But, of course, nothing flashy, nothing ostentatious.”
“Of course not!
Just two public health physicians traveling to Moscow to attend the Art Theater and take a peek at the mummy in the Museum of Fine Arts.
Get your suitcase.”
The millionaires headed toward the train.
Ostap waved his bag carelessly, as if it were a censer.
Alexander Ivanovich smiled like a complete idiot.
The special passengers were strolling around, trying to stay close to the cars because the locomotive was already being attached.
The journalists’ white pants twinkled in the dark.
A stranger lay under the sheets on Ostap’s upper bunk, reading a newspaper.
“Time to get off,” said Ostap amicably, “the rightful owner is here.”
“This is my place, Comrade,” replied the stranger. “I’m Leo Shirtikov.”
“Listen, Leo Shirtikov, don’t awaken the beast in me, just go away.”
Koreiko’s puzzled look compelled the grand strategist to get into a fight.
“Absolutely not,” said the journalist feistily. “Who are you?”
“None of your damn business!
I’m telling you to get off, so get off!”
“Any drunk can come in here,” shrieked Shirtikov, “and violate . . .”
Ostap quietly grabbed the journalist’s bare leg.
Shirtikov’s screams brought the entire car.
Koreiko retreated to the vestibule, just in case.
“Fighting?” asked Ukhudshansky. “Well, well . . .”
Ostap, who had already managed to whack Shirtikov on the head with his bag, was being restrained by Gargantua and the portly writer in the casual jacket.
“Let him show his ticket!” yelled the grand strategist. “Let him show his boarding pass!”
The stark-naked Shirtikov leaped from bunk to bunk and demanded to see the train administrator.
Ostap, who had completely detached from reality, also insisted on appealing to the authorities.
The altercation ended in a major embarrassment.
Shirtikov produced both the ticket and the boarding pass, and then, in a theatrical voice, demanded that Bender do the same.
“I won’t do it on principle!” announced the grand strategist, hastily retreating from the site of the incident.
“I have my principles!”
“Fare dodger!” screamed Leo Shirtikov, darting into the corridor naked.
“Take note, Comrade administrator, there was a fare dodger in here!”
“Where’s the fare dodger?” thundered the administrator, the thrill of the hunt sparkling in his hound dog eyes.
Alexander Ivanovich, who was nervously hiding behind the podium, peered into the darkness, but he couldn’t make anything out.
Silhouettes scuffled near the train, cigarette tips danced, and one could hear voices:
“Show it to me!,” “I’m telling you—on principle!,” “Hooliganism!,” “Isn’t that right?
Isn’t it true?,” “Shouldn’t someone ride without a ticket?” Buffer plates banged, the hissing air from the brakes blew low over the ground, and the cars’ bright windows started to move.
Ostap was still blustering, but the striped bunks, luggage nets, attendants with lanterns, the flowers and the ceiling fans of the dining car were already coasting past him.
The banquet with champagne, with Tokay old and new, was leaving.
The game dumplings escaped from his hands and disappeared into the night.
The fricandeau, the tender fricandeau that Ostap had described with such passion, left Roaring Springs.
Alexander Ivanovich came closer.
“They’re not getting away with this,” grumbled Ostap. “Abandoning a Soviet journalist in the desert!
I’ll call on the people to protest.
Koreiko!
We’re off with the next express!
We’ll buy up the entire first-class car!”
“What are you talking about,” said Koreiko. “What express?
There aren’t any more trains.
According to the plan, the line won’t become operational for another two months.”