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The Golden Calf

Page 36

by Ilya Ilf


  “Yes,” said the third passenger, opening a small package that contained two complimentary crackers, “all sorts of things happen in the field of money circulation. This girl from Moscow had an uncle in Warsaw, who died and left her a million, and she had no idea. But somebody abroad had gotten wind of it, and within a month, a rather presentable foreigner showed up in Moscow. The wise guy had decided to marry the girl before she found out about the inheritance. But she had a fiancé in Moscow, a rather good-looking young man himself, from the Chamber of Weights and Measures. She was in love with him and naturally had no interest in marrying anyone else. So the foreigner goes crazy, keeps sending her flowers, chocolates, and silk stockings. Well, turns out this wise guy wasn’t acting on his own initiative, he was sent by a partnership that had been formed with the express purpose of exploiting the uncle’s fortune. They even had start-up capital of eighteen thousand zlotys. This agent of theirs had to marry the girl, no matter what, and take her out of the country. A very romantic story! Can you imagine how this agent felt? Such a huge responsibility! He received an advance, after all, and he had nothing to show for it, thanks to this Soviet fiancé! And in Warsaw, all hell breaks loose! The shareholders keep waiting and worrying, the shares plummet. In the end, the whole thing fell through. The girl married her guy, the Soviet. She never even found out.”

  “Stupid woman!” said the second passenger. “If only they gave that million to me!”

  In his excitement, he even grabbed a cracker from his neighbor’s hand and ate it nervously.

  The occupant of the upper bunk started coughing demonstratively. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep because of all the talking.

  They lowered their voices, huddled together, head to head, and whispered breathlessly:

  “The International Red Cross put a note in the papers recently that they were searching for the heirs of Harry Kowalchuk, an American soldier who was killed in action in 1918. The inheritance: a million! Actually, it used to be less than a million, but the interest had added up . . . And so in this God-forsaken village in the Volhynia . . .”

  On the upper bunk, the maroon blanket jerked frantically. Bender felt terrible. He was sick of trains, of upper and lower bunks, of the entire ever-shaking world of travel. He would easily have given half a million just to be able to go to sleep, but the whispering continued:

  “See, this old woman comes to a rental office and says: ‘I found this pot in my basement, you know, I have no idea what’s in it, so kindly go ahead and take a look at it yourselves.’ So the management looks into the pot and finds Indian gold rupees, a million rupees . . .”

  “Stupid woman! Why did she have to tell them? If only they gave that million to me, I would . . .”

  “Frankly, between you and me, money is everything.”

  “And in this cave near Mozhaysk . . .”

  The loud, powerful groan of an individual in grave distress came from the upper bunk.

  The storytellers paused for a moment, but the spell of unexpected riches pouring from the pockets of Japanese princes, Warsaw relatives, and American soldiers was so irresistible that they soon resumed grabbing each other’s knees and muttering:

  “. . . And so when they opened the holy relics, they found, between you and me, a million worth of . . .”

  In the morning, while still in sleep’s embrace, Ostap heard the sound of the blind being opened and a voice:

  “A million! Can you believe it, an entire million . . .”

  This was too much. The grand strategist glanced down furiously, but the passengers from the previous night were gone. They had gotten off in Kharkov at the crack of dawn, leaving behind them crumpled sheets, a greasy piece of graph paper, and bread and meat crumbs, as well as a piece of string. A new passenger, who was standing by the window, glanced at Ostap impassively and continued talking to his two companions:

  “A million tons of pig iron. By the end of the year. The commission concluded that it was doable. But the funniest thing is that Kharkov actually approved it!”

  Ostap didn’t find this funny in the least, but the new passengers burst out laughing and their rubber coats squeaked noisily.

  “But what about Bubeshko?” asked the youngest of them excitedly. “He probably has his heels dug in?”

