The Golden Calf

by Ilya Ilf

  “No kidding!” sighed Balaganov.

  “A doctor I met explained everything to me,” continued Ostap, “other countries—that’s just a myth of the afterlife. Those who make it there never return.”

  “What do you know!” exclaimed Shura, who didn’t understand a thing. “Ooh, just watch me have a good life now! Poor Panikovsky! He broke the pact, of course, but what the heck! The old man would have been thrilled!”

  “I propose a moment of silence to honor the memory of the deceased,” said Bender.

  The half-brothers got up and stood silently for a minute, looking down at the crushed pastries and the unfinished sandwich.

  Balaganov finally broke the onerous silence.

  “Did you hear about Kozlevich?” he said. “What do you know! He put the Antelope back together, and now he’s working in Chernomorsk. I got a letter from him. Here . . .”

  The rally mechanic pulled a letter out of his cap.

  “Hello, Shura,” wrote the driver of the Antelope, “how are you doing? Are you still the son of L. Sch.? I’m fine, I just don’t have any money, and the car’s been acting up since the overhaul. It only runs for an hour a day. I keep working on it, I’m so sick of it. The passengers aren’t happy. Dear Shura, maybe you can send me an oil hose, even a used one. I can’t find one at the market here no matter what. Look at the Smolensk Market, the section where they sell old locks and keys. And if you’re not doing well, come down here, we’ll make it somehow. I’m parked at the corner of Mehring Street, at the taxi stand. Where is O.B. these days? Yours respectfully, Adam Kozlevich. I forgot to tell you, the priests Kuszakowski and Moroszek came to see me at the stand. It was an ugly scene. A.K.”

  “I gotta go look for an oil hose now,” said Balaganov anxiously.

  “Don’t,” said Ostap, “I’ll buy him a new car. Let’s go to the Grand Hotel, I cabled ahead and reserved a room for a symphony conductor. You need a wash, a new outfit—a complete overhaul. The door to boundless opportunities is now open for you, Shura.”

  They stepped out onto Kalanchevka Square. There were no taxis. Ostap refused to take a horse cab.

  “It’s an antiquated conveyance,” he said squeamishly, “it won’t get you too far. Plus, small mice live inside the seats.”

  They had to settle for a streetcar. It was packed with people. It was one of those quarrel-ridden streetcars that often circulate around the capital. Some vindictive old lady starts a spat during the morning rush hour. Little by little, every passenger gets drawn into the squabble, even those who had gotten on thirty minutes after the whole thing began. The mean old lady is long gone, and the cause of the argument is long forgotten, but the screaming and the mutual insults continue to fly, while new arrivals keep joining the squabble. On a streetcar like this, the argument can drag on well into the night.

  The agitated passengers quickly pulled Balaganov away from Ostap, and soon the half-brothers were bobbing at opposite ends of the car, squeezed by rib cages and baskets. Ostap hung on to a hand loop, barely managing to yank back his suitcase before it floated away on the current.

  Suddenly, a woman’s screams, coming from the direction where Balaganov was bobbing, drowned out the usual streetcar bickering:

  “Thief! Get him! Look, he’s right there!”

  Everyone turned for a look. Enthusiasts for things like that, breathless with curiosity, started elbowing their way toward the scene of the crime. Ostap saw Balaganov’s stunned face. The rally mechanic himself hadn’t yet grasped what exactly had happened, but others were already firmly holding his hand, which was clutching a dime-store purse with a thin bronze chain.

  “Bandit!” screamed the woman. “I just looked the other way, and he . . .”

  The man who had fifty thousand rubles had tried to steal a purse that contained a tortoise-shell compact, a union card, and one ruble seventy kopecks in cash. The car stopped. The enthusiasts started dragging Balaganov toward the exit. As he was passing Ostap, Shura whispered in despair:

  “I can’t believe it! It was just a reflex.”

  “I’ll teach you a reflex or two!” said an enthusiast with a pince-nez and a briefcase, gleefully hitting the rally mechanic from behind.

  Through the window, Ostap saw a policeman swiftly approach the group and escort the felon down the street.

