussion dealt with entirely different things!” Daph obstinately objected. “Yea, yea! The conversation about elephant, moose, and other planktonic insects, of course, started purely accidentally! Watch it, Light, I’ll chop off your wings!”

Seeing that Daph was offended, Depressiac arched its back and started to hiss. The witch nodded with satisfaction. “Well, that’s it! I warned you! Now someone will be deprived of a tail! I see right through you! You’re a blonde only in appearance, but in your soul you’re a mean brunette!” she said darkly. “Just you dare touch my cat!” Daph was angry. In the next second Julitta materialized a small sword, and Daph – the flute. Depressiac, not having anything that could be materialized, extended its claws. The world briskly rolled to a war.

“Perhaps let us declare a truce? Well, at least for half an hour?” Methodius asked, yawning. He had already gotten used to the fact that at least on the whole Daph and Julitta got along well, nevertheless about three times a day they would start a showdown. Julitta thought for a bit. To arrange a slaughter in reception was not in her plans. Moreover, she already had time to cool down. “What about you? Do you have anything against a truce?” she asked Daph suspiciously. “Consider: in half an hour I’ll make mincemeat out of you!” “Uh-huh. I’ll mark the time,” nodded Daph, putting away the flute. Julitta carelessly threw away the sword, smiled, and moved over to hug Daph. Soon, having finally calmed down completely and swallowed some candies, the witch was already reading out from memory to Daphne and Methodius a brief history of Gloom and the Chancellery in Tartarus.

For the most part, as Methodius understood, the history of Gloom was divided into two periods. The first – before the loss of the sovereign of Gloom, and the second – after. Faceless Kvodnon either actively did not interfere in the history or preferred to operate the marionettes invisibly. After the loss of Kvodnon the forward hunchback Ligul soon moved into the spotlight. Approximately in the same epoch William the Conqueror, then a simple guard of the Norman division, without consultation with Ligul took England after knocking off Harold. It is incomprehensible how William managed to beat the rap. He remained to carouse in England whereas Harold was recalled into Tartarus forever. Several centuries later they placed Bonaparte over Normandy and France. Julitta, as she stated, was never especially interested in the details of behind-the-scene manoeuvring and therefore had simply forgotten all the others.

For example, she forgot about Hastrubal, a guard of the second rank managing the Carthaginian sector, whose son Hannibal, by an Earth woman, at first accomplished successful aggressive marches through the entire Italy and Sicily, and then with a bad joke angered Kvodnon, who wiped Carthage from the face of the earth, first overthrowing Hannibal, and after him in the heat of the moment also Hastrubal.

There existed, furthermore, the dark history of the half-magician, half-guard Odysseus. Odysseus’ path in life was full of ups and downs. Kvodnon either promoted him to a guard of the first rank, demoted him almost to the fourteenth rank, sent him into exile, or generously showered him with eide. As a result, poor Odysseus, on waking up, did not know what fate awaited him for the day: a reward or a sequential box on the ear. With grief, he took Troy, after making the horse move subsequently becoming famous with chess players. Then, after many years of wandering, he settled down at his place in Ithaca, in the interim beating up agents, who had been allowed to get out of hand during his absence. Later this method of disciplining agents received wide acceptance and was even included in the plan for training guards of Gloom.

The ancient history of the moronoid world, in which Gloom willingly interfered, was even more entangled. The Ancient Greek division of Gloom at first was split into many subdivisions: Athens, Thebes, Sparta, Smyrna, Pylos, Argos, Delphi, etc. Each division wallowed in its own vice: in Sparta they fought and severed darc, in Athens they philosophized, in Delphi three words could not be linked together without fogging the truth. Division heads quarrelled among themselves, packed wars of local importance with tonnes of agents, in a fit of temper rose in rebellion against Kvodnon, and at full strength set off for Tartarus to fan lava. They gave Greece first to the Persian division of Gloom, and then the Roman.

In connection to this Kvodnon uttered one of his crown phrases. “Guards of Gloom must suggest vices to people and not give themselves up to them.” The bores and toadies, as Julitta said, more of them in Tartarus than in the upper world, immediately forced sinners to carve this saying on cliffs in eighty-metre high letters and smooth them with tongues of incandescent mercury. This seemed not enough to others, and in Tartarus an ascetic party was formed in haste. The guards belonging to this party stopped giving in to any vice, be it even a comparatively innocent exhalation of sulphuric smoke. Following the lecture of Kvodnon, these guards, dressed in white garments and with wings whitened in lime, suggested to people the most loathsome vices. But, alas, it was unsuccessful. Seeing that the vices were not corroborated by personal examples, people started to cool towards them or carried them out listlessly, without any taste for them. Kvodnon, filled with alarm upon seeing that the inflow of eide was decreasing, in a directive order sent the entire ascetic party to sweat their guts out in fiery Gehenna. They again revived the fashion for vices, and the huge letters on the cliffs, instructing one not to give up to them, were hacked away by the efforts of all those sinners. So in Europe, following Gloom, the transition from the grim Middle Ages to the impetuous Renaissance came to be.