  “Not any more. He ended up making a fool of himself. But it was really something! First he started a fight . . . you know Bubeshko, he’s one tough cookie . . . Eight hundred and twenty-five thousand tons and not a ton more. Then things got sticky. Deliberately underestimating the capacity . . . Check! Artificially lowering the bar—check! He should have admitted his mistakes right away, without reservation. But no! He’s got his pride! Like he’s a blue-blood or something! Just confess—and that’s the end of it. But he had to do it piece by piece. Wanted to protect his reputation. So he did this Dostoyevskian song and dance: ‘On the one hand, I admit, but on the other, I have to point out . . .’ But what is there to point out, that’s just spineless wiggling! So our Bubeshko had to write another memo.”

  The passengers laughed again.

  “But even then he didn’t say a word about his opportunism. So it went on and on. Every day, a new memo. Now they want to set up a special section for him—Corrections and Disavowals. He knows he’s dug himself into a hole, and he wants to get out, but he made such a mess that there’s nothing he can do now. He really lost it in his latest memo: ‘Yes, I admit my mistake . . . but I consider this memo insufficient.’”

  Ostap had long ago left for the washroom but the new passengers still hadn’t finished laughing. When he returned, the compartment was swept clean, the bunks lowered, and the attendant was on his way out, holding down a pile of sheets and blankets with his chin. The young men, who were not afraid of drafts, opened the window, and the autumn breeze thrashed and rolled around the compartment like an ocean wave locked inside a box.

  Ostap threw the suitcase with the million onto the luggage net and made himself comfortable on the lower bunk, glancing amicably at his new neighbors. They were settling into the first-class car with unusual gusto. They kept looking into the mirror on the door, jumping up and down on the couch to test the strength of its springs and cushions, admiring the quality of the smooth red upholstery, and pressing all the buttons. From time to time, one of them would disappear for a few minutes, then return and confer with his companions in a whisper. Finally, a girl dressed in a men’s woolen overcoat and tennis shoes with strings laced around her ankles, in the ancient Greek style, appeared in the doorway.

  “Comrades!” she said firmly. “That’s not very nice. We want to ride in luxury, too. We ought to switch at the next station.”

  Bender’s companions started hooting in protest.

  “Oh, come on. Everybody has the same rights as you do,” continued the girl. “We already drew lots. It fell to Tarasov, Parovitsky, and myself. Off you go to third class.”

  From the ensuing ruckus, Ostap deduced that they were members of a large group of engineering students who were returning to Chernomorsk after their summer internships. There weren’t enough seats in third class for everybody, so they had to purchase three first-class tickets and split the difference among the whole group.

  Consequently, the girl stayed put, while the three firstborns cleared the premises with belated dignity. Their places were promptly taken by Tarasov and Parovitsky. Without delay, they started jumping on the couches and pressing all the buttons. The girl jumped enthusiastically along with them. After less than thirty minutes, the original trio barged into the compartment, drawn back by their nostalgia for lost splendors. They were followed by two more, with sheepish smiles, and then by another one, with a mustache. He was scheduled to ride in luxury the following day, but he just couldn’t wait that long. His arrival was greeted by particularly excited hoots, which drew the attention of the car attendant.

  “That’s not good, citizens,” he said officiously. “The whole gang is here. Those from third class, please leave. Or I’m going
to the boss.”

  The gang grew quiet.

  “But they are our guests,” said the girl, disconcerted. “They were just going to sit here with us for a while.”

  “It’s against the rules,” insisted the attendant, “please leave.”

  The mustachioed one started backing toward the exit, but at this point, the grand strategist inserted himself into the dispute.

  “Come on, pops,” he said to the attendant, “you shouldn’t be lynching your passengers unless you absolutely have to. Is it really necessary to stick to the letter of the law like this? You should be hospitable. You know, like in the East. Let’s step out, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  After a chat with Ostap in the corridor, the attendant embraced the spirit of the East so ardently that he vanquished all thoughts of ousting the gang and instead brought them nine glasses of tea in sturdy holders, along with his entire supply of crackers. And he didn’t even charge them.

