CHAPTER 32 THE DOOR TO BOUNDLESS OPPORTUNITIES
On that autumn day, filled with sadness and light, when gardeners cut flowers in Moscow parks and pass them out to children, Shura Balaganov, the preeminent son of Lieutenant Schmidt, was sleeping on a wooden bench in the waiting area of the Ryazan train station.
He was resting his head on the arm of the bench, and a crumpled cap covered his face.
It was clear that the Antelope’s rally mechanic and Vice President for Hoofs was dejected and destitute.
Crushed eggshell clung to his unshaven cheek.
His canvas shoes had lost their shape and color, and they looked more like Moldovan peasant footwear.
Swallows flew under the high ceiling of the airy hall.
Through its large, unwashed windows, one could see block signals, semaphores, and the other necessary objects of the railroad.
Porters raced by, and moments later the arriving passengers entered the hall.
A neatly dressed man was the last passenger to come in from the platform.
Under his light, unbuttoned raincoat one could see a suit with a tiny kaleidoscopic checked pattern.
Trousers descended to his patent-leather shoes like a waterfall.
The passenger’s foreign look was amplified by a fedora, which was tipped forward ever so slightly.
He didn’t make use of the porter and carried his suitcase himself.
The passenger strolled through the empty hall and he would certainly have reached the vestibule, had he not suddenly spotted the sorry figure of Balaganov.
He squinted, came closer, and observed the sleeping man for a while.
Then he carefully lifted the cap from the rally mechanic’s face with two gloved fingers and smiled.
“Arise, Count, you’re being called from down below!” he said, shaking Balaganov awake.
Shura sat up, rubbed his face, and only then realized who the passenger was.
“Captain!” he exclaimed.
“No, no,” said Bender, holding his hand out, “don’t hug me.
I’m a proud man now.”
Balaganov started prancing around the captain.
He could hardly recognize him.
It wasn’t only his dress that had changed; Ostap had lost some weight, a certain absentmindedness showed in his eyes, and his face was bronzed with a colonial tan.
“You’re a big deal now!” gushed Balaganov excitedly. “You really are!”
“Yes, I am a big deal,” allowed Bender, sounding dignified.
“Look at my trousers.
Europe First Class!
And look at this!
The fourth finger of my left hand is adorned with a diamond ring.
Four carats.
And what have you been up to?
Still a son?”
“Oh, nothing much,” said Shura uncertainly, “just little things here and there.”
At the restaurant, Ostap ordered white wine with pastries for himself and sandwiches with beer for the rally mechanic.
“Tell me honestly, Shura, how much money do you need to be happy?” asked Ostap. “Count everything.”
“A hundred rubles,” answered Balaganov, reluctantly taking a break from the bread and sausage.
“No, no, you didn’t understand me.
I don’t mean today, I mean in general.
To be happy.
See what I mean?
So that you could have a good life.”
Balaganov thought for a long time, smiling tentatively, and finally announced that, to be completely happy, he needed 6,400 rubles, and that this amount would make his life very good indeed.
“Fine,” said Ostap, “here’s fifty thousand for you.”
He unlocked a square travel case on his knees and handed Balaganov five white stacks that had been tied up with string.
The rally mechanic suddenly lost his appetite.
He stopped eating, stuck the money deep into his pockets, and couldn’t bring himself to take his hands back out.
“The platter, right?” he asked excitedly.
“That’s right, the platter,” replied Ostap impassively. “With a blue rim.