(1903-1942), part 1 ch. 1. Ostap Bender, Shura Balaganov and Panikovsky began to introduce themselves as the children of the hero of the 1905 revolution, Lieutenant Schmidt (1867 - 1906), in order to receive money or benefits from the local Soviet authorities:
A minute later he was already knocking on the door of the executive committee's office.
Who do you want? asked his secretary, who was sitting at a table near the door. - Why do you want to see the chairman? For what business?
As can be seen, the visitor knew the system of dealing with the secretaries of government, economic and public organizations. He did not declare that he had arrived on an urgent official business.
Personally,” he said dryly, without looking back at the secretary and thrusting his head into the crack in the door. - Can I come to you?
And (no comma!) Without waiting for an answer, he approached the desk.
Hello, do you recognize me?
The chairman, a black-eyed, big-headed man in a blue jacket and similar trousers, tucked into high-heeled boots, looked rather absently at the visitor and declared that he did not recognize him.
Don't you know? Meanwhile, many people find that I am strikingly similar to my father.
I also look like my father,” the chairman said impatiently, “what do you want, comrade?
It's all about what kind of father, - the visitor noted sadly. - I am the son of Lieutenant Schmidt.
The chairman was embarrassed and got up. He vividly recalled the famous image of a revolutionary lieutenant with a pale mustachioed face and in a black cape with bronze lion clasps. While he was collecting his thoughts to ask the son of the Black Sea hero a question befitting the occasion, the visitor looked at the furnishings of the office with the eyes of a discerning buyer.
Once upon a time, in tsarist times, the furnishings of public places were made according to a stencil. A special breed of official furniture had been grown: flat, ceiling-mounted cabinets, wooden sofas with polished three-inch seats, billiard-legged tables, and oak parapets that separated the presence from the restless world outside. During the revolution, this type of furniture almost disappeared, and the secret of its development was lost. People forgot how to furnish the offices of officials, and in the offices there appeared items that were still considered an integral part of a private apartment. In the institutions there were spring lawyer sofas with a mirrored shelf for seven porcelain elephants, which supposedly bring happiness, slides for dishes, whatnots, special leather chairs for rheumatic patients and blue Japanese vases. In the office of the chairman of the Arbatov executive committee, in addition to the usual desk, two ottomans upholstered in broken pink silk, a striped chaise longue, a satin screen with Fujiyama and cherry blossoms, and a Slavic mirror cabinet of rough market work took root.
"And a locker like "Hey, Slavs!", - the visitor thought, - you can't take much here. No, this is not Rio de Janeiro."
It is very good that you have come, - said the chairman at last. - You are probably from Moscow?
Yes, passing through, - answered the visitor, looking at the chaise longue and becoming more and more convinced that the financial affairs of the executive committee were bad. He preferred executive committees furnished with new Swedish furniture from the Leningrad Drevtrest.
The chairman wanted to ask about the purpose of the arrival of the lieutenant's son to Arbatov, but unexpectedly for himself he smiled plaintively and said:
Our churches are amazing. Here already from Glavnauka came, they are going to restore. Tell me, do you yourself remember the uprising on the battleship "Ochakov"?
Vaguely, vaguely, - answered the visitor. - At that heroic time, I was still extremely small. I was a child.
Excuse me, what's your name?
Nikolai... Nikolai Schmidt.
And ... for the father?
"Oh, how bad," thought the visitor, who himself did not know his father's name.
Yes, - he drawled, avoiding a direct answer, - now many do not know the names of the heroes. Ugar NEP. There is no such enthusiasm. Actually, I came to you in the city quite by accident. Road trouble. Left without a penny...
The Chairman was very pleased with the change in the conversation. It seemed shameful to him that he forgot the name of the Ochakov hero.
"Indeed," he thought, looking lovingly at the inspired face of the guest, "you're dying here at work. You forget the great milestones."
How do you say? Without a penny? This is interesting.
Of course, I could turn to a private person, - said the visitor, - anyone will give me, but, you understand, this is not very convenient from a political point of view ... The son of a revolutionary suddenly asks for money from a private trader, from a Nepman ...
The lieutenant's son uttered the last words with anguish. The chairman listened anxiously to the new intonations in the visitor's voice. "What if he has a seizure?" he thought.
And they did very well that they did not turn to a private trader, - said the completely confused chairman.
Then the son of the Black Sea hero gently, without pressure, got down to business. He asked for fifty rubles. The chairman, constrained by the narrow limits of the local budget, was able to give only eight rubles and three coupons for lunch in the cooperative canteen " Former friend stomach."
The hero's son put the money and coupons into a deep pocket of a worn, dapple-gray jacket and was about to get up from the pink ottoman when a clatter and a barrage of a secretary were heard outside the office door. The door hurriedly opened, and a new visitor appeared on its threshold.
Who is in charge here? he asked, breathing heavily and roaming with lascivious eyes.
Well, I, - said the chairman.
Hello Chairman! barked the newcomer, holding out a spade-shaped palm. - Let's get acquainted! Son of Lieutenant Schmidt.
Who? - asked the head of the city, goggle-eyed.
The son of the great, unforgettable hero Lieutenant Schmidt! - repeated the stranger.
And here is a comrade sitting - the son of comrade Schmidt. Nicholas Schmidt.
And the chairman, in complete distress, pointed to the first visitor, whose face suddenly assumed a sleepy expression.
A ticklish moment has come in the life of two crooks. In the hands of the modest and trusting chairman of the executive committee, the long, unpleasant sword of Nemesis could flash at any moment. Fate gave only one second of time to create a saving combination. Horror reflected in the eyes of Lieutenant Schmidt's second son.
His figure in a Paraguay summer shirt, sailor flap trousers and bluish canvas shoes, sharp and angular a minute ago, began to blur, lost its formidable contours and definitely did not inspire any respect. A wicked smile appeared on the chairman's face. And now, when it already seemed to the second son of the lieutenant that everything was lost and that the terrible chairman's anger would now fall on his red head, salvation came from the pink ottoman.
Vasya! shouted the first son of Lieutenant Schmidt, jumping up. - Native brother! Do you recognize brother Kolya?
And the first son embraced the second son.
I know! - exclaimed Vasya, who had begun to see clearly. - I recognize my brother Kolya!
The happy meeting was marked by such chaotic caresses and hugs so unusual in strength that the second son of the Black Sea revolutionary came out of them with a face pale from pain. Brother Kolya, for joy, crushed him quite strongly.
While embracing, the two brothers glanced askance at the chairman, whose face did not leave the vinegary expression. In view of this, the saving combination had to be developed right there on the spot, replenished household parts and new details of the sailors' uprising in 1905 that eluded Eastpart. Holding hands, the brothers sat down on the chaise longue and, without taking their flattering eyes off the chairman, plunged into memories.
