They will soon meet.
Then there will be a joining ceremony.
And it’s in the desert, he writes, with camels . . .
Isn’t that interesting?”
“Fascinating,” said the grand strategist, pacing under the columns. “You know, Zosya, it’s time to go.
It’s late.
And it’s cold.
Let’s just go!”
He helped Zosya up from the steps, walked her to the square, and then hesitated.
“Aren’t you going to walk me home?” asked the girl with alarm.
“Pardon?” said Ostap.
“Oh, home . . .
You see, I . . .”
“Fine,” Zosya said drily, “goodbye.
And don’t come see me anymore.
Do you hear?”
But the grand strategist no longer heard anything.
After running for a block, he stopped.
“Lovely and amazing!” he muttered.
Ostap turned back, to follow his girl.
He ran under the dark trees for a couple of minutes.
Then he stopped again, took his seaman’s cap off, and lingered for a few moments.
“No, this isn’t Rio de Janeiro!” he said finally.
He took two more tentative steps, stopped again, stuck the cap on his head, and, without any further hesitation, rushed to the hostel.
That same night, the Antelope drove out of the hostel gates, its pale headlights on.
Drowsy Kozlevich had to strain to turn the steering wheel.
Balaganov promptly fell asleep in the car while the others were hastily packing. Panikovsky shifted his small eyes sadly, shivering in the cool of the night.
He still had some powder on his face, left over from the festive outing.
“The carnival is over!” cried out the captain, as the Antelope rumbled under a railway bridge. “Now the hard work begins.”
And in the old puzzle-maker’s room, next to a bouquet of dried-up roses, the lovely and amazing one was weeping.
CHAPTER 25 THREE ROADS
The Antelope wasn’t feeling well.
She would stall on even the slightest incline and roll back listlessly.
Strange noises and wheezing were coming from the engine, as if someone was being strangled under the yellow hood.
The vehicle was overloaded.
In addition to the crew, it carried large supplies of fuel.
Gasoline gurgled in cans and bottles that filled every available space.
Kozlevich kept shaking his head, stepping on the accelerator, and glancing at Ostap anxiously.
“Adam,” the captain would say, “you’re our father, we’re your children.
Head east!
You have a great navigational tool—your keychain compass.
Don’t lose the way!”
The Antelopeans were on the move for the third day in a row, but no one except Ostap knew the final destination of the new journey.
Panikovsky looked glumly at the shaggy corn fields and lisped timidly:
“Why are we driving again?
What’s the point of all this?
It was so nice in Chernomorsk.”
He sighed desperately, thinking of the lovely femina.
On top of that, he was hungry, but there was nothing to eat—they were out of money.
“Forward!” proclaimed Ostap.