by Ilya Ilf
The next set was ordered to meet the internal needs of the Hercules.
ASK IMPALA MIKHAILOVNA. POLYKHAEV
GIVE ME A BREAK. POLYKHAEV
EASY DOES IT. POLYKHAEV
GO TO HELL! POLYKHAEV
Naturally, the director’s creative thinking went beyond strictly administrative matters. As a man of broad vision, he simply couldn’t ignore the political issues of the day. And so he ordered an extraordinary universal stamp that took him several days to develop. It was a magnificent rubber creation, which Polykhaev could apply in every eventuality. Not only did it enable him to react to events expeditiously, it also relieved him of the need to think long and hard each time. The handy stamp was designed so that he only needed to fill out the blank space in order to produce a timely and appropriate resolution:
IN RESPONSE TO ,
WE THE HERCULEANS, TO A PERSON, WILL RESPOND BY:
A) IMPROVING THE QUALITY OF OUR BUSINESS CORRESPONDENCE;
B) INCREASING OUR PRODUCTIVITY;
C) INTENSIFYING THE FIGHT AGAINST RED TAPE, OBSTRUCTIONISM, NEPOTISM, AND SYCOPHANCY;
D) DOING AWAY WITH ABSENTEEISM AND BIRTHDAY PARTIES;
E) REDUCING EXPENDITURES ON CALENDARS AND PORTRAITS;
F) STEPPING UP UNION ACTIVITIES;
G) CEASING TO CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS, EASTER, WHIT MONDAY, ANNUNCIATION, EPIPHANY, KURBAN-BAIRAM, YOM KIPPUR, RAMADAN, PURIM, AND OTHER RELIGIOUS HOLIDAYS;
H) RELENTLESSLY FIGHTING AGAINST MISMANAGEMENT, HOOLIGANISM, ALCOHOLISM, AVOIDANCE OF RESPONSIBILITY, SPINELESSNESS, AND ANTI-MARXIST DISTORTIONS;
I) JOINING, TO A MAN, THE SOCIETY AGAINST CONVENTION ON THE OPERA STAGE;
J) SWITCHING ENTIRELY TO SOYBEANS;
K) TRANSFERRING ALL PAPERWORK TO THE ROMAN ALPHABET;
AS WELL AS ANYTHING THAT MAY BE NECESSARY HENCEFORTH.
The blank space was filled out by Polykhaev himself, as needed, depending on the situation at hand.
Little by little, Polykhaev grew very fond of his universal resolution and applied it with ever-increasing frequency. In the end, he started using it to respond to the various abuses, machinations, intrigues, and outrages committed by his own employees.
For example:
IN RESPONSE TO the brazen outrage by the bookkeeper Kukushkind, who demanded overtime pay, WE THE HERCULEANS . . .
Or:
IN RESPONSE TO the ghastly machinations and disgraceful intrigues by the staff member Borisokhlebsky, who requested an unscheduled vacation, WE THE HERCULEANS . . .”—and so on and so forth.
Each situation had to be immediately responded to by improving, increasing, intensifying, doing away with, reducing, stepping up, ceasing, relentlessly fighting, joining, switching, transferring, as well as anything that may be necessary henceforth.
And only after castigating Kukushkind or Borisokhlebsky in this manner would the director apply a shorter stamp: ISSUE A WARNING. POLYKHAEV or ASSIGN TO A REMOTE LOCATION. POLYKHAEV.
Upon their first encounter with the rubber resolution, some of the Herculeans became concerned. The long list of action items made them nervous. They were particularly troubled by the Roman alphabet and the need to join the Society Against Convention on the Opera Stage. But everything worked out just fine. Of course, Sardinevich went out of his way and organized a club named “Down With the Queen of Spades!” in addition to a branch of the above-mentioned society, but that was the end of it.
As the fan-like hum of voices continued behind Polykhaev’s door, Impala Mikhailovna got down to work. The stamps on the stand were arranged by size—from the smallest one, AGREED. POLYKHAEV, to the grandest, universal one—and the stand itself resembled an elaborate musical instrument in the circus, the one on which the white clown with the sun painted on his lower back plays Braga’s Serenade with sticks. The secretary would select a stamp with a more or less appropriate response and apply it to the document at hand. She made particularly good use of the cautious stamp, EASY DOES IT, remembering that this was the director’s favorite.
