"It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Life!" said Ostap. "Sacrifice!
What do you know about life and sacrifices?
Do you think that just because you were evicted from your own house you've tasted life?
And just because they requisitioned one of your imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice?
Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a complex affair, but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex affair which can be managed as simply as opening a box.
All you have to do is to know how to open it.
Those who don't-have had it."
Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the sleeve of his jacket, played a flourish with his lips and went off. Towards morning he rolled into the room, took off his shoes, put them on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:
"My little friends."
"Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.
"At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.
Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.
"And are you going to marry her? "
Ostap's eyes sparkled.
"I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."
Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.
"A passionate woman," said Ostap, "is a poet's dream.
Provincial straightforwardness.
Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."
"When's the wedding?"
"The day after tomorrow.
Tomorrow's impossible. It's May Day, and everything's shut."
"But what about our own business?
You're getting married . . . but we may have to go to Moscow."
"What are you worried about?
The hearing is continued."
"And the wife?"
"Wife?
The little diamond widow?
She's our last concern.
A sudden summons to the capital.
A short report to be given to the Junior Council of Ministers.
A wet-eyed farewell and a roast chicken for the journey.
We'll travel in comfort.
Go to sleep.
Tomorrow we have a holiday."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!
On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst for activity, hurried out into the street and headed for the centre.
At first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there were still few people about and the reviewing stands, guarded by mounted militiamen, were empty.
By nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring, wheezing, and whistling in various parts of the town.
Housewives came running out of their gates.
A column of musicians'-union officials in soft collars somehow strayed into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and upsetting everyone.
A lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter
"S" kept running into the musicians from behind, eliciting shouts from the bowels of the locomotive in the direction of the toilers of the oboe and flute:
"Where's your supervisor?
You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street!
Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?"
At this point, to the misfortune of the musicians, Victor Polesov intervened.