"How much longer?" Cyril grumbled, not keeping up with Clara, who was running ahead of him.
"A couple of blocks!" Clara replied, her bare heels flashing.
"You said the same thing three blocks ago."
They had been walking through the city for an hour, but each time he asked, Clara did not give an exact answer. Once he tried to stop a passer-by and ask for directions, but Clara grabbed him by his sleeve, pulled him forward, and told him that it wouldn't be long. That was half an hour ago.
"Fuck, if we're lost, just stop!" Cyril bursted. "Clara, you goddamn dragonfly, just stop at last!"
"Why are you like this?" She turned around, pouting.
His shirt was drenched with sweat, his fur vest had been in the basket for a long time, and his soul was boiling with rage. Cyril was tired of walking in the hot sun, but the girl in front of him seemed to be running faster every minute.
"Why am I like this!? I need help, not a chasing race!"
"You're right." She lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, I got lost. Can we ask for directions?"
"Holy shit! Stay here!"
Cyril dropped the basket, which had become a ton heavier, on the pavement and went to the opposite side of the street, where he saw a woman with a small dog. The pointed cane in the woman's left hand punctured the sidewalk. A dog on a leash was looking with its nose to see if a male had taken a piss.
A carriage pulled by an old nag rolled down the wide street, and Cyril had to stop to avoid being run over. As the carriage passed, a phaeton almost collided with him from the other side. A moustached man peeked out of a covered van and said something in a discontented tone.
'Fuck you.' Cyril thought, and finally crossed the road.
"Woman, wait." He called to the lady with the dog.
The woman stopped and looked at him from under the brim of her white hat. A rather good-looking, but elderly face smiled affably.
"Can I help you, young man?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Carpenter street." Cyril said.
"Oh, young man." The woman said. "It's a long way from here. We are now in the Southern district, and you need to go to the Craftsmen district, which is in the East of the city."
Cyril gritted his teeth, but resisted the urge to run to Clara and smash her face on the sidewalk.
"How long will it take to walk there?" He asked in a strained voice.
The woman thought for a moment, looking up at the sky for some reason, then looked down at the dog, gave the leash a little tug, and returned her eyes to the stranger.
"A couple of hours, I think." She said. "You can get a cab, but they are rarely free here at this time of day."
"I see, thank you." Cyril said, mentally cursing Clara.
"I'm sorry I can't help you any more." The woman smiled again and started to leave, but stopped. "Wait, though…"
She thought again and nodded to some thought of her own.
"If you wait here for ten minutes, I'll send a cab for you. Horses need to be driven, so as not to be lazy, and lackeys need it even more."
"That's very nice of you." Cyril said, surprised.
'What's the reason of such generosity?'
The woman gave Cyril a beaming smile and ducked through the gates of a small mansion fifty paces behind. He looked after the woman, but decided that help would be needed. He was tired of carrying a basket weighing a ton and running after the restless Clara.
He crossed the street again, passing an expensive carriage with drawn curtains, and picked up the basket.
"Cyril, I — " Clara began, but he raised a hand in protest.
"Be quiet unless I kill you." He said. "Follow me."
Clara wanted to say something, but Cyril wouldn't listen. He gritted his teeth, sweating, and hurried across the road. As much as she wanted to explain that she was ashamed of her own mistake, all she could do was mince along.
They returned to the spot where he had spoken to the woman, and a few minutes later a covered carriage drawn by two horses drew up. The sleepy driver turned on the box and raised his battered cap to greet Cyril.
"Is it you, who needs Carpenter street?" He asked, rather dryly.
"Yes." Cyril said.
"The lady didn't say there were two of you." The driver said. "Well, it doesn't matter for me."
Cyril opened the carriage door. Clara jumped lightly on the step to dive into the cushioned seat inside. With the hateful basket in his hand, Cyril climbed into the carriage and closed the door behind him.
The cabman pulled away, and Cyril watched the capital pass through the window in silence. Clara was purring, but he tried not to listen. For the first time of all day, he could relax and think of nothing.
The driver's and passengers' seats were separated by a wall of tarpaulin-like fabric with a small window for communication. Cyril drew the curtain over it.
The carriage was hurrying along briskly enough, its wheels rattling; the driver was swearing, whipping the horses from time to time; the reliable springs muffled the jolting of the road. Once they passed a cart loaded with vegetables, and once a carriage which wheels shone with gilded spokes.