“Stop whining, old man.
Golden dentures, a nice plump widow, and an entire swimming pool of kefir await you.
For Balaganov, I’ll buy a sailor’s suit and sign him up for elementary school.
He’ll learn to read and write, which at his age is a must.
And Kozlevich, our faithful Adam, will get a new car.
What would you like, Adam Kazimirovich?
A Studebaker?
A Lincoln?
A Rolls?
A Hispano-Suiza?”
“An Isotta-Fraschini,” said Kozlevich, blushing.
“Fine.
You’ll get it.
We’ll call it the Antelope II, or Antelope Junior, whatever you prefer.
And now, cheer up.
I’ll make sure you’ve got the basics.
Of course, my bag went up in flames, but my ideas are fire-proof.
If things get really bad, we’ll stop at some lucky little town and set up a bullfight, Seville-style.
Panikovsky will be the picador.
That alone will spur the public’s unhealthy curiosity and make it a huge box-office hit.”
The car crept along a wide roadway that was marked by tractor teeth.
Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes.
“Which way?” he asked. “We have three roads here.”
The passengers climbed out of the car and walked on a bit, stretching their stiff legs.
The crossroads was marked by a tall leaning stone, with a fat crow perched on top of it.
The flattened sun was setting behind unkempt corn silk.
Balaganov’s thin shadow stretched toward the horizon.
The ground was touched by dark hues, and an early star dutifully signaled the advent of the night.
Three roads lay in front of the Antelopeans: one asphalt, one gravel, and one dirt.
The asphalt was still yellow from the sun, blue vapor hovered over the gravel road, but the dirt road was barely discernible and melted into the fields just beyond the stone.
Ostap yelled at the crow, which was very frightened yet didn’t fly away. He paced back and forth at the crossroads in contemplation and then announced:
“I declare the conference of the roving Russian knights open!
In attendance are: Ilya Muromets—Ostap Bender, Dobrynya Nikitich—Balaganov, and Alyosha Popovich—our esteemed Mikhail Panikovsky.”
Kozlevich, who took advantage of the stop and climbed under the Antelope with a wrench, was not included in the ranks of the knights.
“Dear Dobrynya,” Ostap instructed, “please stand on the right!
Monsieur Popovich, take you place on the left!
Shade your eyes with your hands and look forward intently.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Alyosha Popovich testily. “I’m hungry.
Let’s go somewhere, now!”
“Shame on you, Alyosha boy,” said Ostap, “stand properly, as befits an ancient knight.
And think hard.
Look at Dobrynya: you could put him straight into an epic.
So, my fellow knights, which road shall we take?
Which one has money lying around on it, the money we need for our daily expenses?
I know that Kozlevich would prefer the asphalt: drivers like good roads.
But Adam is an honest man, he doesn’t know much about life.
Knights have no use for asphalt.
It probably leads to some giant state farm.
We’ll get lost amidst the roar of the engines down there.
We might even get run over by a Caterpillar or some combine harvester.