There were no taxis.
Ostap refused to take a horse cab.
“It’s an antiquated conveyance,” he said squeamishly, “it won’t get you too far.
Plus, small mice live inside the seats.”
They had to settle for a streetcar.
It was packed with people.
It was one of those quarrel-ridden streetcars that often circulate around the capital.
Some vindictive old lady starts a spat during the morning rush hour.
Little by little, every passenger gets drawn into the squabble, even those who had gotten on thirty minutes after the whole thing began.
The mean old lady is long gone, and the cause of the argument is long forgotten, but the screaming and the mutual insults continue to fly, while new arrivals keep joining the squabble.
On a streetcar like this, the argument can drag on well into the night.
The agitated passengers quickly pulled Balaganov away from Ostap, and soon the half-brothers were bobbing at opposite ends of the car, squeezed by rib cages and baskets.
Ostap hung on to a hand loop, barely managing to yank back his suitcase before it floated away on the current.
Suddenly, a woman’s screams, coming from the direction where Balaganov was bobbing, drowned out the usual streetcar bickering:
“Thief!
Get him!
Look, he’s right there!”
Everyone turned for a look.
Enthusiasts for things like that, breathless with curiosity, started elbowing their way toward the scene of the crime.
Ostap saw Balaganov’s stunned face.
The rally mechanic himself hadn’t yet grasped what exactly had happened, but others were already firmly holding his hand, which was clutching a dime-store purse with a thin bronze chain.
“Bandit!” screamed the woman.
“I just looked the other way, and he . . .”
The man who had fifty thousand rubles had tried to steal a purse that contained a tortoise-shell compact, a union card, and one ruble seventy kopecks in cash.
The car stopped.
The enthusiasts started dragging Balaganov toward the exit.
As he was passing Ostap, Shura whispered in despair:
“I can’t believe it!
It was just a reflex.”
“I’ll teach you a reflex or two!” said an enthusiast with a pince-nez and a briefcase, gleefully hitting the rally mechanic from behind.
Through the window, Ostap saw a policeman swiftly approach the group and escort the felon down the street.
The grand strategist looked away.
CHAPTER 33 THE INDIAN GUEST
The enclosed rectangular courtyard of the Grand Hotel was filled with pounding noises from the kitchen, the hissing of steam, and shouts—“Tea for two to number sixteen!”—but the white hallways were bright and quiet, like the control room of a power station.
The soil scientists, who were back from their field trip, took up 150 rooms; another thirty rooms were reserved for foreign businessmen who were trying to resolve the pressing question of whether trade with the Soviet Union could be profitable after all; the best four-room suite was occupied by a famous Indian poet and philosopher; and in a small room that had been reserved by a symphony conductor, Ostap Bender was fast asleep.
He lay on top of a plush bed cover, fully dressed, clutching the suitcase with the million to his chest.
During the night, the grand strategist had inhaled all the oxygen in the room, and the remaining chemical elements could be called nitrogen only out of courtesy.
The room smelled of sour wine, meatballs from hell, and something else—it was revolting beyond belief.
Ostap groaned and turned around.
The suitcase fell on the floor.
Bender opened his eyes quickly.
“What was that?” he muttered, grimacing. “Acting like a drunken sailor in the restaurant!
Or worse!
Ugh!
I behaved like a barroom brawler!
Oh my God, did I insult those people?
Some idiot there was yelling:
‘Soil scientists, stand up!’—and then wept and swore that, in his heart of hearts, he was a soil scientist himself.
It was me, of course!
But why, why?”