The chairman of the welcoming committee embellished his opening speech with such a long chain of subordinate clauses that it took him a good half hour to finish them all.
Meanwhile, the captain of the rally was worried.
He followed the suspicious activities of Balaganov and Panikovsky, who were a little too busy weaving through the crowd, from his perch on the stand.
Bender kept making stern faces at them and finally his signals stopped the children of Lieutenant Schmidt in their tracks.
“I am happy, comrades,” declared Ostap in his response, “to break the age-old silence in the town of Udoev with the horn of an automobile.
An automobile, comrades, is not a luxury but a means of transportation.
The iron steed is coming to replace the peasant horse.
Let’s mass-produce Soviet motorcars!
May the rally fight roadlessness and irresponsibility!
This concludes my remarks, comrades.
After a snack, we will continue our long journey.”
While the crowd stood still around the podium and absorbed the captain’s words, Kozlevich wasted no time.
He filled the tank with gas which, just as Ostap promised, was of the highest quality, and shamelessly took three large cans of extra fuel as a reserve. He replaced the tires and the tubes on all four wheels, even picked up a pump and a jack.
This completely decimated both the long-term and the current inventories of the Udoev branch of the Road Club.
The trip to Chernomorsk was now well-supplied with materials.
The only thing missing was money, but that didn’t really bother the captain.
The travelers had a very nice dinner in Udoev.
“Don’t worry about pocket money,” said Ostap. “It’s lying on the road. We’ll pick it up as needed.”
Between ancient Udoev, founded in A.D. 794, and Chernomorsk, founded in A.D. 1794, lay a thousand years and a thousand miles of both paved and unpaved roads.
A variety of characters appeared along the Udoev—Black Sea highway over those thousand years.
Traveling salesmen with merchandize from Byzantine trading firms moved along this road.
They were greeted by Nightingale the Robber, a boorish man in an Astrakhan hat who would step out of the howling forest to meet them.
He’d seize the merchandise and do away with the salesmen.
Conquerors followed this road with their soldiers, as did peasants and singing pilgrims.
Life in this land changed with every new century.
Clothing changed, weapons became more sophisticated, potato riots were put down.
People learned to shave off their beards.
The first hot air balloon went up.
The iron twins, the steamboat and the steam engine, were invented.
Cars started honking.
But the road remained the same as it was during the time of Nightingale the Robber.
Humped, buried in volcanic mud, or covered with a dust as toxic as pesticide, our Russian road stretched past villages, towns, factories, and collective farms like a thousand-mile-long trap.
The yellowing, poisoned grasses along the route are littered with the skeletal remains of carriages and the bodies of exhausted, expiring automobiles.
An emigre, going mad from selling newspapers amid the asphalt fields of Paris, may remember the Russian country road as a charming feature of his native landscape: the young moon sitting in a small puddle, crickets praying loudly, an empty pail clattering gently against a peasant’s cart.
But the moonlight has already received a new assignment.
The moon will shine perfectly well on paved highways.
Automobile sirens and horns will replace the symphonic clatter of the peasant’s pail, and one will be able to hear crickets in special nature preserves. They’ll build bleachers, and visitors, warmed up by the introductory remarks of a white-haired cricketologist, will be able to enjoy the singing of their favorite insects to their heart’s content.
CHAPTER 7 THE SWEET BURDEN OF FAME
The captain of the rally, the driver, the rally mechanic, and the Girl Friday all felt great.
The morning was chilly.
The pale sun floated in a pearly sky.
A collection of small birdies screeched in the grass.
Little roadside birds, known as water rails, slowly walked across the road, right in front of the car.
The grassland horizons produced such a cheerful smell that if instead of Ostap, there was a mediocre peasant writer from a literary group called the Iron Udder or something, he wouldn’t have been able to control himself. He would have leapt out of the car, installed himself in the grass, and immediately started writing a new story in his notebook. Something like this:
“Them winter crops got mighty toasty.
The sun got awful strong and went a-pushing its rays ’crost the whole wide world.
Old-timer Romualdych sniffed his sock real good and went, I’ll be darned . . .”
But Ostap and his companions had no time for poetry.
It was their second day running ahead of the rally.
They were greeted with music and speeches.