He sat down on the couch again, leaned back, spread his feet wide, and surveyed the gang.
“Now you know that the humanities can be profitable, too,” said the millionaire, inviting the students to have fun together.
The students were silently inspecting various buttons and hooks on the ornamented walls of the compartment.
“I live like a king,” continued Ostap, “or like a prince, which, come to think of it, is pretty much the same thing.”
The grand strategist waited a bit, then fidgeted nervously, and exclaimed in a friendly way:
“What is bothering you devils?”
“Well, I’m off,” said the one with the mustache after a brief period of contemplation, “back to my place, to see what’s going on.”
And he darted out of the compartment.
“Isn’t it amazing, isn’t it wonderful,” gushed Ostap, “just this morning, we didn’t even know each other, and now it feels as if we’ve been friends for years.
Is that some kind of chemistry or what?”
“How much do we owe for the tea?” asked Parovitsky. “How many glasses did we have, comrades?
Nine or ten?
We should ask the attendant.
I’ll be right back.”
Then four more people took off, driven by the wish to help Parovitsky deal with the attendant.
“Shall we sing something?” suggested Ostap. “Something tough.
For example,
‘Serge the priest, Serge the priest!’ Shall we?
I have a lovely Volga bass.”
Without waiting for an answer, the grand strategist hastily started singing:
“Down the river, the Kazanka river, a blue-gray drake is making its way . . .”
When the time came to join in the chorus, Ostap waved his arms like a bandmaster and stamped his foot on the floor, but the powerful choral burst never materialized.
Only the shy Lida Pisarevsky peeped,
“Serge the priest, Serge the priest!,” but then she cut herself short and ran out.
The friendship was dying before his eyes.
Soon the only one left in the compartment was the kind and compassionate girl in tennis shoes.
“Where is everybody?” asked Bender.
“Right,” whispered the girl, “I’d better go take a look.”
She leaped for the door, but the heartbroken millionaire grabbed her by the arm.
“I was kidding,” he muttered, “I do have a job . . .
I’m a symphony conductor!
I’m the son of Lieutenant Schmidt!
My father was a Turkish subject . . .
Honest!”
“Let me go!” whispered the girl.
The grand strategist remained alone.
The compartment was shaking and creaking.
The teaspoons spun inside the empty glasses, and the entire herd was slowly creeping toward the edge of the table.
The attendant appeared at the door, holding down a stack of fresh sheets and blankets with his chin.
CHAPTER 35 HOUSEWIVES, HOUSEKEEPERS, WIDOWS, AND EVEN A DENTAL TECHNICIAN— THEY ALL LOVED HIM
Roofs were clattering in Chernomorsk, and the wind romped through the streets.
An unexpected northeaster assailed the city and chased the fragile Indian summer into the garbage cans, drains, and corners, where it was expiring amidst charred maple leaves and torn streetcar tickets.
Cold chrysanthemums were drowning in the flower ladies’ tubs.
The green shutters of locked-up refreshment stands banged in the wind.
Pigeons were saying, “You throoh, you throoh.”
Sparrows kept warm by pecking at steaming horse manure.
People struggled against the wind, lowering their heads like bulls.
It was especially hard on the Pique Vests.
The gusts blew the boater hats and panamas off their heads and rolled them across the wood block pavement down toward the boulevard.
The old men ran after their hats, expressing their outrage and gasping for air.