They kept at it the whole day.
The moment Kuszakowski stopped talking, Moroszek chimed in.
And the moment he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow, Kuszakowski took over again.
At times Kuszakowski would raise his yellow index finger towards the heavens, while Moroszek worked his rosary beads.
At other times, it was Kuszakowski who fingered his beads, while Moroszek pointed toward the heavens.
Several times, the priests sang quietly in Latin, and toward the end of the day, Kozlevich started to join in.
At this point, both Fathers glanced at the car with interest.
After a while, Panikovsky noticed a change in the Antelope’s owner.
Adam Kazimirovich took to uttering vague words about the kingdom of heaven.
Balaganov saw the change, too.
Then Kozlevich started disappearing for long periods of time, and he finally moved out of the hostel altogether.
“So why didn’t you inform me?” asked the grand strategist angrily.
They wanted to, but they were afraid of the captain’s wrath.
They were hoping that Kozlevich would come to his senses and return on his own.
But they had given up hope.
The priests had put a spell on him.
Just the day before, the messenger and the Vice President for Hoofs had run into Kozlevich by accident.
He was sitting in his car in front of the cathedral.
They didn’t even have a chance to talk to him.
Father Aloisius Moroszek came out, accompanied by a boy decked out in lace.
“Can you believe it, Bender,” said Shura, “the whole gang got into our Antelope, Kozlevich—the poor sucker—took off his hat, the boy rang a bell, and they took off.
I felt really sorry for our Adam.
The Antelope is as good as gone.”
Without saying a word, the grand strategist put on his captain’s cap, with its glossy black visor, and headed for the door.
“Funt,” he said, “you’re staying here.
Do not accept any horns or hoofs no matter what.
If there’s any new mail, dump it in the basket.
The secretary will figure it out later.
Do you understand?”
By the time the dummy chairman opened his mouth to reply—which happened exactly five minutes later—the orphaned Antelopeans were long gone.
The captain ran at the head of the pack, taking huge strides.
He looked back occasionally and muttered:
“You lost our sweet Kozlevich, you daydreamers!
Consider yourself repudiated!
Those bishops and archbishops, let me tell you!” The rally mechanic marched quietly, pretending that the reprimands had nothing to do with him.
Panikovsky limped forward like a monkey, working up his anger against Kozlevich’s abductors, even though he had a large cold toad sitting on his heart.
He was afraid of the black priests, believing they possessed many magic powers.
Maintaining formation, the entire branch of the Horns and Hoofs Bureau reached the foot of the cathedral.
The empty Antelope was parked in front of the wrought-iron fence made of interwoven spirals and crosses.
The cathedral was enormous.
Thorny and sharp, it ripped into the sky like a fish bone.
It stuck in your throat.
Polished red bricks, tiled roofs, tin flags, massive buttresses, graceful stone idols hiding from the rain in niches—all these Gothicisms, frozen at attention like soldiers, overwhelmed the Antelopeans from the start.
They felt tiny.
Ostap climbed into the car, sniffed the air, and said with disgust:
“Ugh!
Sickening!
Our Antelope already reeks of candles, collection baskets, and heavy priests’ boots.
Of course it’s much nicer to carry the rites around in a car than in a horse cab.
Plus, it’s free!