Bender lost his lively expression immediately; his face turned harsh and began to resemble the profile on a coin again.
“Go away,” he said, “I give to charity only on Saturdays. Don’t pull my leg.”
“I give you my word, Monsieur Bender . . .”
“Listen, Shura, if you insist on switching to French, please call me citoyen, not monsieur. It means citizen.
And what, incidentally, is this millionaire’s address?”
“He lives in Chernomorsk.”
“Of course, I knew that.
Chernomorsk!
Down there, even before the war, a man with ten thousand rubles was called a millionaire.
And now . . .
I can imagine!
No, I’m sure this is pure nonsense!” “Wait, just let me finish.
He’s a real millionaire.
You see, Bender, I was in their detention center recently . . .”
Ten minutes later, the half-brothers left the cooperative beer garden.
The grand strategist felt like a surgeon who is about to perform a rather serious operation.
Everything is ready.
Gauze and bandages are steaming in the electric sterilizers, a nurse in a white toga moves silently across the tiled floor, the medical glass and nickel shine brightly. The patient lies languorously on a glass table, staring at the ceiling. The heated air smells like German chewing gum.
The surgeon, his arms spread wide, approaches the operating table, accepts a sharp sterilized dagger from an assistant, and says to the patient dryly:
“Allrighty, take off your nightie.”
“It’s always like this with me,” said Bender, his eyes shining, “I have to start a project worth a million while I’m noticeably short of monetary instruments.
My entire capital—fixed, working, and reserve—amounts to five rubles . . . What did you say the name of that underground millionaire was?”
“Koreiko,” said Balaganov.
“Oh yes, Koreiko.
A very good name.
Are you sure nobody knows about his millions?”
“Nobody except me and Pruzhansky.
But I already told you that Pruzhansky will be in prison for about three more years.
If you could only see how he moaned and groaned when I was about to be released.
He probably had a hunch that he shouldn’t have told me about Koreiko.”
“The fact that he disclosed his secret to you was no big deal.
That’s not why he moaned and groaned.
He must have had a premonition that you would tell the whole story to me.
That is indeed a big loss for poor Pruzhansky.
By the time he gets out of prison, Koreiko’s only consolation will be the cliche that there’s no shame in poverty.”
Ostap took off his summer cap, waved it in the air, and asked:
“Do I have any gray hair?”
Balaganov sucked in his stomach, spread his feet to the width of a rifle butt, and boomed like a soldier:
“No, Sir!”
“I will.
Great battles await us.
Your hair, Balaganov, will turn gray too.”
Balaganov suddenly giggled childishly:
“How did you put it?
He’ll bring the money himself on a platter with a blue rim?”
“A platter for me,” said Ostap, “and a small plate for you.”
“But what about Rio de Janeiro?
I want white pants too.”
“Rio de Janeiro is the cherished dream of my youth,” said the grand strategist seriously, “keep your paws off it.
Now back to business.