  “As dictated by the customs of the East,” explained Ostap to his company, “in compliance with the laws of hospitality, as a certain employee of the culinary sector used to say.”

  The favor was granted with such grace and ease that it was impossible not to accept it. The cracker packages rustled as they were being ripped open. Ostap passed around the tea like a host and soon became friends with all eight of the male students and the female one.

  “I have long been interested in issues of universal, equal, and direct education,” he babbled happily, “I even discussed it recently with an amateur Indian philosopher. An exceptionally erudite man. No matter what he says, they immediately put his words on a phonograph record, and as the old man is quite a talker—yes, he does have this weakness—his records ended up filling eight hundred railcars, and now they make them into buttons.”

  Having started with this free improvisation, the grand strategist picked up a cracker.

  “This cracker,” he said, “is just one step away from being a grindstone. And that step has already been taken.”

  Warmed up by witticisms of this sort, their friendship blossomed quickly, and soon the whole gang was singing a ditty under Ostap’s direction:

  Peter, Tsar of great renown,

  Has no kinfolk of his own.

  Just the serpent and the steed—

  That’s his family indeed.

  By the end of the day, Ostap knew everybody and was even on a first-name basis with a few of them. But a lot of what the youngsters were talking about was beyond his grasp. Suddenly, he felt incredibly old. In front him was youth—a bit rough, straight as an arrow, and frustratingly uncomplicated. He was different when he was twenty; he had to admit that he was far more sophisticated—and rotten—at that age. He didn’t laugh back then, he smirked. But these kids were laughing their hearts out.

  “What are these pudgy-cheeked kids so happy about?” he thought with sudden irritation. “I’m starting to envy them, I really am.”

  Although Ostap was undoubtedly the center of attention for the whole compartment and talked incessantly, and although they treated him very nicely, they showed him neither Balaganov’s adoration, nor Panikovsky’s craven submission, nor Kozlevich’s loving devotion. In these students, he sensed the superiority that the audience feels toward an entertainer. The audience listens to the man in the tailcoat, laughs at times, applauds him half-heartedly, but in the end it goes home and no longer gives him another thought. The entertainer, on the other hand, goes to the artists’ club after the show, hovers gloomily over his plate, and complains to a fellow member of the Art Workers’ Union—a vaudeville comedian—that the public doesn’t understand him and the government doesn’t value him. The comedian drinks vodka and also complains that nobody understands him. But what’s not to understand? His jokes are old, his techniques are old, and it’s too late to learn new tricks. It couldn’t be clearer.

  The story of Bubeshko, who had set the bar too low, was told once again, this time specifically for Ostap’s sake. He went to third class with his new friends to try to convince the student Lida Pisarevsky to come visit them. He was so effusive and eloquent that the shy Lida did come over and join in the general pandemonium. The sudden closeness went so far that in the evening, while strolling along a platform at one of the longer stops with the girl in a man’s overcoat, the grand strategist took her almost as far as the exit semaphore, where, to his own surprise, he confided in her using rather sappy language.

  “You see,” he expounded, “the moon, that queen of the landscape, was shining. We sat on the steps of the Archaeological Museum, and I felt that I loved her. But I had to leave that same night, so the whole thing fell through. I think she’s mad at me. Actually, I’m pretty sure she is.”

  “You had to go on a business trip?” asked the girl.

  “Sort of . . . You could say it was a business trip. Well, not exactly a business trip, but an urgent matter. Now I’m suffering. In a grand and foolish fashion.”

  “This can be remedied,” said the girl, “simply redirect your excess energies to some kind of physical activity. Saw firewood, for example. It’s a new trend these days.”

  Ostap promised to redirect, and although he couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to replace Zosya with sawing firewood, he felt a whole lot better. They returned to their car looking conspiratorial, and later kept stepping out into the corridor and whispering about unrequited love and the new trends in that field.

