The driver and the rally mechanic didn’t respond.
“So why are you so quiet? Have you lost the gift of speech?”
“You know, Bender,” Balaganov said finally, “I’m not going.
Please don’t be mad, but I don’t have faith anymore.
I don’t know where we’re going.
We’ll get into big trouble over there.
I’m staying.”
“I wanted to tell you the same thing,” echoed Kozlevich.
“As you wish,” replied Ostap, suddenly sounding cold.
There was no snack bar at the station.
A bright kerosene lamp was lit.
Two peasant women slumbered on top of their sacks in the waiting area.
The entire staff of the station paced on the wooden platform, staring intently into the pre-dawn darkness beyond the semaphore post.
“Which train is it?” asked Ostap.
“Unnumbered,” answered the station chief nervously, straightening a red cap that was decorated with silver stripes.
“A special.
Delayed for two minutes.
Doesn’t have a green light yet.”
Then there was a rumble, wires shook, a pair of small, wolfish eyes appeared, and a short, glistening train came to a screeching halt at the station.
The large glass windows of the first-class passenger cars gleamed, and flowers and wine bottles in the dining car rolled right by the noses of the Antelopeans. Attendants jumped off the train with their lanterns while the train was still moving, and the platform immediately filled with cheery banter in Russian and other languages.
The cars were decorated with fir garlands and slogans that read: GREETINGS TO THE HEROIC BUILDERS OF THE EASTERN LINE!
The special train was taking guests to the opening of the rail line.
The grand strategist disappeared.
He returned thirty seconds later and whispered:
“I’m going!
I don’t know how—but I’m going!
Want to come with me?
I’m asking you one last time.”
“No,” said Balaganov.
“I’m not going,” said Kozlevich, “I can’t take it anymore.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“What can I possibly do?” replied Shura. “I’ll be the son of Lieutenant Schmidt again, that’s all.”
“I’m hoping to put the Antelope back together,” said Kozlevich plaintively, “I’ll go give her a good look, fix her up.”
Ostap wanted to say something, but a long whistle silenced him.
He pulled Balaganov closer, patted him on the back, kissed Kozlevich goodbye, waved, and ran toward the train, whose cars were already bumping together from the locomotive’s first pull.
But before he reached the train, he turned back, stuck the fifteen rubles he had received for the show into Adam’s hand, and jumped onto the step of the car, which was already moving.
Glancing back, he saw two small figures climbing up the slope through the purple haze.
Balaganov was returning to the troublesome brood of Lieutenant Schmidt.
Kozlevich was trundling back to the remains of the Antelope.
PART 3 A PRIVATE CITIZEN
CHAPTER 26 A PASSENGER ON THE SPECIAL TRAIN
A short unnumbered train stood in the asphalt berth of the Ryazan Station in Moscow.
It had only six cars: a baggage car, which actually housed food supplies on ice instead of the baggage; a dining car with a white-clad cook leaning out the window; the government’s private car; and three sleeping cars, whose bunks, draped with austere striped covers, were to accommodate a delegation of exemplary factory workers, as well as Soviet and foreign journalists.
The train was heading for the joining of the Eastern Line.
A lengthy journey lay ahead.
The workers were pushing their travel baskets, whose little black locks hung from iron rods, through the cars’ doors.
The Soviet press was rushing up and down the platform, brandishing their shiny plywood travel cases.
The foreigners were watching over the porters who carried their thick leather suitcases, garment bags, and cardboard boxes, which were plastered with colorful labels from travel companies and steamship lines.
The passengers had already stocked up on a book, The Eastern Line, whose cover featured a picture of a camel sniffing the rails.
The book was being sold on the platform, from a baggage cart.