Читать книгу The Golden Calf - Илья Ильф - Страница 11

The Thirty Sons of

Lieutenant Schmidt

The eventful morning came to an end. Without discussion, Bender and Balaganov walked briskly away from the city hall. A long, dark-blue steel rail was being carried down the main street in an open peasant cart. The street was ringing and singing, as if the peasant in rough fisherman’s clothes was carrying a giant tuning fork rather than a rail. The sun beat down on the display in the window of the visual aids store, where two skeletons stood in a friendly embrace amidst globes, skulls, and the cheerfully painted cardboard liver of an alcoholic. The modest window of the sign shop was largely filled with glazed metal signs that read closed for lunch, lunch break 2-3 p.m., closed for lunch break, closed, store closed, and, finally, a massive black board with closed for inventory in gold lettering. Apparently these blunt statements were particularly popular in the town of Arbatov. All other eventualities were covered with a single blue sign, attendant on duty.

Farther down, three stores—selling wind instruments, mandolins, and bass balalaikas—stood together. Brass trumpets shone immodestly from display stands covered with red fabric. The tuba was particularly impressive. It looked so powerful, and lay coiled in the sun so lazily, that one couldn’t help thinking its proper place was not in a window but in a big city zoo, somewhere between the elephant and the boa constrictor. On their days off, parents would bring their kids to see it and would say: “Look, honey, this is the tuba section. The tuba is now asleep. But when it wakes up, it will definitely start trumpeting.” And the kids would stare at the remarkable instrument with their large wondrous eyes.

Under different circumstances, Ostap Bender would have noticed the freshly hewn, log cabin-sized balalaikas, the phonograph records warping in the heat, and the children’s marching band drums, whose dashing color schemes suggested that providence is always on the side of the big battalions. This time, however, he was preoccupied with something else. He was hungry.

“I gather you’re on the verge of a financial abyss?” he asked Balaganov.

“You mean money?” replied Shura. “I haven’t had any for a week now.”

“In that case, I’d worry about your future, young man,” said Ostap didactically. “The financial abyss is the deepest of them all, and you can be falling into it all your life. Oh well, cheer up. After all, I captured three meal vouchers in my beak. The chairman fell in love with me at first sight.”

Alas, the freshly minted brothers did not get to benefit from the kindness of the city father. The doors of the Former Friend of the Stomach diner sported a large hanging lock that was covered with what looked like either rust or cooked buckwheat.

“Of course,” said Ostap bitterly, “the diner is closed forever—they’re inventorying the schnitzel. We are forced to submit our bodies to the ravages of the private sector.”

“The private sector prefers cash,” reminded Balaganov gloomily.

“Well, I won’t torture you any more. The chairman showered me with gold—eight rubles. But keep in mind, dearest Shura, that I have no intention of nourishing you for free. For every vitamin I feed you, I will demand numerous small favors in return.”

But since there was no private sector in town, the brothers ended up eating at a cooperative summer garden, where special posters informed the customers of Arbatov’s newest contribution to public dining:

“We’ll settle for kvass,” said Balaganov.

“Especially considering that the local kvass is produced by a group of private artisans who are friendly with the Soviet regime,” added Ostap. “Now tell me what exactly this devil Panikovsky did wrong. I love stories of petty thievery.”

Satiated, Balaganov looked at his rescuer with gratitude and began the story. It took a good two hours to tell and was full of exceptionally interesting details.

In all fields of human endeavor, the supply and demand of labor is regulated by specialized bodies. A theater actor will move to the city of Omsk only if he knows for sure that he need not worry about competition—namely, that there are no other candidates for his recurring role as the indifferent lover or the servant who announces that dinner is ready. Railroad employees are taken care of by their own unions, who helpfully put notices in the papers to the effect that unemployed baggage handlers cannot count on getting work on the Syzran-Vyazma Line or that the Central Asian Line is seeking four crossing guards. A commodities expert places an ad in the paper, and then the entire country learns that there is a commodities expert with ten years’ experience who wishes to move from Moscow to the provinces for family reasons.

Everything is regulated, everything flows along clear channels and comes full circle in compliance with the law and under its protection.

