Balaganov started shaking in his boots.
“The Bureau is dead,” whispered Ostap, “and we’re no longer needed here.
We’re going to follow the shining path, while Funt will be taken to a red-brick building whose windows, due to the architect’s capricious fantasy, feature heavy iron bars.”
The ex-President of the Branch was correct.
The fallen angels had barely put three city blocks between themselves and the Bureau when they heard the creaking of a horse cab behind them.
It was Funt.
He would have passed for a loving grandfather who, after lengthy preparations, was finally off to see his married grandson, had it not been for the policeman who was standing on the running board, holding Funt’s bony shoulder.
“Funt has always done time,” the Antelopeans heard the old man’s low, muted voice as the cab was passing by. “Funt did time under Alexander II the Liberator, under Alexander III the Peacemaker, under Nicholas II the Bloody, under Alexander Kerensky . . .”
To keep track of the tsars and attorneys-at-law, Funt was counting them on his fingers.
“And now what are we going to do?” asked Balaganov.
“Please don’t forget that you are a contemporary of Ostap Bender,” said the grand strategist sadly.
“Please remember that he owns the remarkable bag which has everything necessary for obtaining pocket change.
Let’s go home to Lokhankin.”
A new blow awaited them on Lemon Lane.
“Where’s the house?” exclaimed Ostap. “There was a house here just last night, wasn’t there?”
But there was no house, and there was no Rookery.
There was only a claims adjuster, who was treading on the pile of charred beams.
He found an empty kerosene can in the back yard, sniffed it, and shook his head doubtfully.
“And now what?” asked Balaganov, smiling nervously.
The grand strategist didn’t answer.
He was floored by the loss of his bag.
Gone was the magic sack that contained the Indian turban, the High Priest poster, the doctor’s coat, the stethoscope . . .
It had everything!
“There,” Ostap finally said. “Fate plays with a man, and the man plays a trumpet.”
They wandered away, pale, disappointed, and numb with grief.
When people bumped into them, they didn’t even snarl back.
Panikovsky, who raised his shoulders during the fiasco at the bank, never lowered them again.
Balaganov fiddled with his red locks and sighed dejectedly.
Bender walked behind the rest, looking down and humming absentmindedly:
“The days of merriment are gone, my little soldier, aim your gun.”
In this same condition, they finally reached the hostel.
The yellow Antelope was visible in the back, under a canopy.
Kozlevich was sitting on the tavern’s porch.
He was sucking in hot tea from a saucer, blowing the air out blissfully.
His face was terracotta red.
He was in seventh heaven.
“Adam!” said the grand strategist, stopping in front of the driver. “We lost everything.
We’re destitute, Adam!
Take us in!
We’re sinking.”
Kozlevich got up.
The captain, humiliated and miserable, stood in front of him, bare-headed.
Tears glistened in Adam’s pale Polish eyes.
He went down the steps and hugged each of the Antelopeans one by one.
“The taxi is free!” he said, swallowing his tears of pity.
“Please get in.”
“But we may have to go far, really far,” said Ostap, “maybe to the edge of the earth, maybe even farther.
Think about it!”
“Anywhere you want!” said the faithful Kozlevich.
“The taxi is free!”