In the evening, Ostap summoned Berlaga once again.
“On your knees!” shouted Ostap the moment he saw the accountant, sounding like Tsar Nicholas I.
The conversation itself, however, was quite amicable and went on for two hours.
After it was over, Ostap ordered the Antelope to wait outside the Hercules the next morning.
CHAPTER 18 ON LAND AND AT SEA
Comrade Sardinevich arrived at the beach with a personalized briefcase.
A silver business card, with a folded corner and a lengthy engraving in italics, was attached to it, and this card attested to the fact that Yegor Sardinevich had already celebrated five years of service at the Hercules.
He had a clean, open, gallant face, like that of the shaving Englishman from the ads.
Sardinevich paused in front of the board where the water temperature was marked in chalk and then moved on to look for a good spot, his feet getting stuck in the hot sand.
The beachgoers’ camp was crowded.
Its makeshift structures rose in the morning, only to disappear at sunset, leaving behind the usual urban litter in the sand: shriveled melon peels, eggshells, and scraps of newspaper, which then proceed to lead a secret nocturnal life on the beach, whispering about this and that and flying around under the cliffs.
Sardinevich struggled past little huts made of waffle weave towels, past umbrellas and sheets stretched between tall stakes.
Young women in skimpy swim skirts were hiding underneath.
Most of the men were also wearing swimsuits, but not all.
Some wore nothing but fig leaves, and even those covered not the private parts of the gentlemen of Chernomorsk but rather their noses—to prevent them from peeling.
Having clad themselves in this way, the men were lying in the most uninhibited positions.
Occasionally, they would cover their private parts with a hand, go into the water for a quick dip, and hurry back to the comfortable hollows made in the sand by their bodies, so as not to miss a single cubic inch of the curative sun bath.
The dearth of clothing on these people was more than compensated for by a gentleman of a totally different type.
He wore leather boots with buttons, formal trousers, and a fully buttoned-up jacket, along with a stiff collar, a necktie, a pocket watch chain, and a fedora.
A thick mustache, and the cotton that was stuck into his ears, completed this man’s appearance.
Next to him was a cane with a glass knob that was protruding vertically from the sand.
He suffered greatly from the heat.
His collar was soaked with sweat.
His armpits were as hot as a blast furnace, hot enough to smelt ore.
Nevertheless, he continued to lie there, motionless.
There’s a man like this on every beach in the world.
Nobody knows who he is, why he’s here, or why he’s lying in the sand in full dress uniform.
But these people are out there, one for every beach.
Maybe they are members of some clandestine League of Fools, or the remnants of the once powerful Rosicrucian Order, or half-crazed bachelors—who knows . . .
Yegor Sardinevich settled next to the member of the League of Fools and quickly took off his clothes.
Sardinevich naked looked nothing like Sardinevich dressed.
His gaunt English head sat on a white, feminine body with sloping shoulders and very broad hips.
Yegor approached the water, tested it with his foot, and squealed.
Then he put his other foot into the water and squealed again.
Then he took several steps forward, plugged his ears with his thumbs, covered his eyes with his index fingers, closed his nostrils with his middle fingers, emitted a heart-wrenching shriek, and dunked himself four times in a row.
Only after this elaborate procedure did he start swimming, paddling with his arms and turning his head up with every stroke.
The rippling waters embraced Yegor Sardinevich, a model Herculean and an outstanding activist.
Five minutes later, when the tired activist turned onto his back and his globular gut started rocking on the waves, the sound of the Antelope’s maxixe came from the bluff above the beach.
Out stepped Ostap Bender, Balaganov, and the accountant Berlaga, whose face expressed full acceptance of his fate.
All three of them climbed down to the beach and began searching for someone, peering unceremoniously into people’s faces.
“These are his pants,” said Berlaga finally, stopping in front of the pile of clothing that belonged to the unsuspecting Sardinevich. “He’s probably far out in the sea.”
“I’ve had it!” exclaimed the grand strategist.
“I’m not waiting any longer.
We’re forced to take action both on land and at sea.”
He slipped out of his suit and shirt, revealing his swim trunks, and marched into the water, waving his arms.
On his chest, the grand strategist had a gunpowder-blue tattoo of short-armed Napoleon in a tricorne, holding a beer mug in his hand.
“Balaganov!” called Ostap from the water.
“Undress Berlaga and get him ready.
I might need him.”
With that, the grand strategist swam away on his side, splitting the waters with his bronze shoulder and charting a north-northeasterly course, toward the pearly belly of Yegor Sardinevich.