And only one particular market was in a state of chaos—that of con artists claiming to be the children of Lieutenant Schmidt. Anarchy ravaged the ranks of the Lieutenant’s offspring. Their trade was not producing all the potential gains that should have been virtually assured by brief encounters with government officials, municipal administrators, and community activists—for the most part an extremely gullible bunch.

Fake grandchildren of Karl Marx, non-existent nephews of Friedrich Engels, brothers of the Education Commissar Lunacharsky, cousins of the revolutionary Klara Zetkin, or, in the worst case, the descendants of that famous anarchist, Prince Kropotkin, had been extorting and begging all across the country.

From Minsk to the Bering Strait and from the Turkish border to the Arctic shores, relatives of famous persons enter local councils, get off trains, and anxiously ride in cabs. They are in a hurry. They have a lot to do.

At some point, however, the supply of relatives exceeded the demand, and this peculiar market was hit by a recession. Reform was needed. Little by little, order was established among the grandchildren of Karl Marx, the Kropotkins, the Engelses, and others. The only exception was the unruly guild of Lieutenant Schmidt’s children, which, like the Polish parliament, was always torn by anarchy. For some reason, the children were all difficult, rude, greedy, and kept spoiling the fruits of each other’s labors.

Shura Balaganov, who considered himself the Lieutenant’s firstborn, grew very concerned about market conditions. More and more often he was bumping into fellow guild members who had completely ruined the bountiful fields of Ukraine and the vacation peaks of the Caucasus, places that used to be quite lucrative for him.

“And you couldn’t handle the growing difficulties?” asked Ostap teasingly.

But Balaganov didn’t notice the irony. Sipping the purple kvass, he went on with his story.

The only solution to this tense situation was to hold a conference. Balaganov spent the whole winter organizing it. He wrote to the competitors he knew personally. Those he didn’t know received invitations through the grandsons of Karl Marx whom he bumped into on occasion. And finally, in the early spring of 1928, nearly all the known children of Lieutenant Schmidt assembled in a tavern in Moscow, near the Sukharev Tower. The gathering was impressive. Lieutenant Schmidt, as it turned out, had thirty sons, who ranged in age between eighteen and fifty-two, and four daughters, none of them smart, young, or pretty.

In a brief keynote address, Balaganov expressed hope that the brothers would at last come to an understanding and conclude a pact, the necessity of which was dictated by life itself.

According to Balaganov’s plan, the entire Soviet Union was to be divided into thirty-four operational areas, one for everyone present. Each child would be assigned a territory on a long-term basis. All guild members would be prohibited from crossing the boundaries and trespassing into someone else’s territory for the purpose of earning a living.

Nobody objected to the new work rules except Panikovsky, who declared early on that he would do perfectly well without any pacts. The division of the country was accompanied by some very ugly scenes, however. All parties to the treaty immediately started fighting and began addressing one another exclusively with rude epithets.

The bone of contention was the assignment of the territories.

Nobody wanted large cities with universities. Nobody cared for Moscow, Leningrad, and Kharkov—these cities had seen it all. To a person, they refused the Republic of the Volga Germans.

“Why, is that such a bad republic?” asked Balaganov innocently. “I think it’s a good place. As civilized people, the Germans cannot refuse to help out.”

“Oh, come on!” yelled the agitated children. “Try to get anything out of those Germans!”

Apparently, quite a few of them had been thrown into jail by distrustful German colonists.

The distant Central Asian regions, buried in the desert sand, had a very bad reputation as well. They were accused of being unfamiliar with the person of Lieutenant Schmidt.

“You think I’m stupid!” shrieked Panikovsky. “Give me Central Russia, then I’ll sign the pact.”

“What? The entire Center?” mocked Balaganov. “Would you also like Melitopol on top of that? Or Bobruisk?”

At the word Bobruisk, the children moaned painfully. Everyone was prepared to go to Bobruisk immediately. Bobruisk was considered a wonderful, highly civilized place.

“Fine, not the whole Center,” the greedy Panikovsky kept insisting, “give me half. After all, I am a family man, I have two families.”

But he didn’t get even half.

After much commotion, it was decided to assign the areas by drawing lots. Thirty-four slips of paper were cut up, and each had a geographical name written on it. Lucrative Kursk and questionable Kherson, barely touched Minusinsk and nearly hopeless Ashkhabad, Kiev, Petrozavodsk, Chita—all the republics and regions lay in somebody’s rabbit-fur hat waiting for their masters.