The work went smoothly. The stamp was a perfect substitute for the man. Polykhaev in rubber was just as good as Polykhaev in person.
The Hercules had already emptied out, and only the barefoot cleaning ladies with their dirty buckets were walking around the hallways; the last typist, who had stayed on for an hour after work in order to copy Sergey Yesenin’s lines for herself —AS I LAY DOWN THE GILDED RUGS OF POEMS, I WISH TO TELL YOU WORDS OF TENDER LOVE—had already left; and Impala Mikhailovna, who had grown tired of waiting, had already gotten up and started massaging her eyelids with her cold fingers—when the door to Polykhaev’s office shuddered, then opened, and Ostap Bender slowly came out. He looked past Impala Mikhailovna and walked away, waving a yellow folder with shoelace straps. Polykhaev was next to emerge from the cool shadows of the palms and ficus. Impala looked at her powerful friend and sunk silently onto the square pad that covered the hard seat of her chair. Thank God the other employees were already gone and couldn’t see their boss at that moment. A diamond tear sat in his mustache, like a little bird in a tree. Polykhaev blinked incredibly quickly and rubbed his hands vigorously, as if he was trying to make fire by friction, like a native of Oceania. He ran after Ostap, smiling pitifully and stooping forward.
“So what’s going to happen now?” he mumbled, rushing ahead of Ostap from one side, then from the other. “I’m not going down, am I? I’m begging you, please, please tell me, I’m not going down? I don’t have to worry, do I?”
He was about to add that he had a wife and kids, and Impala and kids by her, and kids by yet another woman in Rostov-on-the-Don, but something squeaked in his throat, and he didn’t say anything.
With tearful howls, he followed Ostap all the way to the entrance. The building was deserted, and they came across only two other people on the way. Yegor Sardinevich stood at the end of the hallway. Seeing the grand strategist, he clapped his hand over his mouth and stepped back into a niche. Down below, in the stairwell, Berlaga was peeking out from behind the marble woman with the electric torch. He bowed to Ostap slavishly and even uttered “How do you do?”, but Ostap ignored the Viceroy’s greetings.
When they reached the door, Polykhaev grabbed Ostap’s sleeve and murmured:
“I told you everything. Honest! I don’t have to worry, right? Do I?”
“Only an insurance policy will make your life completely worry-free,” replied Ostap without slowing down. “Any life insurance agent will tell you that. Personally, I have no need for you any more. The authorities, on the other hand, may develop an interest in you fairly soon.”
CHAPTER 20
THE CAPTAIN
DANCES A TANGO
Balaganov and Panikovsky sat at a white table in a small refreshment bar whose sign was adorned with crudely painted blue siphons. The Vice President for Hoofs was munching on a long cream-filled pastry, making sure that the cream didn’t escape from the other end. He was chasing down this heavenly chow with seltzer water flavored with a green syrup called Fresh Hay. The messenger was drinking healthful kefir. Six little bottles already stood empty in front of him, and he was busily shaking the thick liquid into his glass from the seventh. In the morning, the new secretary had distributed the pay according to the list signed by Bender, and the pals were enjoying the cool breezes that were emanating from the Italian stone slabs of the bar, from the heavy metal icebox that was filled with moist feta cheese, from the darkened cylinders of fizzy water, and from the marble counter. A chunk of ice slid out of the ice box and sat on the floor, bleeding water. It was a pleasant sight compared to the exhausted appearance of the street, with its short shadows, people beaten down by the heat, and dogs dazed from thirst.
“Chernomorsk is such a nice city!” said Panikovsky, licking his lips. “Kefir is good for the heart.”
For some reason, Balaganov found this piece of information quite amusing. Laughing, the Vice President accidentally squashed his pastry, squeezing out a thick sausage-like link of
cream that he barely managed to catch in midair.
“You know, Shura,” continued Panikovsky, “somehow, I no longer trust Bender. I don’t think he’s doing the right thing.”
“Watch it!” said Balaganov menacingly. “Who cares what you think?”
“No, seriously. I have a lot of respect for Ostap Ibragimovich: what a man! Even Funt—and you know how much I respect Funt—even he said that Bender is a brain. But I have to tell you, Shura: Funt is an ass! He’s such a fool, I’m telling you! A wretched, miserable person, that’s all! Bender, I have nothing against him. But there’s something that just doesn’t feel right. I’ll tell you everything, Shura, like you were my brother.”
Nobody had spoken to Shura like a brother since his last chat with a police detective. That’s why he was pleased to hear the messenger’s words and carelessly allowed him to continue.
“You know, Shura,” said Panikovsky in a whisper, “I have a lot of respect for Bender, but I have to tell you: Bender is an ass! A wretched, miserable person, I swear!”
“Hey, watch it!” Balaganov warned him.
“Why are you saying that? Just think of what he’s wasting our money on. Think about it! What do we need this stupid office for? It costs a fortune! Funt alone gets 120. Then there’s the secretary! Then those two guys showed up and they got paid today, too. I saw it myself. They came from the employment agency! What’s the point of all this? He says: For legality. I don’t give a damn about legality if it costs us so much. How about those antlers? Sixty-five rubles! And that inkwell set! And all those hole binders!”
Panikovsky unbuttoned his shirt, and the fifty-kopeck dickey that was attached to his neck rolled up instantly, like a parchment scroll. But the violator of the pact was so worked up he didn’t even notice.
“Yes, Shura. You and I earn our miserly wages while he enjoys all the luxuries. Tell me, did he really have to go to the Caucasus? He says it was a business trip. Yeah, right! Panikovsky doesn’t have to believe everything they tell him! I was the one who went to buy the ticket for him. A first-class ticket, mind you! This fancy show-off can’t even take second class! That’s where our ten thousand is going! He makes long-distance phone calls, he sends urgent cables all over the world. Do you know how much an urgent cable costs? Forty kopecks per word. And I can’t even afford the kefir that I need for my health. I am a sick old man. I’ll tell you honestly: Bender is no brain.”
“Take it easy,” said Balaganov hesitantly. “Bender made a man out of you. Remember how you were running with that goose in Arbatov? And now you’re working, you’re getting paid, you’re a member of society.”
“I don’t want to be a member of society!” screamed Panikovsky. Then he added in a lower voice: “Your Bender is an idiot. He started this whole stupid investigation, while we can take the money right now, with our bare hands.”
At this point, the Vice President for Hoofs forgot about his beloved chief and moved his chair closer to Panikovsky. The latter, constantly pulling down his wayward dickey, apprised Balaganov of the important investigation which he himself had conducted at his own risk.
On the same day that the grand strategist and Balaganov were busy chasing Sardinevich, Panikovsky, without permission, left Funt alone in the office, snuck into Koreiko’s room in his absence, and searched it thoroughly. Naturally, he found no money, but he had discovered something even better—kettlebell weights. Huge black weights, probably fifty pounds each.
“To you, Shura, I’ll tell you like you were my brother. I solved the mystery of those weights.”
Panikovsky finally caught the wayward tail of his dickey, attached it to the button on his pants, and looked at Balaganov triumphantly.
“What mystery?” asked the disappointed Vice President for Hoofs. “They’re just regular weights for exercise, that’s all.”
“You know how much I respect you, Shura,” said Panikovsky, growing agitated, “but you’re an ass. These weights are made of gold! Don’t you get it? Pure gold! They’re fifty pounds each. One hundred pounds of pure gold. I figured it out right away, it’s like I was hit by lightning. I stood there in front of those weights and laughed like mad. That bastard Koreiko! He had those golden weights cast and painted black, and he thinks no one will ever find out!
“To you, Shura, I’ll tell you like you were my brother—you think I would have told you if I could carry them myself? But I’m a sick old man, and the weights are heavy. So I’m sharing this with you like you were my brother. I’m not like Bender. I’m honest!”
“But what if they’re not made of gold?” asked the Lieutenant’s favorite son, who badly wanted Panikovsky to dispel his doubts, the sooner the better.
“And what do you think they are made of?” asked the violator of the pact sarcastically.
“Yeah,” said Balaganov, blinking with his red eyelashes, “now I see. What do you know—an old man figured it all out! You’re right about Bender. He’s doing something wrong: writes all those papers, travels . . . We’ll give him his share, though, right? That’ll only be fair.”
“Why should we?” protested Panikovsky. “We get everything! Now we’ll live the good life, Shura. I’ll get gold teeth, and I’ll get married, you’ll see! I swear I’ll get married!”
It was decided that the precious weights should be expropriated without any further delay.
“Pay for the kefir, Shura,” said Panikovsky, “we’ll settle it later.”
The conspirators left the bar and went wandering around the city, blinded by the sun. They couldn’t wait. They spent a long time standing on bridges, their stomachs to the railings, and stared indifferently down on the roofs and streets that descended to the port. Trucks were climbing down those streets cautiously, like horses. Fat sparrows from the port pecked the pavement under the watchful eyes of filthy cats hiding in the alleys. Beyond the rusted roofs, attic windows, and radio antennas, one could see the blue water, a small tugboat racing at full speed, and a steamer’s yellow funnel with a large red letter on it.
From time to time, Panikovsky would raise his head and start counting. He was converting pounds into ounces, ounces into ancient grains, and each time he’d come up with a figure so attractive it made the violator of the pact squeal ever so slightly.
Some time after 10 P.M. that night, the half-brothers were trudging towards the Bureau for the Collection of Horns and Hoofs, stooping under the weight of two large kettlebells. Panikovsky carried his share in both arms, sticking his stomach out and puffing happily. He stopped frequently, put his weight down on the sidewalk, and mumbled: “I’ll get married! I swear, I’ll get married!” The mighty Balaganov carried his weight on his shoulder. Sometimes Panikovsky would fail to turn the corner properly due to the weight’s momentum. Then Balaganov would grab Panikovsky’s collar with his free hand and send his body in the right direction.
They stopped at the entrance to their office.
“Now we’ll each saw off a little piece,” said Panikovsky anxiously, “and tomorrow we’ll sell them. There’s a watchmaker I know, Mr. Bieberham. He’ll give us a good price. Unlike that government place, where you’ll never get a good price.”
But then the conspirators noticed a light coming from under the green office curtains.
“Who could it be, at this time of night?” asked Balaganov in surprise, bending down to peek through the keyhole.
Ostap Bender was sitting behind his desk in the lateral beam of a bright electric lamp, writing furiously.
“Writer!” said Balaganov, laughing heartily and letting Panikovsky peek into the keyhole.
“Of course,” uttered Panikovsky after taking a long, hard look, “he’s at it again. I’m telling you, this miserable man makes me laugh. But where are we going to saw now?”
The half-brothers lifted their weights and went on into the darkness, continuing their lively discussion about selling two pieces of gold to the watchmaker the first thing in the morning, for starters.
Meanwhile, the gr
and strategist was finishing his account of the life of Alexander Ivanovich Koreiko. The five little log cabins that comprised the Face the Country set all had their bronze lids off. Ostap dipped his pen indiscriminately, wherever his hand went, fidgeted in his chair, and shuffled his feet under the desk.
He had the bleary face of a gambler who’s been losing all night and only at the break of dawn finally hits a winning streak. All night the banks were ahead and the cards weren’t coming out right. The gambler kept changing tables, trying to outwit fate and find a lucky spot. But the cards just wouldn’t behave. He already started to sweat the cards, that is, look at the first card and then squeeze out the second one as slowly as possible. He was already pushing cards over the edge of the table and peeking at them from underneath, or placing two cards face to face and opening them like a book. In other words, he went through all the motions of a loser. But nothing worked. He’d been getting mostly face cards: jacks with ropey mustaches, queens smelling paper flowers, and kings with doormen’s beards. Black and red tens were showing up frequently, too. In other words, the hands were lousy—the kind that are officially known as baccarat, and unofficially as rags. And only when the chandeliers dim and go off, when losers in worn collars snore and choke on chairs under the NO SLEEPING signs, a miracle occurs. The banks suddenly start losing, the disgusting pictures and tens disappear, the eights and nines come out one by one. The gambler no longer darts around the room, no longer sweats the cards or peeks under them. He senses he’s on a winning streak. The regulars crowd behind the lucky man, pull on his shoulders, and whisper fawningly: “Uncle Yura, can I have three rubles?” While he, proud and pale, turns the cards over daringly and takes the last shirts off his partners’ backs amid the calls “Table nine now has spots available!” and “Fifty kopecks from each of you, amateurs!” And the green table with white lines and curves drawn on it becomes a happy and joyful sight for him, like a soccer field.