Two interpreters, an Indian and an Englishman, were on either side of him.
Seeing Ostap with his suitcase, the philosopher started fidgeting in his armchair and whispered something to the interpreter with alarm.
The stenographer began to write hastily, while the interpreter announced to the grand strategist:
“The Teacher wishes to know whether there are songs and sagas in the stranger’s suitcase, and whether the stranger intends to read them aloud, because the Teacher has already had many songs and sagas read to him, and he can’t listen to any more of them.”
“Tell the Teacher there are no sagas,” Ostap replied reverentially.
The black-eyed elder grew even more agitated and, speaking anxiously, pointed his finger at the suitcase.
“The Teacher asks,” said the interpreter, “whether the stranger intends to move into his suite, since no one has ever come to an appointment with a suitcase before.”
And only after Ostap reassured the interpreter and the interpreter reassured the philosopher did the tension ease and the discussion begin.
“Before answering your question about the meaning of life,” said the interpreter, “the Teacher wishes to say a few words about public education in India.”
“Tell the Teacher,” reported Ostap, “that I’ve had a keen interest in the issue of public education ever since I was a child.”
The philosopher closed his eyes and started talking at a leisurely pace.
For an hour he spoke in English, then for another hour in Bengali.
At times, he’d start singing in a quiet, pleasant voice, and once he even stood up, lifted his cassock, and made a few dance moves, which apparently represented the games of schoolchildren in Punjab.
Then he sat down and closed his eyes again, while Ostap listened to the translation for a while.
At first, he nodded his head politely, then he looked out the window sleepily, and finally he began to amuse himself: he fiddled with the change in his pocket, admired his ring, and even winked quite openly at the pretty stenographer, after which she started scribbling even faster.
“So what about the meaning of life?” the millionaire interjected when he saw an opening.
“First,” explained the interpreter, “the Teacher wishes to tell the stranger about the wealth of materials that he collected while learning about the system of public education in the USSR.”
“Tell his Lordship,” said Ostap, “that the stranger has no objections.”
The gears began moving again.
The Teacher spoke, sang Young Pioneer songs, demonstrated the handmade poster presented to him by the children from Workers’ School No. 146, and at one point even grew misty-eyed.
The two interpreters droned on in unison, the stenographer scribbled, and Ostap cleaned his fingernails absentmindedly.
Finally Ostap coughed loudly.
“You know,” he said, “there’s no need to translate anymore.
Somehow I’ve learned to understand Bengali.
When he gets to the meaning of life, then translate.”
When Ostap’s wishes were conveyed to the philosopher, the black-eyed elder became anxious.
“The Teacher says,” announced the interpreter, “that he himself came to your great country to learn the meaning of life.
Only in places where the system of public education is as advanced as it is here, life becomes meaningful.
The collective . . .”
“Goodbye,” said the grand strategist quickly, “tell the Teacher that the stranger asks to be excused immediately.”
But the philosopher’s delicate voice was already singing The Red Cavalry March, which he had learned from Soviet children, so Ostap departed without permission.
“Krishna!” thundered the grand strategist, pacing around his hotel room. “Vishnu!
What’s the world come to?
Where’s the homespun truth?
And maybe I am a fool, and I don’t get it, and my life has passed without any reason or system?
A real-life Indian, mind you, knows everything about our vast country, and I, like the Indian guest from the opera, keep harping about countless treasures and boundless pleasures.
Sickening!”
That evening, Ostap had dinner without vodka, and for the first time ever, he left the suitcase in his room.
Then he sat peacefully on the window sill and carefully studied the ordinary pedestrians who were jumping onto a bus like squirrels.
In the middle of the night, the grand strategist suddenly awakened and sat up on his bed.
It was quiet, and only a melancholy Boston waltz from the restaurant was sneaking into the room through the keyhole.
“How could I have forgotten!” he said fretfully.
Then he laughed, turned the lights on, and quickly wrote out a telegram:
“Chernomorsk.
Zosya Sinitsky.
Account grave error prepared to fly Chernomorsk wings of love respond urgently Moscow Grand Hotel Bender.”
He rang for an attendant and demanded that the telegram be sent immediately and urgently.
Zosya didn’t respond.
Nor did she respond to his other telegrams, which he had composed in the same desperate and romantic vein.
CHAPTER 34 FRIENDSHIP WITH YOUTH