What an amazing meeting! - falsely exclaimed the first son, with a glance inviting the chairman to join the family celebration.
Yes, said the chairman in a frozen voice. - Happens.
Seeing that the chairman was still in the clutches of doubt, the first son stroked his brother's red curls, like a setter's, and affectionately asked:
When did you come from Mariupol, where did you live with our grandmother?
Yes, I lived there, - muttered the second son of the lieutenant, - with her.
Why did you write to me so rarely? I was very worried.
I was busy, - the red-haired man answered sullenly.
And, fearing that the restless brother would immediately become interested in what he was doing (and he was mainly busy with sitting in correctional houses of various autonomous republics and regions), - the second son of Lieutenant Schmidt snatched the initiative and asked the question himself.
Why didn't you write?
I wrote, - the brother unexpectedly answered, feeling an unusual surge of cheerfulness. - Sent registered letters. I even have postage receipts. - And he reached into his side pocket, from where he really took out a lot of stale pieces of paper. But for some reason he showed them not to his brother, but to the chairman of the executive committee, and even then from a distance.
Oddly enough, the sight of the papers reassured the chairman a little, and the brothers' memories became more vivid. The red-haired man quite got used to the situation and quite sensibly, albeit monotonously, told the contents of the mass pamphlet "Rebellion at Ochakovo". His brother embellished his dry exposition with details so picturesque that the chairman, who was beginning to calm down, pricked up his ears again.
However, he released the brothers in peace, and they ran out into the street, feeling great relief.
Around the corner of the executive committee house they stopped.
Speaking of childhood, - said the first son, - in childhood, I killed people like you on the spot. From a slingshot.
Why? - Joyfully asked the second son of the famous father.
These are the harsh laws of life. Or, to put it briefly, life dictates its harsh laws to us. Why did you enter the office? Haven't you seen that the chairman is not alone?
I thought...
Ah, you thought? Do you think sometimes? Are you a thinker? What is your last name, thinker? Spinoza? Jean-Jacques Rousseau? Marcus Aurelius?
The red-haired man was silent, crushed by the just accusation.
Well, I forgive you. Live. Now let's get to know each other. After all, we are brothers, and kinship obliges. My name is Ostap Bender. Let me also know your first name.
Balaganov, - the red-haired man introduced himself, - Shura Balaganov.
I don’t ask about the profession, ”Bender said politely,“ but I can guess. Probably something intellectual? Are there many convictions this year?
Two, - Balaganov answered freely.
This is not good. Why are you selling your immortal soul? A person should not sue. This is a dirty job. I mean theft. Not to mention the fact that it is a sin to steal - your mother probably introduced you to such a doctrine in childhood - it is also a waste of strength and energy.
Ostap would have been developing his views on life for a long time if Balaganov had not interrupted him.
Look, - he said, pointing to the green depths of the Boulevard of Young Talents. - See, out. a man is walking in a straw hat.
I see, - Ostap said arrogantly. - So what? Is this the Governor of Borneo?
This is Panikovsky, - said Shura, - the son of Lieutenant Schmidt.
Along the alley, in the shade of the august lindens, leaning a little to one side, an elderly citizen was moving. A hard straw hat with ribbed edges sat sideways on his head. The trousers were so short that they exposed the white drawstrings of the underpants. Under the citizen's mustache, like the flame of a cigarette, a golden tooth blazed.
How, another son? - said Ostap. - It's getting funny.
Panikovsky went up to the building of the executive committee, thoughtfully made a figure eight at the entrance, took hold of the brim of his hat with both hands and correctly placed it on his head, pulled back his jacket and, sighing heavily, moved inside.
The lieutenant had three sons, Bender remarked, two were smart, and the third was a fool. He needs to be warned.
No need, - said Balaganov, - let him know another time how to violate the convention.
What kind of convention is this?
Wait. Tell you later. Entered, entered!
I am an envious person, - Bender confessed, - but there is nothing to envy here. Have you never seen a bullfight? Let's go and see.
The lieutenant's children, who became friends, came around the corner and approached the window of the chairman's office.
Behind a foggy, unwashed glass sat the chairman. He wrote quickly. Like all writers, his face was mournful. Suddenly he raised his head. The door swung open and Panikovsky entered the room. Pressing his hat to his greasy jacket, he stopped in front of the table and moved his thick lips for a long time. After that, the chairman jumped up in his chair and opened his mouth wide. Friends heard a long cry.
With the words "All back!" Ostap drew Balaganov along with him. They ran to the boulevard and hid behind a tree.
Take off your hats, - said Ostap, - bare your heads. The body will now be removed.
He wasn't wrong. The peals and overflows of the chairman's voice had not yet fallen silent, when two hefty employees appeared in the portal of the executive committee. They carried Panikovsky. One held his hands and the other his legs.
The ashes of the deceased, - Ostap commented, - were carried out in the arms of relatives and friends.
The employees dragged the third stupid child of Lieutenant Schmidt onto the porch and began to slowly rock it. Panikovsky was silent, dutifully looking into the blue sky.
After a short civil memorial service... - began Ostap.
At that very moment, the officers, having given Panikovsky's body sufficient scope and inertia, threw him out into the street.
The body was interred, Bender finished.
Panikovsky flopped to the ground like a toad. He quickly got up and, leaning to one side more than before, ran along the Boulevard of Young Talents with incredible speed.
Are you, of course, standing on the edge of a financial abyss? he asked Balaganov.
- Are you talking about money? Shura said. “I haven’t had any money for a whole week.
"In that case, you will end badly, young man," Ostap said admonishingly. - The financial abyss is the deepest of all abysses, you can fall into it all your life. Okay, don't fret. I did carry three lunch coupons in my beak. The chairman of the executive committee fell in love with me at first sight.
But the dairy brothers failed to take advantage of the kindness of the head of the city. On the door of the dining room "Former Friend of the Stomach" hung a large lock, covered with "either rust, or buckwheat porridge.
"Of course," said Ostap bitterly, "on the occasion of counting the schnitzels, the canteen is closed forever." I'll have to give my body to be torn to pieces by private traders.
"Private traders love cash," Balaganov objected dully.
“Well, well, I won’t torture you. The chairman showered me with golden rain in the amount of eight rubles. But keep in mind, dear Shura, I do not intend to feed you for free. For every vitamin I feed you, I will demand many small favors from you. However, there was no private sector in the city, and the brothers had lunch in the summer cooperative garden, where special posters informed citizens about the latest Arbat innovation in the field of public nutrition:
BEER IS SOLD ONLY TO TRADE UNION MEMBERS
"Let's be satisfied with kvass," said Balaganov.
