He sat down on the floor, wincing from the pain inflicted upon him by the janissaries’ descendant.
“Our deliberations continue!” said Ostap, as if nothing had happened. “Gentlemen of the jury, you can now see that the ice has broken.
The defendant tried to kill me.
Out of childish curiosity, of course.
He just wanted to know what’s inside me.
I’m happy to satisfy his curiosity.
Inside, there’s a noble and very healthy heart, excellent lungs, and a liver without any signs of stones.
Please enter all this in the record.
And now—let our games continue, as the editor of a certain humor magazine would say, opening a new meeting and looking sternly at his staff.”
Alexander Ivanovich hated the games.
The business trip from which Ostap returned with wine and lamb on his breath left substantial traces in the file.
There was a copy of the sentence, which was delivered in absentia, blueprints of the charitable printing plant, excerpts from the profits and losses account, as well as pictures of the electric gorge and of the kings of the silver screen.
“And finally, gentlemen of the jury, the third phase in the activities of my belligerent client: a humble desk job at the Hercules for the sake of society, and intensified efforts in underground commerce for his own sake.
Let us note, strictly out of curiosity, some illegal dealings in hard currency, furs, stones, and other compact staples.
Let us also point out a series of self-exploding stock companies with flowery, cooperative-sounding names like the Intensivnik, the Toiling Cedar, the Sawing Aid, and the Southern Lumberjack.
It wasn’t Mr. Funt, the prisoner of private capital, who was in charge of all this, it was my friend the defendant.”
With that, the grand strategist once again pointed at Koreiko, tracing at last the long-planned dramatic curve with his hand.
Then Ostap pompously requested the imaginary court’s permission to ask the defendant a few questions, waited for a minute in order to stay in character, and inquired:
“Did the defendant have any out-of-office dealings with a certain Berlaga from the Hercules?
He didn’t.
Right!
A certain Sardinevich, also from the Hercules?
He didn’t either.
Perfect!
A certain Polykhaev?”
The millionaire clerk kept silent.
“I have no further questions.
Whew!
I’m tired and I’m hungry.
Tell me, Alexander Ivanovich, you wouldn’t happen to have a cold meat patty in your breast pocket?
No?
Unimaginable poverty, especially in view of the amount you wheedled out of the kindly Hercules, with Polykhaev’s assistance.
Here’s Polykhaev’s testimony in his own hand. He was the only Herculean who knew what was hiding behind that forty-six-ruble-a-month clerk.
Yet even he didn’t fully understand what you are.
But I do.
Yes, gentlemen of the jury, my client has sinned.
This has been proven.
But I am nevertheless asking for leniency, albeit on the condition that the defendant purchases this folder from me.
I am finished.”
Alexander Ivanovich came to his senses toward the end of the grand strategist’s speech.
He put his hands in the pockets of his summer pants and went over to the window.
The young day, adorned with streetcar bells, was already filling the city with sounds.
Volunteers from the Society for Defense and Aviation were marching past the front yard, holding their rifles every which way, as if they were carrying rakes.
Pigeons strolled on the zinc-plated roof ledge, tapping with their red-twig feet and flapping their wings constantly.
Alexander Ivanovich, who had trained himself to be frugal, turned off the desk lamp and asked:
“So it was you who sent me all those stupid telegrams?”
“Yes,” said Ostap. “‘Load oranges barrels brothers Karamazov.’
Pretty good, isn’t it?”
“A bit silly.”
“And how about that crazy bum?” asked Ostap, sensing that the parade was going well. “Wasn’t he good?”