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 . . .?”