  The grand strategist looked away.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE INDIAN GUEST

  The enclosed rectangular courtyard of the Grand Hotel was filled with pounding noises from the kitchen, the hissing of steam, and shouts—“Tea for two to number sixteen!”—but the white hallways were bright and quiet, like the control room of a power station. The soil scientists, who were back from their field trip, took up 150 rooms; another thirty rooms were reserved for foreign businessmen who were trying to resolve the pressing question of whether trade with the Soviet Union could be profitable after all; the best four-room suite was occupied by a famous Indian poet and philosopher; and in a small room that had been reserved by a symphony conductor, Ostap Bender was fast asleep.

  He lay on top of a plush bed cover, fully dressed, clutching the suitcase with the million to his chest. During the night, the grand strategist had inhaled all the oxygen in the room, and the remaining chemical elements could be called nitrogen only out of courtesy. The room smelled of sour wine, meatballs from hell, and something else—it was revolting beyond belief. Ostap groaned and turned around. The suitcase fell on the floor. Bender opened his eyes quickly.

  “What was that?” he muttered, grimacing. “Acting like a drunken sailor in the restaurant! Or worse! Ugh! I behaved like a barroom brawler! Oh my God, did I insult those people? Some idiot there was yelling: ‘Soil scientists, stand up!’—and then wept and swore that, in his heart of hearts, he was a soil scientist himself. It was me, of course! But why, why?”

  And then he remembered that yesterday, deciding that he needed to start living properly, he had resolved to build himself a mansion in the Oriental style. He spent the whole morning dreaming big dreams. He pictured a house with minarets, a doorman with the face of a statue, a second living room, a pool room, and for some reason, a conference room. At the Land Use Department of the City Council, the grand strategist was told that he could indeed obtain a plot. At the construction office, however, everything fell apart. The doorman tumbled, his stone face banging loudly, the gilded conference room shook, and the minarets collapsed.

  “Are you a private citizen?” they asked the millionaire at the office.

  “Yes,” replied Ostap, “a highly distinct individual.”

  “Unfortunately, we only build for groups and organizations.”

  “Cooperative, governmental, and non-governmental?” asked Bender bitterly.

  “Precisely.”

  “And me?”

  “And you can do it yourself.”

  “But where am I going to get the stones, the bolts? The molding, for that matter?”

  “You’re going to have to find it somewhere. It’ll be hard, though: the supplies have already been allocated to various industries and cooperatives.”

  That must have been the reason for the outrageous scene the night before.

  Still lying down, Ostap pulled out his little notebook and began to count his expenses since the time he had acquired his million. The memorable entry on the first page read:

  Camel 180.00 r.

  Sheep 30.00 r.

  Kumis 1.75 r.

  Total 211.75 r.

  What followed wasn’t much better. The fur coat, a dinner, a train ticket, another dinner, another ticket, three turbans (purchased for a rainy day), horse cabs, the vase, and all kinds of junk. Apart from the fifty thousand for Balaganov, which didn’t bring him any happiness, the million was still intact.

  “They won’t let me invest my capital!” fulminated Ostap. “They just won’t! Maybe I should live the intellectual life, like my friend Lokhankin? After all, I’ve already accumulated some material riches, now it’s time to s
tart adding a few spiritual treasures. I need to learn the meaning of life, immediately.”

  He remembered that the hotel lobby filled up every day with young women who were seeking to discuss matters of the soul with the visiting philosopher from India.

  “I’ll go see the Indian,” he decided. “That way, I’ll finally learn what it’s all about. Granted, it’s a bit over the top, but there’s no other way.”

  Without parting with his suitcase or changing out of his crumpled suit, Bender descended to the mezzanine and knocked on the great man’s door. An interpreter answered.

  “Is the philosopher available?” inquired Ostap.

  “It depends,” answered the interpreter politely. “Are you a private citizen?”

  “No, no,” said the grand strategist hastily, “I’m from a cooperative organization.”

  “Are you with a group? How many people? You know, it’s hard for the Teacher to see individuals, he prefers to talk to . . .”