“Especially,” added Ostap, “that the local kvass is made by an artel of private traders who sympathize with the Soviet regime. Now tell me what the thug Panikovsky was guilty of. I love stories about petty scams.
Satisfied, Balaganov glanced gratefully at his savior and began the story. The story lasted two hours and contained extremely interesting information.
In all areas of human activity. labor supply and demand are regulated by special bodies. The actor will go to Omsk only when he finds out for sure that he has nothing to fear from competition and that there are no other applicants for his role as a cold lover or "meal is served". The railroad workers are taken care of by their relatives, who carefully publish reports in the newspapers that unemployed baggage distributors cannot count on getting work within the Syzran-Vyazemskaya road, or that the Central Asian road is in need of four barrier watchmen. An expert merchandiser places an ad in the newspaper, and the whole country will know that there is an expert merchandiser in the world with ten years of experience, who, for family reasons, changes his service in Moscow to work in the provinces.
Everything is regulated, flows along cleared channels, makes its circuit in full accordance with the law and under its protection.
And only the market of a special category of crooks, calling themselves the children of Lieutenant Schmidt, was in a chaotic state. Anarchy was tearing apart the corporation of the lieutenant's children. They could not derive from their profession the benefits that a moment's acquaintance with administrators, business executives and social activists, people for the most part surprisingly gullible, could undoubtedly bring them.
All over the country, extorting and begging, the false grandchildren of Karl Marx, the non-existent nephews of Friedrich Engels, the brothers of Lunacharsky, the cousins of Clara Zetkin, or, at worst, the descendants of the famous anarchist Prince Kropotkin, move.
From Minsk to the Bering Strait and from Nakhichevan on the Araks to the land of Franz Josef, executive committees and executive committees enter, land on station platforms and anxiously roll in cabs relatives of great people. They are in a hurry. They have a lot to do.
At one time, the supply of relatives nevertheless exceeded demand, and depression set in in this peculiar market. There was a need for reform. The grandchildren of Karl Marx, the Kropotkinites, the Engelsists and the like, gradually streamlined their activities, with the exception of the violent corporation of the children of Lieutenant Schmidt, which, in the manner of the Polish Sejm, was always torn apart by anarchy. Some kind of rude, greedy, obstinate children crept up and interfered with each other to collect in the granaries.
Shura Balaganov, who considered himself the firstborn of a lieutenant, was seriously worried about the current situation. More and more often he had to deal with comrades in the corporation, who completely spoiled the fruitful fields of Ukraine and the resort heights of the Caucasus, where he used to work profitably.
“And you were afraid of increasing difficulties?” asked Ostap mockingly.
But Balaganov did not notice the irony. Sipping purple kvass, he continued his story.
There was only one way out of this tense situation - a conference. Balaganov worked all winter to convene it. He corresponded with competitors whom he personally knew. Unfamiliar. conveyed the invitation through the grandchildren of Marx who came across on the way. And finally, in the early spring of 1928, almost all the famous children of Lieutenant Schmidt gathered in a Moscow tavern, near the Sukharev Tower. The quorum was large - Lieutenant Schmidt had thirty sons ranging in age from eighteen to fifty-two years old and four daughters, stupid, middle-aged and ugly,
In a brief opening speech, Balaganov expressed the hope that the brothers would find mutual language and finally work out a convention, the necessity of which is dictated by life itself.
According to Balaganov's project, the entire Union of Republics was to be divided into thirty-four operational sections, according to the number of those gathered. Each plot is transferred to the long-term use of one child. None of the members of the corporation has the right to cross borders and invade foreign territory in order to earn money.
No one objected to the new principles of work, with the exception of Panikovsky, who already then declared that he would live without a convention. But during the division of the country, ugly scenes played out. The high contracting parties quarreled in the very first minute and no longer addressed each other except with the addition of abusive epithets. The whole dispute arose because of the division of plots.
Nobody wanted to take the university centers. Nobody needed battered Moscow, Leningrad and Kharkov.
Very bad reputation the distant eastern regions, immersed in the sands, also used them. They were accused of being unfamiliar with the personality of Lieutenant Schmidt.
- Found fools! Panikovsky shouted shrillly. - You give me the Central Russian Upland, then I will sign the convention.
-- How? All upland? Balaganov said. "But why don't we give you Melitopol as well?" Or Bobruisk?
At the word "Bobruisk" the assembly groaned painfully. Everyone agreed to go to Bobruisk even now. Bobruisk was considered a wonderful, highly cultured place.
“Well, not the whole hill,” insisted the greedy Panikovsky, “at least half. I finally family man I have two families. But they didn't even give him half.
After much shouting, it was decided to divide the plots by lot. Thirty-four pieces of paper were cut, and a geographical name was applied to each of them. Fertile Kursk and dubious Kherson, little-developed Minusinsk and almost hopeless Ashgabat, Kyiv, Petrozavodsk and Chita - all the republics, all regions lay in someone's hare hat with headphones and waited for the owners.
Cheerful exclamations, muffled groans and curses accompanied the draw.
The evil star of Panikovsky had an influence on the outcome of the case. He got the Volga region. He joined the convention beside himself with anger.
“I will go,” he shouted, “but I warn you: if they treat me badly, I will break the convention, I will cross the border!”
Balaganov, who got the golden Arbatovsky plot, was alarmed and then declared that he would not tolerate violations of operational standards.
One way or another, the matter was streamlined, after which thirty sons and four daughters of Lieutenant Schmidt went to their areas to work.
- And now, Bender, you yourself saw how this bastard violated the convention, - Shura Balaganov finished his story. - He crawled on my site for a long time, but I still could not catch him.
Contrary to the narrator's expectation, Panikovsky's bad deed did not evoke condemnation from Ostap. Bender lounged back in his chair, casually looking ahead.
Trees were painted on the high back wall of the restaurant garden, leafy and even, like a picture in a reader. There were no real trees in the garden, but the shadow falling from the wall gave a life-giving coolness and completely satisfied the citizens. Citizens were, apparently, without exception members of the union, because they drank only beer and did not even have a snack.
A green car drove up to the gates of the garden, continuously gasping and shooting, on the door of which a white arcuate inscription was drawn: "Oh, I'll give you a ride!" Below were the conditions for walking in a cheerful car. Three rubles per hour. For the end, by agreement. There were no passengers in the car.
The gardeners whispered anxiously. For about five minutes the chauffeur looked pleadingly through the garden grate and, apparently losing hope of getting a passenger, shouted defiantly:
- Taxi is free! Please sit down! But none of the citizens expressed a desire to get into the car "Oh, I'll give a ride!" And even the invitation of the driver had an effect on them in a strange way. They lowered their heads and tried not to look in the direction of the car. The driver shook his head and drove off slowly. The Arbatovites looked after him sadly. Five minutes later the green car sped past the garden in the opposite direction. The driver was jumping up and down in his seat and shouting something unintelligible. The car was still empty. Ostap looked after her and said:
-- So here it is. Balaganov, you dude. Don't be offended. By this I want to indicate precisely the place that you occupy under the sun.
