“. . . by imprisonment for up to three years!” yelled Kozlevich after him.
But this brought him only moral satisfaction.
Financially, he was in deep trouble; the savings were all but gone.
He had to do something fast.
He could not continue like this.
One day, Adam was sitting in his car in his usual state of anxiety, staring at the silly AUTOMOBILE FOR HIRE sign with disgust.
He had an inkling that living honestly hadn’t worked out for him, that the automotive messiah had come too early, when citizens were not yet ready to accept him.
Kozlevich was so deeply immersed in these depressing thoughts that at first he didn’t even notice the two young men who had been admiring his car for some time.
“A unique design,” one of them finally said, “the dawn of the automotive industry.
Do you see, Balaganov, what can be made out of a simple Singer sewing machine?
A few small adjustments—and you get a lovely harvester for the collective farm.”
“Get lost,” said Kozlevich grimly.
“What do you mean, ‘get lost’?
Then why did you decorate your thresher with this inviting LET’S RIDE! sign?
What if my friend and I wish to take a business trip?
What if a ride is exactly what we’re looking for?”
The automotive martyr’s face was lit by a smile—the first of the entire Arbatov period of his life.
He jumped out of the car and promptly started the engine, which knocked heavily.
“Get in, please” he said. “Where to?”
“This time, nowhere,” answered Balaganov, “we’ve got no money.
What can you do, Comrade driver, poverty . . .”
“Get in anyway!” cried Kozlevich excitedly. “I’ll drive you for free!
You’re not going to drink?
You’re not going to dance naked in the moonlight?
Let’s ride!”
“All right, we’ll accept your kind invitation,” said Ostap, settling himself in next to the driver.
“I see you’re a nice man.
But what makes you think that we have any interest in dancing naked?”
“They all do it here,” replied the driver, turning onto the main street, “those dangerous felons.”
He was dying to share his sorrows with somebody.
It would have been best, of course, to tell his misfortunes to his kindly, wrinkle-faced mother.
She would have felt for him.
But Madame Kozlevich had passed away a long time ago—from grief, when she found out that her son Adam was gaining notoriety as a thief.
And so the driver told his new passengers the whole story of the downfall of the city of Arbatov, in whose ruins his helpless green automobile was buried.
“Where can I go now?” concluded Kozlevich forlornly. “What am I supposed to do?”
Ostap paused, gave his red-headed companion a significant look, and said:
“All your troubles are due to the fact that you are a truth-seeker.
You’re just a lamb, a failed Baptist.
I am saddened to encounter such pessimism among drivers.
You have a car, but you don’t know where to go.
We’re in a worse bind: we don’t have a car, but we know where we want to go.
Want to come with us?”
“Where?” asked the driver.
“To Chernomorsk,” answered Ostap. “We have a small private matter to settle down there.
There’d be work for you, too.
People in Chernomorsk appreciate antiques and enjoy riding in them.
Come.”
At first Adam was just smiling, like a widow with nothing to look forward to in this life.
But Bender gave it his eloquent best.
He drew striking perspectives for the perplexed driver and quickly colored them in blue and pink.