“And now, my friends,” Bender announced when the Antelope had returned to the city, “Zosya Victorovna and I will take a little walk. You should go back to the hostel. Nighty night.”
The hostel was already asleep, Balaganov and Kozlevich were already playing arpeggios with their noses, but Panikovsky, in his new tie, wandered amid the horse carts and wrung his arms in quiet despair.
“What a femina!” he whispered.
“I love her like a daughter.”
Ostap and Zosya sat on the steps of the Archaeological Museum.
Laughing and flirting, young people strolled on the square that was paved with lava rock.
Behind a row of plane trees, light sparkled in the windows of the international seamen’s club.
Foreign sailors in soft hats walked in groups of two or three, exchanging brief, incomprehensible remarks.
“Why did you fall in love with me?” asked Zosya, touching Ostap’s hand.
“You’re lovely and amazing,” replied the captain. “You’re the best in the world.”
They sat quietly in the black shadows of the museum’s columns for a long time, thinking about their little happiness.
It was dark and warm, like between the palms of two hands.
“Remember I was telling you about Koreiko?” Zosya asked suddenly.
“The one who proposed to me.”
“Yes,” replied Ostap absentmindedly.
“He’s a very funny man,” continued Zosya. “Remember I told you how he left town unexpectedly?”
“Yes,” said Ostap, starting to pay attention, “he’s very funny.”
“Would you believe it, I got a letter from him today, a very funny letter . . .”
“What?” exclaimed her beau, rising to his feet.
“Are you jealous?” Zosya asked playfully.
“Well, a little.
So what does this clown have to say?”
“He’s not a clown.
He’s just a very poor, unhappy man.
Sit down, Ostap.
Why did you get up?
No, seriously, I don’t love him at all.
He’s asking me to come join him.”
“Where, join him where?” shouted Ostap.
“Where is he?”
“I’m not telling you.
You’re too jealous.
You’d go and kill him, God forbid.”
“Oh, come on, Zosya!” said the captain carefully. “I’m just curious where people find work these days.”
“Oh, he’s very, very far from here.
He writes that he found a well-paying job. He wasn’t making much here.
He’s helping build the Eastern Line.”
“Where exactly?”
“Honestly, you’re way too nosy.
You shouldn’t be such an Othello!”
“For God’s sake, Zosya, you make me laugh.
Do I look like a silly old Moor?
I’m just curious where on the Eastern Line people find work.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you, if you insist.
He works as a timekeeper at the Northern track-laying site,” said the girl simply. “But it’s just called a site—it’s actually a train.
It’s very interesting, the way Alexander Ivanovich describes it.
This train lays down the track.
You see?
And then it moves over that same track.
And another train like this is moving toward it from the south.