-- Go to hell! said Balaganov rudely.
- Are you still offended? So, in your opinion, the position of a lieutenant's son is not foppery?
“But you yourself are the son of Lieutenant Schmidt!” cried Balaganov.
"You're a dude," repeated Ostap. "And the dude's son." And your children will be dudes. Boy! What happened this morning is not even an episode, but just a pure coincidence, a whim of an artist. Gentleman in search of ten. Catching such meager odds is not in my nature. And what kind of profession is this, God forgive me! Lieutenant Schmidt's son! Well, another year, well, two. And then what? Further, your red curls become familiar, and they will simply start beating you.
- So what to do? Balaganov got worried. How can you get your daily bread?
"We must think," said Ostap sternly. - I, for example, feed ideas. I do not hold out my paw for the sour executive committee ruble. My basting is wider. You, I see, disinterestedly love money. What amount do you like?
"Five thousand," Balaganov replied quickly.
-- Per month?
-- In year.
"Then I'm out of my way with you. I need five hundred thousand. And whenever possible at once, but not in parts.
“Maybe you can still take it in parts?” - asked the vengeful Balaganov.
Ostap looked attentively at his interlocutor and quite seriously replied:
- I would take parts. But I need it right now. Balaganov was about to make a joke about this phrase as well, but, raising his eyes to Ostap, he immediately broke off. In front of him sat an athlete with an exact face, as if stamped on a coin. A brittle white scar cut his swarthy throat. His eyes sparkled with formidable amusement.
Balaganov suddenly felt an irresistible desire to stretch his arms at his sides. He even wanted to clear his throat, as happens with people of average responsibility when talking with one of their superior comrades. Indeed, clearing his throat, he asked in embarrassment:
"Why do you need so much money... and all at once?"
“Actually, I need more,” said Ostap, “five hundred thousand is my minimum, five hundred thousand full-weight estimated rubles. I want to leave, Comrade Shura, to go very far, to Rio de Janeiro.
- Do you have relatives there? Balaganov asked.
“But what, do I look like a person who can have relatives?”
No, but I...
- I have no relatives, Comrade Shura, - I am alone in the whole world. I had a father, a Turkish subject, and he died long ago in terrible convulsions. Not in this case. I have wanted to go to Rio de Janeiro since childhood. Of course, you do not know about the existence of this city.
Balaganov shook his head mournfully. Of the world centers of culture, besides Moscow, he knew only Kyiv, Melitopol and Zhmerinka. In general, he was convinced that the earth was flat.
Ostap threw on the table a sheet torn from a book.
- This is a clipping from "Small Soviet encyclopedia". Here is what is written about Rio de Janeiro: "1360 thousand inhabitants ..." so ... "a significant number of mulattoes ... near the vast bay of the Atlantic Ocean ..." Here, here! "The main streets of the city along the wealth of shops and the splendor of the buildings are not inferior to the first cities in the world. Can you imagine, Shura? what to say! You can see for yourself what is happening. One and a half million people, and all without exception in white trousers. I want to leave here. Soviet power arose for Last year the most serious disagreements. She wants to build socialism, but I don't want to. I'm bored with building socialism. Now you understand why I need so much money?
"Where are you going to get five hundred thousand?" Balaganov asked quietly.
"Anywhere," answered Ostap. “Show me only a rich man, and I will take his money.
-- How? Murder? Balaganov asked even more quietly and glanced at the neighboring tables, where the Arbatovites were raising toasty wine glasses.
“You know,” said Ostap, “you shouldn't have signed the so-called Sukharev Convention. This mental exercise seems to have exhausted you greatly. You are becoming stupid right before your eyes. Note to yourself, Ostap Bender never killed anyone. He was killed - it was. But he himself is clean before the law. I am certainly not a cherub. I don't have wings, but I respect the Criminal Code. This is my weakness.
How are you going to take the money?
How can I take it away? Taking or withdrawing money varies depending on the circumstances. I personally have four hundred comparatively honest methods of weaning. But it's not about the methods. The fact is that now there are no rich people, And this is the horror of my position. Another would, of course, pounce on some defenseless state institution, but this is not in my rules. You know my respect for the Criminal Code. There is no calculation to rob the team. Give me a richer individual. But he is not, this individual.
-- Yes you! Balaganov exclaimed. - There are very rich people.
- Do you know them? said Ostap immediately. - Can you give the name and exact address of at least one Soviet millionaire? But they are, they should be. Since some banknotes are roaming around the country, then there must be people who have a lot of them. But how do you find such a trickster?
Ostap even sighed. Apparently, dreams of a rich individual had long worried him.
- How nice, - he said thoughtfully, - to work with a legal millionaire in a well-organized bourgeois state with old capitalist traditions. There the millionaire is a popular figure. His address is known. He lives In a mansion somewhere in Rio de Janeiro. You go straight to his reception and already in the hall, after the very first greetings, you take money away. And all this, keep in mind, in a good, polite way: "Hello, sir, don't worry. You'll have to disturb you a little. Alright. Done." And that's it. Culture! What could be easier? A gentleman in the society of gentlemen makes his small business. Just don't shoot at the chandelier, it's superfluous. And with us ... God, God! .. In what a cold country we live! We have everything hidden, everything is underground. Soviet millionaire can't even find Narkomfin with its heavy duty tax apparatus. And the millionaire, perhaps, is now sitting in this so-called summer garden at the next table and drinking forty-kopeck Tip-Top beer. That's what's embarrassing!
- So, you think, - asked Balaganov ceiling, - that if such a secret millionaire were found, then? ...
- Don't go on. I know what you want to say. No, not that, not at all. I will not choke him with a pillow or hit him on the head with a blued revolver. And in general, nothing stupid will happen. Oh, if only to find an individual! I'll arrange it in such a way that he will bring me his money himself, on a silver platter.
-- This is very good. Balaganov smiled trustingly. - Five hundred thousand on a silver platter.
He got up and began to circle around the table. He smacked his tongue plaintively, stopped, even opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but, without saying anything, sat down and got up again. Ostap indifferently followed Balaganov's evolutions.
- Will he bring it? asked Balaganov suddenly in a raspy voice. - On a saucer? What if it doesn't? Where is Rio de Janeiro? Far? It can't be that everyone is wearing white pants. Come on, Bender. For five hundred thousand, you can live well with us.
