Two hours later, the crowd that stood in front of the Capital Hill movie theater, waiting for the first show and gawking at the passersby, for lack of anything better to do, spotted a man leaving the horn collection bureau. Holding his hand over his heart, he slowly stumbled away.
It was Berlaga.
At first, he moved his legs limply, then started to accelerate.
Turning the corner, the accountant crossed himself surreptitiously, and bolted.
Soon, he was sitting at his desk back in Finance and Accounting, his crazed stare fixed on the master ledger.
The numbers leaped and somersaulted before his eyes.
The grand strategist snapped Koreiko’s case folder shut, looked at Funt, who was sitting under a new sign, CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD, and said:
“When I was very young and very poor, I earned my living by showing a fat monk with breasts at the fair in Kherson, claiming he was an inexplicable natural wonder—a bearded woman. But even then I hadn’t stooped as low as this lout Berlaga.”
“A miserable, wretched man,” agreed Panikovsky as he was bringing tea to the others.
He relished the thought that there were people out there who were even lowlier than him.
“Berlaga is not much of a brain,” offered the dummy chairman in his typically unhurried fashion. “MacDonald is a real brain.
His idea of industrial peace . . .”
“All right, all right,” said Bender. “One day we’ll have a special meeting just to discuss your views on MacDonald and other bourgeois statesmen.
But right now I’m busy.
Berlaga is no brain, that’s true, but he did tell us a few things about the life and works of those self-destructing partnerships.”
The grand strategist felt great.
Things were going well.
Nobody was bringing any more foul-smelling horns.
The work of the Chernomorsk Branch could be deemed satisfactory, even though the latest mail delivery brought a new pile of circulars, memos, and requests, and Panikovsky had been to the employment office twice already to look for a secretary.
“Oh yes!” Ostap exclaimed suddenly.
“Where’s Kozlevich?
Where’s the Antelope?
How can you have an organization without a car?
I need to go to a meeting.
They all want me, they can’t live without me.
Where’s Kozlevich?”
Panikovsky looked away and sighed:
“There’s a problem with Kozlevich.”
“What do you mean—a problem?
Is he drunk or something?”
“Worse,” replied Panikovsky, “we were even afraid to tell you.
Those Catholic priests put a spell on him.”
The messenger looked at the Vice President for Hoofs, and the two of them shook their heads sadly.
CHAPTER 17 THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON
The grand strategist didn’t care for Catholic priests.
He held an equally negative opinion of rabbis, Dalai Lamas, Orthodox clergy, muezzins, shamans, and other purveyors of religion.
“I’m into deception and blackmail myself,” he said. “Right now, for example, I’m trying to extract a large amount of money from a certain intransigent individual.
But I don’t accompany my questionable activities with choral singing, or the roar of the pipe organ, or silly incantations in Latin or Old Church Slavonic.
I generally prefer to operate without incense or astral bells.”
And while Panikovsky and Balaganov, interrupting each other, were telling him about the terrible fate that had befallen the driver of the Antelope, Ostap’s brave heart was filling with frustration and anger.
The priests apprehended the soul of Adam Kozlevich at the hostel, where the Antelope was sitting in mud thick with manure, alongside Moldovan fruit carts and two-horse wagons that belonged to some German colonists.
Father Kuszakowski frequented the hostel, where he conducted spiritual conversations with the Catholic colonists.
The cleric noticed the Antelope, walked around it, and poked a tire with his finger.
Then he had a chat with Kozlevich and found out that Adam Kazimirovich was indeed a Roman Catholic, but hadn’t been to confession for some twenty years.
Saying:
“Shame on you, Pan Kozlewicz,” Father Kuszakowski left, holding up his black skirt with both hands and jumping over the frothy beer-colored puddles.
Early next morning, as the wagon drivers were preparing to take some agitated vendors to the small market town of Koshary, stuffing fifteen of them into each wagon, Father Kuszakowski appeared once again.
This time, he was accompanied by another priest, Aloisius Moroszek.
While Kuszakowski was greeting Adam, Father Moroszek carefully inspected the automobile, not only poking a tire with his finger but even squeezing the horn, which played the maxixe.
The two priests exchanged glances, approached Kozlevich from both sides, and started to cast their spells on him.