Schreiben, schrieb, geschrieben.
Write.
You understand?
I write, you write, he, she, it writes.
Understand?
We, you, they write complaints and put them in this box.
Put! The verb ‘to put.’
We, you, they put the complaints in . . .
And nobody takes them out.
To take out!
I don’t take out, you don’t take out . . .”
But then the grand strategist spotted Sardinevich’s broad hips at the end of the hallway and, forgetting about the grammar lesson, rushed after the elusive activist.
“Hang in there, Germany!” shouted Balaganov to the German with encouragement, hurrying after his captain.
But to Bender’s utter frustration, Sardinevich had dematerialized once again.
“Now that’s sorcery,” said Bender, turning his head back and forth. “The man was here just a moment ago—and now he’s gone.”
In desperation, the half-brothers started trying all the doors one by one.
But after entering the third door, Balaganov jumped back out in a panic.
His face was contorted.
“Uh, uh,” uttered the Vice President for Hoofs, leaning against the wall, “uh, uh, uh . . .”
“What’s the matter, sonny?” asked Bender.
“Was somebody mean to you?”
“In there,” mumbled Balaganov, pointing his shaking hand.
Ostap opened the door and saw a black coffin.
The coffin rested in the middle of the room on a desk with drawers.
Ostap took off his captain’s cap and tiptoed over to the coffin.
Balaganov watched him apprehensively.
A minute later Ostap beckoned Balaganov and showed him a large white sign that was painted on the side of the coffin.
“See what it says here, Shura?” he asked. “‘Death to red tape!’ Are you all right now?”
It was a magnificent propaganda coffin. On major holidays, the Herculeans carried it outside and paraded it around town, singing songs.
The pall bearers were usually Sardinevich, Bomze, Berlaga, and Polykhaev himself. He was a man of democratic principles, and he had no qualms about joining his subordinates at various political marches and festivals.
Sardinevich held the coffin in high regard and considered it very important.
From time to time, Yegor would put on an apron and repaint the coffin with his own hands, sprucing up the anti-bureaucratic slogan. Meanwhile, the phones in his office were ringing off the hook, and head after head popped in through the cracked door and glanced around hopelessly.
Bender never got a hold of him.
The doorman in the cap with a zigzag informed Ostap that Comrade Sardinevich had been there just a moment before—but he had just left for a swim at the beach, which, as he often said, helped him recharge.
The Antelopeans woke up Kozlevich, who was dozing off behind the wheel, and headed out of town, bringing Berlaga along just in case.
Was it any surprise that Ostap, who was worked up from everything that had happened that day, went straight into the water in pursuit of Sardinevich, and that he was completely unconcerned by the fact that an important conversation about dirty business dealings had to be conducted in the Black Sea?
Balaganov followed the captain’s instructions to the T.
He undressed the compliant Berlaga, led him to the edge of the water, and waited patiently, holding him by the waist with both hands.
A difficult exchange was apparently taking place at sea.
Ostap bawled like a sea lion.
Nobody could make out the words.
They could only see that Sardinevich attempted to head back to shore, but Ostap intercepted him and chased him further out into the open sea.
Then the voices became louder, and certain words could be heard:
“The Intensivnik!”—“And who profited?
The Pope?”—“What do I have to do with it?” Berlaga has long been stomping his bare feet, leaving an Indian’s tracks in the wet sand.
Finally, a call came from the sea:
“Send him in!”
Balaganov launched the accountant into the sea. Berlaga paddled off quickly, slapping the water with his arms and legs.
Seeing him, Yegor Sardinevich dove in terror.
The Vice President for Hoofs, in the meantime, stretched out on the sand and lit a cigarette.