"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," Ostap said cheerfully, "one can live. But you don't flap your wings for no reason. You don't have five hundred thousand.
A deep wrinkle appeared on Balaganov's serene, unplowed forehead. He looked uncertainly at Ostap and said:
- I know such a millionaire. All animation disappeared from Bender's face in an instant. His face immediately hardened and again took on a medal shape.
- Go, go, - he said, - I serve only on Saturdays, there is nothing to pour here.
-- Honestly, Monsieur Bender ...
“Listen, Shura, if you have finally switched over to French, then call me not monsieur, but situayen, which means citizen. By the way, the address of your millionaire?
- He lives in Chernomorsk.
“Well, of course I knew it. Chernomorsk! There, even before the war, a man with ten thousand was called a millionaire. And now... I can imagine! No, it's nonsense!
- No, let me tell you. This is a real millionaire. You see, Bender, I recently happened to be in the detention center there...
Ten minutes later, the dairy brothers left the summer cooperative garden with beer. The great strategist felt himself in the position of a surgeon who had to perform a very serious operation. All is ready. Napkins and bandages are steaming in electric saucepans, a sister of mercy in a white toga moves inaudibly along the tiled floor, medical faience and nickel shine, the patient lies on a glass table, languidly rolling his eyes to the ceiling, the smell of German chewing gum wafts in the specially heated air. The surgeon with outstretched arms approaches the operating table, accepts a sterilized Finnish knife and dryly says to the patient: "Well, take off the burnus."
“It’s always like this with me,” said Bender, his eyes shining, “you have to start a million-dollar business with a noticeable shortage of banknotes. All my capital, fixed, circulating and reserve, is estimated at five rubles .. - What, you said, is the name of the underground millionaire?
"Koreiko," replied Balaganov.
“Yes, yes, Koreiko. Great last name. And you claim that no one knows about his millions.
- No one but me and Pruzhansky. But Pruzhansky, as I told you, will be in prison for another three years. If only you could see how he was dying and crying when I went out into the wild. He apparently felt that I did not need to tell about Koreiko.
“The fact that he revealed his secret to you is nonsense. Not because of this he was killed and cried. He probably had a presentiment that you would tell the whole story to me. And this is really a direct loss for poor Pruzhansky. By the time Pruzhansky is released from prison, Koreiko will find solace only in the vulgar proverb: "Poverty is not a vice."
Ostap threw off his summer cap and, waving it in the air, asked:
- Do I have gray hair?
Balaganov drew up his stomach, spread his socks to the width of a rifle butt, and answered in a right-flank voice:
-- No way!
- So they will. We have great battles ahead of us. You will also turn gray, Balaganov. Balaganov suddenly giggled stupidly:
-- How do you say? Will he bring the money on a silver platter?
"On a silver platter for me," said Ostap, "and on a plate for you."
What about Rio de Janeiro? I want white pants too.
"Rio de Janeiro is the crystal dream of my childhood," he replied sternly. grand schemer, do not touch it with your paws. Get to the point. Send linemen at my disposal. Partially arrive in the city of Chernomorsk in Nai the shortest time. Guard uniform. Well, trumpet the march! I will lead the parade!
CHAPTER III. GASOLINE YOUR-OUR IDEAS
A year before Panikovsky violated the convention by penetrating into someone else's operational area, the first car appeared in the city of Arbatov. The founder of the automobile business was a driver named Kozlevich.
It was the decision to start that led him to the steering wheel. new life. old life Adam Kozlevich was sinful. He constantly violated the Criminal Code of the RSFSR, namely Article 162, which treats the issues of secret theft of other people's property (theft).
This article has many points, but point "a" (theft committed without the use of any technical means) was alien to sinful Adam. It was too primitive for him. Paragraph "e", punishable by imprisonment for up to five years, did not suit him either. He didn't like being in jail for a long time. And since from childhood he was attracted to technology, he wholeheartedly devoted himself to point "c" (secret theft of other people's property, committed with the use of technical means or repeatedly, or by prior agreement with other persons, at railway stations, piers, ships, wagons and in hotels).
But Kozlevich was not lucky. He was also caught when he used his favorite technical means, and when he did without them. He was caught at stations, marinas, on steamboats and in hotels. They also caught him in the wagons. He was caught even when, in complete desperation, he began to grab someone else's property by prior agreement with other persons.
After sitting in total For about three years, Adam Kozlevich came to the conclusion that it is much more convenient to openly accumulate one's own property than secretly steal someone else's. This thought brought peace to his rebellious soul. He became an exemplary prisoner, wrote revealing poems in the prison newspaper "The Sun Rises and Sets" and worked diligently in the mechanical workshop of the correctional house. The penitentiary system gave him beneficial effect. Kozlevich, Adam Kazimirovich, forty-six years old, coming from peasants b. Czestochowa County, single, repeatedly sued, released from prison honest man.
After two years of work in one of the Moscow garages, he accidentally bought such an old car that its appearance on the market could only be explained by the liquidation of the automobile museum. A rare exhibit was sold to Kozlevich for one hundred and ninety rubles. For some reason, the car was sold along with an artificial palm tree in a green tub. I had to buy a palm tree. The palm tree was still back and forth, but it took a long time to fiddle with the car: to look for the missing parts in the bazaars, to patch up the seats, to reinstall the electrical facilities. The repair was crowned by painting the car in lizard green color. The breed of the car was unknown, but Adam Kazimirovich claimed that it was "Loren Dietrich". As proof, he nailed a copper plaque with the Lauren-Dietrich brand name to the car radiator. It remained to proceed to the private rental, which Kozlevich had long dreamed of.
On the day when Adam Kazimirovich was about to take his offspring into the world for the first time, to the automobile exchange, a sad event happened for all private drivers. One hundred and twenty small black, Browning-like Renault taxis arrived in Moscow. Kozlevich did not even try to compete with them. He handed over the palm tree for safekeeping to the "Versailles" cab-driver's tea house and went to work in the provinces.
Arbatov, deprived of motor transport, liked the driver, and he decided to stay in it forever.
Adam Kazimirovich imagined how hardworking, fun and, most importantly, honestly he would work in the field of car rental. He imagined how he was on duty at the station in the early Arctic morning, waiting for the Moscow train. Wrapped up in a red cowhide coat and raising canned aviators on his forehead, he amiably treats the porters with cigarettes. Frozen cabbies are huddled somewhere behind. They cry from the cold and shake their thick blue skirts. But then the alarm ringing of the station bell is heard. This is the agenda. The train came. Passengers go to the station square and with satisfied grimaces stop in front of the car. They did not expect that the idea of car rental had already penetrated into the backwoods of Arbatov. Blowing a horn, Kozlevich rushes passengers to the Peasant's House.
