Send the forward guards to my command.
Troops are to report to the city of Chernomorsk ASAP.
Full dress uniform.
Start the music!
I am commanding the parade!”
CHAPTER 3 GAS IS YOURS, IDEAS OURS
A year before Panikovsky violated the pact by trespassing on someone else’s territory, the first automobile appeared in the town of Arbatov.
The town’s trailblazing automotive pioneer was a motorist by the name of Kozlevich.
It was his decision to start a new life that brought him to the steering wheel.
The old life of Adam Kozlevich was sinful.
He repeatedly violated the Criminal Code of the Russian Socialist Republic, specifically Article 162, which deals with the misappropriation of another person’s property (theft).
This article has many sections, but sinful Adam had no interest in Section A (theft committed without the use of technical devices).
That was too primitive for him.
Section E, which carried the penalty of incarceration for up to five years, did not suit him either.
He didn’t want to spend too much time in prison.
Having been interested in all things technical since he was a child, Kozlevich devoted his energies to Article C (felonious misappropriation of another person’s property committed with the use of technical devices, or repeatedly, or in collusion with other individuals, at train stations, in ports, on boats, on trains, or in hotels).
But Kozlevich had very bad luck.
He was caught whether he utilized his beloved technical devices or made do without them.
He was caught at train stations, in ports, on boats, and in hotels.
He was also caught on trains.
He was caught even when, in total despair, he resorted to grabbing property in collusion with other individuals.
After a total of about three years in jail, Adam Kozlevich decided that it was much better to accumulate your own property honestly and overtly than to take it from others covertly.
This decision brought peace to his restless soul.
He became a model inmate, published denunciatory poems in the prison newsletter, Day In and Day Out, and worked hard in the machine shop.
The penitentiary system had a salutary effect on him.
Adam Kazimirovich Kozlevich, 46, single, of peasant origin, of the former Czestochowa District, multiple repeat offender, came out of prison an honest man.
After two years of working in a Moscow garage, he bought a used car; it was so ancient that its appearance on the market could only be explained by the closing of an automotive museum.
Kozlevich paid 190 rubles for this curiosity.
For some reason, the car came with a fake palm tree in a green pot.
He had to buy the palm tree as well.
The tree was passable, but the car needed plenty of work. He searched flea markets for missing parts, patched up the seats, replaced the entire electric system, and, as a final touch, painted the car bright lizard green.
The car’s breed was impossible to determine, but Adam claimed it was a Lorraine-Dietrich.
As proof of that, he attached a brass plate with the Lorraine-Dietrich logo to the radiator.
He was ready to start a private taxi business, which had been Adam’s dream for quite some time.
The day when Adam introduced his creation to the public at a taxi stand was a sad day for private taxi drivers.
One hundred and twenty small, black Renault taxicabs, that looked like Browning pistols, were introduced to the streets of Moscow by the authorities.
Kozlevich didn’t even attempt to compete with them.
He put the palm tree in the Versailles cabdrivers’ tearoom, for safekeeping, and went to work in the provinces.
Arbatov, which totally lacked automotive transport, was much to his liking, so he decided to stay there for good.
Kozlevich imagined how hard, cheerfully, and, above all, honestly he would toil in the field of cabs for hire.
He pictured himself on early arctic-cold mornings, waiting at the station for the train from Moscow.
Wrapped in a thick ruddy-colored fur coat, his aviator goggles raised to his forehead, he jovially offers cigarettes to the porters.
Somewhere behind him, the freezing coachmen are huddling.
They cry from the cold and shiver in their thick dark-blue capes.
And then the station bell begins to ring.
It’s a sign that the train has arrived.
Passengers walk out onto the station square and stop in front of the car, pleasantly surprised.
They didn’t think that the idea of the taxi had reached the boondocks of Arbatov.
Sounding the horn, Kozlevich whisks his passengers to the Peasants’ Hostel.
There’s enough work for the whole day, and everyone is happy to take advantage of his services.