The drawing was accompanied by cheers, suppressed moans, and swearing.

Panikovsky’s unlucky star played a role in the outcome. He ended up with the barren republic of the vindictive Volga Germans. He joined the pact, but he was mad as hell.

“I’ll go,” he yelled, “but I’m warning you: if they don’t treat me well, I’ll violate the pact, I’ll trespass!”

Balaganov, who drew the golden Arbatov territory, became alarmed. He declared then and there that he would not tolerate any violations of the operational guidelines.

Either way, order was established, and the thirty sons and four daughters of Lieutenant Schmidt headed for their areas of operation.

“And now, Bender, you just saw for yourself how that bastard broke the pact,” said Shura Balaganov, concluding the story. “He’s been creeping around my territory for a while, I just couldn’t catch him.”

Against Shura’s expectations, Ostap did not condemn Panikovsky’s infraction. Bender was leaning back in his chair and staring absentmindedly into the distance.

The back wall of the restaurant garden was high and painted with pictures of trees, symmetrical and full of leaves, like in a school reader. There were no real trees in the garden, but the shade of the wall provided a refreshing coolness which satisfied the customers. Apparently, they were all union members, since they were drinking nothing but beer—without any snacks.

A bright green car drove up to the gate of the garden, gasping and backfiring incessantly. There was a white semi-circular sign on its door which read let’s ride! Below the sign were the rates for trips in this cheerful vehicle. Three rubles per hour. One-way fares by arrangement. There were no passengers in the car.

The customers started nervously whispering to each other. For about five minutes, the driver stared pleadingly through the latticed fence of the garden. Apparently losing hope of getting any passengers, he dared them:

“The taxi is free! Please get in!”

But nobody showed any desire to get into the let’s ride! car. Even the invitation itself had the most peculiar effect on people. They hung their heads and tried not to look towards the car. The driver shook his head and slowly drove off. The citizens of Arbatov followed him glumly with their eyes. Five minutes later, the green vehicle whizzed by in the opposite direction at top speed. The driver was bouncing up and down in his seat and shouting something unintelligible. There were still no passengers. Ostap followed it with his eyes and said:

“Well, let me tell you, Balaganov, you are a loser. Don’t be offended. I’m just trying to point out your exact position in the grand scheme of things.”

“Go to hell!” said Balaganov rudely.

“So you took offense anyway? Do you really think that being the Lieutenant’s son doesn’t make you a loser?”

“But you are a son of Lieutenant Schmidt yourself!” exclaimed Balaganov.

“You are a loser,” repeated Ostap. “Son of a loser. Your children will be losers, too. Look, kiddo. What happened this morning was not even a phase, it was nothing, a pure accident, an artist’s whim. A gentleman in search of pocket money. It’s not in my nature to fish for such a miserable rate of return. And what kind of a trade is that, for God’s sake! Son of Lieutenant Schmidt! Well, maybe another year, maybe two. And then what? Your red locks will grow familiar, and they’ll simply start beating you up.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” asked Balaganov, alarmed. “How am I supposed to win my daily bread?”

“You have to think,” said Ostap sternly. “I, for one, live off ideas. I don’t beg for a lousy ruble from the city hall. My horizons are broader. I see that you love money selflessly. Tell me, what amount appeals to you?”

“Five thousand,” answered Balaganov quickly.

“Per month?”

“Per year.”

“In that case, we have nothing to talk about. I need five hundred thousand. A lump sum preferably, not in installments.”

“Would you accept installments, if you had to?” asked Balaganov vindictively.

Ostap looked back at him closely and replied with complete seriousness: “I would. But I need a lump sum.”

Balaganov was about to crack a joke about this as well, but then raised his eyes to look at Ostap and thought better of it. In front of him was an athlete with a profile that could be minted on a coin. A thin white scar ran across his dark-skinned throat. His playful eyes sparkled with determination.

Balaganov suddenly felt an irresistible urge to stand at attention. He even wanted to clear his throat, which is what happens to people in positions of moderate responsibility when they talk to a person of much higher standing. He did indeed clear his throat and asked meekly:

“What do you need so much money for . . . and all at once?”

