POPRISHCHIN, in his mantle, storms through the door of the Post Office. He bumps into the ZVERKOV TRUMPET PLAYER, dressed in his postal uniform, preparing the mail in his bag for delivery. Around his neck is a bugle on a rope.
Cut to: The CAMERA TRACKS with Poprishchin as he rushes past the POSTAL CUSTOMERS standing in line with letters and packages.
The CAMERA PANS with Poprishchin as he barges up to the POSTMASTER who stands behind the service counter.
POPRISHCHIN
Have the Spanish Delegates arrived?
The Postmaster is baffled.
Cut to: REVERSE from behind the counter.
POPRISHCHIN
(over enunciating)
HAVE A-NY SPA-NISH DEL-E-GATES AR- RIVED?
The Postmaster attempts to calmly diffuse this bizarre situation.
POSTMASTER
No. No Spanish delegates have arrived...
Cut to: The Postmaster gestures for Poprishchin to get in line.
POSTMASTER (cont'd)
...but if you'd like to mail a letter, that can be arranged.
Poprishchin explodes.
POPRISHCHIN
What the hell are you talking about!
The CAMERA TRACKS BACK as Poprishchin yells at the customers in line.
POPRISHCHIN (cont'd)
What the hell is he talking about! What letter?! What letter?!
Cut to: The Zverkov Trumpet Player blows his bugle.
The Zverkov Trumpet exits the Post Office blowing his bugle.
POPRISHCHIN (cont'd)
(offscreen)
What's a letter!?! Druggists write letters! Letters are nonsense!
CUT TO: