The Golden Calf. Илья Ильф

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