Balaganov burst out laughing.
He loved the thought that the violator of the pact would finally receive his due punishment.
The car cut through the noisy crowd and drove onto the highway.
“Help me!” yelled out Panikovsky as the car caught up with him.
“Not today,” said Balaganov, hanging over the side.
The car shrouded Panikovsky with clouds of crimson dust.
“Take me with you!” screamed Panikovsky, desperately trying to keep up with the car.
“I am good!”
The voices of the individual pursuers blended into a roar of disapproval.
“Shall we take the bastard?” enquired Ostap.
“No, don’t,” said Balaganov harshly, “that’ll teach him to break pacts.”
But Ostap had already made the decision.
“Drop the bird!” he yelled to Panikovsky; then he turned to the driver and added quietly, “Dead slow.”
Panikovsky immediately obeyed.
The goose got up from the ground looking displeased, scratched itself, and started walking back to town as if nothing had happened.
“Get in,” invited Ostap. “What the hell.
But don’t sin any more, or I’ll rip your arms out of their sockets.”
Panikovsky grabbed the edge of the car, then leaned into it and, beating the air with his legs, rolled himself inside, like a swimmer into a boat. He fell to the floor, his stiff cuffs knocking loudly.
“Full speed ahead,” ordered Ostap.
“Our deliberations continue.”
Balaganov squeezed the rubber bulb, and the brass horn produced the cheerful strains of an old-fashioned Brazilian tango that cut off abruptly:
The Maxixe is fun to dance.
Ta-ra-ta . . .
The Maxixe is fun to dance.
Ta-ra-ta . . .
And the Antelope tore out into the wilderness, towards the barrel of aviation fuel.
CHAPTER 4 A PLAIN-LOOKING SUITCASE
A man without a hat walked out of the small gate of building number sixteen, his head bowed. He wore gray canvas pants, leather sandals without socks, like a monk, and a white collarless shirt.
Stepping onto the flat, bluish stones of the sidewalk, he stopped and said quietly to himself:
“Today is Friday.
That means I have to go to the train station again.”
Having uttered these words, the man in sandals quickly looked over his shoulder.
He had a hunch that a man, wearing the impenetrable expression of a spy, was standing behind him.
But Lesser Tangential Street was completely empty.
The June morning was just beginning to take shape.
Acacia trees were gently trembling and dropping cold metallic dew on the flat stones.
Little birds were chirping some cheerful nonsense.
The heavy molten sea blazed at the end of the street below, beyond the roofs.
Young dogs, looking around sadly and making tapping sounds with their nails, were climbing onto trash cans.
The hour of the street sweepers had ended, and the hour of the milk delivery women hadn’t started yet.
It was that time, between five and six in the morning, when the street sweepers, having swung their bristly brooms enough, returned to their shacks, and the city is light, clean, and quiet, like a state bank.
At moments like this, one feels like crying and wants to believe that yogurt is indeed tastier and healthier than vodka. But one can already hear the distant rumble of the milk delivery women, who are getting off commuter trains with their cans.
They will rush into the city and bicker with housewives at back doors.
Factory workers with lunch bags will appear for a brief moment and then immediately disappear behind factory gates.
Smoke will start billowing from the stacks.
And then, jumping angrily on their night stands, myriad alarm clocks will start ringing their hearts out (those of the Paul Buhre brand a bit quieter, those from the Precision Mechanics State Trust a bit louder), and half-awake office workers will start bleating and falling off their high single beds.
The hour of the milk delivery women will be over, and the hour of the office dwellers will begin.
But it was still early, and the clerks were still asleep under their ficus.
The man in sandals walked through the entire city, seeing almost no one on the way.
He walked under the acacias, which performed certain useful functions in Chernomorsk: some had dark blue mailboxes that were emblazoned with the postal logo (an envelope with a lightning bolt) hanging on them, others had metal water bowls, for dogs, attached to them with chains.