“Actually, I need more than that,” said Ostap, “Five hundred thousand is an absolute minimum. Five hundred thousand fully convertible rubles. I want to go away, Comrade Shura, far, far away. To Rio de Janeiro.”

“Do you have relatives down there?” asked Balaganov.

“Do you think I look like a man who could possibly have relatives?”

“No, but I thought . . .”

“I don’t have any relatives, Comrade Shura, I’m alone in this world. I had a father, a Turkish subject, but he died a long time ago in terrible convulsions. That’s not the point. I’ve wanted to go to Rio de Janeiro since I was a child. I’m sure you’ve never heard of that city.”

Balaganov shook his head apologetically. The only centers of world culture he knew other than Moscow were Kiev, Melitopol, and Zhmerinka. Anyway, he was convinced that the earth was flat.

Ostap threw a page torn from a book onto the table.

“This is from The Concise Soviet Encyclopedia. Here’s what it says about Rio de Janeiro: ‘Population 1,360,000 . . .’ all right . . . ‘. . . substantial Mulatto population . . . on a large bay of the Atlantic Ocean . . .’ Ah, there! ‘Lined with lavish stores and stunning buildings, the city’s main streets rival those of the most important cities in the world.’ Can you imagine that, Shura? Rival! The mulattos, the bay, coffee export, coffee dumping, if you will, the charleston called ‘My Little Girl Got a Little Thing,’ and . . . Oh well, what can I say? You understand what’s going on here. A million and a half people, all of them wearing white pants, without exception. I want to get out of here. During the past year, I have developed very serious differences with the Soviet regime. The regime wants to build socialism, and I don’t. I find it boring. Do you understand now why I need so much money?”

“Where are you going to get five hundred thousand?” asked Balaganov in a low voice.

“Anywhere,” answered Ostap. “Just show me a rich person, and I’ll take his money from him.”

“What? Murder?” asked Balaganov in an even lower voice, quickly glancing at the nearby tables, where the citizens of Arbatov were raising their glasses to each other’s health.

“You know what,” said Ostap, “you shouldn’t have signed the so-called Sukharev Pact. This intellectual effort apparently left you mentally exhausted. You’re getting dumber by the minute. Remember, Ostap Bender has never killed anybody. Others tried to kill him, that’s true. But he is clean before the law. I’m no angel, of course. I don’t have wings, but I do revere the criminal code. That’s my weakness, if you will.”

“Then how are you going to take somebody else’s money?”

“How am I going to take it? The method of swiping money varies, depending on the circumstances. I personally know four hundred relatively honest methods of taking money. That’s not a problem. The problem is that there are no rich people these days. That’s what’s really frustrating. Of course, somebody else might simply go after a defenseless state institution, but that’s against my rules. You already know how I feel about the criminal code. It’s not a good idea to rob a collective. Just show me a wealthy individual instead. But that individual doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Balaganov. “There are some very rich people out there.”

“Do you know people like that?” asked Ostap quickly. “Can you give me the name and exact address of at least one Soviet millionaire? Yet they do exist, they gotta exist. As long as monetary instruments are circulating within the country, there must be people who have a lot of them. But how do you find such a fox?”

Ostap sighed heavily. He must have been dreaming of finding a wealthy individual for quite some time.

“It is so nice,” he said pensively, “to work with a legal millionaire in a properly functioning capitalist country with long established bourgeois traditions. In such places, a millionaire is a well-known figure. His address is common knowledge. He lives in a mansion somewhere in Rio de Janeiro. You go to see him in his office and you take his money without even having to go past the front hall, right after greeting him. And on top of that, you do it nicely and politely: “Hello, Sir, please don’t worry. I’m going to have to bother you a bit. All right. Done.” That’s it. That’s civilization for you! What could be simpler? A gentleman in the company of gentlemen takes care of a bit of business. Just don’t shoot up the chandelier, there’s no need for that. And here . . . my God! This is such a cold country. Everything is hidden, everything is underground. Even the Commissariat of Finance, with its mighty fiscal apparatus, cannot find a Soviet millionaire. A millionaire may very well be sitting at the next table in this so-called summer garden, drinking forty-kopeck Tip-Top beer. That’s what really upsets me!”