There is work for the whole day, everyone is happy to use the services of a mechanical crew. Kozlevich and his faithful "Loren Dietrich" are indispensable participants in all city weddings, excursions and celebrations. But most of the work is in the summer. On Sundays, whole families go out of town in Kozlevich's car. The senseless laughter of children is heard, the wind pulls scarves and ribbons, women babble merrily, fathers of the family look respectfully at the driver’s leather back and ask him about the state of the automobile business in the United States of North America (is it true, in particular, that Ford buys daily yourself new car?).
This is how Kozlevich imagined his new wonderful life in Arbatov. But reality in the shortest possible time destroyed the structure built by the imagination of Adam Kazimirovich. air castle with all its turrets, drawbridges, weathercocks and standard.
The busy morning is over. Bender and Balaganov, without saying a word, quickly walked away from the executive committee. A long blue rail was being driven along the main street on the parted peasant passages. Such a ringing and singing stood on the main street, as if a driver in a fishing tarpaulin overall was carrying not a rail, but a deafening musical note. The sun was breaking through the glass shop window visual aids where over globes, skulls and a cardboard, cheerfully painted liver of a drunkard, two skeletons were embracing in a friendly way. In the poor window of the workshop of stamps and seals greatest place occupied enameled plaques with the inscriptions: “Closed for lunch”, “Lunch break from 2 to 3 p.m.”, “Closed for lunch break”, simply “Closed”, “Shop is closed” and, finally, a black fundamental board with gold letters : "Closed for inventory of goods." Apparently, these resolute texts were in the greatest demand in the city of Arbatov. For all other phenomena of life, the workshop of stamps and seals responded with only one blue plate: "Nanny on duty."
Then, one after the other, three stores of wind instruments, mandolins and bass balalaikas were located in a row. Copper pipes, gleaming depravedly, reclined on the showcase steps covered with red calico. The bass helicon was especially good. He was so powerful, so lazily basking in the sun, curled up in a ring, that he should have been kept not in a window, but in the capital's zoo, somewhere between an elephant and a boa constrictor, And so that on rest days parents would take their children to him and say : “Here, baby, is the helicon pavilion. Helikon is sleeping now. And when he wakes up, he will definitely start trumpeting. And so that the children look at the amazing pipe with big wonderful eyes.
At another time, Ostap Bender would have paid attention to freshly cut balalaikas, the size of a hut, and to curled up from the heat of the sun. gramophone records, and on the pioneer drums, which, with their dashing coloring, suggested that the bullet was a fool, and the bayonet was a fine fellow, - but now he was not up to it. He wanted to eat.
Are you, of course, standing on the edge of a financial abyss? he asked Balaganov.
Is this about money? Shura said. I haven't had any money for a whole week.
In that case, you will end badly, young man," Ostap said admonishingly. - The financial abyss is the deepest of all abysses, you can fall into it all your life. Okay, don't fret. I did carry three lunch coupons in my beak. The chairman of the executive committee fell in love with me at first sight.
But the dairy brothers failed to take advantage of the kindness of the head of the city. There was a large padlock on the door of the Former Friend of the Stomach Dining Room, covered with either rust or buckwheat porridge.
Of course, - Ostap said bitterly, - on the occasion of counting the schnitzels, the dining room is closed forever. I'll have to give my body to be torn to pieces by private traders.
Private traders love cash, - Balaganov objected dully.
Well, well, I won't torture you. The chairman showered me with golden rain in the amount of eight rubles. But keep in mind, dear Shura, I do not intend to feed you for free. For every vitamin I feed you, I will demand many small favors from you. However, there was no private sector in the city, and the brothers had lunch in the summer cooperative garden, where special posters informed citizens about the latest Arbat innovation in the field of public nutrition:
BEER IS SOLD ONLY TO TRADE UNION MEMBERS
Let's be satisfied with kvass, - said Balaganov.
Satisfied, Balaganov glanced gratefully at his savior and began the story. The story lasted two hours and contained extremely interesting information.
In all areas of human activity. labor supply and demand are regulated by special bodies. The actor will go to Omsk only when he finds out for sure that he has nothing to fear from competition and that there are no other applicants for his role as a cold lover or “meal is served”. The railroad workers are taken care of by their relatives, who carefully publish reports in the newspapers that unemployed baggage distributors cannot count on getting work within the Syzran-Vyazemskaya road, or that the Central Asian road is in need of four barrier watchmen. An expert merchandiser places an ad in the newspaper, and the whole country will know that there is an expert merchandiser in the world with ten years of experience, who, for family reasons, changes his service in Moscow to work in the provinces.
Everything is regulated, flows along cleared channels, makes its circuit in full accordance with the law and under its protection.
And only the market of a special category of crooks, calling themselves the children of Lieutenant Schmidt, was in a chaotic state. Anarchy was tearing apart the corporation of the lieutenant's children. They could not derive from their profession the benefits that a moment's acquaintance with administrators, business executives and social activists, people for the most part surprisingly gullible, could undoubtedly bring them.
All over the country, extorting and begging, the false grandchildren of Karl Marx, the non-existent nephews of Friedrich Engels, the brothers of Lunacharsky, the cousins of Clara Zetkin, or, at worst, the descendants of the famous anarchist Prince Kropotkin, move.
From Minsk to the Bering Strait and from Nakhichevan on the Araks to the land of Franz Josef, executive committees and executive committees enter, land on station platforms and anxiously roll in cabs relatives of great people. They are in a hurry. They have a lot to do.
At one time, the supply of relatives nevertheless exceeded demand, and depression set in in this peculiar market. There was a need for reform. The grandchildren of Karl Marx, the Kropotkinites, the Engelsists and the like, gradually streamlined their activities, with the exception of the violent corporation of the children of Lieutenant Schmidt, which, in the manner of the Polish Sejm, was always torn apart by anarchy. Some kind of rude, greedy, obstinate children crept up and interfered with each other to collect in the granaries.
Shura Balaganov, who considered himself the firstborn of a lieutenant, was seriously worried about the current situation. More and more often he had to deal with comrades in the corporation, who completely spoiled the fruitful fields of Ukraine and the resort heights of the Caucasus, where he used to work profitably.
And you were afraid of increasing difficulties? asked Ostap mockingly.
But Balaganov did not notice the irony. Sipping purple kvass, he continued his story.
There was only one way out of this tense situation - a conference. Balaganov worked all winter to convene it. He corresponded with competitors whom he personally knew. Unfamiliar. conveyed the invitation through the grandchildren of Marx who came across on the way. And finally, in the early spring of 1928, almost all the famous children of Lieutenant Schmidt gathered in a Moscow tavern, near the Sukharev Tower. The quorum was great - Lieutenant Schmidt turned out to have thirty sons aged from eighteen to fifty-two years old and four daughters, stupid, middle-aged and ugly,
In a brief introductory speech, Balaganov expressed the hope that the brothers would find a common language and finally work out a convention, the necessity of which life itself dictates.