  “Collectives?” Ostap picked up the key. “I was actually sent by my collective to clarify an important, fundamental issue regarding the meaning of life.”

  The interpreter left and returned five minutes later. He pulled the drapery aside and announced theatrically:

  “The cooperative organization who wishes to learn the meaning of life may now enter.”

  The great poet and philosopher, wearing a brown velvet cassock and a matching pointy cap, sat in an armchair with a high and uncomfortable back made of carved wood. He had a dark, delicate face, with the black eyes of a second lieutenant. His beard, white and broad like a formal dickey, covered his chest. A woman stenographer sat at his feet. Two interpreters, an Indian and an Englishman, were on either side of him.

  Seeing Ostap with his suitcase, the philosopher started fidgeting in his armchair and whispered something to the interpreter with alarm. The stenographer began to write hastily, while the interpreter announced to the grand strategist:

  “The Teacher wishes to know whether there are songs and sagas in the stranger’s suitcase, and whether the stranger intends to read them aloud, because the Teacher has already had many songs and sagas read to him, and he can’t listen to any more of them.”

  “Tell the Teacher there are no sagas,” Ostap replied reverentially.

  The black-eyed elder grew even more agitated and, speaking anxiously, pointed his finger at the suitcase.

  “The Teacher asks,” said the interpreter, “whether the stranger intends to move into his suite, since no one has ever come to an appointment with a suitcase before.”

  And only after Ostap reassured the interpreter and the interpreter reassured the philosopher did the tension ease and the discussion begin.

  “Before answering your question about the meaning of life,” said the interpreter, “the Teacher wishes to say a few words about public education in India.”

  “Tell the Teacher,” reported Ostap, “that I’ve had a keen interest in the issue of public education ever since I was a child.”

  The philosopher closed his eyes and started talking at a leisurely pace. For an hour he spoke in English, then for another hour in Bengali. At times, he’d start singing in a quiet, pleasant voice, and once he even stood up, lifted his cassock, and made a few dance moves, which apparently represented the games of schoolchildren in Punjab. Then he sat down and closed his eyes again, while Ostap listened to the translation for a while. At first, he nodded his head politely, then he looked out the window sleepily, and finally he began to amuse himself: he fiddled with the change in his pocket, admired his ring, and even winked quite openly at the pretty stenographer, after which she started scribbling even faster.

  “So what about the meaning of life?” the millionaire interjected when he saw an opening.

  “First,” explained the interpreter, “the Teacher wishes to tell the stranger about the wealth of materials that he collected while learning about the system of public education in the USSR.”

  “Tell his Lordship,” said Ostap, “that the stranger has no objections.”

  The gears began moving again. The Teacher spoke, sang Young Pioneer songs, demonstrated the handmade poster presented to him by the children from Workers’ School No. 146, and at one point even grew misty-eyed. The two interpreters droned on in unison, the stenographer scribbled, and Ostap cleaned his fingernails absentmindedly.

  Finally Ostap coughed loudly.

  “You know,” he said, “there’s no need to translate anymore. Somehow I’ve learned to understand Bengali. When he gets to the meaning of life, then translate.”

  When Ostap’s wishes were conveyed to the philosopher, the black-eyed elder became anxious.

  “The Teacher says,” announced the interpreter, “that he himself came to your great country to learn the meaning of life. Only in places where the system of public education is as advanced as it is here, life becomes meaningful. The collective . . .”

  “Goodbye,” said the grand strategist quickly, “tell the Teacher that the stranger asks to be excused immediately.”

  But the philosopher’s delicate voice was already singing The Red Cavalry March, which he had learned from Soviet children, so Ostap departed without permission.

  “Krishna!” thundered the grand strategist, pacing around his hotel room. “Vishnu! What’s the world come to? Where’s the homespun truth? And maybe I am a fool, and I don’t get it, and my life has passed without any reason or system? A real-life Indian, mind you, knows everything about our vast country, and I, like the Indian guest from the opera, keep harping about countless treasures and boundless pleasures. Sickening!”