Daph listened with half an ear to Julitta. She was busy with Depressiac and, continuously playing on the flute, accelerated the healing of its wounds. Here, in the screened residence of Gloom, it was possible to play the flute without fear that they would locate her. Last night her beloved cat grappled with an entire pack of stray dogs. The scuffle started because of such a commonplace trifle as a dead crow. As a result the crow still remained intact and the pack of dogs thoroughly thinned, whereas Depressiac had a torn ear and a deeply bitten through shoulder. But this was still bearable. If it were an ordinary cat instead of the infernal cat, it would for sure have joined the crow in its journey to the other world.

Ares came out of his office around midnight. Methodius hardly recognized him. He was in an austere black tailcoat, strikingly different from his usual red spacious caftans. “I hate formal receptions! With great pleasure I would set off there with a sword and chop everything up like cabbage,” he muttered and, suffering from sulphuric breath, stared at Methodius. “And why is this pale individual in stretched jeans? Bear in mind that you’ll also need a tailcoat… Julitta, take care of it! Another question for the curious: Met, how are you with teleportation? As always or slightly better?” “Eh-eh… Well I…” Methodius began. “Clearly,” nodded Ares. “No need to continue further. Well, aren’t you ashamed, Signor Tomato? The magic in you is no less than in a third of Tartarus, but even a normal wall is an insurmountable obstacle for you. To say nothing of such a comparatively simple trick as teleportation. Such is even in the power of modest Tibidox magicians.”

“Does this mean I’m going nowhere?” Methodius asked in disappointment. Ares’ eyes sparkled mockingly. “Why so quick about going nowhere? Certainly, you’ll not reach England on foot. However, to fly on a broom or a flying carpet is not our style. There is, however, a way…” Ares turned and hailed quietly, “Mamai!” From the wall walked out an unknown limping agent – small, slant-eyed, terrible, with a flat Mongolian face. He took a step and stared at Methodius with a wild look. It made Daph standing beside him uncomfortable. “Get acquainted, Methodius! This is Mamai! Once the khan of the Golden Horde. Killed on the Kulikovo Field. Subsequently they sent him from Tartarus for being unsocial, which, between us, is almost impossible. Now and then, when a chauffeur is needed, Mamai renders me this service. Mamai, is the car ready?” The khan nodded sullenly and, on turning, made his way to the door. He treated Ares as if without any respect, merely observing decorum. He simply despised the rest.

They went out. Beside house № 13 stood a low terrible car without glass, cut all over by splinters, covered with spots of rust, with a third of the roof crushed, and burnt tires. Methodius and Daph stared at Ares in amazement. The baron of Gloom smirked. “Ah, I know! Personal automobile of Field Marshal Paulus. Destroyed by mortar fire near Stalingrad. The Marshal himself, however, turned out not to be in it at that moment. Mamai, you did finally remove the remains of the chauffeur? Signor Tomato is squeamish.” Mamai spat through his teeth and, after lingering, nodded. “I did!” he growled.

“Are we going in this piece of junk? To England?” Methodius asked in distrust. He would never assume that such a coach was capable of moving at all. “Trust me, with Mamai this car will go anywhere you want. To England, to the Moon,” Ares said seriously. “And now let’s be on our way! Julitta, you haven’t forgotten the tailcoat for Signor Tomato? He has to change on the way! Mamai, time for us to go!”

The khan with effort opened the rusty door. The car smelled of swamp and rotted seat leather. Ares sat down first in the car. After him, lingering a little was Methodius, and Julitta was the last. Daph and Depressiac remained outside. The cat hissed. If it had fur, it would be standing on end. Likely, the cat sensed the heat of Tartarus emanating from the car. Methodius glanced at Daph in search of encouragement. She waved to him and immediately turned away, remembering that she was angry with Buslaev. Mamai lowered himself heavily onto the driver’s seat, seized the thin melted steering wheel, sneering obviously, touched the torn off hand brakes, not even taking the trouble to start the motor, and… the heavy car rushed forward with the speed of a comet.