Balaganov watched this agile blind man with amazement.
Panikovsky continued wreaking havoc until Koreiko showed up in the doorway of the Hercules.
Balaganov lost his cool.
First he positioned himself too close to the action, then he ran too far away.
Finally, he found a spot near a fruit stand that was good for surveying the scene.
For some reason, he developed an unpleasant taste in his mouth, as if he had been sucking on a brass doorknob for half an hour.
But when he saw Panikovsky’s maneuvers, he calmed down.
Balaganov saw the blind man turn towards the millionaire, brush his leg with the cane, and then bump him with his shoulder.
They apparently exchanged a few words.
Then Koreiko smiled, took the blind man by the arm, and helped him off the curb onto the street.
To stay in character, Panikovsky was banging the paving stones with the cane as hard as he could, and he held his head so far back that it looked as though he were bridled.
He proceeded with such skill and precision that Balaganov even felt pangs of envy.
Panikovsky put his arm around Koreiko’s waist.
His hand slid down Koreiko’s left side and lingered over the canvas pocket of the millionaire bookkeeper for just a fraction of a second.
“Good, good,” whispered Balaganov.
“Go, gramps, go!”
But at that moment, glass suddenly sparkled, a horn honked nervously, the earth shook, and a large white bus ground to a halt in the middle of the street, barely managing to stay on its wheels.
Simultaneously, two cries were heard:
“Idiot!
Can’t you see a bus!” shrieked Panikovsky, jumping out from under the wheels and shaking the glasses that had fallen off of his nose in the direction of his helper.
“He’s not blind!” exclaimed Koreiko.
“Thief!”
The scene disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke, the bus moved on, and when the fumes parted, Balaganov saw Panikovsky surrounded by a small crowd.
There was some kind of commotion around the phony blind man.
Balaganov ran closer.
Panikovsky had an ugly smile on his face.
He was oddly indifferent to what was happening, even though one of his ears was so ruby-red that it would probably glow in the dark—one could have developed photographic plates in its light.
Pushing aside the people who came pouring in from all directions, Balaganov rushed to the Carlsbad Hotel.
The grand strategist sat at a bamboo table, writing.
“They’re beating Panikovsky!” cried Balaganov, picturesquely appearing in the doorway.
“Already?” asked Bender calmly. “That’s a bit too soon.”
“They’re beating Panikovsky!” repeated the red-headed Shura in desperation. “Right by the Hercules.”
“Stop bawling like a polar bear on a warm day,” said Ostap sternly.
“Has it been long?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so right away?
What a cranky old man!
Well, let’s go enjoy the view.
You can tell me everything on the way.”
Koreiko had already left by the time the grand strategist arrived, but a huge crowd still heaved around Panikovsky, blocking the street.
Cars yelped impatiently, their noses stuck against the mass of people.
Nurses in white uniforms looked out of the windows of the clinic.
Dogs were running around, their tails curved like sabers.
The fountain in the public garden ceased playing.
Bender sighed decisively and elbowed his way into the crowd.
“Pardon,” he was saying, “pardon once again.
Excuse me, madame, did you drop a ration coupon for jam on the corner?
Run, it’s still there.
Come on, guys, let the experts through.
Let me through, you delinquent, can’t you hear me!”