Meanwhile, new objects kept coming out of it.
“You are amateurs,” said Ostap, “I’m sure you’d never understand why an honest Soviet pilgrim like me can’t get by without a doctor’s coat.”
The bag contained not only the coat but a stethoscope as well.
“I’m not a surgeon,” remarked Ostap. “I am a neuropathologist, a psychiatrist.
I study the souls of my patients.
For some reason, I always get very silly souls.”
An ABC for the deaf-and-dumb came out of the bag next, followed by charity postcards, enamel badges, and a poster, which featured Bender himself in traditional Indian pants and a turban.
The poster read:
The poster was followed by a dirty, greasy turban.
“I resort to this kind of amusement very rarely,” said Ostap. “Believe it or not, it’s the progressive-minded people, like the directors of railway workers’ clubs, who are the most likely to buy into the high priest story.
The job is easy but irksome.
Personally, I find being the favorite of Rabindranath Tagore distasteful.
And Samuel the Prophet invariably gets the same old questions:
‘Why is there no butter in the stores?’ or
‘Are you Jewish?’”
Ostap finally found what he was looking for—a lacquered tin with honey-based paints in porcelain cups and two paintbrushes.
“The car that leads the rally has to be decorated with at least one slogan,” said Ostap.
He then proceeded to paint brown block letters on a long band of yellowish linen:
They hung the banner above the car on two long tree branches.
The moment the car started moving, the banner arched in the wind and looked so dashing that it left no doubt about the need to use the rally as a weapon against roadlessness, irresponsibility, and maybe even red tape as well.
The passengers of the Antelope started puffing and preening.
Balaganov covered his red hair with the cap that he always carried in his pocket.
Panikovsky turned his cuffs inside out and made them show exactly three-quarters of an inch below the sleeves.
Kozlevich was more concerned about the car than about himself.
He washed it thoroughly before starting out, and the sun was glimmering on the Antelope’s dented sides.
The captain squinted playfully and teased his companions.
“Village on the port side!” yelled Balaganov, making a visor with his hand. “Are we stopping?”
“We are followed by five top-notch vehicles,” said Ostap.
“A rendezvous with them is not in our interest.
We must skim off what we can, and fast.
Therefore, we’ll stop in the town of Udoev.
Incidentally, that’s where the drum of fuel should be waiting for us.
Step on it, Adam.”
“Do we respond to the crowds?” asked Balaganov anxiously.
“You can respond with bows and smiles.
Kindly keep your mouth shut; God knows what might come out of it.”
The village greeted the lead car warmly, but the usual hospitality had a rather peculiar flavor here.
The citizens must have been informed that someone would be passing through, but they didn’t know who or why.
So, just in case, they dug up all the slogans and mottoes from previous years.
The street was lined with schoolchildren who were holding a hodgepodge of obsolete banners:
“Greetings to the Time League and its founder, dear Comrade Kerzhentsev!,”
“The bourgeois threats will come to naught, we all reject the Curzon note!,”
“For our little ones’ welfare please organize a good daycare.”
Besides that, there were many banners of various sizes, written primarily in Old Church Slavonic script, all saying the same thing:
“Welcome!”
All this flew swiftly by.
This time, the crew waved their hats with confidence.
Panikovsky couldn’t resist and, despite his orders, jumped up and shouted a confused, politically inappropriate greeting.
But nobody could make it out over the noise of the engine and the roar of the crowd.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” cried Ostap.