I’m in a hurry.
I’m on a sports tour, you see, and my car needs a few small repairs. Would you mind if I put it in your shed?
As for the cause of your dreams, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it on the way back.
Just let me finish the rally.”
The monarchist, dazed by his troublesome dreams, readily allowed the sympathetic, kind-hearted young man to use his shed.
He threw on a coat over his shirt, stuck his bare feet into galoshes, and went outside with Bender.
“So you think there’s hope for me?” he asked, mincing behind his early morning guest.
“Don’t give it another thought,” replied the captain dismissively. “The moment the Soviet regime is gone, you’ll feel better at once.
You’ll see!”
Within half an hour the Antelope was stowed away in Khvorobyov’s shed and left under the watchful eyes of Kozlevich and Panikovsky.
Bender, accompanied by Balaganov, went to the city to get paint.
The half-brothers walked towards the sun, making their way into the town center.
Gray pigeons promenaded on the roof edges.
Sprayed with water, the wooden sidewalks were clean and cool.
For a man with a clear conscience, it was a good morning to step outside, linger at the gate for a moment, take out a box of matches (emblazoned with an airplane that had a fist in place of a propeller and a slogan,
“Our answer to Curzon”), admire the fresh pack of cigarettes, and then light up, puffing out a small cloud of smoke that chases away a bumble bee with golden stripes on its belly.
Bender and Balaganov fell under the spell of the morning, the clean streets, and the carefree pigeons.
For a brief moment they felt as if their consciences were as clear as a whistle, that everybody loved them, and that they were off to a date with their fiancees.
Suddenly a man with a portable easel and a shiny paintbox in his hands blocked their path.
He had the wild-eyed look of a man who had just escaped from a burning building, and the easel and the box were all he had managed to salvage.
“Excuse me,” he said loudly. “Comrade Platonikov-Pervertov was supposed to pass by here a moment ago.
You haven’t seen him, by any chance?
Was he here?”
“We never see people like that,” answered Balaganov rudely.
The artist bumped into Bender’s chest, mumbled “Pardon!,” and rushed on.
“Platonikov-Pervertov?” grumbled the grand strategist, who hadn’t had his breakfast yet. “I personally knew a midwife whose name was Medusa-Gorgoner, and I didn’t make a big fuss over it. I didn’t run down the street shouting:
‘Have you by any chance seen Comrade Medusa-Gorgoner?
She’s been out for a walk here.’
Big deal!
Platonikov-Pervertov!”
The moment Bender finished his tirade, he was confronted by two more men with black easels and shiny paintboxes.
The two couldn’t have looked more different.
One of them evidently believed that an artist had to be hairy: his facial hair qualified him for the role of deputy of Henri de Navarre in the Soviet Union.
The mustache, his hair, and his beard made his flat features very lively.
The other man was simply bald, his head shiny and smooth like a glass lampshade.
“Comrade Platonikov . . . ,” said the deputy of Henri de Navarre, panting.
“Pervertov,” added the Lampshade.
“Have you seen him?” cried de Navarre.
“He was supposed to be taking a stroll here,” explained the Lampshade.
Balaganov had already opened his mouth to utter a curse, but Bender pushed him aside and said with stinging courtesy:
“We haven’t seen Comrade Platonikov, but if you are really interested in seeing him, you’d better hurry.
He’s already being sought by some character who looks like an artist. A con artist, that is.”
Bumping against each other and getting their easels stuck together, the artists ran off.
Then a horse cab careened from around the corner.
Its passenger was a fat man whose sweaty gut was barely concealed by the folds of his long tunic.
The passenger’s general appearance brought to mind an ancient advertisement for a patented ointment that began with the words:
“The sight of a naked body covered with hair makes a revolting impression.”
The fat man’s profession wasn’t hard to guess.
His hand held down a large easel.
Under the coachman’s feet lay a big shiny box which undoubtedly contained paint.