August 2
From: Julia
And to you. Best regards to toe-boy.
August 2
To: Julia
Stop it! Trying to not laugh anymore! The look of outrage on his face...
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
3 August
2:14 p.m.
Outside of Perm, en route to Izhevsk, Russia
Writing this in the car. Not the best of writing situations, not just because the Thomas Flyer’s shocks are almost nonexistent, but because the blasted pram keeps hitting me on the back of my head.
What pram? The pram that accompanied our passenger, one Monsieur Vitale Barionette, Frenchman, Stormtrooper, and world wanderer. We saw him on the side of the road early this morning as soon as we left Yekaterinburg.
“Look,” Paulie said, pointing at the figure ahead of us. She was driving, since I was recovering from the trauma of the night before concerning my toe and an extremely poorly made faucet. I will say no more about the subject other than the fact that Russian faucet manufacturers have a good way to go before they reach the standard of faucets in other countries.
“It’s the Stormtrooper guy we saw last night. I wonder if he needs a ride?”
I looked up from the guidebook I was perusing. “Why do you wonder that?”
“Well, if you were pushing a dog in a baby carriage, wouldn’t you appreciate a lift?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s his method of getting exercise.”
She shot me a chastising look. “I’m going to ask.”
“Paulie,” I said in a warning tone of voice when she pulled to a stop on the shoulder in front of the man. “Youdon’t speak the language, and besides, you know the rules as well as I do—we’re not supposed to have unauthorized individuals in the cars unless it’s a life-or-death situation.”
“This could be life or death. He’s got a dog with him, Dixon,” she said, getting out of the car. “The dog may be sick or something.”
“In which case, he would have seen a vet back in Yekaterinburg,” I pointed out.
“Meh. I’m going to find out who he is and if he needs help. Or if his dog is OK. It’s hot out today, and he may not have any water.”
She gathered up her long skirts and marched back toward the man. I sighed and made a gesture, then said, “I have no idea why we are stopped other than Paulie is off on one of her Nellie Bly things,” when Sam and Tabby’s car pulled alongside and Tabby stuck an inquiring face out the window at me.
“Something wrong?” Tabby asked.
I stood up in the car and looked back. Paulie was talking to the man in the Stormtrooper outfit, absently petting the dog in the pram with one hand while gesturing with the other. “I don’t know. I had better go see.”
Sam said something, and they pulled ahead off the road. By the time I got back to Paulie, they were loading their equipment up and coming after us to film.
“—you can put the baby machine in the seat with you and Chou-Chou. It’s very big,” Paulie said in French. “The seat, not Chou-Chou.”
“What’s going on?” I asked in English.
Paulie turned to me with eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Dixon, it’s just like I thought! Vitale here is desperate to get home to Paris.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