According to Balaganov's project, the entire Union of Republics was to be divided into thirty-four operational sections, according to the number of those gathered. Each plot is transferred to the long-term use of one child. None of the members of the corporation has the right to cross borders and invade foreign territory in order to earn money.
No one objected to the new principles of work, with the exception of Panikovsky, who already then declared that he would live without a convention. But during the division of the country, ugly scenes played out. The high contracting parties quarreled in the very first minute and no longer addressed each other except with the addition of abusive epithets. The whole dispute arose because of the division of plots.
Nobody wanted to take the university centers. Nobody needed battered Moscow, Leningrad and Kharkov.
The distant eastern regions, immersed in the sands, also enjoyed a very bad reputation. They were accused of being unfamiliar with the personality of Lieutenant Schmidt.
Found fools! - Panikovsky shouted shrillly. - You give me the Central Russian Upland, then I will sign the convention.
How? All upland? Balaganov said. - Why don't we give you Melitopol as well? Or Bobruisk?
At the word "Bobruisk" the assembly groaned painfully. Everyone agreed to go to Bobruisk even now. Bobruisk was considered a wonderful, highly cultured place.
Well, not the whole hill, - the greedy Panikovsky insisted, - at least half. Finally, I am a family man, I have two families. But they didn't even give him half.
After much shouting, it was decided to divide the plots by lot. Thirty-four pieces of paper were cut, and a geographical name was applied to each of them. Fertile Kursk and dubious Kherson, little-developed Minusinsk and almost hopeless Ashgabat, Kyiv, Petrozavodsk and Chita - all the republics, all regions lay in someone's hare hat with headphones and waited for the owners.
Cheerful exclamations, muffled groans and curses accompanied the draw.
The evil star of Panikovsky had an influence on the outcome of the case. He got the Volga region. He joined the convention beside himself with anger.
I will go,” he shouted, “but I warn you: if they treat me badly, I will violate the convention, I will cross the border!”
Balaganov, who got the golden Arbatovsky plot, was alarmed and then declared that he would not tolerate violations of operational standards.
One way or another, the matter was streamlined, after which thirty sons and four daughters of Lieutenant Schmidt went to their areas to work.
And now, Bender, you yourself saw how this bastard violated the convention, - Shura Balaganov finished his story. - He crawled on my site for a long time, but I still could not catch him.
Contrary to the narrator's expectation, Panikovsky's bad deed did not evoke condemnation from Ostap. Bender lounged back in his chair, casually looking ahead.
Trees were painted on the high back wall of the restaurant garden, leafy and even, like a picture in a reader. There were no real trees in the garden, but the shadow falling from the wall gave a life-giving coolness and completely satisfied the citizens. Citizens were, apparently, without exception members of the union, because they drank only beer and did not even have a snack.
A green car drove up to the gates of the garden, continuously gasping and shooting, on the door of which a white arched inscription was displayed: “Oh, I’ll give it a ride!” Below were the conditions for walking in a cheerful car. Three rubles per hour. For the end, by agreement. There were no passengers in the car.
The gardeners whispered anxiously. For about five minutes the chauffeur looked pleadingly through the garden grate and, apparently losing hope of getting a passenger, shouted defiantly:
Taxi is free! Please sit down! But none of the citizens expressed a desire to get into the car “Oh, I’ll give it a ride!” And even the very invitation of the driver had an effect on them in a strange way. They lowered their heads and tried not to look in the direction of the car. The driver shook his head and drove off slowly. The Arbatovites looked after him sadly. Five minutes later the green car sped past the garden in the opposite direction. The driver was jumping up and down in his seat and shouting something unintelligible. The car was still empty. Ostap looked after her and said:
So. Balaganov, you dude. Don't be offended. By this I want to indicate precisely the place that you occupy under the sun.
Go to hell! Balaganov said rudely.
Are you still offended? So, in your opinion, the position of a lieutenant's son is not foppery?
But you yourself are the son of Lieutenant Schmidt! cried Balaganov.
You are a dude, - repeated Ostap. - And the dude's son. And your children will be dudes. Boy! What happened this morning is not even an episode, but just a pure coincidence, a whim of an artist. Gentleman in search of ten. Catching such meager odds is not in my nature. And what kind of profession is this, God forgive me! Lieutenant Schmidt's son! Well, another year, well, two. And then what? Further, your red curls become familiar, and they will simply start beating you.
So what to do? Balaganov got worried. - How to get daily bread?
You have to think,” said Ostap sternly. - I, for example, feed ideas. I do not hold out my paw for the sour executive committee ruble. My basting is wider. You, I see, disinterestedly love money. What amount do you like?
Five thousand, - quickly answered Balaganov.
Per month?
Then I'm out of my way with you. I need five hundred thousand. And whenever possible at once, but not in parts.
Maybe take it in parts? - asked the vengeful Balaganov.
Ostap looked attentively at his interlocutor and quite seriously replied:
I would take parts. But I need it right now. Balaganov was about to make a joke about this phrase as well, but, raising his eyes to Ostap, he immediately broke off. In front of him sat an athlete with an exact face, as if stamped on a coin. A brittle white scar cut his swarthy throat. His eyes sparkled with formidable amusement.
Balaganov suddenly felt an irresistible desire to stretch his arms at his sides. He even wanted to clear his throat, as happens with people of average responsibility when talking with one of their superior comrades. Indeed, clearing his throat, he asked in embarrassment:
Why do you need so much money ... and immediately?
Actually, I need more, - said Ostap, - five hundred thousand - this is my minimum, five hundred thousand full-weight approximate rubles. I want to leave, Comrade Shura, to go very far, to Rio de Janeiro.
Do you have relatives there? Balaganov asked.
But what, do I look like a person who can have relatives?
No, but I...
I have no relatives, Comrade Shura, I am alone in the whole world. I had a father, a Turkish subject, and he died long ago in terrible convulsions. Not in this case. I have wanted to go to Rio de Janeiro since childhood. Of course, you do not know about the existence of this city.
Balaganov shook his head mournfully. Of the world centers of culture, besides Moscow, he knew only Kyiv, Melitopol and Zhmerinka. In general, he was convinced that the earth was flat.
Ostap threw on the table a sheet torn from a book.
