I will remain the same poor poet and polygamist I was before, but, to my dying days, I will cherish the thought that I saved society from one greedy bastard.”
“Show me the file,” said Koreiko pensively.
“Take it easy,” said Ostap, opening the folder, “I am commanding the parade.
You’ve already received a telegram to that effect.
Well, the parade has started, and I am commanding it, as you may have noticed.”
Alexander Ivanovich glanced at the first page, saw a picture of himself, smiled unpleasantly, and said:
“I still don’t understand what it is that you want from me.
Well, why don’t I take a look, out of sheer curiosity.”
“I, too, was driven by curiosity,” declared the grand strategist. “All right, let’s get started, strictly out of curiosity—an innocent motive, after all.
Gentlemen of the jury, Alexander Ivanovich Koreiko was born . . .
Well, we can skip the happy childhood.
In those innocent times, little Sasha wasn’t yet involved in commercial plunder.
Then comes rose-colored adolescence.
Let’s skip another page here.
Now comes youth, the beginning of life.
Here, it may be worth pausing for a moment.
Out of sheer curiosity, of course.
On page six . . .”
Ostap turned page six over and read out loud from pages seven, eight, and on through page twelve.
“And so, gentlemen of the jury, you have just learned of my client’s first major operations, among them: selling government-owned medications during the famine and the typhoid epidemic, as well as working in the field of food supplies, which led to the disappearance of a food train that was headed for the famine-stricken Volga region.
Gentlemen of the jury, all these facts are of interest to us strictly out of curiosity.”
Ostap spoke in the awful manner of a pre-revolutionary attorney who would catch on to a certain word and then never let it go, using and abusing it throughout a long ten-day trial.
“The arrival of my client in Moscow in 1922 may also arouse curiosity . . .”
The face of Alexander Ivanovich remained neutral, but his hands felt around the table aimlessly, as if he was blind.
“Gentlemen of the jury, allow me to ask you a question.
Out of sheer curiosity, of course.
How much profit can two ordinary barrels of tap water possibly bring?
Twenty rubles?
Three rubles?
Eight kopecks?
No, gentlemen!
They brought Alexander Ivanovich exactly four hundred thousand golden rubles.
Of course, the two barrels carried the colorful name of Revenge, the Industrial Chemicals Cooperative.
But let us continue.
Pages 42 to 53.
The location: a small gullible republic.
Blue skies, camels, oases, and dandies in gilded skullcaps.
My client helps build a power plant.
I repeat: helps.
Look at his face, gentlemen of the jury!”
Getting carried away, Ostap turned toward Alexander Ivanovich and pointed a finger at him.
But he wasn’t able to trace a dramatic curve with his hand, the way pre-revolutionary attorneys used to.
The defendant suddenly grabbed his arm in midair and started to twist it silently.
At the same time, the defendant made an attempt to grab his attorney by the throat.
For about thirty seconds, the opponents wrestled each other, shaking under the strain.
Ostap’s shirt came unbuttoned, and his tattoo showed through the opening.
Napoleon was still holding a beer mug, but he was very red, as if he had already had a few too many.
“Stop putting pressure on my psyche!” said Ostap, shoving Koreiko away and catching his breath. “I can’t work like this.”
“Bastard!
Bastard!” whispered Alexander Ivanovich. “What a bastard!”