“Does that mean,” Balaganov asked after a pause, “that if you could find such a secret millionaire, then . . .?”

“Hold it right there. I know what you’re going to say. No, it’s not what you think, not at all. I won’t try to choke him with a pillow or pistol-whip him. None of that silliness. Oh, if only I could find a millionaire! I’ll make sure he’ll bring me the money himself, on a platter with a blue rim.”

“That sounds really good,” chuckled Balaganov simple-heartedly. “Five hundred thousand on a platter with a blue rim.”

Balaganov got up and started circling the table. He smacked his lips plaintively, stopped, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, sat down without uttering a word, and then got up again. Ostap watched his routine nonchalantly.

“So he’d bring it himself?” asked Balaganov suddenly in a raspy voice. “On a platter? And if he doesn’t? Where is that Rio de Janeiro? Far away? I don’t believe that every single man there wears white pants. Forget it, Bender. With five hundred thousand one can live a good life even here.”

“Absolutely,” said Ostap smiling, “one certainly can. But don’t get worked up for no reason. You don’t have the five hundred thousand, do you?”

A deep wrinkle appeared on Balaganov’s smooth, virginal forehead. He looked at Ostap uncertainly and said slowly:

“I know a millionaire.”

Bender lost his lively expression immediately; his face turned harsh and began to resemble the profile on a coin again.

“Go away,” he said, “I give to charity only on Saturdays. Don’t pull my leg.”

“I give you my word, Monsieur Bender . . .”

“Listen, Shura, if you insist on switching to French, please call me citoyen, not monsieur. It means citizen. And what, incidentally, is this millionaire’s address?”

“He lives in Chernomorsk.”

“Of course, I knew that. Chernomorsk! Down there, even before the war, a man with ten thousand rubles was called a millionaire. And now . . . I can imagine! No, I’m sure this is pure nonsense!”

“Wait, just let me finish. He’s a real millionaire. You see, Bender, I was in their detention center recently . . .”

Ten minutes later, the half-brothers left the cooperative beer garden. The grand strategist felt like a surgeon who is about to perform a rather serious operation. Everything is ready. Gauze and bandages are steaming in the electric sterilizers, a nurse in a white toga moves silently across the tiled floor, the medical glass and nickel shine brightly. The patient lies languorously on a glass table, staring at the ceiling. The heated air smells like German chewing gum. The surgeon, his arms spread wide, approaches the operating table, accepts a sharp sterilized dagger from an assistant, and says to the patient dryly: “Allrighty, take off your nightie.”

“It’s always like this with me,” said Bender, his eyes shining, “I have to start a project worth a million while I’m noticeably short of monetary instruments. My entire capital—fixed, working, and reserve—amounts to five rubles . . . What did you say the name of that underground millionaire was?”

“Koreiko,” said Balaganov.

“Oh yes, Koreiko. A very good name. Are you sure nobody knows about his millions?”

“Nobody except me and Pruzhansky. But I already told you that Pruzhansky will be in prison for about three more years. If you could only see how he moaned and groaned when I was about to be released. He probably had a hunch that he shouldn’t have told me about Koreiko.”

“The fact that he disclosed his secret to you was no big deal. That’s not why he moaned and groaned. He must have had a premonition that you would tell the whole story to me. That is indeed a big loss for poor Pruzhansky. By the time he gets out of prison, Koreiko’s only consolation will be the cliché that there’s no shame in poverty.”

Ostap took off his summer cap, waved it in the air, and asked:

“Do I have any gray hair?”

Balaganov sucked in his stomach, spread his feet to the width of a rifle butt, and boomed like a soldier:

“No, Sir!”

“I will. Great battles await us. Your hair, Balaganov, will turn gray too.”

Balaganov suddenly giggled childishly:

“How did you put it? He’ll bring the money himself on a platter with a blue rim?”

“A platter for me,” said Ostap, “and a small plate for you.”

“But what about Rio de Janeiro? I want white pants too.”

“Rio de Janeiro is the cherished dream of my youth,” said the grand strategist seriously, “keep your paws off it. Now back to business. Send the forward guards to my command. Troops are to report to the city of Chernomorsk ASAP. Full dress uniform. Start the music! I am commanding the parade!”