  Back in the compartment, Ostap continued to do his utmost to get the gang to like him. Thanks to his efforts, the students came to see him as one of their own. The rube Parovitsky even slapped him on the shoulder with all this might and exclaimed:

  “Ostap, why don’t you come study with us? I’m serious! You’ll get a stipend, seventy-five rubles a month. You’ll live like a king. We’ve got a cafeteria; they serve meat every single day. And later, we’ll do an internship in the Urals.”

  “I already have a degree in the humanities,” said the grand strategist hastily.

  “So what do you do now?” asked Parovitsky.

  “Oh, nothing special . . . finance.”

  “You work in a bank?”

  Ostap looked at the student ironically and suddenly blurted out:

  “No, I don’t work. I’m a millionaire.”

  Of course, this kind of pronouncement didn’t mean much and could have easily been turned into a joke, but Parovitsky laughed so hard that the grand strategist felt hurt. He was overwhelmed by the urge to dazzle his companions and gain even greater admiration from them.

  “So how many millions do you have?” asked the girl in tennis shoes, hoping for a funny response.

  “One,” said Ostap, pale with pride.

  “That’s not much,” countered the guy with a mustache.

  “Not much! Not much!” cried the rest.

  “Enough for me,” said Bender solemnly.

  With that, he picked up his suitcase, clicked its nickel-plated latches, and poured the entire contents onto the couch. The paper bricks formed a small, spreading mound. Ostap flexed one of them; the wrapping split open with the sound of a deck of cards.

  “Ten thousand in each stack. That’s not enough for you? A million minus some small change. Everything’s here: the signatures, the security thread, the watermarks.”

  In the silence that followed, Ostap raked the money back into the suitcase and threw it onto the luggage net with a gesture that seemed regal to him. He sat down on the couch again, leaned back, spread his feet wide, and surveyed the gang.

  “Now you know that the humanities can be profitable, too,” said the millionaire, inviting the students to have fun together.

  The students were silently inspecting various buttons and hooks on the ornamented walls of the compartment.

  “I live like a king,” continued Ostap, “or like a prince, which, come to think of it, is pretty much the same thing.”

  The grand strategist waited a bit, then fidgeted nervously, and exclaimed in a friendly way:
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  “What is bothering you devils?”

  “Well, I’m off,” said the one with the mustache after a brief period of contemplation, “back to my place, to see what’s going on.”

  And he darted out of the compartment.

  “Isn’t it amazing, isn’t it wonderful,” gushed Ostap, “just this morning, we didn’t even know each other, and now it feels as if we’ve been friends for years. Is that some kind of chemistry or what?”

  “How much do we owe for the tea?” asked Parovitsky. “How many glasses did we have, comrades? Nine or ten? We should ask the attendant. I’ll be right back.”

  Then four more people took off, driven by the wish to help Parovitsky deal with the attendant.

  “Shall we sing something?” suggested Ostap. “Something tough. For example, ‘Serge the priest, Serge the priest!’ Shall we? I have a lovely Volga bass.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the grand strategist hastily started singing: “Down the river, the Kazanka river, a blue-gray drake is making its way . . .” When the time came to join in the chorus, Ostap waved his arms like a bandmaster and stamped his foot on the floor, but the powerful choral burst never materialized. Only the shy Lida Pisarevsky peeped, “Serge the priest, Serge the priest!,” but then she cut herself short and ran out.

  The friendship was dying before his eyes. Soon the only one left in the compartment was the kind and compassionate girl in tennis shoes.

  “Where is everybody?” asked Bender.

  “Right,” whispered the girl, “I’d better go take a look.”

  She leaped for the door, but the heartbroken millionaire grabbed her by the arm.

  “I was kidding,” he muttered, “I do have a job . . . I’m a symphony conductor! I’m the son of Lieutenant Schmidt! My father was a Turkish subject . . . Honest!”

  “Let me go!” whispered the girl.

  The grand strategist remained alone.

  The compartment was shaking and creaking. The teaspoons spun inside the empty glasses, and the entire herd was slowly creeping toward the edge of the table. The attendant appeared at the door, holding down a stack of fresh sheets and blankets with his chin.

 

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