  That evening, Ostap had dinner without vodka, and for the first time ever, he left the suitcase in his room. Then he sat peacefully on the window sill and carefully studied the ordinary pedestrians who were jumping onto a bus like squirrels.

  In the middle of the night, the grand strategist suddenly awakened and sat up on his bed. It was quiet, and only a melancholy Boston waltz from the restaurant was sneaking into the room through the keyhole.

  “How could I have forgotten!” he said fretfully.

  Then he laughed, turned the lights on, and quickly wrote out a telegram:

  “Chernomorsk. Zosya Sinitsky. Account grave error prepared to fly Chernomorsk wings of love respond urgently Moscow Grand Hotel Bender.”

  He rang for an attendant and demanded that the telegram be sent immediately and urgently.

  Zosya didn’t respond. Nor did she respond to his other telegrams, which he had composed in the same desperate and romantic vein.

  CHAPTER 34

  FRIENDSHIP WITH YOUTH

  The train was headed to Chernomorsk.

  The first passenger removed his suit jacket, hung it on the curled brass tip of the luggage rack, then pulled off his shoes, raising his pudgy feet one by one almost all the way up to his face, and put on his slippers.

  “So have you heard about the land surveyor from Voronezh who turned out to be related to the Japanese Mikado?” he asked, smiling in anticipation.

  The second and the third passengers moved closer. The fourth passenger was already lying on an upper bunk under a scratchy maroon blanket, staring gloomily into an illustrated magazine.

  “You really haven’t heard? There was a lot of talk about it at some point. He was just an ordinary land surveyor: a wife, one room, 120 rubles a month. His name was Bigusov. An ordinary, completely unremarkable man, even, frankly, between you and me, quite an asshole. So one day he comes home from work, and there’s a Japanese man waiting for him in his room and he’s wearing, frankly, an excellent suit, eyeglasses, and, between you and me, snakeskin shoes, the latest rage. ‘Is your name Bigusov?’ asks the Japanese. ‘Yes,’ says Bigusov. ‘And your given name?’ ‘So-and-so,’ he says. ‘That’s the one,’ says the Japanese. ‘In that case, would you mind removing your shirt, I need to examine your naked torso.’ ‘No problem,’ Bigusov says. But frankly, between you and me, the Japanese doesn’t even look at his torso
and goes straight for his birthmark. Bigusov actually had one on his side. The Japanese looks at it through a magnifying glass, turns pale, and says: ‘Congratulations, Citizen Bigusov, allow me to present you with this parcel and letter.’ Well, his wife opens the parcel, of course. And in that parcel, frankly, is a two-sided Japanese sword, sitting in wood shavings. ‘So why do I get a sword?’ asks the surveyor. ‘Read the letter’, he says, ‘it’s all in there. You’re a samurai.’ Now it’s Bigusov who turns pale. Voronezh, frankly, is not exactly a metropolis. Between you and me, how can they possibly feel about the samurai down there? Very negatively. But what can you do? So Bigusov takes the letter, breaks the fourteen wax seals, and reads. And what do you know? It turns out that exactly thirty-six years earlier, a Japanese almost-prince was traveling incognito through Voronezh Province. Well, of course, between you and me, His Highness got mixed up with a Voronezh girl and had a baby with her, all incognito. He even wanted to marry her, but the Mikado nixed it with an encrypted cable. The almost-prince had to leave, and the baby remained illegitimate. That was Bigusov. And so after all these years, the almost-prince is about to die, but what do you know: he has no legitimate offspring, no one to pass the inheritance to, and on top of that, a prominent lineage is coming to an end, which for the Japanese is the worst thing. So he thought of Bigusov. Can you believe the man’s luck? They say he’s already in Japan. The old man died. And Bigusov is a prince, a member of the Mikado’s family, and on top of that, between you and me, he got a million yen in cash. A million! To that moron!”

  “If only somebody gave me a million rubles!” said the second passenger, twitching his legs. “I’d show them what to do with a million!”

  The fourth passenger’s head appeared in the gap between the two upper bunks. He took a good look at the man who knew precisely what to do with a million, and without saying a word, he hid behind his magazine again.