This is a clipping from the Small Soviet Encyclopedia. Here is what is written about Rio de Janeiro: “1360 thousand inhabitants…” so… “a significant number of mulattos… near the vast bay of the Atlantic Ocean…” Here, here! "The main streets of the city in terms of the wealth of shops and the splendor of buildings are not inferior to the first cities in the world." Can you imagine, Shura? Do not yield! Mulattos, the bay, coffee exports, so to speak, coffee dumping, Charleston called "My girl has one little thing" and ... what to talk about! You see for yourself what is happening. One and a half million people, and all without exception in white pants. I want to leave here. Over the past year, I have had the most serious disagreements with the Soviet government. She wants to build socialism, but I don't want to. I'm bored with building socialism. Now you understand why I need so much money?
Where will you get five hundred thousand? Balaganov asked quietly.
Anywhere, - answered Ostap. - Show me only a rich man, and I will take his money.
How? Murder? - Balaganov asked even more quietly and glanced at the neighboring tables, where the Arbatovites were raising toasty wine glasses.
You know, - said Ostap, - you shouldn't have signed the so-called Sukharev Convention. This mental exercise seems to have exhausted you greatly. You are becoming stupid right before your eyes. Note to yourself, Ostap Bender never killed anyone. He was killed - it was. But he himself is clean before the law. I am certainly not a cherub. I don't have wings, but I respect the Criminal Code. This is my weakness.
How are you going to take the money?
How can I take away? Taking or withdrawing money varies depending on the circumstances. I personally have four hundred comparatively honest methods of weaning. But it's not about the methods. The fact is that now there are no rich people, And this is the horror of my position. Another would, of course, pounce on some defenseless state institution, but this is not in my rules. You know my respect for the Criminal Code. There is no calculation to rob the team. Give me a richer individual. But he is not, this individual.
Yes you! Balaganov exclaimed. - There are very rich people.
Do you know them? Ostap said immediately. - Can you give the name and exact address of at least one Soviet millionaire? But they are, they should be. Since some banknotes are roaming around the country, then there must be people who have a lot of them. But how do you find such a trickster?
Ostap even sighed. Apparently, dreams of a rich individual had long worried him.
How nice, - he said thoughtfully, - to work with a legal millionaire in a well-organized bourgeois state with old capitalist traditions. There the millionaire is a popular figure. His address is known. He lives In a mansion somewhere in Rio de Janeiro. You go straight to his reception and already in the hall, after the very first greetings, you take money away. And all this, keep in mind, in a good way, politely: “Hello, sir, do not worry. You have to worry a little. All-right. Ready". And that's it. Culture! What could be easier? A gentleman in a society of gentlemen does his little business. Just don't shoot at the chandelier, it's superfluous. And we have ... God, God! .. In what a cold country we live! We have everything hidden, everything is underground. The Soviet millionaire cannot be found even by the Narkomfin with its super-powerful tax apparatus. And the millionaire, perhaps, is now sitting in this so-called summer garden at the next table and drinking forty-kopeck Tip-Top beer. That's what's embarrassing!
So, you think, - asked Balaganov ceiling, - what if there was such a secret millionaire, then? ...
Don't go on. I know what you want to say. No, not that, not at all. I will not choke him with a pillow or hit him on the head with a blued revolver. And in general, nothing stupid will happen. Oh, if only to find an individual! I'll arrange it in such a way that he will bring me his money himself, on a silver platter.
This is very good. Balaganov smiled trustingly. - Five hundred thousand on a silver platter.
He got up and began to circle around the table. He smacked his tongue plaintively, stopped, even opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but, without saying anything, sat down and got up again. Ostap indifferently followed Balaganov's evolutions.
Will he bring it? Balaganov suddenly asked in a raspy voice. - On a saucer? What if it doesn't? Where is Rio de Janeiro? Far? It can't be that everyone is wearing white pants. Come on, Bender. For five hundred thousand, you can live well with us.
Undoubtedly, unquestionably,” Ostap said cheerfully, “it is possible to live. But you don't flap your wings for no reason. You don't have five hundred thousand.
A deep wrinkle appeared on Balaganov's serene, unplowed forehead. He looked uncertainly at Ostap and said:
I know such a millionaire. All animation disappeared from Bender's face in an instant. His face immediately hardened and again took on a medal shape.
Go, go, - he said, - I serve only on Saturdays, there is nothing to pour here.
Honestly, Monsieur Bender...
Listen, Shura, if you have finally switched to French, then call me not monsieur, but situationyen, which means citizen. By the way, the address of your millionaire?
He lives in Chernomorsk.
Well, of course he knew it. Chernomorsk! There, even before the war, a man with ten thousand was called a millionaire. And now… I can imagine! No, it's nonsense!
No, let me tell. This is a real millionaire. You see, Bender, it happened to me recently to sit in the detention center there ...
Ten minutes later, the dairy brothers left the summer cooperative garden with beer. The great strategist felt himself in the position of a surgeon who had to perform a very serious operation. All is ready. Napkins and bandages are steamed in electric saucepans, a nurse in a white toga moves inaudibly across the tiled floor, medical faience and nickel shine, the patient lies on a glass table, rolling his eyes languidly to the ceiling, the smell of German chewing gum wafts in the specially heated air. The surgeon, arms outstretched, approaches the operating table, accepts a sterilized Finnish knife from the assistant, and dryly says to the patient: "Well, take off the burnus."
It’s always like this with me,” Bender said, his eyes shining, “you have to start a million dollar business with a noticeable shortage of banknotes. All my capital, fixed, circulating and reserve, is estimated at five rubles .. - What, you said, was the name of the underground millionaire?
Koreiko, - Balaganov answered.
Yes, yes, Koreiko. Great last name. And you claim that no one knows about his millions.
Nobody but me and Pruzhansky. But Pruzhansky, as I told you, will be in prison for another three years. If only you could see how he was dying and crying when I went out into the wild. He apparently felt that I did not need to tell about Koreiko.
That he revealed his secret to you is nonsense. Not because of this he was killed and cried. He probably had a presentiment that you would tell the whole story to me. And this is really a direct loss for poor Pruzhansky. By the time Pruzhansky is released from prison, Koreiko will find solace only in the vulgar proverb: "Poverty is not a vice."
Ostap threw off his summer cap and, waving it in the air, asked:
Do I have gray hair?
Balaganov drew up his stomach, spread his socks to the width of a rifle butt, and answered in a right-flank voice:
No way!
So they will. We have great battles ahead of us. You will also turn gray, Balaganov. Balaganov suddenly giggled stupidly:
How do you say? Will he bring the money on a silver platter?
On a silver platter for me, - said Ostap, - and on a plate for you.
But what about Rio de Janeiro? I want white pants too.
Rio de Janeiro is the crystal dream of my childhood, - the great strategist answered sternly, - do not touch it with your paws. Get to the point. Send linemen at my disposal. Parts to arrive in the city of Chernomorsk as soon as possible. Guard uniform. Well, trumpet the march! I will lead the parade!
