Sidewalk gales carried the pursuers so fast that at times, they would overtake their own headgear before finally regaining their composure at the wet feet of a dignitary from the time of Catherine the Great, whose bronze statue stood in the middle of the square.
At the taxi stand, the Antelope creaked like a ship.
Kozlevich’s vehicle used to look oddly amusing, but it had become a pitiful sight: the rear left fender was held on by a rope, a piece of plywood had replaced a large portion of the windshield, and instead of the rubber bulb that played the maxixe, which was lost in the wreck, a nickel-plated chairman’s bell was hanging from a string.
Even the steering wheel upon which Adam Kozlevich rested his honest hands was a bit askew.
On the sidewalk, next to the Antelope, stood the grand strategist.
Leaning against the car, he was saying:
“I lied to you, Adam.
I can’t give you an Isotta-Fraschini, or a Lincoln, or a Buick, or even a Ford.
I can’t buy a new car.
The state doesn’t consider me a legitimate customer.
I’m a private citizen.
Anything I could find for you in the classifieds would be the same kind of junk as our Antelope.”
“Don’t say that,” protested Kozlevich, “my Lorraine-Dietrich is a fine vehicle.
If only I could find a used oil hose—then who’d need a Buick?”
“That I have,” said Ostap. “Here.
But that’s all I can do for you, dear Adam, when it comes to mechanized means of transportation.”
Thrilled with the hose, Kozlevich inspected it thoroughly and started fitting it in right away.
Ostap pushed the bell, which produced an officious ring, and said emotionally:
“Have you heard the news, Adam? Turns out, each individual is under the pressure of a column of air that weighs 472 pounds!”
“No, I haven’t,” said Kozlevich. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?
It’s a medical fact.
And lately, it’s been very hard on me.
Just think of it!
Four-hundred-and-seventy-two pounds!
It weighs down on you day in and day out, especially at night.
I can’t sleep.
What?”
“No, no, I’m listening,” replied Kozlevich softly.
“I don’t feel well at all, Adam.
My heart is too big.”
The driver of the Antelope chuckled.
Ostap went on babbling:
“Yesterday, an old woman approached me on the street and offered me a permanent needle valve for a Primus stove.
You know, Adam, I didn’t buy it.
I don’t need a permanent valve, I don’t want to live forever.
I want to die.
I’ve got all the tawdry symptoms of being in love: loss of appetite, insomnia, and a maniacal desire to write poetry.
Just listen to what I scribbled down last night, in the flickering light of an electric bulb:
‘I recollect that wondrous meeting, that instant I encountered you, when like an apparition fleeting, like beauty’s spirit, past you flew.’
It’s good, isn’t it?
Brilliant?
And only at sunrise, just as I finished the last lines, did I realize that this poem had already been written by Pushkin.
Such a blow from a literary giant!
Excuse me?”
“No, no, please continue,” said Kozlevich warmly.
“So that’s my life,” continued Ostap, his voice shaking.
“My body is registered at the Cairo Hotel, but my soul is taking a break, it doesn’t even want to go to Rio de Janeiro any more.
And now this atmospheric column—it’s choking me.”
“Have you seen her?” asked the forthright Kozlevich. “I mean Zosya Victorovna?”